The Tracks Of My Years (9/5/13)

I have scars. Not mental scars, proper real physical scars. There's one on the left side of my forehead from when I decided to play Tarzan in my Mum and Dad's back yard. I was 10(ish) I had a clothesline, I was stood on an old rocking horse and I swung. Straight into a windowsill that was basically a two foot thick slab of sandstone. Blood everywhere. My Dad wouldn't let me back in the house in case I saw myself in a mirror and freaked. Looked like another mouth apparently.

The one on my right elbow is from falling off a witches hat in Seeds Lane Park. I was being pushed round by Ste Caunce, decided letting go was a good idea. It wasn't.

There's one hidden by my hair behind my right ear from getting glassed by a local scally while I was doing my paper round when I was about 14. His brother was a noted thug. Legend had it that he was only moved to our school because he burnt his previous one down. He was 11 at the time. He grew up to be an English football hooligan. Arrested in Germany after a European championship, he apparently tried to escape from his court appearance by doing a runner from the courtroom. He ran through a first floor window and fell to his death. I felt for their mum, she always seemed a genuinely decent person. Anyway, the younger brother saw me, shouted something then hurled a piece of broken glass at me. Blood, again, everywhere.

The one on the crown of my head (again, hidden by hair) is from a night out on the Royal Iris. 85/86ish, before I met J. We were on a night out, a floating disco on a Mersey ferry. There were about five of us on the Iris already but Mally was running late. I had his ticket in my pocket and we were about to pull out. Saw him coming along the dock at a fair pace. I was on the top deck. I yelled to him that I was coming down. I ran. I hurdled through a doorway, clearing the bulkhead at my feet. I forgot to duck. New shirt - white with blue checks. New jacket - black. At least at the start of the night they were. By the time the Iris set sail for a night of alcoholic indulgence my clothes were a lovely shade of red and I was in Walton hospital being glued back together.

But the piece de resistance in my personal map of damage? A line on my right forearm which crosses four veins and comes from basically being a bit of a knob. I was 16/17, working in the Kwik Save in Walton Vale, going through a major case of unrequited love with one of the girls on the tills and learning how to drink. I wasn't overly responsible. Me and Gary were having a margarine fight on the floor. As you do. A tub of margarine each, throwing lumps at each other, aiming for the hair as that's where it's most annoying. I came in close with a handful, aiming to smear Gary with it. He put up his hand to stop me.

Unfortunately he'd forgotten that he had a stock knife in his hand. With an open blade. An open blade that cut right across my forearm. I saw the line where the knife broke the skin and I waited for the blood to start. At which point my Mum walked round the corner doing the weekly shop. "Okay" I thought "This is going to be a really weird way to die"

No blood. Not a drop. The knife had gone right across my arm, cut through the skin but not the flesh. I was, in no uncertain terms, a thoroughly jammy get.

And thirty odd years later I still have the scar that I earned by being a teenage idiot. And when I have a tan it looks really dramatic. But it's not; it's a reminder that, when I was 16 I was more than capable of being a bit of a dick.