Fall out

Before I put the Ferrers School shooting to bed, I feel I ought to respond, in detail, to a comment written on yesterday’s post.

The person who left the comment subsequently contacted me on Facebook to say he was worried the picture I’d painted was less than accurate, because it didn’t deal with the causes of the shooting, and that the comments I’d made about the Fowler family were not just unfair, but based on rumours rather than fact.

The first thing I should say is that I’ve never claimed to have known Fowler personally, and if the blog gave a different impression, I apologise. Fowler was a loner. Everyone knew who he was, but no one seemed to know anything about him. We were kids. We didn’t know much about cause and effect. It felt simple enough to brand him as weird.

Yesterday’s comment made me realise that my blog had been written through the black and white eyes of an adolescent. Until recently the shooting had occupied a space in the very back of my mind, which I’d never really processed as an adult. I reported in the blog what I remembered about the event, and what had been said to me at the time about it, which was twenty five years ago. The curious thing about the shooting is that it was rarely talked about afterwards. The media lost interest, or were told to stop reporting and in the ensuing years, no one wrote a definitive account about it. The affected teacher opted not to do interviews (which is why I’ve opted not to name him) and a few posts on Friends Reunited about the attack were hastily removed. I suppose the event was unprecedented in its scale, and the good, but guarded folk of East Northamptonshire simply didn’t want the rest of the world to peer in. The comments left on my Facebook page after yesterday’s post were proof that the whole event has subsequently found itself shrouded in rumour and legend. How many people were actually hit by pellets and flying glass? Was the teacher shot through a window? Are the bullet marks still in the wall?

That said, although suggesting I’d “not allowed the truth to get in the way of a good story”, what yesterday’s critic didn’t mention was how I’d got the story wrong, other than by recounting gossip about the family in question, and not knowing that Fowler was rumoured to have been bullied by the science teacher he came into the school to find. This, I confess, is something that I hadn’t heard, although ask any kid enough times, and he’ll claim to have been bullied by at least one teacher!

The point of my blog was not to belittle the Fowlers, but point out that Darren and the school were grossly let down by the authorities. However – and this is a big however - if Fowler’s father really did buy him a gun for his 14^th birthday, the family have to take some responsibility for what happened. The mother didn’t have to send the rest of her kids to the same school. Some staff members found their attendance at the school incredibly traumatic, and I seem to remember one of Darren’s brothers hanging out with the school caretaker because no one else would talk to him. Those kids deserved a new start, which, for whatever reason, they were not given.

There were plenty of kids from the same town who grew up in abject poverty, and plenty more who were brutally bullied, but they didn’t take a gun into school. Furthermore, Fowler didn’t actually choose to shoot the teacher who’d bullied him, he shot three other (totally innocent) people.

Look, as with all these things, it’s always a combination of little things; weird co-incidences, which come together to create a disaster. Fowler lived in a “closed” town which was very much under the rest of the world’s radar. Someone, possibly his father, gave him a gun. Teachers did what they could to tell the authorities that he was a walking time bomb but the authorities, for whatever reason, decided not to act. At the same time, Michael Ryan gained notoriety by walking through the streets of Hungerford killing people. Fowler was bullied, angry, and got himself expelled, and then BOOM.

The sad part of all of this is that, for whatever reason, it feels that no lessons were learned from what happened, and maybe, just maybe, if a proper enquiry had been held at the time, lives might have been saved elsewhere. Columbine. Dunblane. Sandy Hook. What is also clear, is that, given a few other weird co-incidences: if Fowler had been given a different gun; if the games teacher hadn’t tackled him to the floor, the Ferrers School might have become as infamous as the other places I’ve listed, which, of course, are sadly known to us all.

Shooting

A number of people have asked me to elaborate on all of my recent blog references to the shooting at my school at the end of the 1980s. Seeing as nothing of any interest has happened to me today, and because the events that happened took place 25 years ago, almost to the day, I thought I’d regale readers with the full details as I remember them, and if any former “Ferrins” have other stories about the day, I’d be more than interested to hear them.

Wednesday January 6^th, 1988. The Ferrers School, Higham Ferrers, Northamptonshire. It was an unremarkable January day in an unremarkable corner of England. I was in the 3^rd year at the time, aged, I think, 13. It was the last lesson of the day. We were studying geography, and I was very excited about seeing the local “am dram” pantomime in Rushden that night. The windows of the classrooms were covered in condensation. I’m not quite sure why I remember that particular detail. As the bell went to signify the end of school, my best friend, Tammy and I, collected our things and decided to go down to the school office to get some new notebooks.

