Im from a small backward industrial town in the north of england. In the 70's when I was a kid no-one had a car. We used to meet for field service on the street corner and have a pep rally right there, then stand in a circle and say a prayer. I was praying no-one from school would see me with this bunch of misfits.
There was Uncle Malcolm, he was a painter and used to do that sucking through their teeth thing that all tradesmen do just before they tell you "its going to cost you love, the leftweld sprockets got a sheared half strump". Uncle Malcom's wife, Aunty Jean was as fat as they come, and was a bit slow upstairs. We all prayed we didnt get to work with Aunty Jean cos she was so embarrasing on the doors. She wore flowery nylon dresses that didnt quite cover her hulking body, and you could always see right up to her knickers at the Tuesday Group, cos her legs were too fat to close properly. They bred budgies.
I think there was a competition to see who could keep the householder talking at the door for the longest, which my dad was winning by a country mile. I used to edge my way round the side of the house, knock on the wall, and place pretend magazines at the pretend door. After id placed about 20, my dad was still at it. Everyone else had gone home.
At the meetings as far as I could work out there were only 3 answers you needed to know that seemed to be correct for any question ever asked in any talk or watchtower; 'Jehovah' 'Jesus' and 'Satan'. The trick was working out which one fitted which question. I was getting pretty good at working out the difference - goodie questions - big J or little J, it didnt matter which, those guys were totally indistinguishable - baddies question - satan. I loved it when my dimwitted peers couldnt even distinguish a goodie question from a baddie question. I mean it was so EASY - if the voice went up at the end it was a goodie Q, if it went down at the end it was a baddie Q.
Best of all was after the meeting when we all went into the back room for a game of British Bulldogs. Form two teams and each team join hands real tight, sing Red Rover Red Rover We Call (insert name) over - then that person has to run as hard as they can and smash through your hands. We used to be able to get at least two rounds in before some old git would tell us off.
Worst of all was saturday morning field service, because every kid in the entire world was sat in the living room in their dressing gowns eating bacon sarnies watching Swap Shop or Tiswas while I was outside in some high collared low hemmed christian dress my mum had made for me, freezing my nuts off trying place a magazine about the lesser spotted porridge weavil.
Missing Tiswas hurt (I still fancy Sally James in that leather waistcoat, and Im a fooking woman), but not as much as missing Top of The Pops on Thursday night. No we didnt have a video, we were dead poor up north! I still hate Thursdays and im old enough to think TOTP is crap now.
I used to get spanked a lot when I was a kid. Maybe thats why I like it so much now? Who knows. It was bloody fantastic though if someone else got dragged into the toilets before you did. Usually it was my friends Gillian and Louise. Not because they were naughty, no, but because their dad wanted to win the 'im the strictest elder in the congregation' competition. He won, but only because he banned them from eating sweets as well. My dad kept his spanking averages high, but I was allowed to eat sweets, so we slipped into second place. In third place came Nigels dad, who spanked him for being sick in the prayer AND banned Nigel from going out on his own ANYWHERE, in his teens. Next came Simon and Chris's dad who had a pretty low spank average, and between you and me I think that just showed how spiritually weak he was. Last came Sarahs dad. Sarah was way too pretty to spank, but her dad made up for it later in life by sacking one of his employees who had the nuts to ask Sarah out.
When you got spanked the best thing to do was to go out with as much publicity as possible. Stephen used to hold onto the chairs as he went. Nigel used to throw up. I used to cry and shout out "im sorry Jehovah, im SORRY im SORRY, im SORRY". But that usually earned me a super spank when we got to the toilets. Straight after the spank, my dad used to tell me to be quiet, then he used to say to if you dont stop crying im going to leave you here on your own. Well I thought that was pretty odd because surely the point of spanking me was to make me cry, so why would you want me to stop crying so quickly? I couldnt figure it out. But i knew that being left in the toilets on my own was not a good option. They were demonised.
Demons and persecution featured a lot in my childhood. They were always bashing on about one or the other on the platform. As a consequence I had nightmares, bit my nails and wet the bed for years. But all the fat sisters had read somewhere that when you were being persecuted, usually by having bycicle spokes poked through your legs, having your finger nails pulled off with plyers or perhaps being whipped with electric cable, that Jehovah didnt let you feel anything. So that was OK, and I really dont know what all that bed wetting was about. In fact really my dad was being kind with all the spanking because it was like kindergarten persecution school, toughening us up for when the Great Tribulation came.
Happy days...