Light Green Velvet

35 Years Ago.. Where it All Started

WARNING: This contains sexual abuse, physical violence, domestic abuse and other potentially triggering subjects.

Emotionally the biggest change in my life was about to happen. I don’t know how it came about, but Mum had started to date my deputy head, Mr Bendtner.

I finally had the father figure I’d craved for so long. It’s difficult to describe the feeling when “something” you’ve always sensed missing suddenly appears. There was no gradual build-up or gentle acclimatisation to it.

Just... BANG. It’s there.

Considering only twice in my life was that “something” a person, he became incredibly significant.

He took me to my first ever football match. The iconic White Hart Lane. I loved everything about it and I elevated Mr Bendtner in every way.

I started watching the boys with their dads more closely. It seemed so easy for them, the way they copied and understood by a mere nod or look. That connection was something I never had. And it certainly didn’t come naturally to me either.

I never had any appreciation the influence one person could have.

He was always confident and calm, taking control of situations with ease. The kids liked him. Teachers too... who also respected him. He led conversations naturally, and everyone was always laughing and smiling.

I had someone to emulate. And I found myself looking up to him and taking note of his behaviour. Starting with the obvious: men are vastly different to women. Mine was an all-girl world, and whilst not a bad thing, my eyes were being opened to totally different things.

We’d never had a car so that was really cool. Even though it was a proper banger.

Even silly little things like the spontaneous kickabouts with him in the garden brought an excitement and fresh energy.

Going to the pub was also a whole new experience. Surrounded by men, sport on TV, playing darts and pool. I felt like a proper little man. This was a newness I craved. I was stepping into a different world - and this one made a little more sense to me.

And then came .... my “wow” moment. He was taking me to Wembley, to see my heroes. An almost surreal moment in my young life. England won 2-0. Gary Lineker scored both goals. Gazza also played which added more magic.

That sort of unbelievable experience didn’t happen to a kid like me. I felt incredibly lucky and Mr. Bendtner had made my dreams come true.

The next day at school wasn’t any other day. It was an incredibly special one. I felt like ‘a somebody’ having done something none of the others could claim to have done.

And it was all the sweeter, because every other time I had to listen and wrestle with feelings of envy. But now, for the first time, I got to experience it from the other side, and to live out my own little moment of glory.

From that unforgettable night in February 1991, until the end of primary school in June 1992, I don’t have a great deal of memories. Not ones arranged in a clear order anyway. Many are fleeting shadows rather than sharp clear scenes.

One of my first and most vivid memories of my Mum, is her wearing an orangey-brown checked shirt and jeans, lying on the dining room floor up against the radiator with blood pouring from her head.

Mr Bendtner wasn’t only my father figure and deputy head. He was an extremely abusive alcoholic.

I don’t know when it happened and assume it was all part of an escalation over two years. But whenever it was, it’s the precise moment my amazing new world collided spectacularly with a disturbing harsh reality.

I watched from the hallway as he aggressively shouted, grabbed, and shoved her around. One very forceful, vicious push sent Mum crashing hard to the floor, smacking her head. I ran over, leapt onto his back, and wrapped my arms around his neck with every ounce of strength I had to protect her. He threw me like a rag doll to the floor; I landed headfirst and slammed my nose.

I believe it broke. Although there’s no evidence to prove that. So... I don’t know it for a fact... I just know it’s true.

It still angers me how helpless I felt. Silly as it sounds, I was the man of the house, responsible for protecting mum and keeping her safe. And in one moment that notion completely crumbled, proving I was nothing more than a powerless, small, pathetically weak child, with no chance whatsoever.

Most other incidents involving Mum are the “fleeting shadows.” He was either verbally or physically abusive to her. Shouting, grabbing, pointing, and swearing. Pulling her hair in the kitchen. Slapping her in the face in the bedroom.

Watching and listening made me rage inside. It’s those moments in life, where every part of you wants to act, to do something, yet for whatever reason you remain frozen to the spot.

I desperately wanted to save her. But I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do.

And now ... me.

