A bit long I know, but hope someone has the time to read it.
Recorded by Kwame Kwei Armah for Radio Five Live last Summer
I TAUGHT BECKS HOW TO BEND
Monologue by Peter Musgrove
I remember the day as if it was yesterday. I wish it was. It was on the 3rd September 1983 that I, Joe Potts, bearded Piscean and above average supply teacher, was asked to work for six months at the Chase Lane Junior School, Chingford, Essex. I obviously jumped at the chance of regular employment financing as I was at the time an estranged wife called Maureen, whose work as a Puppeteer had dried up, a Jack Russell called Les, [who I later shot, but that’s a story for another day] and a Mescaline habit that would have put the great Sagittarian himself, Keith Richards, to shame.
Well it must have been around the second week that I was asked by Mr Green, head of Woodwork and Creative Fun, to take Year 3 for P.E.
“You got a weally talented young boy out there Joe, he isn’t the bwightest firework in the sky but football wise he wocks and wolls . See if you can spot him“.
Those of you that live in and around London may recall the controversial policy followed by Chingford Council back in the mid 1980’s of only employing staff who suffered with Rhotacism.“ The Gweat Wotacism initiative“ as it became known. I remember thinking at the time that it was odd that the first question they asked me was not what relevant teaching experience I had or what qualifications I had achieved but had I, or any close family members, ever had difficulty in rolling our “R’s”. To my own surprise, as quick as a flash, I responded,“ Why do you ask that Mr Wogers“. The job was as good as mine.
Anyway getting back to my story, here I was on a blisteringly hot summer’s day, suffering severe opiate withdrawals, feigning a socially crippling speech impediment and taking a group of highly active 8-year old boys for football training trying to find a kid who was supposed to be Britain’s new Bryan Robson or as I had to call him, Bwyan Wobson.
“O.K boys over here. Now I want to start by twying to get you to take fwee kicks from just outside the penalty area“.
First a lad called Billy Lowe stepped up. The only reason I mention this is because he was supposed to be the son of Chris Lowe, you know, the other one in the Pet Shop Boys. Now if you are like me you will have assumed that talented Libran Chris was a out and out left winger, kicking solely with his left foot and never once roaming onto the right side of the pitch even to take a penalty or corner. Well rumour has it he used to play as a right full back for his secondary school and only decided to change his position after watching ,“ On the Waterfront”.
So anyway after about 10 minutes up came a fresh faced young boy called David.
“O.K David, I’ll be the goalie, see if you can beat me fwom here“. I pointed to there. As a matter of interest the rolling “R’s ” thing did have one unexpected positive going for it. Did you know there are women out there that cannot get sexually aroused unless they are with a man with a raging speech disorder, the more ridiculous the speech, the hornier they feel. For any guy’s wanting to know, the group known somewhat predictably as the “Waunchy Woman“ meet on the first Monday of every month at “The Jeremy Bentham“ just off Gower Street, London.
Sorry, back to my story. So I am in goal and David steps forward. “Hit it with the outside of your wight foot and twy to curl it in“ I shouted. He did. The ball bent like a banana in the air and buried itself into the top of the net. He had scored and the rest is history. I’ll never forget him running towards me, face full of excitement…just like a young Faye Dunaway.
”Mr Potts, that felt so good. Hitting it with the outside of my foot really seemed to change the trajectory of the ball. The aerodynamic improvement was outstanding. But be honest Sir, was it aesthetically pleasing to the eye?”. Or words to that effect.
“Mr Potts, I’ll never forget this. When I score my first goal for England I’ll remember this day…and you“
That was some 23 years ago. When on the 26th June 1998 I saw young Becks score against Colombia in France my heart almost exploded with pride. I had recently undergone a triple heart bypass and was genuinely worried about this but remembering his words I decided to make a call to my young prodigy. I contacted David’s old school and amazingly at a cost of only £150 the then headmistress, a certain Mrs Rosalyn Coleman of 9, Richmond Street, Waltham Abbey, forwarded me his private number. I was so excited about meeting him again. To be honest I had fallen on hard times. During my affluent years in regular employment my mescaline habit had graduated to a full blown cocaine habit. However this soon took it’s toll and I was once again on the employment scrap heap. Cocaine went to malt whisky, then polish Vodka, then to strong continental lagers and finally to cheap ciders.
My wife left me for a Japanese pastry chef called Chou, and in a moment of desperation I drank myself into oblivion and found myself defecating outside his restaurant in S.W.7. [definitely not a post code you should do this in. For those of you that are interested, in London you can only legally defecate in SE13 and occasionally N17 at the weekends]. I was subsequently arrested and Maureen put a restraining order on me. Even now, 10 years later, I am unable to legally enter High Wycombe.
As for David….. Well after he came back from the 1998 World Cup he was not flavour of the month if you remember. I did go up to the village where he lived in Cheshire and rang him from a nearby pub, “The Goose and Extender“ I think it was called. Only he didn’t answer , his then fiancé, Victoria did.
I had drunk a few too many Diamond whites that afternoon and probably didn’t show myself off at my best. I vaguely recall starting to tell her the famous joke about the Hungarian acrobat and the Duchess of Kent and then heard something about someone releasing the dogs and next thing I remembered was waking up in Manchester Royal Infirmary. The touching thing was though , on the locker next to my bed was a card saying simply, “Thanks Sir“ and then a small message , “Say Hi to Wicky, Waymond and Walf for me“. I guess he must have known my secret all along.
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http://petermusgrove.com/2008/04/15/i-taught-becks-how-to-bend/
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