Year two at Lancaster Boys’ School arrives, and the curse of countless teenagers changes my life: ‘Spots’. My personality changes from shy to paranoid, as the zits appear first on my chin and later envelope my whole body-machine. I put the infestation down to the rice pudding I’ve been eating at school dinners – for no reason other than the fact they appeared soon after eating it – and I’d never consumed that particular food substance before. And never will again, I vow.

I start to think that everyone I communicate with is looking at my spots. I’m probably right. I start to worry that the spots on my chin will spread to other parts of my face. They do. I then discover the curious phenomenon that whatever part of my body I worry about being spotty next, is always the next part of my body to be infested with spots. As an experiment, I think about my legs and hope the spots will not spread there, because people will see my legs when I play football. I get spots on my legs (between the top of my red football socks and the bottom of my shorts). Interesting.

I note than I am descending into some sort of adolescent hell, and observe that I’m not the only one in the class with this spot ‘invasion’ (which I soon learn is collectively known as ‘acne’. A detestable name for a detestable affliction). If I knew at the time how long this acne was going to last, I would have looked into getting a face transplant. The only person in our form with more spots than me is Ray Blockley, who one day recommends a product called ‘Clearasil’ to get rid of my acne. I appreciate his concern, but can’t help thinking this is like a bald-headed barber recommending hair-restorer. Still, I do go to Boots the Chemists and buy Clearasil in two types: flesh tinted for day use, and clear for night-time. I wonder how the manufacturers have managed to come up with a ‘one-tint-fits-all’ flesh-coloured product. I can’t see it working for my classmate Abdul Singh.

‘Acne spotting’ becomes a new hobby. No, an obsession. Every morning and every night, I study my face in the bathroom mirror to see the condition. Any improvements? No – always getting worse. I discover that my understanding of the condition is inversely related to the increase of the acne. Unfortunately, my level of understanding remains close to zero, which means that the number of spots must be approaching infinity. I still don’t know what causes it despite what I have read. Some people say it’s my hormones, others it’s greasy food, and one or two that it’s brought on by solo sex. The general consensus, though, is it’s just my age.

Every morning I wash my face with an anti-bacterial soap, then apply first Clearasil tonic (a blue liquid that smells like something out of the chemistry lab), and finish with my Clearasil flesh-coloured make-up. I repeat the process at lunchtime, and again at night. If this is what females have to endure every day of their adult lives, I’m glad I chose to be male.

Then the blackheads arrive. Earth father, in an effort to help, buys me a special blackhead remover. A metal device with a handle at one end and a small bowl at the other. The bowl has a hole, and the idea is to press the bowl over the blackhead, and then squirm with delight when the offending blemish squirts out through the hole. Good idea in principle; but in practise, it only pushes the blackhead deeper and (as I discover when it’s too late) it causes scarring. It is also useless at removing the blackheads from my ears.

In an effort to find out the cause of the problem, I experiment with food. I keep coming back to milk as part of the problem, but I don’t know if I need to drink more, or drink less. I try alternating between drinking an awful lot, and then drinking none at all. My experiments are inconclusive.

My life continues – spots and all. At school, I realise that despite the humiliation of failing my eleven plus and being sent down for five years to Lancaster Boys School, there is the benefit of being top of the first division instead of the bottom of the Premiership. I continue to improve in Maths and English and seriously consider becoming an astronomer one day – now that my academic credentials are improving. One day, host mother receives a phone call at home from someone who asks, “Is Howrie in?”

“Which Howrie do you want?” she replies. “We have five.” He rings off, confused. My classmate has no idea what my first name is – such is life in English secondary schools.

For my joint Christmas and Birthday presents, Earth parents buy me a two-and-a-half inch refracting telescope from Jessops in Leicester City Centre – to replace the cheaper telescope Earth dad bought me previously. My investigation of the Universe begins in earnest. Now I can observe the red planet Mars, the moons of Jupiter, the rings of Saturn, and the phases of Venus from the comfort of our own garden. Whilst other normal people read stories, I become an avid reader of Astronomy books, making trips to the Leicester City library whenever I can to ‘increase my knowledge’, as Earth people describe it. (I call it remembering). I even discover how you can safely observe the sun by fitting a box around the end of the eyepiece and projecting its image onto white card. And what an eye-opener that is: I am not the only one with spots – the sun is covered with the bloody things.  

Observing the sky at night becomes my new world – a refuge from the pressures of school and the stranglehold of my Earth parents. I notice that the older I get, and the more I feel the need to get out and explore this planet, and the more they seem to want to control my life. I am beginning to wonder if my choice of host parents was a wise one.

Then one day in early February, as I’m looking out of my window contemplating my pathetic little life, Deirdre Barker rides past my house on her Moulton bike. My legs turn to jelly and my heart beats faster than a Ringo drum roll. The skinny elf has turned into a gorgeous creature, and Paul McCartney screams into my ear: Got to Get You Into my Life. Two Valentine’s cards later and we’re holding hands in the same park where we played as kids four years earlier. And once again, I’m completely and utterly in love.

