Becoming Johnny Vegas

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‘Is there cake?’

‘No’

‘Jelly?’

‘No’

‘Then what’s the point when it’s not even a proper party?’

Even the day I nagged Dad relentlessly for an ice cream and he took me outside for a chat –

‘I got laid off today. Do you know what that means?’

‘I think so’

‘Well, then I need you to do me a favour, okay?’

‘Yeah’

‘Take this quid and get yourself something from the van. Only, make it last and don’t ask again for a while’

Stealing all the page threes from the newspapers we collected to raise money for St Austin’s Church, and hiding them in a Kwik Save carrier bag under a brick just behind the garages beside St Matthew’s Church. Not knowing why they made my giblets tingle but convinced that it was naughty, yet not feeling guilty about their god watching me because they still had their railings they’d held back in the war ...

All of these feelings, each and every moment, were (and are) a part of me. All of them, wittily broadened out, would make perfect anecdotes to fill a cheery book of nostalgia ten times over. But they’re paths not travelled by my psycho-Siamesetwin Vegas.

It’s along the abnormal, moody B-roads of my mind where I have to search for the first signs of him. Not an easy task, thanks to his scorched earth policy. Carrie Fisher had her postcards from the edge for evidence; Johnny refused to pay the postage.

It’s a shame, though. I loved my childish existence with all its harmless ups-and-downs, and I didn’t care in the least that nothing at this point in my life felt remarkable. It was innocent and lovely, it was growing up in Hayes Street, Thatto Heath, St Helens. I was eager for a life without incident. I thrived on normality. Or, at least, I thought I did.

PART II (#uc06a74ee-4e8c-53ee-9553-7a1d0afc53d7)