Forever Is Over Read Online Free

’ d all be dead now anyway, so let ’ s just move on. I applied the same logic to R.E! I only changed my mind on that when I was in my twenties. English Literature was my least favourite lesson though, as I found the teacher, Miss Caldicott, to be the mistress of monotony and dullness. I knew I was going to fail all my “ O ” levels, but Vomit Breath did not tell me knuckle down, far from it, she encouraged me to leave homework and school work well alone.
    “ There ’ s no way on God ’ s Earth I ’ m putting you through two years of Sixth Form when you could be paying your way to help me and Kelly out ” .
    She was a charmer my mother! Get a job, Jemma! Helps with the school uniform for Kelly and the large scotches and ciggies for me! Heart of gold? Sadly not. More like a big, fat, decaying black heart. I hated her. Hated her more than I can put down in words.
     

Richie
     
    I was born an Evertonian. My Mum was an Evertonian, my uncle was an Evertonian, my Granddad was an Evertonian, so before I could walk I was a brainwashed blue. My Granddad started buying me a season ticket in the Lower Bullens from when I was seven years old until he became too old to go when I was twenty one. They don ’ t ban Senior Citizens at Everton, he just found the walk to the train station and the climb up and down the stairs too much once he got to his late seventies! Bizarrely though, any real interest in going to the game was triggered by my first ever trip to a football ma tch which was at Burnden Park, Bolton.
    My Dad is originally from Bolton. Growing up I wasn ’ t close to my father. I wanted to be, but from Monday to Friday he was working, he was a Regional insurance rep, Saturdays he was either at the bookies or watching the racing on TV, then on Sundays he would strop around, cursing his luck and re-counting his stories to anyone who would listen about the horse in his accumulator that let him down.
    “ If COMPLIANT LAD had a longer neck, our family would all be sunning it up in Barbados now ” .
    My Dad wasn ’ t a bad man. He was, in many ways, a good one, but he loved his horse racing and unfortunately, too often, he put his own vice before his family. Even more unfortunate for me was that I later discovered gambling was a genetic affliction.
    In 1984, my mother decided enough was enough and issued an ultimatum, “ the horses or me ” . I ’ m sure if it had been a straight choice, he ’ d have probably packed his bags and headed off to watch the 2.10 from Haydock in peace, but the “ me ” included four children he loved dearly. He may not have made a huge amount of time for us, but there was no doubting he loved us dear ly so from that day forward he stopped gambling, well, so my mother thought, anyway! In actual fact, all he did was gamble far more discreetly than he had ever done before! He spent more time at home, we did more as a family, Peter O ’ Sullevans commentaries stopped echoing around the house every Saturday afternoon and he learnt to hide his disappointments rather than share them.
    Back in 1978 though, my Dad was still an open and honest gambler. Gambling came first, family second and Bolton Wanderers a close third. As a child, Dad was apparently a decent inside-half although I don ’ t recall a single day he kicked a ball with me. I do, however, recall him being a massive Bolton fan.
    “ I promise one day I ’ ll take you and James to Bolton ” , he used to pipe up. Even at seven, I knew not to believe him, this man made more promises than Noel Edmonds made swaps. For those of you too old or too young to remember, Saturday morning was Swap Shop time, in our house it was anyway, as my mother banned Tiswas which was on the other side, as she deemed it to be “ too aggressive ” . James hated that decision, I wasn ’ t bothered, I preferred Swap Shop! With Swap Shop, you had to phone Noel Edmonds and Keith Chegwin and tell them what useless bunch of crap you wanted to swap for