one

I first met Tony in the guitar cupboard at school. I had just turned thirteen, and the cupboard, which was at the back of one of the music rooms, had become my lunchtime haunt after I'd finally outgrown the pleasures of playground soccer.

Up until then, since the day I'd started school, every spare moment had been spent chasing plastic footballs across tarmac pitches. For years I had lived for nothing but shin-splintering tackles with ox-ankled third years, skilful one-twos that left grey-trousered defenders floundering, and the wrong-footing of short-sighted goal keepers.

I can picture myself now; blazer flapping as skinny hips and shoulders swayed deceptively to the left and I flicked the ball deftly off the outer edge of my right shoe and watched it skim between two piles of sports bags. 

I will never forget that unique joy, churning like honey in my guts, as I wheeled away fists aloft, the imagined roar of a cup-final crowd ringing in my ears.

When I was twelve, it was impossible to imagine anything that could replace my all-weather lust for goals, the satisfaction of slamming a football against the graffiti-covered brickwork of the gymnasium wall or the ripped wire mesh of the fence surrounding the old tennis courts.  But that was, of course, before I had discovered guitars.

Before I really got into guitar playing, I had never shown any great affinity for music (a fact proven by a short-lived series of piano lessons inflicted upon me at a tender age by ambitious parents, and soon terminated by a despairing teacher). To me, music lessons were better than having to do maths or geography but not as much fun as drama or PE. Although I regularly watched Top of the Pops and had enjoyed one or two juvenile discos, I had no desire to be a pop star (my aim in life was to play on the right side of midfield for Spurs or, failing that, to become a sponge bag man, a physio).

During my infancy, the music biz had been dominated by a succession of bizarre glam rock bands. And even if I had wanted to be the next Jimi Hendrix, it would have been difficult to equate the distortion-drenched screams of the glitter-sprayed, star-shaped instruments I'd seen on TV, with the sound made by the three-quarter-sized, nylon-strung classical guitars that occasionally reared their battered heads in second year, secondary school music lessons. Indeed, the first time I touched one of those guitars, handed to me by our second year music teacher (a right git called Mr Dennis), my immediate reaction was not one of overwhelming joy.

"I can't play this sir," I whined. "I dunno how to."

"Well it's a good opportunity for you to learn then isn't it," snapped Mr Dennis.

"Oh, can't I have a drum or something?"

"I have given you a guitar boy and you will play it," he hollered as if handing out a punishment. "Is that understood?"

I nodded dumbly.

"Is that understood Sharpe?" he repeated putting his face close to mine, his threadbare jacket stinking of roast dinners and stale tobacco smoke as he breathed his horrible garlicky breath all over me.

"Yes sir, Mr Dennis sir," I mumbled.

"Good," he said. "Now is there anyone else who isn't happy with their instrument?"

The class remained silent. Even the jokers knew better than to make a facetious comment in front of Mr Dennis. He was the type of teacher who would chuck the blackboard rubber at you if you so much as coughed, and would give you one detention for being a few seconds late to his lesson and another one for trying to explain why you were late before he had asked you to. Once, Mr Dennis picked on one boy so much that, during the middle of a lesson, the boy banged his own face on the desk to give himself a nose bleed just so that he could escape to the school nurse's room. That's how much of a total bastard Mr Dennis was. And the day he had a go at me, he was in particularly fine form; pausing to sneer at my discomfort, as I sat there awkwardly clasping that guitar, before shuffling across to the blackboard.

"Today, " he said, turning to face the class, " we are going to learn to play a song called You Are My Sunshine." He took a tiny chunk of chalk from the pocket of his cardigan and wrote the name of the song on the board in big letters. "It's a particularly easy song, so even you, Mr Sharpe, should be capable of playing some of it correctly."

All the class laughed, more to release nervous tension than to applaud his derision, but still those giggles hurt.

"Right," said Mr Dennis. "Now silently get into your groups; percussionists there, recorder players there and guitarists by the piano, and that does includes you Sharpe. And when I say silently, I mean silently. Any of you who consider this a good opportunity to gossip to your neighbour will find yourself in this room during the lunch period reflecting on the virtues of self-control. Am I understood?"

"Yes Mr Dennis," the class collectively mumbled.

"Am I understood?" he bellowed.

"Yes Mr Dennis, sir!" the class shouted.

To play You Are My Sunshine, we had to learn these three chords, a D chord, an A chord and an E chord. The trouble was, my chords wouldn't sound right (basically because I'd never picked up a guitar before and was trying to play it the wrong way round). When Mr Dennis saw the way I was playing he came up behind me and with a jerk suddenly lifted me out of my seat by the hair at the back of my neck (which, as you can imagine, hurt quite a lot). As tears welled up, uncontrollably, in the corners of my eyes, he leaned down and shouted right in my ear, "Are you trying to be funny Sharpe? Do you think that's clever boy? Do you?"

