John Spinks 1956-2002

A Life Less Ordinary
John Cracknell

I've known John since the day I left Durham as a teenager and arrived as a student in Coventry in 1976. Since then, other friends, girlfriends - even a wife - have all come and gone but John has remained the one 'constant' in my life. He came to know me either as 'Mac', (a nickname that followed me from my home) or 'Norvern Bastid' because of his (then) accent. In response, he was called 'Cockney Bastad' and these tags stuck. We started as acquaintances, wary of each other ("Divn't trust 'ny Cockney basta's" said my mates before I left home; "Dahn't trus' no Norvern bastids" said his mates no doubt) and quickly progressed to being drinking partners. Even then, as I do now, I felt that you don't 'make' freinds, you 'recognise' them. I saw in John someone who would be a freind. This grew closer over the years until we beacame two people who realised that they would remain that way for the rest of their lives, no matter what. We could share our hopes and our fears, our lows and our highs; we could, above all, be honest with each other. He quickly became a touchstone for my ideas and thoughts (and on other occasions, vice versa) and although I did not always get the responses I perhaps hoped for, I respected them and they never came in the way of our friendship. He often used to criticise me for being, as he described "the most cautious person that I know". Similarly, I would criticise him for being "the most reckless person that I know" and yet curiously and without saying it, we both knew this was the one 'lie' we allowed between us. In serious matters, the opposite was often true but it seems that this mutual denial suited us. I even sometimes considered him as 'my more sensible older brother' because so often, in spite of appearances, he would 'go with his head' and I would 'go with my heart'. Until his death, I used to think that we were alike in many ways but the more I think about it, what we had was a lot of common ground but we were 'the attraction of opposites'. Whatever. He will always be one of the blessings of my life. Maybe if he had never left the south, his mates may have called him 'a diamond geezer'. To me he was worth much more than any diamond but the description suits him - just like the best diamonds, he had so many facets to his character. I hope I can show some of these here.

If you're into short recollections, don't read on - my stories are numerous and quite long, in part because now, looking back on the past and realising that I shall never again be able to add to them is making me realise just what we shared and the fun we had together. Writing them is my catharsis and in a small way this will help me come to terms with what has happened. My loss is no greater for having known him longer than some, indeed, the opposite is true - I am luckier because I was able to have more time with him. If you read the stories, I hope you will smile and recognise the person that I knew and loved.

Student Days

After a quick "Alright?" along the corridors, a group of us 'freshers' went to the student Halls of Residence on a Sunday afternoon. We received a speech from the Head of Halls who told us that "Today, you will be meeting people that will become friends for the rest of your lives and some of you will meet your future wives/husbands here". At this, I had my eyes on a rather pretty girl in a fetching mohair jumper to my left but to John, it all sounded too ominous and he said "I'm out of here. I need a drink!" so we did what all right-thinking teenagers would do and a group of about 8 of us went into town to get drunk. This was the beginning of the longest alcoholic session that I have ever had the pleasure/misfortune/inclination/money to take part in. We drank the next day, and the next, and the next... After about a week of this, some bright spark said "Why don't we try and set a record and drink every day for a month?" We set the rules: minimum 2 pints every lunch time, minimum 4 pints every weekday night and minimum 8 pints every Friday and Saturday night. It may have been a stupid competition but this is when I first saw the fierce competitive spirit in John. We got to a month. This was extended to 2 months...and then to 3 months. After 3 months on the beer we were wrecked and one by one, all the others in our group had fallen by the wayside. It was just me and John left who were still on '100% attendance' but he wouldn't give in until one evening, he had no money. This was no way to win thought I, so I shoved £10 in an envelope under his door and legged it. He came to my room asking if I had done it but I denied all knowledge of it and made the point that as he now had money, he could come drinking. He did and we both eventually reached the magic '100 days' and then quit - quite gladly I might add. Over the years that followed, John repaid that £10 a thousand times over in so many different ways, with kindness, with care and yes, occasionally with a bung when he knew I was skint.