But the Deirdre I rediscover at fourteen is now an alien creature. Mountains have grown where before there was flat terrain; and now what’s that on her face? It’s make-up, apparently… like I wear for my spots. The little girl I once knew is now a young lady, and I have no experience of dealing with young ladies. She talks about things at her school like ‘Latin’. She tries to explain it, but I say it just sounds like a foreign language to me. Our two universes impinge, coalesce and, at times, envelope each other. We embrace passionately in the streets, loving the contact and loving each other. Any yet we are from two different worlds.

Deirdre is an only child; I have a younger brother and older sister. Her Earth parents are liberal and understanding; mine are authoritarian and rigid. She rides a bike and stays out until ten; I have to travel with my feet firmly on the ground and return home by eight. I swallow the humiliation of being walked home by my bike-riding, worldly-wise goddess, exasperated by my choice of parents. I really want to give them an end of term report: ‘Could do better – much better.’

For English literature, Deirdre studies ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, and it just so happens that a film of the play is showing at a cinema in Leicester. Deirdre asks me to go with her – on a real date! Although this means staying out until after eight pm, my parents, surprisingly, agree – but only on the condition that Earth father drives us there and back. It isn’t ideal, but it’s that or nothing. So, the lift it is.

Deirdre has her hair specially done-up in curls and looks like a princess – a fact which I, foolishly, never compliment her on. In the cinema, we sit in fluffy red seats, holding hands, and I awkwardly put my arm around her. In my mind, we feel and look like a proper couple – albeit a rather young one.

The film ends, and Earth dad is waiting for us. It’s well after ten and he wants to take me straight home after dropping Deirdre at her house. But she asks me in for a drink, and I persuade dad to leave us – saying I won’t be long. He says something about ten minutes, but I’m not really listening. I’m in love.

She pours two glasses of Coca-Cola, and puts on the Beatles ‘Abbey Road’. George Harrison sings Something, a song I think he must have written for Deirdre. We don’t talk much. Then she grabs my hand and takes me upstairs to show me some of her secret possessions: old photographs and the pony tail that she’d kept from Primary school. I can’t believe that she’d actually kept her old hair! It only confirmed that she is indeed another alien being.

Then, just to embarrass me to bits, Earth dad is at the door again. I hadn’t been straight back and he’s furious. I’m not too pleased either, and I won’t go with him. I stay another couple of minutes with Deirdre, then go home.

The next day, my host parents and I have a ‘discussion’. An argument about my freedom. I haggle for staying out till ten, but in the end have to settle for nine. Why are they being so protective – don’t they trust me to behave? Have they brought me up so badly that I’m going to rape my girlfriend, or go rampaging through the streets of Leicester?

It was only years later that I discovered the reason for their attitude. My Earth uncle John had been friendly with a Dutch girl called Jeannie when he was sixteen. She was a year older. Jeannie became pregnant, and told her mother that John was the father. The two families convened and decided that the best thing for all concerned (the ‘all’ being the parents) was that John and Jeannie should marry.

My parents were afraid that the same thing could happen to me – but that wasn’t likely. Marriage? The thought gets my heart racing and head spinning. I lie awake at night concerned about what food Deirdre will cook for me when we get hitched. Despite my host parents’ strictness, they are very easy going about my alien eating habits. Will Deirdre be so accommodating?

I don’t have to worry. After two months of being with Deirdre, the bubble bursts. Or rather, it slowly deflates. I never stop loving her, but I think she’s gone off me. And she thinks I’ve found someone else – a neighbour called Debbie Branston. Debbie is easy to talk to, down-to-Earth and goes to a girls’ comprehensive, and we often chat in the streets outside my house. But despite the attraction, she’s not a goddess like Deirdre – not like the one I love.

John Lennon urges Deirdre and I to Come Together, but I don’t have the words, or the way to explain how I feel about her. Has she found someone else? Why is she so distant? So much is left unsaid, so many thoughts never seeing the light of day. There are no courses in ‘Love’ or ‘Relationships’ at my school, and my parents don’t know what to say to help. Perhaps they think I’ll bloody grow out of it.

Deirdre and I see each other less and less – and then it’s over. I later discover that she cried for a week when I didn’t call her. And then the Beatles split up. It’s as if they knew about Deirdre and me and decided to call it a day too. After all, they only wrote songs for us, didn’t they? Paul, John, George, Ringo and Deirdre go off on their own individual projects. Deirdre’s is someone called Nick Berkeley – a darkly handsome type who makes me feel inadequate. I had hoped to get back with Deirdre, but Paul McCartney tells me to ‘Let it Be’. And so I do.

* * * * *  

End of chapter 6.

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