Becoming Johnny Vegas. Johnny Vegas
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it would have gone any further than that, but we’ll never know because that sublime moment was brought to an immediate and incredibly embarrassing end when a teacher suddenly appeared and bellowed, ‘And just what in God’s name do you two think you’re doing?!’
Simon and his new friend were standing behind her looking sheepishly at their feet. I froze on the spot and couldn’t think of a word to say that might answer her question.
We were marched back into the communal dining room that was now being cleared for mass. She motioned to the girls. ‘You two sit there and don’t move! I’ll deal with you later. Now, you two, come with me.’
My partner-in-kissing-crime actually winked at me as we were dragged off to see Father Tony. She’d had a bit of a smirk on her face since we’d been busted. Lynne was great. It felt just like the smoking incident back in Sammy’s office. I mean, this was a serious misdemeanour, but my heart now ruled my head and I was already rehearsing my ‘I regret nothing!’ speech.
Tony was dressing for the service as the teacher stood there telling him all about our scandalous behaviour. She really did go on and on, so I think it was relief for all three of us when she finally said, ‘I don’t know about you, Father, but I’m at a loss for words.’
I wished!
‘It’s disgraceful behaviour. You must be so disappointed with them.’
Tony looked at us briefly.
Sod the speech, my face said I regretted everything.
But then something absolutely brilliant happened. He turned back to the teacher, and in a very matter-of-fact manner said, ‘Nah, not really. I’m proud of them for getting stuck in!’
I’d pay anything for a photograph of the smiles that broke out across my and Simon’s face at that moment. And, thank God, for the first time words did fail her as he continued, ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a mass to prepare for.’
That was Tony’s way of dismissing all three of us (and there’s no denying that as pay-off lines go, it’s a killer). Simon and I strode out of that room like studs. The teacher followed on, still in shock. I even managed a wink back in Lynne’s direction as we were seated on a bench as far away from the girls as possible.
Word had travelled quickly and the other boys were already having snide digs at us for snogging lasses. Unlike the night before in their room, I now enjoyed feeling ten years or so their senior.
We had come to that place as boys, but Simon and I would be leaving as men.
After mass, the kids were going off to do an orienteering session and we were preparing to head back to the seminary. The teacher was watching us like a hawk, but my resourceful co-conspirator still managed to slip me a bit of paper with her address on it. ‘Here, you can write to me if you like.’
And with that, Lynne winked at me one last time before running back to her giggling mates and walking away down a steep hill nearby the hostel. ‘Write to you?’ I thought. ‘I’m gonna bloody marry you!’
The whole drive back I kept replaying everything over and over in my head. Father Tony never once mentioned our fall from grace, but we couldn’t wait to get back and tell the rest of Underlow about our star-crossed lovers’ escapade. Oh yeah, following girls around the shopping centre was for amateurs – you were now looking at the professionals!
I wrote to my initiator into the pleasures of kissing the very first day after we got back. I had a slight panic going to Sammy’s office to buy the stamp out of my pocket money as I wondered if he might fix me with that gaze of his and somehow know that this was a letter full of forbidden love: a symbol of everything he had taken an oath against; a passion that I was supposed to turn my back on in favour of a life spent in servitude to Jesus Christ our Lord.
He just asked me if I wanted first or second class, and so the epistolary romance of the century began.
I lived for those letters. I loved receiving any mail whilst I was at Upholland, as anything connected with the world outside that place helped keep me going. My heart would sink at breakfast if there wasn’t an envelope with my name on it plonked on our table. I even took to writing to random companies for literature concerning their products, just to know that somebody, somewhere, was aware that I was here.
Car manufacturers always gave good mail, as did Scotch whisky distillers, funnily enough. I can’t remember why I chose to start writing to them, but they went out of their way to send tons of stuff. I suppose requests like mine were few and far between. Anyway, they didn’t seem too concerned that an 11-year-old trainee priest was taking such an ardent interest in their product. I don’t know, maybe they just thought I was getting a head start on my drink problem? Perhaps their post-bag was busting at the seams with letters from the clergy wanting to look into alternatives to altar wine? Whatever their reasons, they were more than happy to send label samples, brochures and breakdowns of the distilling process. Had I stayed on at Upholland, then I’d have had all the necessary know-how for building my own still and brewing up some kind of moonshine, which would’ve appealed to the other students. Sammy could’ve played Eliot Ness and eventually busted me for calligraphy tax evasion.
But nothing meant more to me than a hand-written letter from home, or especially from Lynne. I would read them over and over and over again. They were my most treasured possession at Upholland. It’s probably why I still write letters to this day, and take so much pleasure in receiving them. I don’t care that an email is a trillion times faster and costs you nothing: there’s no soul to them. A hand-written letter or card tells a person they matter. And I desperately needed to know that someone cared enough to make me feel that way.
I actually started making the most of seminary life towards the end of the summer term. I had what I considered to be a girlfriend (calling us ‘pen-pals’ didn’t do justice to how good she made me feel), and I was still coasting it, grade-wise.
I was also in the fishing club – an activity I’d really missed, and I even offered to captain our tennis team in an upcoming match with another school. It was a quiet back-up plan of mine to turn pro and one day win Wimbledon for my mum. That would be the only way I could make it up to her for abandoning my parish to marry a girl I’d met at a youth hostel at the age of 11. After that, all I had to do was drop four stone and win the Grand National to get Dad back on side. Simple! What a difference a kiss makes.
But my opponent was less than dazzled when I stepped onto the court and delivered a wanky 10mph underarm serve. It was a whitewash. But you know what? I wasn’t bothered. For the first time in what felt like an age, I wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.
I didn’t even kick up a fuss when they took my life-sized cardboard cut out of ET off me. My sister Catharine had swiped it from a promotional display at Argos, and I was the envy of the dorm for the brief time that it was displayed there. However, it apparently represented ‘a false idol’ and wasn’t ‘in the image of Christ our Lord’. I remember mumbling a few words of protest as it was carried away but, to be honest, my heart was no longer in it as far as rebelling was concerned.
Just like Fletch in Porridge, I was happy to do my stir and keep my head down. The summer holidays were coming up and I’d have six full weeks of tea, proper mashed potato and kicking back with the Hayes Street mob. I’d come a long way since sobbing myself to sleep the previous September. I was now the new poster boy for the priests of tomorrow. Soon, I would take my case to Pope John Paul, explain to him why vicars had it sussed when it came to loving both one woman and God simultaneously, and return with reading lamps for all.
I would have ended that year a model example of an Underlow student had it not been Upholland’s centenary, and had they not celebrated by putting a decanter of sherry on every single table during a commemorative lunch