I suppose drinking was and remains, central to the life of a student. Lectures and seminars came a poor second. On one subsidiary course, John had not attended any seminars until the last before the Christmas break. As it was a 3.00pm slot (and the last Friday before breaking up for the holidays) we had both naturally been celebrating before we attended. As we entered, the tutor (a real wet) actually asked John who he was and what was he doing here. The tutor checked his list of names and found that John was a bone fide student. (That's probably the only time he's been called that.) Allowing us to stay was a mistake. Instead of an in-depth discussion about political presence in the media, we both began cracking cans of beer open and singing carols. The seminar disintegrated before the poor tutor's eyes. It was Christmas after all. "'Tis the season to be jolly..."

It wasn't all drinking of course. We had to eat too; we played football; if we were lucky, we even had some sex. Eating was done in the refectory, whereas football took place in any open space we could find and sex wherever we could find it.

Unfortunately at that time the food wasn't too good in Halls and very often it was simply used as missiles. Chips were the sniper's choice as they were easily rolled into a greasy ball and could be specifically targeted but a spoonful of baked beans was like a shotgun loaded with buckshot that actually had people eating their food under their tables. John 'upped the ante' and developed 'weapons of mass disruption' by tapping up someone on a biology course to provide large syringes so we could load these with watery tomato soup and fire them at much greater ranges. Although our misdemeanours were numerous and certainly equal, unlike myself, John managed to avoid being asked to leave Halls of Residence in the end. Even at this young age he was learning to flutter his eyelashes and was developing his "Who, me?" look. We've surely all seen it!

We played 5-a-side football on Saturday mornings and a few of our drinking buddies formed a team. John entered us into the league as 'Avant Garde United', a misnomer as it turned out - we led nothing and spent most of the time propping up the league table. What John lacked in skill, he made up for in sheer aggression and determination. He became the 'hard man' of the team. I don't remember that we ever won that many games but I do remember several of his crunching tackles that led to us playing against 4 opponents rather than 5 and causing some good scuffles with the opposition on the sidelines! Thankfully these were the days when thuggery on the pitch was seen as a virtue and we settled our differences in the bar afterwards rather than claiming compensation for the odd broken bone and 4" gash here and there. It was during this period that John perfected his sad and incredulous "What? Ah, no! Never touched him ref...honest" routine.

Very early one morning, John and I met by a lift in the Halls of Residence having approached it from opposite end of the corridor. It was in the women's block. To this day, I still don't know why neither of us spoke at the time - we just grinned at each other, got in the lift without a word, returned to the men's block and about half an hour later, met again in the refectory for breakfast. Nothing was said and neither of us ever let on who we had spent the night with. I knew then that this was a man who I could trust with secrets!

We used to have cleaners to clean the bedrooms in Halls of Residence. The two I remember were called Barbara (my corridor) and Josie (John's). Every day, they would stop for a tea break in one of the small mini-kitchens dotted along each floor. I'd often stop to chat with them. One day Josie turned to me looking rather serious and concerned and said "I think you should know John, that your mate from London down the corridor, well...I think he may be injecting drugs. It's such a shame, he seems such a nice boy". Drawing upon all my reserves, I solemnly assured her I would have a word with him. I found John later and with tears in my eyes, barely able to suppress my laughter, I told him what she had said with particular emphasis upon her last comment. He didn't give a toss that she'd more or less called him a junkie but he was furious that she had called him 'such a nice boy'. All she'd found was John's insulin syringes, not drugs. Ahh bless...his hard-man image was crumbling before it had even been fully established.

Cars

We all know how John loved cars and speed. Speed was like a drug to John and it gave him a 'high' that others may find in drugs or 'extreme sports'. If I am honest with myself, although I didn't want it to happen, I expected him to die in a car crash. There was no doubt he had great driving ability but it was equally evident that he had an almost uncontrollable urge to push himself and the car to the limit at all times. It always reminded me of the old car advert 'Man and machine in perfect harmony' and more often than not, John and his cars made beautiful music. When, in recent years, he began to buy superbikes and got his first Ducatti, John said to me "One of two things will happen now; either I'll learn to ride this or I'll die". It didn't please me to hear him talk this way but I knew that his love of speed would never be tamed - not be me or anyone else for that matter. Speed could easily have killed him but by the same token, it kept him alive - it was as essential to him as breathing.

