Dispatches From a Dilettante by Paul Rowson Page A

their personality disorders in the first place.
    Jimmy, who hailed from a tough housing estate in Manchester, announced, with real concern in his voice, that two days previously a 747 in difficulties approaching the airport had been forced to divert and make an emergency landing in his road. This provoked ‘hoots’ of derision from the rest of the class and I had to remind myself not to join in. Jimmy, sensing that this wasn’t going down well, attempted a recovery of sorts by then adding words to the effect that his road was very wide and so there were no injuries and obviously, because there was a safe landing, the papers hadn’t reported it. Despite the hole that he was digging for himself the only concession Jimmy made was that it might not have been a 747.
    I once went to Jimmy’s home and was never remotely tempted to laugh at him again. Part of the staff teaching contract involved driving the mini bus to get the kids home at the end of each term. Often I was allocated the South Yorkshire /Lincolnshire coast run which meant dropping them off at a grim rural council house or bleak and bare flat in some run down coastal town. Although they lived in different areas, in different streets, in different buildings with different numbers, all of them were going home to no hope city.
    Arriving at Jimmy’s and parking behind a burned out car he asked me to come in. As I still had three others in the van I said that I would stick my head round the door to say hello. Having worked in ‘deprived areas’ for much of my life I was still shocked at the interior of Jimmy’s home. No matter that no greeting was extended to him and certainly none to me by the pallid teenager sprawled on a bare mattress. There was no furniture to speak of, a filthy cooker and stained bare boards. A fresh pile of dog shit in the corner emitted an odour that made me want to gag and the filth on the window made the light coming from the bare bulb a necessity. Our eyes met and I knew that he knew what was going through my head. So Jimmy Sturrock, if you are alive today, I hope you have had some fun in your life and maybe even a flight on a 747 – you deserve it.
    Not all the houses were like Jimmy’s. John May’s mother was a single parent who kept a small tidy flat behind a bingo hall in Cleethorpes. As this was on my regular drop off route I had struck up a few conversations with her on past ‘deliveries’. John was always the last to be dropped off and at this point after driving for over three hours an offer of a cup of tea was welcome. John was one of the least troubled kids and the propensity to go into wild tantrums for trivial reasons was his only big challenge. The first thing any visitor could hardly fail to notice was that, although immaculate, the entire surface of every wall was covered in pictures of minor pop stars with many having scrawled handwritten notes on them to John’s mother Annie. It was clear she was a groupie and if I hadn’t guessed Annie confirmed my suspicion before the tea was poured. She cheerily gave me a quick summation of recent conquests complaining that as the town was experiencing hard times, the best venues had closed and gigs were few and far between. I didn’t like to say that I couldn’t recall Cleethorpes ever having been regarded as an essential stop off on rock tours.
    Annie was brutally honest and her rationale was unimpeachable. John’s dad had disappeared years ago, local single men were dull and unreliable and she didn’t want to move away from her mother who lived nearby. There was an authenticity to her frankness that had an endearing quality to it. Unfortunately on the last occasion that I dropped John off there was a new poster on the wall. It was of the fifties band pop combo Lord Rockingham’s Eleven. They had one big hit with ‘Hoots Mon’ which can still be heard via YouTube. They must have reformed for a final tour and last payday. What disturbed me was the fact that all of them