YouÕre not one of the five-eighths, are you Charlie?

Date Published: 14-Feb-2013

When I was living in Mayo, my doctor once asked “You’re not one of the five-eighths, are you Charlie?” It took a moment for the meaning behind the words to sink in, but as soon as it did, I shrugged and smiled back.

“Well, seeing as how 90% of your clients are farmers, no, I suppose I’m not.”

“No no no!” he insisted. “You’re a bit of a rebel, aren’t you?”

For a second I imagined myself sporting an extravagantly wavy moustache, a wide-brimmed leather hat and an X-shaped brace of bullet belts wrapped around my torso. What a ridiculous notion. Firmly ensconced in middle age, my life was less Brando’s ‘Whaddya got?’ and more ‘What’s for dinner?’

“No, I’m not a rebel, doc. Haven’t the energy.”

“So how did a suburban London boy end up here?” asked the doctor.

I smiled and left, sparing him the answer. There was a long queue of coughing spluttering people waiting outside, so it wasn’t the moment to settle back in my chair and say: “Well, it all started back in the Spring of 1973…”

We imagine we’ll notice the seminal moments in our lives, but at the age of twelve I had neither the perspective of hindsight nor the wisdom of experience. However, as soon as the doctor asked me, I instantly remembered the first moment I did something vaguely rebellious.

I was in my last year of Prep School, blissfully unaware that I was peaking in both my academic scores and social standing. A few months later, after arrival at Public School, I’d plummet from being a straight-A student to the bottom of the class.

From being House Captain, Dormitory Prefect and one of the most popular boys in the whole school, I was about to become a bullied, friendless pariah, gaining weight as quickly as I lost confidence. Thankfully I didn’t waste those high-flying years.

Each morning at Prep School after assembly in the gym, classical music played as the boys filed out in order of seniority, followed by the staff.

Our Headmaster was a tall thin rollie-smoker called Jock Lumsden, known as ‘Jockles’ to the boys, which serves well to illustrate how much affection we felt for him.

One day Jockles told me I was to become the boy who sat in the wings of the stage each morning, hiding behind the curtain, ready to play the music for filing out. I was thrilled. It was an honour and a privilege.

Each morning the album sleeve of the record to be played was placed at the foot of the Headmaster’s lectern, facing the hall, so that everyone might know what to expect and possibly enhance their knowledge of composers along the way.

All went well until a band called Focus had a hit with a song called Hocus Pocus. An upbeat folkish instrumental piece, it shot up the charts, blared constantly from our transistor radios, and one morning I held the single in my sweaty 12-year-old paws.

Would I do it?

Could I do it?

Would I be expelled; and if so, might that be worth it for the glory that I’d enjoy and the respect I’d earn from my peers?

For more, read this week’s Galway City Tribune.