1066 All Stars

In the last instalment, we looked at my present day issues with self esteem and how it impacts on my life, affecting my relationships and outlook. So now let's delve into my murky past as we wend our way through my mental memory lane...

Chunk

Name calling is a part of growing up, almost a rite of passage. Most of us pick up a nickname or two, usually just good natured joshing from your mates.

I was never a hulking great bloater as a kid but I was definitely overweight, the fat one in my group. The names varied; fatty, chunk, bloater; take your pick.

There is a tendancy to laugh them off as just part of growing up but stop and think about it for a second. Everyday you are reminded that your defining chacteristic in the eys of others is how you look. Not only that, but how you look is distinct enough for people to comment on it and label you. As the 'fat' one, the label is, by default, mocking. It is a subjugating put down. And so as a defence mechanism, I laughed it off and played the joker, relying on puns and other jokes to retain my popularity. But each day, bit by bit, my confidence is chipped away as I am left in no doubt that I am, how do we put this delicately, looks challenged.

My mates meant no harm of course and weight is one of those things that we can control. In practice though, as the label is reinforced, your desire to break away from it is eroded and so I lived up to it, eating sweets, crisps and other crap. 

But there is one particular instance that stays with me, as clear in my mind now as the day it happened almost 30 years ago. It was common in those days for our local neighbourhood group to congregate in next door's garage to play snooker or just hang out. We were usually a group of boys, younger sisters occasionally joining in. This time, one of the older lads had invited some girls. It was summer and so I was wearing shorts and t-shirt. As I came walking down the drive towards the garage, I heard one of the girls sniggering to her mate, whispering 'oh my God!' I don't think there is any danger of me being paranoid, it was very obvious that they were taslking about me. Laughing about me, about how I looked. It was hurtful.

Nicknames and joshing can be harmless. But sometimes, they stay with you. And this one would follow me to University and beyond. But more on that later.

Arrogant

I always had a sense of being the odd one out in my family. Not in a bad way. I had a very happy childhood. My brother and I shared many similar interests and I was lucky that, by and large, he didn't mind his younger sibling tagging along. Mum and dad meanwhile were pretty relaxed and, whilst we didn't get everything on the wishlist, we had a pretty decent life.

Even before secondary school though, I started to realise that I was the academic one. I would take real pride in being top of the class, having the neatest handwriting getting top score on the spelling test. A fun afternoon for me was painstakingly sketching Transformers pictures or writing my own stories. I was never a brain of Britain but I wasn't dumb.

At secondary school, there was a parent's evening when I was in year ten, or thereabouts. One of my teachers (history, I believe) remarked that I don't put my hand up to ask questions enough. In my mind, it was because I thought I knew the answer and if you think you know the answer, why would you ask a question? The fact that your answer turns out to be wrong is inconvenient but you learn from the mistake and move on.

In the car on the way home though, I was called arrogant. The assumption was that I didn't ask because I assumed I knew everything. I really struggled to understand this mindset. Looking back, I understand now that it is the thin line between confidence and arrogance. I had a (unfortunately misplaced) confidence in my answer and this was mistaken for arrogance.

Now, I am not naive enough to consider myself blameless. As I went through school, I think I became subconsciously aware of the fact that I was moving beyond my parent's school level and this likely informed my attitude. I felt intellectually superior to them and my brother and likely showed it.

At the same time though, I thought I was an idiot. I was placed in the top set for maths but felt completely out of my depth. After agonising over one particularly difficult piece of homework, the next day I asked the teacher if I could be moved down to the next set. He laughed it off as nonsense and I proceeded to get a GCSE B, despite never feeling like I had a clue what I was doing. When I moved on to A-Levels, I took History along with a couple of my closest mates. I was placed in one class (taught by the head of year), they in the other. After a couple of days, I asked to swap because I wanted to be with my friends. Again, the request was declined but shortly after, my two friends were moved across to my class. Finally another parent's evening whilst we were in the 6th form, also featuring the history teacher / head of year. This time it emerged that they had hoped that by placing my two friends with me, I would drag their performance up, however they were concerned that in fact they were dragging me down. Those reprobates have a lot to answer for!

I find these examples fascinating and illustrative. Firstly, the confidence / arrogance line is something that troubles me to this day and its origins sit right there in that car ride home. I became paranoid about appearing big headed and so would play myself down, act the fool, accept a role as buffoon or joker. At the same time the self doubt is already painfully obvious, even at this early age and yet apparently I must have masked it from those around. And so whilst some thought me arrogant, I thought myself incapable.  As ever it appears that others had far more belief in me than I ever held in myself.

And as ever, this is a theme that we will come to revisit later.

All By Myself

Summer 1996. I am 18 and getting ready to go to Uni. The world is my oyster, I have no responsibilities and plenty of time on my hands. So, what to do? Get drunk with my mates? Go meet some girls? Hell, get a job and earn some beer tokens?

How about sitting inside starting Championship Manager '94 over and over again? No?

By this point, I had regularly started going clubbing on the weekend, my cohorts and I slipping into the 18+ venues with regular ease. Yet already I was conscious of the feelings of inadequacy. Friends started to get girlfriends and so splinter off from the group. The thought genuinely never occured to me that I could do the same. What on earth would I say to a girl? Why would she even look twice at this fat, arrogant fool?

Instead when I did go out, I would get drunk and be crude. I had no idea how to interact with girls. I either ignored them or played the cute best mate, enjoying the pat on the head of being an obedient, house trained puppy whilst all the while pining inside for something more. I was 'sweet' but never good enough to actually be fancied.

And so eventually I retreated to my own world on the computer. Friday nights, once filled with booze and puke, now consisted of TFI Friday, Eurotrash and Championship Manager. I still went out occasionally and usually had great fun. But there was a growing sense that girls were something I was destined to miss out on. If one did approahc me, I assumed it was a wind up. I would treat them like you would an angry driver who beeps you then starts shouting at you whilst you wait at the lights; stare straight ahead, pretending they don't exist until eventually they go away.

And so began a descent into isolation that would start to truly manifest at University. But we'll save that tale for another day.

Still To Come

In the next instalment, we're off to Uni, I start my premium finance journey and there's a certain girl named Karen, but not that one.