Autobiography – Nicholas Walker

AutoB of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: The Making of an Author

Nicholas Walker — Mon, 16 Aug 2021 20:47:29 +0000

He was standing there reading the report with a stunned expression on his face.

‘Walker,’ he said and now I knew I was in real trouble if he was calling me Walker.

‘Good Morning sir, and isn’t it a lovely one?’ I tried. He gave me a look.

‘You have been cutting Mrs Dark’s Geography lessons since the first year, correct?’

‘Spot on, sir,’ said I with nothing to lose.

‘I see. Well, as far as I can work out that means you have cut somewhere in the region of 348 lessons, yes?’

‘I can’t really help you there sir, I’m not very good at maths.’ I thought it better not to tell him I had recently been cutting Maths lessons as well.

‘Well, Nicknack…Walker,’ he said clutching at his forehead, ‘this leaves me with a bit of a problem. You see if a pupil cuts one lesson, they are made to copy up the whole lesson during detention.’

‘Seems fair enough to me, sir.’

‘Nicknack, shut up!’ he shouted losing it. He took a deep breath to bring himself back under control and after a minute continued in a more level tone, ‘For two lessons they are given the cane. For three they are put on home report.’ He lost it and started to dance around at this point, ‘I don’t know what the hell I am supposed to do about 348!!!’

I couldn’t think of anything to say that would improve the situation at this point. Now he seemed to have some sort of stroke and I watched him anxiously as he leaned over his desk fighting for breath, after all he wasn’t getting any younger. Gradually his bright red colour faded and he raised a trembling hand and pointed it at the door:

‘Go away you horrible boy!’

Like I said we all liked Mr Griffiths!

Autobiography of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: A Kind of Immortality

Nicholas Walker — Sun, 15 Aug 2021 01:01:26 +0000

Apologies: I could read when I was three. It’s not unnatural, some children just seem to teach themselves to read, we think it’s by a process of copying adults and interpreting pictures. From the age of about six I was reading a book every day, that is finishing a book every day…a practice I have continued all my life. I’m not saying I read War and Peace in one day but I tend to finish an average sized adult’s book most days. When I was eight I was reading James Bond and books by Alistair McLean and Neville Shute. Mind you I was still reading all the children’s books as well, still do now: Bunter, William, Jennings, The Famous Five and all the others. I read all the heavy stuff in my teens and now regret wasting so much of my time digesting crap like Wuthering Heights and Tom Jones…give me a break. There is nothing in those old fashioned dirges that you cannot find ten times better in a modern book…literary insight my ass. Most of them were written by middle class virgins who knew nothing of life and the only reason they got published was because there were so few people writing during the last century. I took a year to read: The Fall and Decline of the Roman Empire, then there was Boswell’s Life of Johnson both of which were okay. Then there were all the Nordic folk tales and stuff like that. By the age of fourteen I had read the whole of Kingswinford Library half a dozen times. Then when I was thirty eight I was at Exeter University and a professor told us we should read the Aeneid if only in translation, I had always avoided it like the plague because it was in Latin. But I knew about the Aeneid from the Bunter books so I read it and wasn’t that impressed but while I was reading it I had a kind of revelation: I was reading words written by an ordinary bloke some 2000 years ago! A living, breathing man who maybe had just had an argument with his wife or had an upset stomach or was just feeling ticked off with the world. He was communicating with me over huge scans of time and appearing on my page as alive as he had ever been…the thought took my breath away, anything I read or indeed wrote was not limited by the mere lifetime of a man, it could go on forever…it was a Kind of Immortality!

Autobiography of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: Tears in the Rain

Nicholas Walker — Sun, 15 Aug 2021 00:39:21 +0000

The final book in this series takes Nick right up to the time he had a breakdown and ran away around the world on the QE2. The eight years he was married to his beautiful second wife when he was to learn just how disarming looks can be.