John's first car was a white Alfasud Sprint. I remember taking him to view it in Cheylesmore, Coventry. His eyes lit up in that way we all came to know and after an inspection and a test drive, he asked me "What do you think?" I replied, "It doesn't matter what I think, mate. You'll buy it because you love it already." He did. Over the years he had a succession of cars, some his own, some company cars but in his eyes, they all had the same purpose - not to get him from A-to-B but to give him the most enjoyment he could squeeze out of them.

One evening in Birmingham in the Alfasud, we had gone to a party. We'd dropped off the 'girls' (Karen and my wife-to-be, Alison) and gone in search of an offie. As we drove down the dual carriageway in Bourneville, I spotted one on the other side of the road. I saw a gap in the carriageways and pointed this out to John but he didn't slow down. We got closer and still he kept the speed up. At the last minute, he executed a perfect handbrake turn that turned us through 180 degrees and put us in the inside lane of the opposite carriageway without losing hardly any speed. As we approached the offie, he said "Wanna go back and do it again?"

I remember one day in a Metro Turbo when John approached a hump-back bridge doing 90mph. He hit it without slowing and my language was blue. This is the only time in my life that I have been in a car and had all 4 wheels off the ground. As we cleared the bridge, I saw that there was an almost immediate right hand bend. Surprisingly, at this stage in the game, I could only come out with "Oh shit" or something equally mild. The split second before we hit the ground, John turned the steering wheel to the right and then, as we touched down, the car skewed to the right as if on rails. Knowing that I was always something of 'a nervous passenger', and he'd taken me way past my limits, John kindly drove the rest of the way home at no more than 30mph - after all, this is what friends are for aren't they? He just grinned and there was nothing I could do but forgive him for scaring the shit out of me. It was only later that I realised his adept handling of the move suggested this probably wasn't the first time John had done it...

When he had a blue Renault 5 Turbo, he and I used do speed trials on a nice secluded (but very straight) road just outside Coventry. (I think this was why he always seemed to have a wristwatch with a stopwatch function.) We clocked up some very good 0-60 times of which the manufacturer would have been proud. When I got married, the father-in-law to be had secretly arranged for a white Rolls Royce to pick up the wife-to-be from home and take them to the church. It was late arriving but eventually made it to the church on time. I later learned from the driver that he had been speeding down a dual carriageway at 100mph trying to make up time. I smiled when he commented that the only car that had overtaken him the whole journey was a blue Renault 5 Turbo doing about 120mph. John and Karen weren't late for the service either.

One evening, I was with John in his company BMW 320i. Although he had spent several years in Coventry he had forgotten some of the routes to certain pubs of ill-repute so I was directing him around the ring road. Sometimes this can become a little clogged. In such situations, who of us can say, with honesty, that we have never overtaken cars on the inside? Very few I'd guess. John however, as usual, took this to a higher level. With both lanes of a dual carriageway blocked by cars moving at equal speed, John still managed to get past them. He did what was obvious to him - he overtook them by speeding up, steering into a lay-by and then rejoining the road in front of them. I stunned John by not swearing and simply said "At the next roundabout, take the first exit". He had to laugh. On another occasion in Coventry we were driving along one of the inner-city roads and I knew of a lay-by up ahead that was hidden by trees and which frequently had a police car waiting in it to trap unsuspecting motorists with speed guns. I should have known. Rather than heed my warning, John actually put his boot down. I just went "Oh, no"; Karen gave him some serious Scots verbal. Sure enough there was a police car there and we sailed passed doing 60mph in a 40mph zone but they never moved a wheel. John's comment was along the lines of "It's all anarchy isn't it?" Karen stopped speaking to him for all of five minutes and Alison joined her in a 'sympathy vote'; I sat, head in hands covering a huge grin.

One day in his Ferrari we were on a three-lane dual carriageway. We were doing only 70mph in the middle lane. Something was clearly wrong. Was he ill? Had he spotted a police car? Why weren't we doing 100mph? I soon learned why. John was waiting for something to overtake us and soon enough, the bait appeared in the shape of a Golf GTi doing about 100mph. John let it past, pulled out and then accelerated with enough force to send us both deep into the seats. Still doing 100mph, the Golf dutifully pulled over and John pulled alongside perfectly matching the Golf's speed. We continued in this way for about 10-15 seconds until I said to John "Come on John, that's cruel". John beamed that smile of his, waved to the Golf driver and said "Bye" and we accelerated to 140mph on the clock. It was then I understood why he loved Ferraris so much - the sound of that engine was like a beautiful symphony being played behind your ears.