Other than EMDR therapy, I’ve never spoken about this. At times I wanted to, but just couldn’t for a host of complicated, messy reasons that I don’t fully understand, or know how to put into words. And as time passed, I had no idea how to even begin to approach it. And that’s not because I never found the right moment, because in reality... that’s not a thing... it doesn’t exist.

I didn’t believe I could ever talk to mum about it. Sounds ridiculous, but I was always wary of it. And I didn’t reach a point of even contemplating talking until my mid-twenties, by which time I was deep in addiction, and our relationship was broken, and too complex to handle without it becoming explosive.

And the few times I felt close to my sisters was years before I’d confronted it myself. By which time, like Mum, our relationships were decimated.

I don’t really know how to word it....

On at least two occasions, I believe he may have sexually abused me.

I say... “may have” because I don’t have a full memory of either occasion. Only scattered fragments.

I don’t know why that is. Whether it’s a trauma defence my mind has put up to protect me, or whether nothing further happened beyond what I remember.

It’s still highly inappropriate and such behaviour still constitutes abuse. But, I say, “may have,” because if it ends where my memory does, based on details I recall, then given the horrendous experiences of others, classing it as “sexual abuse” feels like a hijacking.

To be clear, that’s just my personal feelings. In no way is it intended to suggest, minimise, or diminish anyone else’s experience, or gravity of effect any act(s) had.

On the first occasion... he got into bed with me. I was lying on my side, he pressed himself up against me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

After that... the memory disappears. It’s completely blank. As if someone has erased the rest of it.

And I can’t make any sense of it either.

Because if it were my room, I’d have been on top bunk, and whilst I’ve no memory of a complete scene, it just doesn’t fit. In my memory it’s not a bunk bed. I’m lying on my left side, facing outwards at a standard bed height.

On the second occasion, which is a more vivid fragment, and I’m more confident about… we were at his flat, and he came out of the shower wearing a grey dressing gown that was left open. He sat down on the sofa and told me to come sit next to him.

Then that memory vanishes too, totally gone... And that’s all I have.

In 2026, while talking about our childhoods, Marie asked… “Do you remember the time you were locked in the bathroom with him, and I was shouting, ‘Let my brother out now’… and he replied, ‘We aren’t dry yet’.”

I’ve no memory of it whatsoever. Nothing. And rather than discuss further, I quickly moved the conversation on.

All I can say is... Why would a ten‑year‑old be naked and locked in a bathroom with a man? Ten‑year‑old boys don’t bath or shower with fully grown men?

It’s unsettling, because Marie was in her twenties at the time and total certainty of it. Yet I’ve absolutely nothing. Not a single fragment to explain what was happening.

The way my memory fails me in these situations makes me feel very uneasy. Especially with what Marie told me. Because... if I’ve got no memory of that at all ... could there possibly be other times?

Regarding the two incidents I partially remember, it feels necessary to say... I’ve no recollection whatsoever of experiencing emotional distress, being frightened, or feeling anything that would now be labelled trauma.

At the time I didn’t recognise those moments as a form of abuse, nor did I see them as inappropriate; it simply didn’t register that way in my young mind. I never had a father figure in my life to model healthy boundaries on. And I had no understanding of the rules or how things were or should be.

Why would I question whether that behaviour was wrong? And not mistake it as an act of love? How could I form a coherent understanding of what happened?

If my mum got into my bed in the same way then I would have read it as affection, and something normal and safe. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, so would never have consciously stored it to memory in the first place.

Which raises the tricky, uncomfortable question: why is it then that I remember “him” doing it?

I don’t really know how to put these incidents into words. I can’t be more descriptive without fumbling for the type of language that looks the right fit. I realise in summarising them so brief and matter of fact I make them sound insignificant, when in reality they carried a huge weight. But unfortunately, I can’t convey it.

I know that over the course of two years many moments mattered. And I’ve tried to remember countless times, and flashbacks became the trigger for problems that came later in my life. But this is all I’ve got to offer.

