Kenny, Acker, and me...

I wasn’t surprised to hear that Kenny Ball had died, but I was surprised to see Acker Bilk on the telly talking about him after his death. I thought Acker had died years ago.

Apparently not, Acker lives on.

Some of my childhood was spent listening to Stranger on the Shore and Midnight in Moscow, Stranger on the Shore and the March of the Siamese Children, Stranger on the Shore and Stranger on the Bloody Shore. Some of my childhood was spent hating that song. Some of my childhood was spent hating Acker Bilk. Well, not so much the man, but his name.

My father was a fan of Acker and Kenny; as much as he was a fan of anything but himself, and had a few of their records in his limited and seldom played record collection along with Lonnie Donegan and The Batchelors.

He said he liked Acker Bilk. Liked him so much that he grew an Acker beard and therein lays the tale of why I hated Mr Bilk so much when I was a child.

That stupid beard was the bane of my life for years. The kids around by us would pick on any difference to catcall and snigger and having a father with a jazz clarinettist’s beard was bound to draw attention. They called him Acker and I was quickly labelled with the nickname too. Wherever I went on the estate I heard them calling ‘Acker’ after me and not in a good way; it was used as a criticism, a term of derision as if the speaking of that one meaningless but meaningful word was the ultimate insult. And to me it was – and a shame.

Acker, Acker, Acker, Acker, Acker…

I’d hear it everywhere I’d go, a slight elongation of the final two letters to drive home the fact that they knew how much I hated them calling me…

Ackerrrrr…

Sometimes they’d chant it…

Ack - Er - Ack - Er - Ack - Er - Ack - Er…

On and on, wherever I went, it came to the point where I wouldn’t go out to play any longer, keeping my eyes open when I was out and about so as to avoid the other boys.

Ackerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…

‘Ignore them’ was his best advice. Yeah right, that would make them stop. But it didn’t of course. I carried that name with some of the local wags until my mid-teens, dreading it being used and more than once getting into a scuffle because of it. In retrospect I should have tried to turn that name into a positive, Worn the T- shirt with pride, taken up the clarinet, perhaps been seen around town in a bowler hat and a stripy silk waistcoat. But that sort of strategic knowledge didn’t come until later and even today I can’t hear the name Acker without recalling the feeling of shame I felt back then.

How strange and fragile we are as children. No wonder some never grow up.

Right Acker?