Confession

May 28^th I967: Francis Chichester arrived back in England at the end of his epic voyage. Mister Potts was beaming, since his admiration of Francis Chichester frequently spilled into our Geography lessons. He’d regularly given commentaries on the lone yachtsman’s progress whilst pointing out the Azores and other such places on his globe. But now it was over. Francis Chichester was home and a good thing too, as I was long sick of hearing about the old duffer and couldn’t understand why he needed to sail around the world on his own in the first place. I was more interested in something Brian Lodge told me.

I laughed when Brian told me a rude joke about a man and a woman, and seized the opportunity to show off my newly acquired knowledge of adult matters. ‘So he gave her a good wanking off?’

‘What?!’ A grin spread across Brian’s chubby chops.

Despite an ominous feeling that I’d just made a berk of myself, I repeated the question. With my ignorance confirmed, Brian marked my card, yet I was still confused. Then Brian hit the nail on the head. ‘You do know what a wank is?’

Clearly I did not, but Brian did and he soon put me straight.

‘A wank is when you do it yourself. You have had a wank, haven’t you?’

‘No’

‘You must have!’

‘No, what is it?’

Brian explained, sparing no details. When he’d finished I asked him if he’d ever done it.

‘Course I have!’ he said, smugly.

‘What’s it like?’

‘Sensational!’ 

Brian was right, I discovered in due course. Sensational, yes, but oh so scary.

Things I’d seen, heard and experienced over the years suddenly made sense. At last I understood the link between pictures of bare ladies and the condition my mate Clive laughingly called on the honk. I’d learned the facts of life.

I also learned that sexual awareness comes loaded with guilt; the last thing I needed as a Catholic. Along with my brothers I dodged Mass whenever I could – like every time Dad worked a Sunday – but sometimes Mass couldn’t be avoided. An hour’s boredom was a sufferance enough but the shame of sitting out communion worsened the misery. When it came time for the good Catholics of Twydall to step forward and kneel solemnly at the altar I – an accomplished sinner and serial Mass dodger – remained at my pew, as taking the blessed sacrament when not in a state of grace was out of the question. Hardier souls might have brassed it out and chanced a bolt of lightning, but not me. I just sat there and withered.

The only way of avoiding the stigma was to bite the bullet and clear my slate at confession, but I was well known to Father Naylon and that made things awkward.

There are certain things a young boy cannot bring himself to confess to a priest. Not this boy anyway, not even in the sanctity of the confessional, and certainly not to someone so familiar with my voice. And that was tricky, because deliberately withholding something in confession is – surprise surprise – a sin. However, genuinely forgetting something and not remembering it until later is acceptable, meaning any sinful oversights are absolved with the rest. 

Aha! I’ll brainwash myself into forgetting the hot stuff before my next confession.

Easier said than done. Whilst kneeling on the front pew and waiting my turn in the confessional, I examined my conscience in preparation of a full and sincere confession.

I need to confess to taking the name of the Lord in vain… coveting my neighbours’ goods, missing Mass, not honouring my father and mother, stealing biscuits from the larder… and a bit of swearing. That’s all. There’s nothing else. I’m sure of it. I have no impure thoughts about bare ladies.

With my hands clasped, I gazed up at our Lord on the cross, high above the altar.

I am thinking good, holy thoughts. I am definitely not thinking about tits and fannies and intercourse and other sinful things. And if I ever did, I’ve forgotten about them.

By the time I got to the confession box the images in my mind were out of control. No matter, after a customary act of contrition, I confessed the routine stuff.

'Anything else?' Father Naylon enquired.

‘No, Father,’ I said, after some selective soul searching.

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ I said, dismissing the fact that my bed sheet was starting to look like the Shroud of Turin.

Three Our Fathers and five Hail Mary’s later, I was pure again, and on Sunday, I took communion with the great and the good. Amen.