Reaching my fool potential

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In my very early twenties, back in the late seventies, I went along to the hairdressers and got myself a tight bubble perm. God knows why I did it. I was living in Great Barr in Birmingham at the time and suddenly people in cars and complete strangers in the street began to wave or shout 'Hiya' when they saw me.

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I had no idea why until one day travelling on the train to Wolverhampton I heard a young girl say to her mum "doesn't he look like Doyle out of The Professionals". Her mum looked my way and laughed out loud - still it did explain my sudden popularity with the good and gullible folk of Great Barr. Martin Shore was brought up in Erdington and went to school at Great Barr - at speed or at a distance (and with my tight bubble perm) I must have looked a little like him - remember I was young and in those days there was no widescreen, high definition television.

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Actually I did look a little like him back then - in a poor light - and yes, you guessed it...that was the reason for the perm.

Over the years, and usually due to a wide variety of hairstyles, I have been told by various people (often various drunk people) that I've looked like Simon Le Bon (highlights, blow dry, and a frilly shirt), George Michael (gold hoop earring in both ears, he was chubbier then) and weirdly Patrick Swayze (this must have been after a long mystery illness where I lost a lot of weight, my skin turned to plastic, and I got tall - or perhaps it was just the woolen leg warmers).

These days I look like some person who goes by the name of Ship - or is it Sheet? I don't know who he is or what he does, he may be a famous actor or a gangsta rapper for all I know, but I must resemble him strongly because increasingly people tell me that I look like him - 'You look like Sheet (or is it Ship?)' they say.

Shaving in the mornings I glance around the mirror trying to catch a glimpse of Martin, a hint of Simon, a nuance of George, or even an icily terrifying flash of Patrick - but if they are still in there somewhere then they are very elusive - all I see is this latest version of me and this version looks increasingly like a stranger. I stare into the glass looking at the caricature I'm becoming...where have I gone? 'Where am I?' I wonder.

I guess as we grow older these thoughts are inevitable as the face falls apart and gravity redefines the way it looks. It probably happens to us all, even Martin Shaw.

My English teacher at school, Mr Gould (Chunky- an emigre Greek Cypriot with an impeccable taste in ties, beautiful skin, and a wife who lived in the same house but wouldn't speak to him), once said to me that I must strive to reach my full potential - he pronounced it 'fool potential'. He was very insistent, making sure to inform me at least weekly that I must reach my 'fool potential', warning me that if I didn't I would waste my life and end up regretting it when I was older.

He also once told me in front of a classroom full of quite snobby, very judgemental, teenage boys that my imagination was so vivid that I would probably hang some day due to it. I didn't bother to point out that the last hanging in the UK was in 1964, but inevitably his remark led to me being hanged in the showers the next morning after the six mile cross country run. Fortunately the rope was tied to the shower head with a slip knot so I only suffered a little chafing around my neck - it was only a schoolboy jape - boys will be boys - although one of the boarders did try to hang himself the following year - another story, another time.
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Chunky wanted me to go to university to study English - I wanted to go to Art School and paint. I went to Art School - started to paint - then transferred to graphics when I realised that, although I could paint a little, my work didn't have a strong message - unlike the students that dressed in white coats and poured black sand down a child's plastic slide for seven hours or so at a time, and the twins who made a collage out of rubbish tip detritus, set fire to it, and filmed (no video then) as it went up in flames and smoke. They had a message, they were relevant, and all I wanted to do was paint pictures - nobody seemed to be teaching that anyway.

So, 'fool potential' - not a writer - not a painter - into graphics - management...and now?

As I look in the mirror trying to look beyond the caricature that's reflected back in the glass, and searching for those other Me's - the ones with the potential - I wonder what Chunky Gould would make of this me? Would he tell me that I've reached my 'fool potential', or would he tell me that I've simply become a fool? I think I know what he'd say. He'd tell me that I must still try to reach my 'fool potential', that it isn't too late and that the chance isn't quite lost. He'd tell me that I have to move fast, because time is running out. He'd tell me to use my vivid imagination and not to worry about being hanged because of it. He'd tell me all this, straighten his impeccable tie, smile his too white smile - and he'd be right - he always was.
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I do still have to reach my 'fool potential'. Maybe it's time for a change of hairstyle - how about an orange Mohican?