My Fault Read online

  Many books have spoken of the human shadow but precious few have the courage to speak straight from its heart. With painful honesty, Billy Childish does just that,and, in the process, grows flowers from the dirt. Seething with wonder and disgust, this volcanic novel sheds light on the ‘lie of the family’.

  Born into the emerging middle classes of the 1950s, Billy Childish takes us on a nightmarish voyage through a childhood blighted by mental and sexual abuse. Stumbling onward into adolescence he lays bare a young man’s desperate attempts to make sense of a world distorted by alcohol, bullies and yes men. This striking first novel, or ‘creative confession’, is at turns hilarious and harrowing. Laced with lines of unforgettable poetry it is that rare and wonderful thing — a book which had to be written.

  ‘A seething, dyslexic, better-looking British Bukowski’ Observer

  ‘A cult-rock icon’ John Peel

  'Raw, unmediating, bruisingly shocking’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘Masterful stuff. He is the James Joyce of our time’

  Bevis Hillier, author of The Young Betjeman

  ‘A self-made intellectual of a particularly English stripe, Mr Childish has sworn loyalty to populist art at its rawest’ The New York Times

  www.virgin.com/books

  Photograph: Billy Childish

  UK: £10.99

  USA: $16.95 / CAN: $24.95 RRP

  Fiction

  BILLY CHILDISH was born in 1959 in Chatham, Kent, and left school at sixteen. After working in Chatham Naval Dockyard as an apprentice stonemason, he went on to study painting, which proved to be unsatisfactory.

  Billy Childish was diagnosed dyslexic at the age of 28. Despite this, he has published more than thirty poetry collections and three novels. He has recorded over one hundred albums on a variety of independent record labels and exhibited paintings all over the world.

  Other Books by Billy Childish:

  Fiction

  NOTEBOOKS OF A NAKED YOUTH

  SEX CRIMES OF THE FUTCHER

  Poetry

  COMPANIONS IN A DEATH BOAT

  DAYS WITH A HART LIKE A DOG

  POEMS TO BREAK THE HARTS OF IMPOSSIBLE PRINCESSES

  BIG HART AND BALLS

  IN 5 MINUS YOU'LL KNOW ME

  'I'D RATHER YOU LIED.' SELECTED POEMS 1980-1998

  CHATHAM TOWN WELCOMES DESPERATE MEN

  Billy’s Website: www.billychildish.com

  MY FAULT

  Billy Childish

  This edition published in 2005 by

  Virgin Books Ltd

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London

  W6 9 HA

  First published in 1996 by Codex Books

  Copyright © Billy Childish 2005

  The right of Billy Childish to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the

  British Library.