A Caterham 7 may not be everyone's cup of tea but John loved his, in part I think for the speed but also for the image - he went and bought a leather flying helmet and goggles. He looked wonderful! If anything, I thought this was the most frightening car that John ever owned simply because you were exposed to the elements and in an open car with a sitting position so low to the ground you felt like you were doing 100mph ALL the time. It was only when I peered over to look at the speedo that I realised that we were actually doing 100mph... Yes, it was frightening - but it was also the best fun by far and it was easy to see the huge pleasure that driving it gave John.

Some years ago when John was driving a BMW and singing the praises of rear wheel drive cars, he said to me that what he would like 'for a bit of fun' was an old Morris Minor (it had to be fitted with cross-ply tyres as well to make things more difficult/dodgy) so that he could push it to its limits and see if he could handle it. Although not the car of his choice, John's eyes lit up one day when I appeared at his house in an old yellow Mk2 Ford Escort. It was the best I could do at the time after being on my travels abroad for a year, bought with the last of my money and it had to last me until I found a job. It was immediately named the 'Ford Canary'. I'd bought it from 'one careful lady owner' and like her, I had neither gone above 70mph in it nor done any hard acceleration in order to save the poor old thing's pistons. "Gizza go then" says John. "Fuck off," says I, "you'll just trash it!" "Won't" says he. "Will" says I. Needless to say, I caved in. We raced along country lanes at breakneck speeds, me with tears forming in my eyes and mentally calculating the cost of buying and fitting a new cylinder head, John with a huge smile on his face moaning "Oh, rear wheel drives are just SO good!" Driving back home the next day, I half expected steam and smoke to begin appearing from under the bonnet but thankfully it never did. John declared it "Great" and so it was.

Over the years, whereas John has always loved Italian cars, I had always liked German cars. When I bought my first VW Scirocco, John's comment on it was "German crap". Later, when I could at last afford to buy my 'dream' of an old Porsche 911 his comment was "Still German crap". John's usual objectivity clearly did not extend to cars, unfortunately. I was surprised then, when I first saw his Audi TT. "What did you say years ago about German cars, John?" He immediately came back with a 'half-acceptance' that they were at least driveable, that he was forced into buying it out of necessity and that when he negotiated the price, he was made an offer he couldn't refuse. In case I wasn't convinced, he added "...'n' it's fucking QUICK!"

On a final note about cars, on the way to his funeral along an unfamiliar route, I set off the flash on the first of a string of speed cameras. Whether or not I get a fine in the post remains to be seen but either way, I know John would have been proud of me.

Drinking and women

Over the years we had periods when we seemed to meet up almost every week and others where we wouldn't see each other for months - even over a year for a couple of times. What I valued was the fact that any prolonged period when we hadn't seen each other was never a cause of anger/upset to either of us. The 'getting together again' would always be the same - he or I would knock on the living room window of the other's house, stick two fingers up and then on the door being opened, we would both simply say "You fucking bastid", head for the pub and pick up where we last left off. A lot of our behaviour was like this - almost ritualised, where we each had an action or 'lines' that the other knew and we would simply play out the 'scene' as if on TV. Maybe this appeared silly, even annoying to strangers, but it was our code, our comfort and our continuity. I miss it already. This sort of thing began when we were students and certainly by the end of the first term, we both knew all the scripts from Peter Cook and Dudley Moore's 'Derek and Clive Live' album off by heart. We offended hundreds! We took this a stage further and often each played 'roles' at parties, often managing to keep it up for the whole evening without being sussed out. Over the years, John has passed me off as various characters, a vicar, a tattoo artist and an Australian backpacker among them. He was similarly passed off as a priest, a policeman and a racing driver - the last was an easy task!

For several years, me, my 'ex' Alison, John and Karen would meet up on an evening, have dinner and plenty to drink. It never ceased to amaze me the topics that we discussed. In one alcohol-fuelled evening we would often solve the Troubles in Ireland, the Middle East problems, 3rd World debt, race relations and a host of other lesser problems. One thing that he and I never quite managed to sort out was 'the problem of women' and we would often find ourselves paired together against our other halves even when perhaps secretly, we agreed with them. It just seemed easier and more fun to sit on the other side of a debate and thankfully we always woke up next morning still friends.