As we walked towards the main doors of the Humanities block, two fifth formers came bursting into the building, screaming for us to get back inside; “Mr XX has been shot!” they said. They were crying and shaking, and we sat with them outside our classroom for some time, attempting to calm them down whilst simultaneously trying to work out what on earth was going on. Mr XX was a much-loved English teacher. Why would anybody shoot him? Why would anybody shoot anyone? People didn’t get shot in Northamptonshire...

“It’s Darren Fowler,” said the girls, “he’s shooting everywhere and there’s blood all over the place. He’s looking for Mr YY,” (a science teacher, whom he hated.)

Everyone knew Darren Fowler. He was one of the tragic kids at school. He was two years older than me and had a greasy bowl haircut. He used to shuffle around the school inadequately, and we all took the piss mercilessly, until we realised he had a temper on him. There were always stories of him smashing roof tiles, freaking out and attacking teachers. He lived with his Mum and a string of mini-me brothers in a terraced house on the edge of town. We were told that his next door neighbours had once complained to the council because there was damp on the wall which separated them from the Fowler’s house. The council had apparently investigated, and discovered that the Fowler family were randomly peeing against the wall in their sitting room.

Rumour had it that Fowler had guns in his shed, and teachers at the Ferrers School had sent letter after letter to the authorities warning them that Fowler was out of control and needed help. These letters reached fever-pitch, when we heard the news that Michael Ryan had walked through the streets of Hungerford in late 1987, killing scores of innocent people. I still remember my father turning to me after we saw the first news reports about the massacre and saying; “we’ve got to keep an even closer eye on Darren Fowler now.”

Fowler had been expelled from the school towards the end of 1987 and had, we gathered, come back to seek revenge.

The kids in my part of the school were all ushered out of the back of the building and led to safety via the school field. We could see Darren Fowler on the concrete ground in front of the science block, with someone sitting on his stomach, and later found out that this was our games teacher, Mr Greenhall, who’d bravely rugby tackled Fowler to the floor, after monitoring the number of cartridges he had in his gun and striking the very moment he realised Fowler would need to reload.

Ten minutes earlier, Fowler had walked calmly into the school, armed with a rifle, and immediately shot through the staff room window where teachers who weren’t busy teaching were hit by flying glass. He’d then gone around the back of the school and reloaded his rifle before shooting at two first formers who were coming out of one of the temporary class rooms. I believe both were taken to hospital, but neither suffered life-threatening injuries.

Fowler had come across Mr XX leaving another temporary classroom at the end of lessons, and that’s when he shot him, at point blank range, before heading down towards the science block where he’d started indiscriminately shooting through classroom windows... and that’s when Mr Greenhall did his heroic act.

Back at home we waited for hours for my brother (in the year above) to return. Brother Edward was taught English by Mr XX, and we were desperately trying to find a copy of his time table to see whether he might have been affected. We had no idea how many children had been shot, but rumours were already flying around that there'd been a proper massacre. A few hours later Edward arrived home, rather casually saying he didn’t really know what the fuss was all about. They’d heard the gun shots and been locked into a CDT room, which had suited him just fine because it meant he could get on with his woodwork project! It was at least an hour before they were allowed to leave the room, one assumes after the police had arrived and taken Darren Fowler away.

Mr XX was rushed to hospital, where he spent, I seem to recall, as much as a year getting better.

The following day, the authorities swept into the school and removed every last letter or document which suggested that Fowler was a danger to the school and himself. It would, of course, have been incredibly damaging for them, and we know from the Hillsborough enquiry that this was the way that things worked in those days. None of the teachers wanted to lose their jobs, and I guess no one knew their rights as much back then.

The news was reported for a single day in the tabloids – on the front pages – and then it mysteriously disappeared... Just like the school documents. Now of course we can argue that no one was killed in the attack, but back then, (before Columbine and Dunblane) this kind of thing didn’t happen. There’s a list of school shootings in Wikipedia, which include a number of events in Germany and Holland where no one was actually killed and yet the Ferrers School is never mentioned. Google "Darren Fowler" and "Ferrers School shooting", and there are no reports.

Fowler went to jail (where we’re told he stabbed a fellow inmate) and all his identikit brothers were educated at the school. It really was as though nothing had happened.

And that is the story of the Ferrers School shooting as I recall it.