  ISBN 0 7535 1061 8

  Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham Kent

  CONTENTS

  Introduction 1

  Prologue 3

  1. The Three Pennies 6

  2. The Man With Whiskers 18

  3. The Smell 23

  4. Tinker-Bud 25

  5. Over The Back 31

  6. A Cat’s Arse In His Head 37

  7. The Language Of All The Arseholes Of The World 41

  8. Crabs And Butterflies 43

  9. The Silence Of Words 45

  10. Plastic Elephant 50

  11. The Smell Of Dog 51

  12. Hearboy 55

  13. The Facts Of Life 59

  14. Didicois And Gypsies 62

  15. Jam-Rag 65

  16. The Green Book 69

  17. 5 Park Drive 75

  18. Nana Lewis 81

  19. You’ll Never Know If It’s Dark 86

  20. Big Brother 94

  21. In Which Nana Lewis Gets Kittenish 97

  22. Analysis Of A Soul Rancid 101

  23. The WLA 108

  24. TB 118

  25. Real Live Horses 125

  26. Christian Justice 130

  27. Green Jaw 133

  28. Inspector Sorrel 141

  29. Miss Hart’s Magnificent Arse 147

  30. The Murdering Computer 152

  31. Her Majesty’s Dockyard Chatham 155

  32. Stonemasons Of Yesteryear 159

  33. Three Corpses In The Sun 167

  34. Spring-Heel Jack 170

  35. God Sends Nuts to People Without Teeth 174

  36. Smashed-Up Hand 186

  37. Skidmark Horoscopes 190

  38. Erol's Story 193

  39. Little Sheila . 199

  40. Toilet Wall Humour 207

  41. Sanchia 210

  42. Like Crabs 216

  43. Oakwood Mental Hospital 220

  44. Voices Through The Fog 228

  45. Two Souls Unloved 242

  46. The Falklands War 244

  47. Dolli Bambi 246

  48. Painting The Truth 250

  49. A Special Day 260

  50. The Barrier Block 264

  51. Elisabeth Sargent 266

  52. A Piece Of Sad Curtain 271

  53. A Circle Of Lust 273

  54. A Tyrannosaurus Rex Or A Squirrel 276

  55. The Mysterious Mister Hamperson 278

  56. Jailbirds 280

  57. He Can’t Figure Out Where My Hatred’s Sprung From 286

  58. In Which Buddha And Thatcher Are Called To Witness 293

  59. Our Hearts Frozen 300

  60. Rosy 302

  61. Three Pennies, Again 306

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  PROLOGUE

  1. THE THREE PENNIES

  2. THE MAN WITH WHISKERS

  3. THE SMELL

  4. TINKER-BUD

  5. OVER THE BACK

  6. A CAT’S ARSE IN HIS HEAD

  7. THE LANGUAGE OF ALL THE ARSEHOLES OF THE WORLD

  8. CRABS AND BUTTERFLIES

  9. THE SILENCE OF WORDS

  10. PLASTIC ELEPHANT

  11. THE SMELL OF DOG

  12. HEARBOY

  13. THE FACTS OF LIFE

  14. DIDICOIS AND GYPSIES

  15. JAM-RAG

  16. THE GREEN BOOK

  17. 5 PARK DRIVE

  18. NANA LEWIS

  19. YOU’LL NEVER KNOW IF IT'S DARK

  20. BIG BROTHER

  21. IN WHICH NANA LEWIS GETS KITTENISH

  22. ANALYSIS OF A SOUL RANCID

  23. THE WLA

  24. TB

  25. REAL LIVE HORSES

  26. CHRISTIAN JUSTICE

  27. GREEN JAW

  28. INSPECTOR SORREL

  29. MISS HART’S MAGNIFICENT ARSE

  30. THE MURDERING COMPUTER

  31. HER MAJESTY'S DOCKYARD CHATHAM

  32. STONEMASONS OF YESTERYEAR

  33. THREE CORPSES IN THE SUN

  34. SPRING-HEEL JACK

  35. GOD SENDS NUTS TO PEOPLE WITHOUT TEETH

  36. SMASHED-UP HAND

  37. SKIDMARK HOROSCOPES

  38. EROL'
S STORY

  39. LITTLE SHEILA

  40. TOILET WALL HUMOUR

  41. SANCHIA

  42. LIKE CRABS

  43. OAKWOOD MENTAL HOSPITAL

  44. VOICES THROUGH THE FOG

  45. TWO SOULS UNLOVED

  46. THE FALKLANDS WAR

  47. DOLLI BAMBI

  48. PAINTING THE TRUTH

  49. A SPECIAL DAY

  50. THE BARRIER BLOCK

  51. ELISABETH SARGENT

  52. A PIECE OF SAD CURTAIN

  53. A CIRCLE OF LUST

  54. A TYRANNOSAURUS REX OR A SQUIRREL

  55. THE MYSTERIOUS MISTER HAMPERSON

  56. JAILBIRDS

  57. HE CAN’T FIGURE OUT WHERE MY HATRED’S SPRUNG FROM

  58. IN WHICH BUDDHA AND THATCHER ARE CALLED TO WITNESS

  59. OUR HEARTS FROZEN

  60. ROSY

  6l. THREE PENNIES, AGAIN

  The greatest defeat in anything, is to forget, and above all to forget what it is that has smashed you, and let yourself be smashed without realising how thoroughly devilish man can be. When our time is up, we people mustn’t bear malice, but neither must we forget: we must tell the whole thing, without altering one single word — everything that we have seen of man’s viciousness; and then it will be over and time to go. That is enough of a job for a whole lifetime.

  L. F. Céline

  For the whores and thieves everywhere.

