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I had to kneel at the altar for an hour and ten minutes through the full Church of England service, which was a real killer on my legs. Then I had to set the wine and bread, and follow the priest around the congregation.
    We would go there every Sunday. Once a month they would have morning tea after the service, and I was always struck by how nice the people were. The church had an enormous cemetery, and we used to cycle there if we were staying at my grandmother’s house; or if we were at home it was close enough to walk. But despite the fact it was such a comfort to us, the whole experience would eventually leave me with a terrible contempt for authority, because of the way the church finally treated my dad. He got confirmed knowing full well that he would eventually get excommunicated because of his divorce, which was a crushing blow for him. He did it because it was just something that he felt he had to do, but it absolutely shattered him, and as far as I could see none of what happened had been his fault.
    Ironically, once he got himself back together within a couple of years he went out socializing a lot and had a good time, but initially it must have seemed like life was constantly trying to cut him down. As soon as they excommunicated him I stopped going to church as well, and not long afterward I started drinking alcohol. The experience was another point of anger as a child, and I would think to myself:
Well, if you don’t want my dad, I’m not coming either
.
    I couldn’t understand how, if they had taught us that Jesus loved everyone, they could suddenly say Jesus didn’t love my dad! But it wasn’t religion I had a problem with, it was the church. I didn’t stop believing in Jesus as a good person, and I still find all the teachings of the Bible fascinating. But I realized there could be a very dark side to religion, and I lost my respect for authority because of it.
    Not surprisingly, things quickly went downhill at school. I started hanging around with the sort of kids who would always be sat at the back of the class. My disciplinary record wasn’t great and my attendance suffered. Suddenly we had found ourselves as a one-parent family, and despite all the overtime my dad worked we missed the money from my mother’s income, and we were forced to move to a smaller place. The grammar school claimed I now lived outside their catchment area, so I had to drop out and go to the local comprehensive instead. As far as I could see, nobody else who moved house had ever been asked to leave, so I think secretly they were just glad to have an excuse to see the back of me. But by then I wasn’t too bothered, because I was starting to get seriously interested in bands and drinking and girls, which meant I was more than happy to hang out with the kids I knew from the local comprehensive who were into similar things.
    I threw a lot of my frustration into sports activities, and some days after school I would throw a javelin for hours on end. But like every other kid in the North East, my favorite sport was playing football. I played left back and used to charge up the wing. I soon won the captaincy of the school team and went on to play at county level. I enjoyed it so much that at one point I had dreams of turning professional. One Sunday afternoon, when my dad and I were walking along a country lane together, I asked him what he thought would pay more, being in a band or being a footballer. The one thing I was sure of at the time was I didn’t want to end up like him, working his nuts off only to be slapped down all the time. He thought about it a bit before giving me his advice.
    “Son, you might find if you are a musician that your career will last longer than if you are a footballer,” he told me.
    My father was very musical himself, and I suppose it had always been something he’d wished he could make a go of himself but never got the opportunity, so I think he was glad I’d found a focus in life.
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