Going Crackers in Kuwait

Nicholas Walker — Sat, 26 Sep 2020 20:40:45 +0000

One day we were going to a big market in Kuwait City. I was sitting in the front with Emad driving and in the back were Tammy and Steve, the English couple from the school. We were going through the outskirts and it was quite busy with pedestrians everywhere, almost like a Western city except the people would tend to wander out into the street without warning. And the cars come to that. Suddenly my gaze became transfixed. I sat forward. ‘Hat!’ I shouted. ‘Hat! Hat! Hat!’ Emad stared at me a concerned expression on his face. ‘Dr Nick?’ he said. ‘Stop the car…quick! Quick!’ I shouted flinging the door wide. ‘Pick me up just up the road!’ I pointed ahead and took off up the street. I ran quietly as I could in and out of the milling crowds and came up right behind the tall black African. He was wearing this huge, turban shaped, leather hat…ooo, it was magnificent! It had strings and buckles and a peak! I leapt high in the air, swept it from his head and took off like Usain Bolt. There came an outraged cry from behind but much faster than I expected I heard feet pounding in pursuit and more worryingly, others seemed to be joining in. I cut off into the road putting the hat on my head for safe keeping and the cries from behind became even more outraged. Then, just when things were getting a mite fraught the Caddy swung alongside and Tammy was holding the door open for me. I dived in and waved the hat out the window at my pursuers. Of course, Tammy and Steve were English so they didn’t deign to comment on my entirely understandable actions and Emad was doing his best to look relaxed but he kept shooting glances at my new hat. It was the following day before he finally broke, ‘Dr Nick,’ he said chidingly, ‘if you had wanted a hat that badly I would have taken you somewhere and bought you one!’

Going Round the Bend on the QE2

Nicholas Walker — Sat, 26 Sep 2020 20:30:26 +0000

Written by a bestselling author this is the hilarious story of him having a nervous breakdown and running away around the world on the QE2! Unbelievable but absolutely true the author’s sensitive mental state gives him a different slant on world travel and the millionaires he mixes with. A truly different travel book which will have you laughing on every page. This is the true story of how the author cured a nervous breakdown by taking a world cruise on The Queen Elizabeth ll. It is a peep into the luxury lifestyle of the very rich from the somewhat sardonic viewpoint of someone who is not quite sane. We visit 40 countries and each one is treated to the author’s observations which are nearly always humorous and written by someone who’s fragile mental state causes him to throw all caution to the winds. But more than that, Nick isn’t your conventional world traveller: he gets arrested in New York and undergoes an intimate body search, he fights off three armed muggers in Jamaica, falls out with Australian customs officers, has a motor bike accident in Bali, is attacked by two old men in The Taj Mahal and is thrown out of Vietnam. The book, though, is more about his life aboard the QE2: his love affairs, his growing relationship with the staff and their intimate, closeted lifestyle, the disastrous staff concert that ends up in an all-out fight, the excesses of the super-rich passengers and the bizarre situations that only happen aboard such as the night where he is trapped on the dance floor with the three women he has been dating. All in all it is the story of a man making his way back to sanity until he is finally deposited back on the quay at Southampton where he started only now he is penniless and has just been informed that everything he owns in the world has been thrown overboard into the sea. The hilarious follow up is now available: Going Insane in America, where Nick runs away to America to avoid his proctologist!.

Autobiography of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: The Making of an Author

Nicholas Walker — Fri, 25 Sep 2020 00:23:31 +0000

I remember another incident much later on with Mr Griffiths. I sort of invented skiving off in about the third year but right back in the first year I stopped going to Geography. I hadn’t done a project as it was homework so as the teacher was very scary I hid in the toilets then I didn’t like to go back the following lesson and the more I stayed away the more the consequences piled up so the more I stayed away. I stayed away until the Fifth Form and then tragedy happened, Mrs Dark the teacher I was staying away from was tasked to write a report on me. She professed to having no idea who I was and I received the long awaited summons to Mr Griffith’s study. He was standing there reading the report with a stunned expression on his face. ‘Walker,’ he said and now I knew I was in real trouble if he was calling me Walker. ‘Good Morning sir, and isn’t it a lovely one?’ I tried. He gave me a look. ‘You have been cutting Mrs Dark’s Geography lessons since the first year, correct?’ ‘Spot on, sir,’ said I with nothing to lose. ‘I see. Well, as far as I can work out that means you have cut somewhere in the region of 348 lessons, yes?’ ‘I can’t really help you there sir, I’m not very good at maths.’ I thought it better not to tell him I had recently been cutting Maths lessons as well. ‘Well, Nicknack…Walker,’ he said clutching at his forehead, ‘this leaves me with a bit of a problem. You see if a pupil cuts one lesson, they are made to copy up the whole lesson during detention.’ ‘Seems fair enough to me, sir.’ ‘Nicknack, shut up!’ he shouted losing it. He took a deep breath to bring himself back under control and after a minute continued in a more level tone, ‘For two lessons they are given the cane. For three they are put on home report.’ He lost it and started to dance around at this point, ‘I don’t know what the hell I am supposed to do about 348!!!’ I couldn’t think of anything to say that would improve the situation at this point. Now he seemed to have some sort of stroke and I watched him anxiously as he leaned over his desk fighting for breath, after all he wasn’t getting any younger. Gradually his bright red colour faded and he raised a trembling hand and pointed it at the door: ‘Go away you horrible boy!’ Like I said we all liked Mr Griffiths!