  INTRODUCTION

  M y Fault was started in 1982, just after I was expelled from the painting department of St Martins School of Art for self-publishing a poetry booklet that was described as ‘the worst type of toilet wall humour!’ I signed back on the dole and carried on painting in my home town of Chatham.

  Later that summer I met Tracey Emin, who was studying fashion at the local art college, and our ensuing love affair became the first parts of My Fault. Filling notebooks in longhand, the first draft (working title, ‘King of the Cunts’) was completed in 1984. The first part of the book, covering my early childhood and teenage years, was the last part to be written.

  In 1986, I revised the longhand manuscript, laboriously typing out the novel one fingerdly in my backyard over the summer. For the later drafts, my then girlfriend Kyra, learned to type and it was her work that transformed my badly typed, scrawled pages into readable copy.

  At the time, I certainly viewed My Fault as my life’s work. After a childhood of abuse at the hands of family and teachers, I couldn’t be ‘shut up’ any more and had to tell my own story in my own way. My anger was such that if My Fault hadn’t been written then, quite seriously, I would have killed.

  My Fault is a creative confession, an ‘I’ novel, based in my experience. As my self-published poetry had been received with open hostility (I was expelled from art school, banned from readings) I was quite sure that no one would touch My Fault, so I didn’t even bother sending the manuscript to publishers. Then, in 1995 a chance conversation led to Codex Books approaching me and asking to publish it.

  A first edition of two thousand copies was hastily printed and appeared in some book shops in 1996. These quickly sold out through word of mouth.

  Now, they’re warming up the fires and want to do it again. For this second edition I’ve fixed printing errors and restored some missing fragments from the archive that the manuscript was drawn from.

  Is My Fault autobiography or fiction? All our most dearly held truths are fiction and our fiction tells us everything there is to know about ourselves.

  PROLOGUE

  I’ve been raving again, prattling on like an idiot. It’s always been my problem — I’m a loudmouth. I can’t remember places, dates or people, but still I keep harping on about my crummy past, trying to prove that I existed, that all this really did happen. It’s a mish mash, anarchy and confusion from cover to cover. I should know, a vile hicking monster, I even bore my friends with it. The truth? Oh, I doubt it, but I try . . . I rack my brains, rewriting, rethinking, and now here I am with thirteen, fourteen drafts, is it? And not even a sniff of a publisher. Oh no, I don’t delude myself on that score; if this manuscript should ever see the light of day, it will be through yours truly digging into his own pockets. I’ve done before, on several occasions . . . Publishers only ever publish what flatters them, and do you have to be polite? Awfully! My betters have been drumming that one into my bonce for years, for decades, but it still leaves me cold.

  ‘If you’re hankering after success — success, accolade or even just a humble crust, then at least be polite! You’d better wise up kid, we’ve got whore-houses stacked to the rafters with clodhoppers like you, shelves full of the bastards! And not the obnoxious upstart types either, oh no, these boys are shiny, clever and sophisticated. Greater understanding, deeper compassion, fine-tuned. Syntax! Novellas! Encyclopedias! And their wives and kids too, gushing wells of miracle children, high-powered women that can do almost everything a man can do, only better. Teeny-boppers with their fingers jammed right up the pulse . . . Shelf after shelf of the bastards, shit carts full to the brim, overflowing with bestsellers, the coffee tables of the world buckling!’

  Hey just look at my heading there, standing up for itself, as proud as can be: ‘Prologue’. Not bad! It has to be read that way, you see my great fear is that you’ll think me conceited, but I’m trying, that’s all, in my own fashion to say something close to my heart.

  ‘Lies, bullshit and claptrap! And it’s supposed to be English as well, humph! He’s pissing on the lavatory seat and shitting on the floor! Where’s our great literary traditions? Our Heritage? No description, no punctuation? Why, the stinking upstart can’t even spell! Go on, piss off creep, you’re polluting our market, no one’s interested in your perverted little day-dreams, your toilet wall humour!’

