Posted by Poppy on October 5, 2005, 6:11 am ADVANTAGES: Funny to look back on I am treating a serious subject in a light-hearted way. These people are usually harmless, but of course they should be reported, and we must prepare our children to cope with such incidents. Just before Christmas I saw a flasher, and I realized later that he was the first one I’ve seen for years. At one time I used to see them almost every day. Until I was ten I lived in Stratford on Avon, where my parents ran a pub. While they ran the pub, I ran wild, very vulnerable I realize now, but in spite of being out all hours and hanging around the bar in the pub, I had no problems at all with abusive adults. That suddenly changed. My parents were lousy publicans. Though by no means alcoholics, they were certainly dedicated boozers, and used to treat their cronies to free drinks. The pub went bankrupt and we were thrown out. Dad went off who-knows-where with my brother, which was a habit of his when things got tough, and my mother and I, with very little money, moved into a slum house in Coventry, in Spon End. (Any Coventrians reading this? I’m sure the slums there have been cleared by now.) It was a severe culture shock for me, accustomed as I was to the freedom of Stratford, the beautiful river, the clean, lively town, the public gardens. I was not used to other children, as my parents had never sent me to school, so the tough street kids in Coventry were a bit intimidating at first. But I’m an adaptable creature, and soon fit in. We went around in gangs, and I suddenly became aware of all the flashers. Near King Henry VIII School in Earlsdon and not far from us was a seedy little park, which had swings and gym bars, and plenty of big trees to climb. It also had a colony of members of the indecent-exposure club. There were two old underground air raid shelters from the 1940s there, which no one had ever bothered to dig out or fill in, and as we went past, the flashers would emerge from their depths, shuffling and blinking in the daylight, like amphibious creatures crawling from the primeval slime. They knew from experience that it was useless to ask us to go down the shelters with them to eat their sweeties, see the kittens, find a pound note, or succumb to any of their other tempting inducements, so they just stood there waving their willies at us and looking curiously depressed. We used to laugh and swear at them. Did we laugh and swear! None of the kids was afraid or disgusted. The flashers were just part of the scenery. One man didn’t frequent the shelters. This was Scotty Jack, always in full national dress, very smart in fact, and he was quite talented in his own novel fashion. He waited until we were playing on the swings and he had a captive audience, then turned up and began to dance a sort of highland fling. As he danced he sang a little song, to the old tune “The British Grenadiers”: There was a bonny Scotsman This seemed the height of sophisticated wit to us, 11- and 12-year-olds, and we were invariably in hysterics. I regret to say I’m laughing now, just thinking of it. The show ended with Scotty Jack bowing, pulling up his kilt, and doing something a bit puzzling to himself. The program never varied, and we saw this show dozens of times, but we never tired of it. I passed the exam to go to a new grammar school, and waited every morning with a lot of other new kids for the bus into central Coventry. Waiting with us, but never getting on the bus, was the Sweetie Major. The Sweetie Major wore the uniform of a private in the Pioneer Corps, and appeared to have been wearing it since 1939. He had only one tooth, was cross-eyed, and stank horribly, and kids used to say that if you went close enough you could actually see the bugs crawling on him. He told us that his pockets were full of sweeties, and all we had to do was, “Just put your hands in, aaagh, rummage about a bit, aaagh, and see what you can find, aagh, choccies and gobstoppers, AAAGH.” His own hands were rummaging like mad as he spoke. Then, abruptly, he seemed to lose interest, and cleared off. How strange. We didn’t cotton on to what he was up to for some years. Then, because when we were older we began to insult and threaten him, he stopped coming to the bus stop, but simply stood in a doorway opposite, waving his whatnot al fresco. Not one of us ever told an adult about all these goings on. It was unthinkable that we should. You just didn’t tell adults anything at all. Looking back on it now, I’m amazed at what survivors we were in all kinds of ways, how streetwise before the term had ever been thought of. I was about fourteen when a really nasty pervert arrived on the scene. This was Fatty Molesworth, 17, hugely, grossly obese. Fatty was cunning. He never exposed himself to a group of kids. He would target one, stalk her, then flash when the time seemed right. I came in for particular attention. His approach was one which he had obviously worked on and polished up to a degree of what he felt to be refined sophistication. When I got home from school he would be waiting at the bottom of the road. “ ’Ere, I love you. I’ll take you to the pictures.” I would take no notice. Then he always continued, “Cop a feel of this then.” And he opened his elephant trousers to show me the goods. It was always the same, and I got complacent. I was not prepared at all for what happened one day some weeks later. Fatty Molesworth was at the bottom of the road again. “I’m fed up with you. You won’t come out with me. I’m gonna come to your house and tell your ma you kiss boys, I am.” “Well, you’re not,” I replied, “because she’s out.” Tactical error. “Oh, goody, the old gal’s out. I’ll come in your house with you then, and we can do some rudies.” Rudies. What a horrible, creepy word. I ran. I could easily outrun him, and when I got in the house I locked the doors and checked all the windows. He was soon standing near the front door yelling, and I became anxious. My mother was due home, and I’d be in trouble. Make that really serious trouble, because I could see by squinting through the curtains that now he had his doodah out and was playing with it. Cold panic filled me. I knew I’d be blamed for the whole business, because that’s how it always was. I had to get rid of Fatty Molesworth, fast. I went upstairs, carrying a saucepan. A couple of minutes later, I opened the window. “I have something for you.” “Whassat?” I poured. He cottoned on to what it was almost as fast as you did, and lumbered off down the road swearing horribly and rubbing frantically at his face. I noticed he’d forgotten to put things away. My mother came home. “What’s this wet at the front?” “That Molesworth boy came and did a wee there.” “What!? I’ll kill the ******!” He didn’t ever trouble me again, but plenty of my friends were treated to the trouser show. (Continued)
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(Originally posted on March 16, 2003, 1:23 am)
DISADVANTAGES: Could have been nasty
who fought at Waterloo.
The wind blew up his kiltie
and showed his toodle-oo.
His toodle-oo was dirty,
he showed it to the Queen.
The Queen she gave him sixpence
to go and wash it clean.
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