I was so shocked that I couldn't stop the tears from streaming down my face. All the class turned round and sat there staring at me, (which is pretty embarrassing for a six-year-old let alone a thirteen-year-old).

"Well let me tell you something Sharpe," bellowed Mr Dennis. "You're not clever at all boy. You're a disgrace," He yanked my head back and stared down at my upturned face with his horrible watery eyes and asked, "What are you?"

"A disgrace," I whimpered and he dropped me in my seat.

"Did I tell you to sit down?" hollered Mr Dennis.

I shook my head.

"Did I?" he yelled.

"No Sir," I whimpered, getting to my feet.

"Well then, I think you better go and stand in the corner for the rest of the lesson," he sneered. "And stop that pathetic snivelling you stupid little boy."

So I went and stood in the corner with a music book containing the lyrics, melody line and guitar chords for You Are My Sunshine balanced on my head, and quietly sobbed and imagined kicking Mr Dennis in the face again and again and again until the front of his face caved in and the toe of my shoe pulverised his brain to a bloody jelly. For weeks afterwards, every time I remembered how he had yanked me up by my hair like that, I imagined doing the same thing, kicking his head in and mashing-up his brain.

Even when I had grown into a six-foot-two-inch, twelve-and-a-half -stone, eighteen-year-old I still sometimes used to remember that moment and shudder and want to kill Mr Dennis. Then one day I saw him trundling along the street towards me with his watery eyes and a revolting zip-up cardigan. Although I hadn't seen him for years, I recognised him instantly. For a moment I really felt like going up to him and grabbing him by the hair, yanking his head back and yelling, "See how you like it, you old cunt."

However, as he got nearer, he looked so small and old and frail, my hatred dissolved to sadness. And as he passed me I caught his eye and nodded and grinned, and said in quite a friendly way "All right?" Although I could tell he knew exactly who I was, he pretended that he didn't and walked on. After that, I didn't exactly feel better, but the anger and pain that had made me want to kick his head in for all those years was replaced by a kind of hollow pity, a numb understanding of how desolate life must be for someone unable to either offer or accept the smallest kindness.

A few weeks after my first unfortunate encounter with guitar playing, Mr Dennis was thankfully removed from the school (after he had committed some act of petty, pointless and mildly painful cruelty against one of the school governors' sons). Much to everyone's relief, the new music teacher who replaced Mr Dennis was sitting right up at the other end of the see-saw of human nature. He was called Mr Mansworth and everybody loved him.

Mr Mansworth was a big-boned, pot-bellied giant with green eyes full of energy, who looked as if he had once played a lot of rugby and still enjoyed a pint or two of bitter. He wore a full beard that merged into a triangle of chest hair revealed by an unbuttoned shirt collar. His tie was always at half-mast, hidden beneath a chunky jumper embroidered with woolly semi-quavers or a trombone playing elephant or a string quartet of multi-coloured cats. Because he was so big and woolly, all the kids (and some of the staff) used to call him Mr Mammoth, instead of Mr Mansworth.

The first time old Mammoth took us for a music lesson he didn't tell the kids which instruments they had to play, he asked them which they'd like to play. If there were two kids who wanted to play the same instrument he'd pull a coin from the pocket of his corduroy trousers and flip it, and the person who called heads correctly got to play the instrument that lesson and the one who lost got to play it the next time.

After the first couple of lessons he didn't have to bother with getting his coin out any more because everyone sorted out disputes with their own coins. In fact, after a while, most of us had sorted out what we wanted to play before we had even got into the classroom, so it took a lot less time for the lesson to get started than it did when Mr Dennis used to go round handing out instruments.

And, instead of telling us what song we were going to play or sing each lesson, Mr Mammoth would give us a choice of three songs, and let us vote for which one we liked best. There was a chart up in the music room where people could write down suggestions for songs they'd like to play.

Mr Mammoth didn't approve of all of the songs people suggested. However, if a lot of people wanted to play or sing one particular song he would always endeavour to beg steal or borrow the music from somewhere (he couldn't just go out and buy the music, of course, because the school didn't have enough money).

Towards the end of Mr Mammoth's first term at the school, he brought his electric guitar into one of our lessons. It was a custard-coloured Fender Telecaster, which he played through an old hundred watt Marshall combo. After he'd told us a bit about how the pick-ups worked and all that shit, he turned up the overdrive on his amp and gave us a demonstration of his playing; a blisteringly fast solo riff which got us all clapping and cheering.

When we'd all settled down again, Mr Mammoth asked if anyone would like a go on his guitar. And absolutely everyone in the class put their hand up - everyone that is, except me. But then some joker who was sitting behind me (and had noticed my reluctance to join in) called out sarcastically, "Let Sharpy play, sir. He's really good on the guitar."

Of course, he only said that because of that time I'd played the guitar upside down and that git Mr Dennis had pulled my hair and made me stand in the corner with a music book on my head. But soon everyone in the class was laughing and shouting out, "Make Sharpy play it. Go on sir, give Sharpy a go. He'll cry if you don't let him. Ha, ha, ha."