Autobiography of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: The Making of an Author!

Nicholas Walker — Thu, 24 Sep 2020 01:36:13 +0000

The Autobiography of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: Only the Brave

Nicholas Walker — Wed, 16 Sep 2020 01:39:40 +0000

On this particular day I was teaching pressure (kinda ironic considering) and I was going to use the elephant and high heels demonstration to show that the high heel does more damage to the floor…luckily for me Elizabeth always wore very high heels and we had an elephant costume in the store. I had got two of security guards to agree to come in dressed up in it towards the end of the lesson. I was talking around a bit making them laugh and suddenly Tony starts shouting out: ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ he rose to his feet. I sort of froze not knowing what was about to happen but the rest of the class did and just sort of gave a collective sigh. I always remember the one girl who calmly got to her feet and opened the window. What was about to happen was the most audacious, talented and exhilarating lesson I was ever going to witness in my whole life. ‘Oh sir…oh sir…oh sir…’ Tony shouted then he pushed his way into the centre of the horseshoe dragging his chair behind him. He briefly bent over double in pain then hastily clamboured up onto the chair and stuck his bottom out. There was a brief silence then a huge rasp of sound rent the air and I watched, listened and indeed smelled as Tony Wing played the whole of the British National Anthem without missing a note. I swear he could even manage to get the sounds to quaver as he let forth. After an extra chorus he was evidentially running out of air for he finally let it trail away in a sad little aria that perfectly brought the performance to a close. After that the elephant was a bit of an anti-climax.

The Autobiography of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: Everybody Loves Muriel!

Nicholas Walker — Sun, 30 Aug 2020 01:25:14 +0000

We had all three manhole covers off and were working away at the far one when Maldy came past carrying a crate of Guinness. Now Maldy was very fastidious, he would do virtually any job if he had the right clothes, boots and gloves on but he was very fussy so we didn’t involve him in our toils with the sewers. ‘Morning Nick…Mr Walker,’ he greeted us and went by whistling his merry whistle. We went on with our business, the plunger had become stuck and we were trying to work it free when suddenly the same thought came to both of us at the same time and we looked up. I leaped to my feet roaring out Maldy’s name so I was privileged to be in exactly the right position to view his downfall. He was merrily trundling along, the crate of Guinness blocking where he was treading, when he suddenly disappeared down the open manhole as neat as anything…one moment he was there the next he had totally gone. A plume of faecal filled urine shot in the air as Maldy went right under and it was just in time to splash down over him as he frantically clawed his way to surface again. Poor Maldy. I pinned him to the wall with a broom while my dad sprayed him off with the hose but he didn’t seem to appreciate our efforts. Oh brother did he stink? For days he stank, I couldn’t let him in the restaurant, no matter how many showers old Maldy took the stink still clung. It definitely traumatised him. For over a week all he could say was: ‘Fell in the shit hole.’ That was it: Fell in the shit hole! At home, at work, even out with his mates. I remember my mother asking him to fetch a crate of wine up from the store, this was the conversation: ‘Maldy, could you bring me some of the Chablis please?’ ‘Fell in the shit hole Mrs Walker.’ ‘Yes. Half a case should do it I think.’ ‘Fell in the shit hole…the shit hole Mrs Walker.’ ‘Oh dear.’ ‘Shit hole.’ Maldy turned and disappeared to fetch the wine. When he returned he unpacked it for my mother then stood there his face working desperately as he struggled to find the right words. Finally with an anguished jerk of the body: ‘Fell in the shit hole Mrs Walker.’ Then he pulled his jacket straight and walked with vast dignity from the room. I liked Maldy.

The Autobiography of a Short, Fat, Ugly Man: The Making of an Author

Nicholas Walker — Sun, 30 Aug 2020 01:17:26 +0000