Hard Road to Glory - How I Became Champion of the World. Johnny Nelson
the class asking each of us what we’d had for Christmas. The closer it got to me, the more I wondered what I could say. Eventually I blurted out, ‘A bike and toy gun.’
My friend Desmond knew I was lying and the next day he called my bluff by bringing in one of his presents for me to play with if I let him have a go with my new gun. Every day, I made another excuse for forgetting to bring that wretched gun to school until eventually he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come round to your place and collect it.’
That was it. I gave him back his toy and told him to forget it. I was aware he knew the truth and I felt humiliated.
But there were times, when Benjie was in regular work, he and Mum would be generous. Having a January birthday meant everyone was usually still skint after Christmas, so lavish gifts were unheard of. I didn’t have a birthday cake until Debbie bought me one when I was 30. But things must have been looking up around my tenth birthday because Mum gave me a watch with a black strap and white face. It was the best present I’d ever had and was especially memorable because it was so surprising.
Mum was a good cook and Benjie was even better, although he had a disaster when he decided we should have pigeon, just like the old days back in Dominica. He spent ages luring a pigeon with breadcrumbs towards a string noose he’d set out on the back yard. He eventually caught one by the leg, wrung its neck and cooked it. It tasted horrible. ‘It must be the rubbish they feed pigeons over here,’ he said.
But mostly we had good home cooking, even though we kids didn’t always appreciate how lucky we were. We moaned that we wanted egg and chips like our friends but Mum and Benjie stuck to traditional West Indian dishes like chicken and rice’n’peas.
A neighbour kept some hens in his yard and Mum would often buy one off him for the pot. One Easter she went to work, giving Allan the money to collect the chicken but when he went next door the guy had forgotten the order so had nothing prepared. Instead, he gave Allan a live bird. We thought it was great having this chicken strutting about the house. We named it Charlie and chased it all over the place – there was chicken shit and feathers everywhere: over the carpet, the settee, the armchair, the fireplace and, worst of all, over Benjie’s radiogram.
We were having a high old time, until Mum came home. For some reason, she couldn’t see the funny side of it. She tore into us, calling us every kind of wicked children it had been a mother’s misfortune to bear. She finally grabbed Charlie, tied one end of a piece of string around his leg, the other round the table leg and grabbed a large kitchen knife. We were all standing at the bottom of the stairs, horrified, weeping and begging her not to kill our new pet. All to no avail. Whack! Down came the knife and off went Charlie’s head. The poor little bugger couldn’t even run round like the proverbial headless chicken because the string was holding him back. We raced upstairs, sobbing. We were mad at Mum for killing Charlie and vowed we would never eat him, even if we starved to death. But gradually the tantalising, spicy smell of jerk chicken wafted upstairs and each of us slowly made our way back to the kitchen. Charlie was delicious and I was especially lucky because I like the neck portion and Mum’s cut had been so accurate I got a large helping.
I always had a good appetite and was one of those kids who could eat anything without putting on an ounce of fat. Sometimes I’d work it so I had two Sunday dinners, one at home and one with my friend Trevor. He was from a well-to-do family, so respectable that all the kids were from the same mother and father. I’d eat whatever Mum or Benjie had prepared then race down the road, and ask if Trevor could come out to play. His mum would say, ‘He’s just about to have his dinner. Have you eaten, Johnny?’ I’d reply, ‘Only eggs and bread,’ and she’d invite me in for another meal. They obviously thought I was a poor, deprived kid and I didn’t realise just how much I was dissing Mum and Benjie, but what’s a lad to do when he’s got a good appetite?
Our house was always noisy with a lot going on. I was a real mummy’s boy even though, like the others, I knew Brenton was her favourite. Brenton, Allan and I shared a bedroom and sometimes a bed, which didn’t make me very popular with the others because I was a piss-bed until I was about ten years old. I couldn’t help it. I used to do it all the time and quite often I’d be woken up by my brothers pummelling me because I’d peed over them.
I idolised Allan and would follow him around whenever I got the chance but I was closest to Theresa. She and I fought all the time but would always back each other up. The family knew we were tight and that the fights weren’t serious. We were scrapping one day in the hallway – she was trying to stab me with a fork and I was trying to hit her with a rolling pin – when Allan walked in with Karen, his new girlfriend. She looked horrified but Allan just said, ‘Ignore them,’ and took her into the kitchen.
Theresa could always get the better of me – I never managed to get top side of her and she had the sense to stop fighting with me just before I got big enough to be a threat. All through my school days, it was embarrassing to have the other kids know my sister could beat me up but, on the other hand, she could take on most of them too, so it tended to keep them off my back.
Mum went to mass every day and she made us all go to church on Sunday and to midnight mass at Christmas. I was an altar boy when I was younger but hated it because the church was so cold. We used to nick the bread and have a gulp of wine when we could. Eventually, I was sacked because I dropped the wine during the service. While missing church was a big deal in our house, Mum didn’t seem worried if we tried to bunk off school by saying we weren’t feeling well. However, if we stayed at home, she would insist we went to mass and then remain indoors for the rest of the day. That was so boring we preferred going to school so perhaps she was cleverer than we realised.
Mum would give us 50p to put in the collection on Sunday. One day, I decided my need was probably greater than God’s. By the size of the pile of cash in the collection basket, he was doing OK, so I just rattled the coins around a bit and slipped the 50p back into my pocket. I was a bit scared there might be a thunderbolt from above and was just reflecting that none had come when I sensed Mum’s eyes burning into the back of my neck. Within a few seconds, I couldn’t stop myself – I stretched along the pew and dropped the coin into the collection. As I did so Mum mouthed, ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you wicked boy.’
I was never sure how much Mum knew of the mischief I got into but there were times when she seemed to know everything – or maybe it was my conscience plaguing me. On one occasion, some of the kids and I nicked some money from a collection box in the church and, as the family sat down to Sunday dinner, Mum said, ‘D’you know what some wicked children do? They went to the church and steal the money from the money box. Their parents must be so ashamed.’
I quickly looked over at Theresa because she knew I’d been involved, but she didn’t say anything. Did Mum think it was me? I still don’t know but I felt guilty for some time afterwards.
My first school was St Vincent’s and it was there I was given the name Johnny. On my birth certificate, my name is Ivanson Ranny Nelson, born 4 January 1967. Ivanson was just about acceptable but Ranny? It still makes me shudder. I can only think they meant to call me Ronny and the registrar misheard my mum’s strong West Indian accent. When I turned up at St Vincent’s in my smart green cap, blazer and tie, and grey shorts and socks, I was put in Mrs Leahy’s class and soon developed a reputation as a bit of a cry baby. The kids kept pronouncing Ivanson wrong and I would get upset, so Mrs Leahy decided: ‘We’ll have a special classroom name for you. What shall we call him, children?’
The hands shot up and, being a Catholic school, we quickly went through a load of Bible names. Then Mrs Leahy’s son suggested I should be called Maurice like him but fortunately his mother decided one Maurice per class was enough. Maybe prayer did work after all!
Eventually, Mrs Leahy said, ‘Let’s call him Johnny. That’s a nice name.’
All the kids laughed, so she decided they must approve. I think she must have been a bit of an innocent and not realised why the kids were giggling but from then on I was plagued by my classmates coming up and saying, ‘Can I borrow your rubber, Johnny?’ then rushing off in shrieks of laughter. I can never remember being called anything