Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [39]
‘EVERYBODY!’ I encouraged. ‘God save the Queen, de, de, de, de, Send her victorious …’ Everybody sang along, just about managing to hide my out-of-tune, random guitar-playing. I belted out the last line with lung-bursting pride, like Stuart Pearce at a World Cup: ‘LONG TO REIGN OVER US, GOD SAVE THE … QUEEEEEN … YEAH!’ The most embarrassing moment of my life was over. I took a bow and received uncomfortable applause. It turned out I had fooled nobody, and later that night when the guests had departed, my father took me aside. ‘Michael, I think we need to talk.’
I wasn’t punished for skipping my guitar lessons. My humiliation at lunch was considered punishment enough. Also, my excellent exam results weighed in my favour. I claimed I had been too bogged down with work to learn an instrument.
My dad was pleased with my now glowing school reports. I don’t know why but I was particularly good at Latin. I was a ‘Latin lover’, but not in the sense that pleases women. I was also quite sporty. This might be difficult for you to believe. I opened the batting for the cricket team and was top scorer for the hockey team.
If you think hockey is a bit of a girlie sport, wait until you hear this: my posh private school taught boxing. An ex-boxer, I forget his name, whose face featured the obligatory flat nose, taught us the Queensberry Rules once a week. Fine, you might think. Boxing is good for exercise and co-ordination. Well, at the end of the year a boxing ring was set up in the gym, and there was a tournament when all the parents came to cheer their posh offspring beating the shit out of each other. Come to think of it, with me speaking Latin and boxing in front of a passionate mob, I was like a young Maximus Decimus Meridius in Gladiator.
A champion was crowned for every school year. I actually won in the first year, defeating Sam Geddes by a technical knock-out. Sam and I are friends to this day, and I haven’t stopped reminding him of my victory for the past twenty-five years. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to learn it’s mentioned in my book. I’m sorry, Sam, but the fact is my speed, silky skills and breathtaking power were too much for you. I gave you a boxing lesson. I destroyed you.
In the Arnold House school gym in my boxing prime, about to unleash my silky skills on a helpless Sam Geddes.
Now that’s how you’re supposed to wear swimming trunks.
In the second year, I wasn’t so successful. Maybe after a year as the champ I wasn’t as focused. I’d put on a few pounds. I got complacent. ‘I could have been a contender.’ But I think the real reason I lost was that I fought Ralph Perry in the final. Let me explain what Ralph Perry looked like. Imagine Mike Tyson as a white ten-year-old. I was no match for him. Perry, who later served time for GBH and assaulting a beauty queen, gave me a beating and I lost my crown. I burst into tears when the result was announced and refused to shake Ralph Perry’s hand and told him to ‘fuck off’ in Latin. My dad gave me a long lecture about sportsmanship and told me to use my jab more. But there was to be no rematch. The school woke up to the fact that making kids fight each other was perhaps a bit barbaric and boxing was stopped altogether.
So that just left sports day as the only occasion for my parents to witness my physical prowess. My two sets of parents decided to try to get along ‘for the sake of the children’. So my mum, Steve, my dad and Holly chose my sports day as the starting point for their new positive relationship. The venue was Cannons Park, a large sports field set up for athletics. It started well; my four parents were smartly dressed, the sun was shining and the rumour that Patrick Swayze was my dad was going some way to make up for the Kenny Everett debacle of two years earlier. The problem was that this wasn’t a dynamic which was going to work. There was far too much resentment, pain and anger between my mum and dad and their new sidekicks. It was excruciating to witness them pretending to get on and fake laughing at each other’s jokes.