I was never really what one might call inspired at school. Don’t get me wrong – I loved it. I enjoyed the camaraderie and the challenges. I loved PE, when it involved football and didn’t involve cross country or Rugby. Science never particularly grabbed my attention and neither did History or Geography. Maths most certainly wasn’t my bag. Mr Whitham, the Maths teacher used to say ‘Those that want to learn, sit at the front, those that don’t – there’s a pack of cards, piss off to the back and don’t disturb us. I played cards. When I didn’t feel like playing cards, I used to wag it – as we called it. I wasn’t quite brave enough for the full-on wagging experience though. I didn’t leave the campus. When I wagged Maths, I sneaked into extra English lessons.
My school reports probably reflected my attitude. “Jason spends most of his time entertaining his friends.”, said one. “Jason spends too much time being Mothered by the girls,” said another. Most of the teachers, while friendly enough – grateful I suppose that I was no bother, certainly didn’t hold out much hope of me succeeding when I left. The only teacher that ever inspired me was Mr Tempest. He was the English teacher that rather than send me back to Maths / Cards class, would let me sit and help the kids that were struggling. He helped me write stories. I remember one that I submitted for my O-level, called Utopia at Old Trafford. It was the story of a young working-class lad, realising his dream of playing for Manchester United. Another featured an Irish boy who had a big brother in the H blocks. I could spend hours writing stories.
Then, life and adolescence got in the way and I didn’t write a thing for about twenty years. Around the turn of the Millenium, I got divorced and suddenly found myself with a lot of time on my hands, and a lot of stuff in my head that needed to come out. I had an old electric-type writer and one night, decided to write my memoir. After about six abandoned first paragraphs, I realised I didn’t have anything interesting to tell. I wasn’t ready to unravel the emotions of divorce, so I wrote about my earliest memories. When recalling early events, it is often quite difficult – if not impossible to differentiate between genuine memories and memories of stories one has been told by others. Unsure which of the above it was, I wrote about an event that allegedly happened when I started Hackenthorpe Infant school in about 1975.
Apparently, at the end of one of my first days in school, after we’d been learning the golden rules of the school, we were told to go and get our coats on, ready for our Mummy to collect us. Mrs Meades, my teacher was most confused when I refused to budge and sat stoically in my little wooden chair. When Mrs Meads asked why I wasn’t getting my coat I informed her that I wouldn’t be doing it until she said please. i somehow managed to tell the story of my life up to the age of about 15. I even gave the book a title – With Respect!
With Respect! revolved largely around football and my memory of either playing football, thinking about football, reading about football, or watching football. Don’t hold your breath for that book to be a best-seller anytime soon. That said, my Mum read it and afterward, said “You should carry on, I want to know what happened next.” I said “You were there. nothing happened.”
Fast forward another twenty years and I had the misfortune of slipping 4 discs in my back while showing my prowess on the monkey bars to my kids. unable to work and heavily sedated, I decided to relieve the boredom by writing a blog. The blog was about Sheffield United, who under the leadership of Chris Wilder, were threatening to finally get promoted from League One. I read an article about United’s close shave with Europe in 1975, and the subsequent relegation the following year. The blog kept growing. before long it had gone back as far as the 1950s to find out where it all started. I decided to see if I could find any of the old players and see if they would speak to me. That blog turned into what I called a book. It had interviews with a couple of fans and a few ex-players. i edited it a few times then put it away to write a novel, (no, really). When I went back to the book, I made the foolish decision to try and get a publisher.
I’m not going to lie. it wasn’t a pleasant experience. i had some tentative responses and some rather negative ones. one editor made some helpful suggestions on how to improve it. I hated his suggestions. With respect, I thought, I will go somewhere else.
Eventually, I found a publisher that was willing to give me a contract and let me write the book I wanted to write. I am hugely grateful to Pitch Publishing for that. The book was released in February and I am extremely proud to be a published author. I’d love to find Mr Tempest and tell him what we did.