Read Online Life by Keith Richards; James Fox - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Keith Richards; James Fox
Tags: BIO004000
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forty-minute walk, and there’s only two ways to go, Havelock Road or Princes Road. Toss a coin. But then I knew that the minute I got out of school, this guy would be waiting for me. The guy always guessed which way I was going. I’d try to figure out new routes, get busted in people’s gardens. I’d spend the whole day wondering how to get home without taking a beating. Which is hard work. Five days a week. Sometimes it didn’t happen, but at the same time you’re sitting in the classroom churning inside. How the hell do I get past this guy? This guy would be merciless. There was nothing I could do about it and I would live in fear all day, which ruined my concentration.
When I got a black eye from being beaten up, I’d go home to Doris, and she’d say, “Where did you get that from?” “Oh, I fell over.” Otherwise you’d get the old lady wound up about “Who did it?” It was better to say you fell off your bike.
Meanwhile I’m getting these terrible school reports, and Bert’s looking at me: “What’s going on?” You can’t explain that you spend the whole day at school worrying how to get home. You can’t do that. Wimps do that. It’s something you’ve got to figure out for yourself. The actual beating was not the problem. I learned how to take beatings. I didn’t really get that hurt. You learn how to keep your guard up, and you learn how to make sure that somebody thinks they’ve done far more damage to you than they really have. “Aaaaaah”—and they think, “Oh my God, I’ve really done some harm.”
And then I wised up. I wish I’d thought of it sooner. There was this very nice bloke, and I can’t remember his name now, he was a bit of an oaf, he wasn’t made for the academic life, let’s put it like that, and he was big and he lived on the estate —and he was so worried about his homework. I said, “Look, I’ll do your fucking homework, but you come home with me. It’s not that far out of your way.” So for the price of doing his history and geography, suddenly I had this minder. I always remember the first time, couple of guys waiting for me as usual, and they saw him coming. And we beat the shit out of them. It only took two or three times and a little ritual bloodletting and victory was ours.
It wasn’t until I got to my next school, Dartford Tech, that things, by a great fluke, righted themselves. By the time of the 11-plus exam, Mick had already gone to Dartford Grammar School, which is “Ooh, the ones in the red uniforms.” And the year after that was my turn, and I failed miserably but not miserably enough to go to what then was known as secondary modern. It’s all changed now, but if you went there under that archaic system, you were lucky if you got a factory job at the end. You were not going to be trained for anything more than manual labor. The teachers were terrible and their only function was to keep this mob in line. I got into that middle ground of technical school, which is, in retrospect, a very nebulous phrase, it means you didn’t make grammar, but there’s something worthwhile in there. You realize later on that you’re being graded and sifted by this totally arbitrary system that rarely if ever takes into account your whole character, or “Well, he might not be very good in class, but he knows more about drawing.” They never took into account that hey, you might be bored because you know that already.
The playground’s the big judge. That’s where all decisions are really made between your peers. It’s called play, but it’s nearer to a battlefield, and it can be brutal, the pressure. There’s two blokes kicking the shit out of some poor little bugger and “Oh, they’re just letting off steam.” In those days it was pretty physical at times, but most of it was just taunts, “pansy” and all of that.
It took me a long time to figure out how to knock somebody else out instead of me getting it. I’d been an expert at taking
When I got a black eye from being beaten up, I’d go home to Doris, and she’d say, “Where did you get that from?” “Oh, I fell over.” Otherwise you’d get the old lady wound up about “Who did it?” It was better to say you fell off your bike.
Meanwhile I’m getting these terrible school reports, and Bert’s looking at me: “What’s going on?” You can’t explain that you spend the whole day at school worrying how to get home. You can’t do that. Wimps do that. It’s something you’ve got to figure out for yourself. The actual beating was not the problem. I learned how to take beatings. I didn’t really get that hurt. You learn how to keep your guard up, and you learn how to make sure that somebody thinks they’ve done far more damage to you than they really have. “Aaaaaah”—and they think, “Oh my God, I’ve really done some harm.”
And then I wised up. I wish I’d thought of it sooner. There was this very nice bloke, and I can’t remember his name now, he was a bit of an oaf, he wasn’t made for the academic life, let’s put it like that, and he was big and he lived on the estate —and he was so worried about his homework. I said, “Look, I’ll do your fucking homework, but you come home with me. It’s not that far out of your way.” So for the price of doing his history and geography, suddenly I had this minder. I always remember the first time, couple of guys waiting for me as usual, and they saw him coming. And we beat the shit out of them. It only took two or three times and a little ritual bloodletting and victory was ours.
It wasn’t until I got to my next school, Dartford Tech, that things, by a great fluke, righted themselves. By the time of the 11-plus exam, Mick had already gone to Dartford Grammar School, which is “Ooh, the ones in the red uniforms.” And the year after that was my turn, and I failed miserably but not miserably enough to go to what then was known as secondary modern. It’s all changed now, but if you went there under that archaic system, you were lucky if you got a factory job at the end. You were not going to be trained for anything more than manual labor. The teachers were terrible and their only function was to keep this mob in line. I got into that middle ground of technical school, which is, in retrospect, a very nebulous phrase, it means you didn’t make grammar, but there’s something worthwhile in there. You realize later on that you’re being graded and sifted by this totally arbitrary system that rarely if ever takes into account your whole character, or “Well, he might not be very good in class, but he knows more about drawing.” They never took into account that hey, you might be bored because you know that already.
The playground’s the big judge. That’s where all decisions are really made between your peers. It’s called play, but it’s nearer to a battlefield, and it can be brutal, the pressure. There’s two blokes kicking the shit out of some poor little bugger and “Oh, they’re just letting off steam.” In those days it was pretty physical at times, but most of it was just taunts, “pansy” and all of that.
It took me a long time to figure out how to knock somebody else out instead of me getting it. I’d been an expert at taking
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