Front page news... (from Colindale library)

White City

I had a meeting today with community leaders on the White City estate in West London to talk about a potential project which BBC Outreach look like they might want to fund. Everything seemed to go very well, so I have my fingers firmly crossed that my first project for 2013 is about to roll in...

The White City Estate feels like it might be the focus of a really beautiful film. It's got an incredibly interesting past; the area hosted events at the 1908 and 1948 Olympic games and a number of extraordinary exhibitions in a series of impossibly ornate white marble-fronted buildings built in an oriental style. There were huge fountains and glass roofed structures, and, of course, the Olympic stadium, which eventually became a grey hound track. It almost beggars belief that these remarkable stadia and exhibition halls no longer exist.

The community who live on the estate seem to be proud of their area, which is hugely multi-cultural and very well-kept. This is just the sort of community I enjoy working with.

As ever with these things, there's never a moment when I can crack open the champagne (or in my case, Ribena). I'm often mid-way through a job before I can relax in the knowledge that it's actually happening! 

Anyway, as a result of the meeting I've drunk far too many cups of tea and am buzzing like a bee on crack! 

On this date 350 years ago Samuel Pepys reset his no drinking, no theatre-going, no doing anything fun vows, after a Yuletide period spent over indulging on all fronts.

Perhaps the most outrageous statement came from his pen on January 6th, 1663;

"Myself somewhat vexed at my wife’s neglect in leaving of her scarf, waistcoat, and night- dressings in the coach today that brought us from Westminster, though, I confess, she did give them to me to look after, yet it was her fault not to see that I did take them out of the coach!"

It's always someone else's fault, isn't it?! 

Gravy

I've just made the most agreeable gravy, with stock cubes, a knob of butter and half a tonne of port. Nathan and I don't really drink, but have a cupboard full of high quality alcohol left over from various parties which I'm always delighted to add to gravy to give it that special meaty flavour... Not that I have any idea what meaty actually tastes like! It's 31 years now since I last ate anything with a face or a mother, although I did find myself looking at a fish finger in Sainsbury's today and wondering what it might taste like, but that's probably because I've never eaten a bright orange bread crumb before and the ADHD kid in me wants a reason to climb the walls! 

I've been a-pitching all day. It's time to try and get something exciting on the slate for 2013, and I've put together a document which outlines a potential way forward for my composition about The Thames. 

There's not a lot else to say, really. Nathan and I have just sat down to watch last night's Dancing on Ice, and every time Beth Tweddle does the splits on the ice, Nathan says "cold minge," which is obviously making me giggle quite a lot.

They repeated 100 Faces on telly in the North East and Cumbria this evening. It's a little strange to think that it's all going on again without me. Apparently the BBC's website which shows the film in the area has had 4000 hits, which is great to hear. Messages of support are still coming in and I'm still incredibly proud of the film. 

 

Inferno

My cleaning frenzy took me up into the loft today and I spent a very merry three-hour period emptying drawers and consolidating boxes like a crazy person. 

It suddenly struck me that one is only required to keep tax records for the last 7 years, so a whole heap of boxes filled with flimsy pieces of paper immediately went into the green Haringey recycling sack. 

As I carried the bag out to the street, I remembered our eccentric neighbour who likes to break open bin liners to see what interesting things he can find within, so, with no shredder, I decided my only option was to burn anything which had an address attached to it, which turned out to be almost everything.

I used the chiminea that Nathan had bought me for my birthday, took myself to the corner shop for a can of lighter fluid, and created a brilliant inferno which incinerated the lot, whilst simultaneously filling my neighbours' lungs with the stench of wood smoke! Goodbye tax from the 90s and early naughties. You won't be missed! 

I'm obviously not the only one in Highgate doing a big clear out, as the alleyway behind our house was blocked by a bed, which I was forced to carry out into the street. The mattress was sodden and the whole thing weighed a tonne. Rule number one about alleyways; they're not places to piss and dump litter. They're often the paths to people's homes. Remember that the next time you're out on the piss, or thinking a piece of litter ceases to be your problem if you can't see it any more.

The curios continue to appear in every corner of the house; a wheelie suitcase too small to carry a suit in, a curious Afro wig, a little bag filled with Scrabble letters and Tiddlywinks, piles and piles of useless stationery and a box of broken staplers. Heaven knows how I've managed to accumulate so much dreadful junk. 

We went to Ian and Jem's for tea. Lovely food, as ever, and hysterical stories about Broadway and West End shows. 

