At My Mother's Knee by Paul O'Grady Read Free Book Online

sample the delights of the Fun House or
have my picture taken at the top of the Tower until I was in my
twenties and worked a club there. My mother thought Blackpool
was common. It was common. We never went to Butlins either,
another magical place I was desperate to visit. That was common
as well. I'd watch the commercials on our telly and drool at the
images of holidaymakers having the time of their lives courtesy of
Billy Butlin. And there was the added bonus that once you got
inside the camp you could avail yourself of every single amusement
at no extra charge. I couldn't get over that. Apart from
Disneyland, which was in America and therefore out of the question,
Butlins was my ultimate goal.
    'Mam, can we go to Butlins?' I'd plead.
    'Butlins!' she'd scream, raising her eyebrows, in the same
tone of voice that the Beadle used on Oliver when he asked for
more. 'Good God, I'd rather die.' She'd have hated the
enforced joviality and feared that at any moment she might be
coerced into participating in a game, just as I would now. I'd
lock myself in my chalet and take to my bed, burying myself
under the blankets.
    Taking to your bed is a family trait, inbred in all of us. When
the going gets tough and a safe haven is sought from the afflictions
of the world, we take to our beds. Safe in the dark, it's
the perfect environment to mull things over and find a solution
to the problem that's been aggravating those vulnerable nerves.
You can wallow self-indulgently and allow all those petty
grievances that have lurked, festering, in the dark corners of
your mind to grow out of all proportion and blossom into
visions of revenge and retribution. Preferably violent.
    'Me nerves are bad' signals a malaise peculiar to some
women and gay men in the Merseyside region. If not treated
fairly quickly, the disease can degenerate into a more
debilitating condition known as 'Me nerves are hanging out'.
The cures range from excessive intake of nicotine, caffeine,
antidepressants and strong drink to flinging the dinner up the
wall and taking to your bed. My mother was a great advocate
of the bed cure and frequently took it when she felt she'd been
pushed to the limit, with the addition of a little Valium 'to take
the edge off'. During my difficult teen years, when I drove her
up the wall she'd frequently declare, 'Right, that's it,' pulling
off her overall and flinging it on the sofa, 'I'm taking to me
bed. You can all bloody well get on with it,' emphasizing the
'all', drawing it out and using a sweep of her arm for dramatic
effect.
    I don't know who the 'all' were as there was only me and her
in the house. Slamming the door behind her so that the crucifix
above it shook, she'd make the ascent upstairs, banging her
foot down hard on each step with all the ferocity of a
mountain troll in a Wagnerian opera. The entire house
trembled as she crashed about in her bedroom above me.
    Minutes later she would be back out on the landing shouting
down the stairs. 'And you needn't think you're sitting up
all night smoking your bloody head off and watching
television using all MY electricity!'
    I'd turn the telly up to drown her out.
    'D'ya think I'm made of money?' she'd rant. 'If the leccy
goes, that's it, I haven't got any change for the meter so you'll
have to sit in the dark.' Slam!
    'That's her closing the bedroom door then.'
    Thump, Thump, Thump, THUMP!
    'That's her going back to bed. Give her five minutes and
she'll be out again,' I'd mutter to myself.
    Sure enough, she'd be out again, declaiming from her landing
pulpit in a voice that could've given the Revd Ian Paisley a
run for his money. 'And you can just pack your bags and sling
your hook, you wicked little swine, making me take the Lord's
name in vain when you know I've just been to confession.'
Slam!
    After a period of time – you never could tell just how
long she'd confine herself to barracks; it could be a
matter of hours or a couple of days – her temper would burn
itself out and she would