John

It’s difficult to work out how to write John into this blog. So far, entries have been chronological in order but I think it’s time to start moving into subjects instead. And my God, John was quite a significant subject to have inflicted on us all in the Davis household. Read my previous post if you missed the story of his introduction.

If I thought I was too young to be man of the house then John (being an adult two decades my senior) would be at the tail end of a very long list of men who you would not even consider as a suitable candidate for the job – he was a bully, a narcissist, he mentally (and a few odd occasions) physically abused women; but the thing for which John really lived for was his fists – everything was decided by whether he could take on the person facing him in a fight – fists were his words, his level of diplomacy, and his gauge on how “manly” I was. I’ve no idea what my mother saw in him, which were the very same words my nan & grandad repeated to her many times over the years to no avail. I think my mum’s mentality was always that if her dad hated what she was doing then she would continue doing it – it was her way of sticking her fingers up at him – still rebelling at a point in adulthood when most normal people would have grown out of it.

So we’d probably been living in Northampton for a good six months or so and I’d already had a pretty low opinion on John. It was hard to put my finger on it in those early days but he just….wasn’t anything like me. He’d get back from work after a shift at some local building site and make a point of explaining how girly the skin on my hands were and that his were tough and a sign of someone who’d been hard at work – he was a real man, I was just some weakling, a sub-man thing who needed either “toughening up” or “manning up”. If that wasn’t passive-aggressive enough, then the whole “I’m not going out to work just for you to sit about and do nothing all day” or – and this one was the kicker – “you’re not smart enough for that, you’re thick as shit” verbal diatribe I received on a near daily basis probably would be. You see, for him, school was no good and pointless – it doesn’t make you man enough. Being “man enough” was the be-all and end-all for John.

John was a prick.

So one evening, we were all sitting watching TV and John just wouldn’t stop going on demanding that I’d go and make him a cup of tea. He threw the same old tropes out “I’ve been at work all day, you’ve done nothing but sit on your arse”, that sort of thing. But I kept refusing to make the tea he was demanding. Sitting right next him on the sofa, I turned and looked at him; weighing up the outcomes of the thought I’d just had: if I punch him right now, what’s the likely outcome and ramifications of doing that? Maybe if he hits me back my mum will chuck him out and we’ll never have to see him again. I could feel the urge building up through my arm and flowing down into my hands. I clench my fist and take a nicely-placed right hook to his cheek, “I’m, not going to fucking make you a cup of tea – make it your fucking self!”.

And that was that – no ramifications, no retaliations, and no needing to make a cup of fucking tea. It would be disingenuous of me if I said I wasn’t disappointed that it wasn’t quite the outcome I expected. I felt almost remorseful of the fact that I’d given him exactly what he wanted – violence in response to his goading; I’d responded using my fists.

The whole situation did make me think about how others in the same position probably wouldn’t be as lucky as I was that day – for them the turning point from mental abuse turning towards the physical probably would have started with that same instance of retaliation – that one moment where they stood up for themselves. Lucky for me that only the mental abuse continued I suppose?

The whole “manly” thing continued throughout most of my teens. You can only imagine the horrors inflicted when I decided to grow my hair long (it was a 90’s rave thing). “Are you a poofter now, or what?!” would be one of the many things thrown at me, along with the obsession with my girly hands. On that note, seeking a career in programming would not be deemed “manly enough” neither – it was always about his fascination with my hands: “That’s not hard work, these hands I’ve got here are through hard work, what you’re doing isn’t hard work, you’ve got soft hands, like a girl! Are you a poofter or what?!”.

John was still a prick.

Demonstrations of John’s manliness were conducted via the many many many arguments him and my mum had. Most (all?) of the time fuelled by alcohol and many of them on a Sunday night after coming home from the local sports & social bar up the road (and sometimes on their way home from the club – our poor neighbours having to hear it all too). It’s just what you need when you have to get up early Monday morning for school: listening from another room hearing your mum screaming for mercy as John is bashing the place up. Holes in walls and doors would be found the following day – I guess that’s where his manly hands come in, because only real men use violence in that way, right? I’ve honestly no idea how many times my mum was on the receiving end of those fists – although I do know it happened once – but she was adamant he never did. But she did always follow that up with “one day, Roy, it will be me instead of the walls that he hits, I know he will. But I love him”.

John….was a prick. And by association, so was my mum at this point.

The mental abuse I received was tolerable when compared to the level my younger brother Barry received. But Barry was from different stock – and a different mentality to me – and as Barry got older he had no issues with physically showing John what being a man really meant: John eventually got unstuck with Barry in the later years. Even so, John’s detrimental impact on Barry’s mental wellbeing was not to be discovered until several years later when Barry finally came to me and revealed his dilapidating issues with Class A drugs.

John was a a massive prick.

Of course, there’s my sister as well. Pretty sure he received her share of mental abuse from John as well. Unflattering comments about her body being quite memorable – throwing body insults out to a young teenage girl? Yep, that was John. Just what was my mum thinking keeping this prick around? He was toxic and was destroying us all. But my mum? Oh, she loved him so therefore he has to stay, “what am I going to do otherwise, eh, Roy?! Tell me! I can’t do this on my own!”. Errmm….all the pressures on you are caused by keeping him around. Quite how she never saw or realised that I don’t know.

John was a monumental prick.

John had been welcomed into a family environment when he was ill-prepared and mentally unable to take up the mantel of being a decent family man. His attitudes were simply not fitting to be in a parental role with responsibilities. He had come into a ready-made family, with a woman who owned her own house and money in the bank. He finally ended up leaving after convincing my mum to allow her house to be repossessed, her children resenting her for all the crappy decisions she’d made and finally the emotional turmoil she had put them through due to having John around. Those decisions are what ultimately alienated all of us from her over the years – her prioritisation of one man over her own flesh and blood.

I wonder just how different life would have been if my mum didn’t have such a childish mentality and always having the urge to rebel against her own father’s advice (and the need to always try and prove him wrong – albeit rather unsuccessfully). If only she’d spent more time on learning a bit of independence and self-respect after my dad’s passing, maybe none of us would have had to go through all of that?

Finally – I’m not sure I’ve said this yet – John was an utter prick. Want proof? Click here: https://www.yourthurrock.com/2015/11/24/man-in-court-over-sex-attack-on-boy-at-royal-british-legion-in-south-ockendon/

John will surely make a few reappearances throughout this blog.