  There, is that crazy enough for you? ‘Toilet wall humour’, that’s an actual quote; yes, I’ve been maligned from the cradle to the dockyard . . . Please control the frustrations that I’m about to put upon you. All I ask, dear benefactor, is that you read me with thought. The first word is fact: ‘desperation’. You know, to have to yield to such a word today, to get through . . . The meaning of my work is bad, I know, but please if you can forgive me my cheek . . . I say that with head bowed. Just let me get down one tenth of the facts and that will be enough; that will be my proof, my evidence so to speak. I know the true essence of this testament is to communicate an emotion, human and universal . . . That sounds pretty grand, doesn’t it? But that doesn’t necessarily make it pretentious . . . To relate to this matter, I have to rely on my own profound thoughts and discoveries.

  Evidence! That’s my little preoccupation: the history of a nobody . . . I keep notes, I make lists. Remember, a fact is a fact, no matter how hard the liars amongst you might try hushing it up. You’ve got to gather your evidence, and be methodical about it. Trust your own memory (I’m an elephant on that score) and try not to be duped again . . .

  So here I am, ready to die for my beliefs as it were: yes, useless in effect, but I carry on . . . There it is in a nutshell. Please, please, no tears! A joker? Perhaps, we’ll get to know each other later . . . But above all, one must stay away from boycotts . . . Yes, I’m blacked, but tell me, do you have my guts?

  I’m quite serious in this endeavour, even if I do smirk whilst saying it, and I’m also aware of the risk I’m taking in exposing the lie of my family. You see, by compromising my loved ones (those people as lost and quivering as myself) I’m committing the ultimate sin, because I refuse to carry any further the lie that we were ever loved or wanted.

  So the little darlings will get upset? If they get upset, they get upset. Facts give them one royal pain in the arse! All they want to hear are reassurances, beautiful lies, baby food . . . After all, a lie, when told beautifully, will always outshine a mere truth; and now that all the million and one distractions of the head and heart have been set into place, they don’t give a tinkers cuss! We’ve created a world full of sophisticated know-alls, a day-
glo world, homogenised and double-sterilised. A spineless cocktail that slips down your throat and out into the pan without a hiccup!

  Have you heard of me yet, trying to establish my views on our future? Oh, so I’m alienating my poor readers? Believe me, sorrow breaks through from my saddened heart. (Wipes eyes, coughs slightly.) OK, let’s just say that some of these people might be living and some of them might be dead, whatever, they have moved on, they are no longer attached, the thread has been broken . . . What more can I say? After all, I am only a man, yes alone, and what possible harm can one man do in a world filled with experts?

  1. THE THREE PENNIES

  People are always out to lose themselves: in books, in drink, in sex and clothes, in crowds and in each other. So much for their precious, personal identity. For such vain self-serving bastards, people are pretty sick of themselves. We set out into this world full of bluster and fine ideals, but slowly, bit by bit, that most delicate heart is eaten away. We stagger on, we buy and we sell, we grow ever more extravagant, desperate to lose ourselves, to try and forget what we once were, to dull ourselves to what we’ve become . . . And then the night, pacing the boards alone, full of remembrances, sick to the core, sick of our own chatter, of our own mirthless mugs.

  I’m sorry, it’s the drink: I blow hot and cold, I laugh as if to cry, I grow melancholic. One minute I’m reeling and fighting mad, the next I come over all friendly again, I go all lovey-dovey and the sun wears a smile on its lips. I won’t quit talking, I repeat myself, I fall to the ground, I taste the little pieces of grit. I walk with one foot dredging the gutter. I hop all the way down to the end of the alley, away from the high street, out from under these sickly street lamps, hideous hues of orange, dazzling . . . To crawl in here and lay my beer sodden head on the pavement, a balm . . . This is better, back there I thought I was a goner, but in here it’s nice and cosy. I drop my lashes and the world swims . . . I have to sit up or I’ll puke.

  You see I can’t bear being in the house — a young writer has a million sites to see, but he can’t face the page. The evening comes and the pubs open, I sup on my soup and play with my coins, I jangle them in my pocket, I weigh them, I let them slip between my fingers. I’ll write another day, on a perfect sunny day in the invisible future, the right typer, the right girl, the right paper. I’ll kick the booze and the ciggies and write immortal lines, poetry carved in marble. They’ll be great days, glorious days . . .