Doctor Jeff Slater - Boxer, Bouncer and Now a Doctor

"How Working-Class Kids Get

Working-Class Jobs." (Paul Willis)

Boxer, Pub Bouncer and now a Doctor Lancashire Evening Telegraph. They were the headlines in the local paper on the 4th of July 1996. Below is a brief excerpt of one of my experiences as a bouncer.

Jeff: You either walk down the stairs or Ill fuckin knock you down em.

Blondie: Fuck off, cunt.

Jeff: Im fuckin telling yer. You can have it either way.

Darkie: Leave him, you fuckers.

Ray: Jim, get the bastard!

Jeff: Right, you fucker, stay on the floor or Ill smack you again.

Ray: Fuckin stay down, cunt.

Blondie: Fuck off, you fuckin bastards.

Ray: Fuck off.

Jeff: Ive told you, you cunt, Ill fuckin smack you again. I dont want to but I fuckin will.

Born on the first of January 1956, in Burnley or Bank Hall Hospital to be precise. My mother and father were from a working-class family and were themselves working-class, my dad worked for himself as a bookmaker. Mum was originally from Liverpool, Dad from Burnley. They had three children, counting me. We were not a particularly close family but we were there for each other. My mother and I were close. My earliest memories of my childhood were a mixture of great fun and more sombre moments. Fortunately, the family lived just outside of the town in a very pleasant suburb surrounded by countryside. Friends were easily made in such a welcoming environment and together we would explore the landscape around us. Fishing, collecting birds eggs and haymaking in the summer. Locating a nest was a hard and laborious task but absolutely exhilarating when we found one.

We never robbed the nest completely; we would take two eggs from a clutch of four or five and blow the eggs by inserting a hole in the top of the egg and one in the bottom and blow from the top of the egg leaving just the shell.

The shell would then be varnished, labelled and placed on a tray full of cotton wool. Regrettably, even in these idyllic surroundings, violence was not far away. Martin W was a year older than me and about three stone heavier. He had no contact with his birth father and lived with his stepdad, and biological mum.

Martin W was fearless and would fight anyone but he was also a bully. He would often accompany me on my sojourns into the countryside. My survival skills developed quickly in order to avoid being beaten, and for most of the time they worked but not always, and I would often receive a smack in the mouth from him for no apparent reason.

Martin W was jailed many years later for sexually abusing his own children. Dave, who was a year older than me and lived in the neighbourhood introduced me to archery. For one pound and five shillings we could purchase a Wooden Bow from Cockers Sports Shop, the arrows were one shilling each. My parents agreed to buy me one as a future birthday and Christmas present.

On the weekend, we would take the weapons to the nearby field and practice. Martin B was a year younger than me and asked if he could have a shot. Martin B was not very tall for his age and running was not his forte. He was allowed a shot, on one condition, he would have to Run the Arrow.

Rod Steiger had appeared in the movie The Run of the Arrow. He had to try and escape from the Apache who gave him a head start, before they tried to kill him with the bow and arrow. Martin B agreed and after a few shots, set off running. He was given a ten-second start. Like Rod Steiger, he was heavy and slow, and like Steiger, he stood little chance of escape.

Summing up all my strength to pull back the bowstring until the metal tip of the arrow was flush with the frame of the wooden bow, and like an archer from the Battle of Agincourt, I uncurled my fingers. Martin B was shot in the middle of the back some three hundred feet away. He screamed, arched his back and dropped to the floor on his front, wriggling and moaning, imitating a seizure. He was in severe pain for a few minutes but was okay.

School was tolerated until my mother agreed to move me to another one, aged six years old, the headmaster, Mr Clitheroe was a bully, and subjected me to unnecessary violence at an early age. Where is your grammar? he asked me.

In bed with my grandma, was the reply. He hit me with a closed fist in the mouth, aged about nine years old. The teachers believed my intelligence was low and accordingly, my behaviour and actions corresponded to the label given to me.

The eleven-plus examination was, as predicted, failed. Awaiting me now was a very violent Victorian school, built in the late 1800s only four miles and two bus journeys from where I lived, but another world away, as Joseph Conrad would say, a journey into the Heart of Darkness.

The school was surrounded by row upon row of tiny terraced houses, built in the Victorian era. Many had no bathrooms or indoor toilets. The lads attending the school lived in these houses, in very poor conditions. Unlike the semi-detached house in the suburbs, where I lived.

Barden Secondary Modern School by its very existence reinforced in one the reality of failure, of being second best, only the clever kids passed the eleven-plus and they attended the grammar school. It was almost like having a criminal record at the age of eleven.

One was physically excluded from certain occupations, and also psychologically excluded. Conversely, the kids who went to the grammar school had the confidence and well-being associated with success. They were expected to perform well and were taught and treated accordingly by their teachers.