With a big smile, Mr Mammoth turned to me and said, "It seems you're the popular choice Mr Sharpe."

I just sat there silently, my face turning beetroot.

"Come on don't be shy," said Mr Mammoth cheerfully. "Come up here and show us your favourite riff."

I shook my head. But everyone started calling out again:

"Go on, make him play sir. He's really good!"

"Come on then Mr Sharpe," said Mr Mammoth enthusiastically. "I'm sure we'd all love to hear you play, wouldn't we?"

And all the class (except me) nodded and yelled in unison, "Yes Mr Mansworth!"

"But I can't play," I mumbled. "Honestly. I don't even know which way round it goes."

"No need for modesty," cried Mr Mammoth, who thought I was just being shy. He picked up his electric guitar and held it out to me and said, "Right then class, let's have a big round of applause for Mr Sharpe."

All the class started clapping and whistling (especially that nasty kid who'd suggested me in the first place). So I didn't have any alternative then but to get up in front of everyone and attempt to play the thing.

I sat down in front of the class and Mr Mammoth handed me the guitar and put the strap round my shoulders, his jumper smelling slightly of wool and washing powder. Then he plugged the guitar in and said:

"We're ready when you are Mr Sharpe."

"But I only know one chord," I mumbled, water starting to well up in the corners of my eyes. Fortunately, Mr Mammoth noticed this and suddenly twigged that everyone had only been pretending that I could play in order to embarrass me. He knelt down between me and the rest of the class, winked and whispered, "Well if you only know one chord we better make it a big one, eh?"

He reached over and turned all the controls on the amp full on, so that it buzzed like a gigantic fly. Then he handed me a little plastic triangle (which I later discovered was a plectrum), helped me position my fingers in the shape of a D chord and, green eyes gleaming, whispered in my ear, "Now, when I nod you play that chord as hard as you can OK?"

I nodded to show I'd understood, and he got to his feet.

"Now class," he said. "Could we have a little hush please for the amazing guitar virtuoso Mr Sharpe who is going to give us a practical demonstration of the power of amplification." And so saying he turned to me and nodded. I struck that D chord and what seemed an incredible wall of noise exploded out of the amp and filled the room. I was so shocked I practically fell off the chair.

"And again please Mr Sharpe," shouted Mr Mammoth above the screech of distortion and feedback, bouncing up and down with excitement. "And again!"

The class all sat there with their fingers in their ears or their heads buried beneath their jumpers or both. Then suddenly the deputy headmistress, a prudish old cow called Mrs Hawthorne, came storming into the room and screamed:

"What is the meaning of this outrageous noise?"

Mr Mammoth stopped bouncing up and down and quickly turned the volume control on the amplifier to nothing. But I could still hear the feedback from that chord howling through my head, my heart thumping like crazy and my fingers trembling with the power of that sound I'd produced.

Then Mr Mammoth said quite calmly (albeit rather sheepishly), "I'm sorry to alarm you Mrs Hawthorn. We were just carrying out a little experiment on the strength of soundwaves."

"I see," said Mrs Hawthorne tersely, rubbing her bottom lip with the end of the right arm of her spectacles. "I see. In future, Mr Mansworth, perhaps you would care to inform me before you carry out such an experiment."

"But of course," said Mr Mammoth smiling sweetly.

"Thank you," snapped Mrs Hawthorne without returning his smile.

As she was walking out of the door, he called after her, "Oh, Mrs Hawthorne."

She paused, turned her head, and glared at Mr Mammoth who asked sweetly, "I wonder if, for the purposes of our little experiment, you might tell us where you have just come from?"

"From my office, Mr Mansworth," she snapped. "Right over on the other side of the school, where I was attempting to arrange the examination time table until I was so rudely interrupted." Then she flounced out of the door slamming it shut behind her.

Mr Mammoth waited for a moment until he was sure she had gone then he said, "And that, Class 3C, is the power of amplification." Then he took the guitar from me and said "Thank you for your assistance Mr Sharpe. Perhaps now someone else would like a go on the guitar at a slightly lower volume. But first a round of applause for our virtuoso performer."

Everyone clapped and cheered as I went back to my seat, and I sat there for the rest of lesson still trembling from playing that enormous chord. And from that moment onwards I was hooked. At the end of the lesson I went up to Mr Mammoth and told him that I'd like to learn to play guitar. And he laughed and said:

"You enjoyed your little performance then?"

I nodded, and he winked and said: "Not half as much as that old witch Hawthorne did." And then he looked me sternly in the eye and said, "You didn't hear me say that, all right?"

I shook my head innocently and said, "Pardon, did you just say something?" Mr Mammoth grinned and tuned me up a classical guitar. Then he showed me an A chord and an E chord and let me stay in the music room all lunchtime to practice them.