We rushed back at just gone midnight to take down the Christmas decorations. Does it count if you take them down after midnight on Twelfth Night? It is, technically, January 7th. With Nathan and me both unemployed at the moment, a run of bad luck is all we need! 

The blue inflatable

I had great fun this morning emptying out cupboards. I found, and binned, all sorts of curios including a blue plastic inflatable thing which seemed only to semi-inflate. Was it once a lilo? An inflatable bed? An enormous balloon?  It looked a little sinister if you ask me, but it was made in China, so I didn't need to think twice about throwing it away. I am trying to cleanse my life of things bought in China. Obviously it's a battle I'll never win, but I'm determined to do my bit to register my disgust at the human rights record over there, and the largely rubbish quality of what they make in dubious sweat shops.

I left the house today looking like a tramp, wearing clothes I found in bottom drawers which I decided to audition instead of immediately throwing away.  The trousers I wore lasted until 2pm, when the zip of the fly suddenly broke, and left me needing to walk about with a bag pressed against my groin. I'm such a tramp!

Still, on that note, I feel very pleased with myself after throwing away every sock I could find with a hole in it. The joy about always wearing odd socks is that I only have to throw the damaged sock away! 

I met Ellen (Taylor - from the folk song) for lunch at St Pancras station. As ever, we laughed hysterically whilst putting the world to rights. She's had the most shocking 2012 and I sincerely hope that things will very much pick up for her this year. 

We talked, amongst other things, about the cul-de-sac of atheism. There's really no way out, apart from a miracle, which of course is about as unlikely as I am of knowingly eating meat again. 

Atheists have the most difficult paths to tread on this planet, largely because there are no easy answers for us to fall back on, and, more crucially, because there's no one else to blame for our inadequacies. None of us want to be atheists. All of us would love to believe there was something else; that we're merely pawns in a game of universal chance, but when you look at the inconsistencies of all religions, and the  complete lack of proof, there really is no other option. And that's very difficult to stomach. 

I listened to some of Plan B's Ill Manors album today. There is, in my view, no doubt that the man is a genius. His music is daring and unconventional and his lyrics paint extraordinary pictures. My great sadness is that he comes across as such an unlikable, arrogant sod in interviews. 

Mania

I've spent the day feeling extremely nostalgic in a rather sad way. This particular melancholy most likely descended with the news that my friend from university's husband had died. Cancer, of course...

Like me, he was a keen blogger, and had been writing regularly about his battle with the disease. He was young, fit and vibrant, and it seems so unfair that he's been ripped away from his family at such an early age. I can't begin to imagine what my friend must be going through.

The mood continued to deepen after I opened up my music chest to find a pile of beautifully developed black and white photographs, which, over the years I'd obviously meant to frame but never got around to it. The pictures go back to 1993 and are of friends and family members looking terribly young and smiling happily on warm summer days. Some were of people I no longer see. Some of the faces are no longer with us. It became almost painful to look through them. Face after face, smile after smile, memory upon memory. Where the hell does life go? 

We blink, and then another year goes by...

This slow process of cleansing my life is throwing up all sorts of emotions, which include a feeling of great relief. Another two bin bags went out today, stacked full of paper, and hole-ridden socks, and little bottles of toiletries I always thought I might use one day, but now smell of hay. It's almost astonishing what I've hoarded over the years, but the more memories I sift through, the more determined I am to push even harder to achieve my goals this year. What I've done so far isn't nearly enough.

Those reading should not confuse drive with mania, by the way. I've just re-read the previous paragraph and it sounds a little bit on the edge. It's not. I'm just in the process of doing what I do with the start of each year; drawing a line under the previous year, and whipping myself into a frenzy of excitement about life's possibilities. Loose your sense of magic and enthusiasm in this game and you'll go under forever. I'm also benefitting wildly from daily exercise.

My alacritous cleaning regime is generating tangible results however, and not just mental ones. I found my iPod yesterday night. There's still no sign of the gum guard I'm meant to wear every night to prevent me from grinding my teeth. I bit my tongue twice in the night as a direct consequence of not wearing it. Tragic. 

After a morning of life laundry, with Nathan doing taxes and things in the sitting room, we went to the gym and then into Muswell Hill to see my dear friend Nicky and her charming 20-month old, Oscar who has a large vocabulary already but still calls Mummy Daddy, which is priceless. Apparently she's given up correcting him! I love the idea that he might grow up calling her Daddy. It's so wonderfully eccentric!