The Life of Lee by Lee Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

got excited during that little teaser bit at the beginning about the forthcoming stories on the programme. There was that man with the microphone and, sure enough, Dad and I could indeed be glimpsed in the background, stumbling around amongst the rubbish, holding boxes. ‘’Ere we are. Look, there’s us!’
    Every time an item came on the news, Mum was unable to cope and kept running out of the room, a nervous wreck. ‘I can’t watch, Dave,’ she would say, flying out with a tissue to her face.
    We had to wait until right at the end of the news, but it did come on. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what we were expecting. It was an item about the state of the country and how there was an emerging underclass of deprived people who were relying on the discarded waste of the poorest neighbourhoods. It went on about how we were turning into a Third World country, how the most disadvantaged people were suffering so badly that these blighted beasts had begun to scavenge among the disgusting waste grounds of our rubbish tips.
    I didn’t really know what my first ever TV appearance meant. It certainly didn’t indicate that one day I might have my own BBC series. But Dad seemed angry as he got up to leave the room and kicked the dog on the way out.
    The dog – a mongrel called Dougal – always had a resigned look on his face as Dad approached. He knew what was coming. The dog accepted he was an essential part of Dad’s failed anger management course.

6. Fireworks
    Life on the Lawrence Weston was always on the chaotic side of shambolic. Despite the fact that Dad was getting more work as an entertainer, he only earned a pittance and we still existed from hand to mouth. We led an almost feral life, dressed in other people cast-offs and living off whatever food we could muster.
    The funny thing was, although there was crime on the estate, I never felt threatened or uneasy. There was the odd scare, but it was always taken care of by the older boys who were very protective towards the younger ones. It was a close neighbourhood. If there was a break-in, Dad would tell us, poking his fork at us for emphasis while he ate dinner: ‘If anyone got in ’ere, I would kick the shit out of them.’ He was scary when he said it, but it made me feel a lot safer, knowing he would confront them and not me.
    Most of the residents would know whodunnit anyway. Through the various channels of gossip, everyone knew everyone else’s business. Without ever involving the police, it was always taken care of.
    An example of how protective the older boys were was one evening when my mate Jeff and I were playing a game of football after school. The local flasher came out of nowhere and pulled his pants down in front of us. Jeffshouted across the main road to his house and his two older brothers were out quick as a flash, so to speak, chasing after him across the back fields, shouting at the top of their voices, ‘Come ’ere, you dirty bastard …’ Suddenly, from nowhere, there was a gang swarming the estate looking for him. Luckily for that flasher, they never caught him. If they had, he would definitely have had a cauliflower bean bag, as Jeff’s brothers, Keith and Pete, were rock hard. They returned saying, ‘If he comes back, gissa call, and we’ll kick him right in the rucksack. He won’t flash any more – he won’t even have a dim light!’
    The estate was always buzzing with activity. At weekends, we would be out the back of the flats in a small play area. It was nothing special, just some swings, a see-saw and a roundabout, but to us it was Thorpe Park. Competitions would always be on the go between the various kids from all over the estate.
    It’s amazing how fearless you are when you’re a kid. You never believe anything will happen to you when you’re out playing. One game involved pushing a swing as high as possible and then leaping off, trying to wrap it around the top crossbar. Unfortunately, one on-looking kid got a bit too close,