One time, I had a girlfriend who was French. She was a Catholic who had converted to Judaism (talk about out of the frying pan into the fire) and I warned John before he met her not to go arguing about things like occupation of the West Bank and Gaza Strip as she was, to put it mildly I explained, very 'touchy' about this subject to the extent that she had actually gone to live in Israel for the duration of the Gulf War to show 'solidarity'. "She's fucking barmy!" declared John. "I agree," says I "but she's horny...so do behave and shut it!" We met up in Hethe and the four of us went to the pub for a meal. Sure enough, during the course of the evening, John brought up the subject of the occupation of the West Bank. My warning was like a red rag to a bull. I was truly thankful when, by the end of the evening we were talking about more mundane matters. The next day back at home however, I got an earful from my girlfriend for not supporting her enough. I hadn't the heart to tell her that I hadn't done so because I actually agreed with John. We separated not long after this and I realised that my friendship with John was actually part of a 'vetting process' - if girlfriends didn't like him that much, they had to go. Had I claimed to be the originator of this idea at the time, I would surely be incredibly rich now and be called the 'Guru of Laddism'.

I was at Hethe one Friday evening with John and his [then] new girlfriend, Sam. We had a meal and a sensible drink for a change and chatted for a while but then they went off to bed quite early. Now, given that I am deafened and wear hearing aids, the 'noises' above that even I heard that night would have done credit to any skin-flick you care to mention. The next morning I sat having a cuppa in the living room and John came downstairs a little later. I asked "Nice night eh, John? [Wink, wink.] Bit noisy weren't you?" He grinned but then suddenly his gaze went blank and he began to sway. Wary that he may have gone into 'hypo' because of his diabetes, I immediately got up to help him. By the time I reached him, his eyes had closed. "Sit down, John" I said, as I guided him to the settee. "I'll get you some biscuits. Are you going into hypo?" I asked, concerned. John's eyes then opened and fresh as a daisy he said "No, I'm just re-living the moment!" I punched him quite hard before we burst into fits of laughter.

More recently, when he was as I was at the time - 'in between girlfriends' - I asked him whether he preferred being in a relationship or on his own. Typically, his answer to this was evasive but nevertheless illuminating. He said that as he was now older, he was quite 'set in his ways' and that it was difficult for women to accept this because he expected them to fit into his way of life. I'm not altogether sure that this tells the whole truth as the more time went on, the more I recognised John now enjoyed being something of a butterfly, flitting here and there. Being in a permanent relationship could have clipped his wings. At his funeral, I commented that with people he was "...like a little squirrel, hoarding nuts all over the country" and the more I think about it, the more I believe this is how John liked things. He had nuts/friends all over the country and could visit them whenever he pleased, giving himself to each and getting something different from each in return.

We spent many times drinking late into the night, sometimes in debate, sometimes in light chit-chat and other times, me just sitting there enjoying watching John play his music. "Gimme Chuck Berry/Elvis/Ry Cooder!" I'd shout and he would immediately scoot across the floor, guitar in hand, playing and looking the part. We'd watch the stars come up (and often the sun) crash out for a few hours and then go off and do it all again the next day. I shall miss these times very much.

Final Thoughts

I last saw John at the end of August/beginning of September. I'd driven down to Hethe to see him as I'd been sending rude joke text messages to his mobile a few times and had received no replies. He calmly explained that the number I had for him was for an old phone that was transferred to someone he worked with previously. I gulped and said "Oh, shit! I'm in for it if it's a woman!" He just laughed it off. "No probs. Sorted!" says he.

As always, two fingers at the window was followed by a trip to the pub and a quick catch up of what was happening in the world. Little had changed then and yet, as we all now sadly know, everything has. I'd envisaged that we would both grow old and like Harry Enfield's 'Old Gits' be able to go to the pub together and be two badly behaved old men, letching at young barmaids, generally making a nuisance of ourselves and laughing again at old stories and even older jokes. I will, the same as John's family and all his friends will, have to re-write my future without him and doing this, it will be a future less bright than it would have been. What I have is my memories of him, many more than I have recounted here and I will cherish all these as long as I live as I am sure others will theirs. Here's to the best mate I could have wished for for the past 26 years - Cockney Bastid.