It’s a little alarming, but this period has been largely unspoken of in my family. Almost as if it didn’t happen. Three years ago, I tentatively brought him up in conversation with my mum, but she abruptly shut me down... “Why bring it up now?... Just let it go.”

That’s her way of coping. She has an unbelievable ability not to re-live or question the past. It’s both enviable and terrifying. She can take it so far that sometimes she will deny it happened altogether. Either consciously, or subconsciously, erasing it completely from existence. But maybe it’s just the same as me, and that’s her brain doing its thing to protect her.

This part of my life just had to be accepted. I know what I know, and that’s where it ends. The time passed long ago, and it’s not something to pursue anymore. Mum is 80-years old now, and digging deeper wouldn’t be fair. And even if she wanted to help, her answers wouldn’t be accurate anyway.

But at the same time, I can’t just be dismissive either. It’s unquestionably a big part, and like it or not, shaped me in countless ways.

How big a part? … Fuck knows.

Who can confidently answer a question like that with everything else thrown into the mix? The only way would be a re-run of life with this part excluded. So, it’s simply impossible to ever know.

I’m certain this period wasn’t spoken of because it had far less impact on my sisters. They didn’t share a close bond. That has always made the experience quite isolating. To them, he was exactly what he was… an abusive alkie.

So they wouldn’t understand it anyway. They didn’t feel the same emptiness caused by the absence of a father figure. To me... he was the missing piece. The reason that I felt connected to what my friends had. The person who had given me unforgettable new experiences.

The most troubling aspect is that I can’t remember my family around much. I can’t recall my sisters ever being in his flat, out with us, in the pub, in the car, or even just at home.

These glaring absences feel significant and add a complicated layer, because logically they had to be there. And it opens the door to a complex world that stretches beyond my average intellectual ability.

One occasion he assaulted Catherine: grabbing her forcefully by the shirt, ripping off the buttons, and making a vulgar remark about her breasts. I don’t remember the exact words - only that they were ones a 45-year-old man should never be saying to a 15-year-old girl.

So... clearly they were around.

A clear difference was school: my sisters were at secondary school, so, I was the only one of us left at primary school with him.

But I have memories at night after closing time, of him banging on the door and shouting to get in. And I’m always alone, which makes no sense, because Mum may have been working, but Grace and Catherine had to be home some of those times. I always let him in.

A complex conundrum. It was more frightening “to not open” the door. Work that out?! - deliberately bringing the threat straight to me.

But that’s the nature of fear - the way it controls you. Power over choice. You do what you have to. And the “unknown” consequence of not opening the door was more frightening than the “known” reality that he brings once inside.

He was always a mess. Collapsing on the sofa and making his way through his takeouts; Carlsberg Special Brew, whilst chain-smoking and using a mug, plant pot, or the floor as his ashtray.

He would often get his guitar out and play the same rendition of Moody Blues songs. Nights in White Fucking satin. I can still hear it now. If he wasn’t in a fit condition to play, he’d just talk shit, shout and give me the jitters. On the occasions that I upset him; he would grab me by the scruff of the neck or the forearms.

There was a time in his flat because I was jumping around, he was a little more physically aggressive, pinning me against the wall and yelling into my face.

Then at some stage, he’d fall into a mega twat induced coma. Grunting and snoring loudly... wanker.

The next day at school, all nice and friendly, he would kick the ball, or sit next to me at lunch, ‘stinking’ of fags and stale booze. Rank. I didn’t fully grasp what that was. In all fairness, I wouldn’t completely know now. Scare me? Keep me quiet? Happy family show? Power? Control? - It was likely all of them.

He was undeniably a narcissist. The man who constantly positioned himself as the centre of attention, always taking over conversations and dominating the space with his voice, craving the admiration and validation of others at every turn.

As a kid I was just deeply confused. Struggling to reconcile the person I admired with the monster behind closed doors. As if two different people lived within the same body.

The most disturbing part was how he carried on like everything was perfectly normal. I found that genuinely unnerving, and it caused me to doubt myself... asking questions like... “last night did happen, right?” It was like I needed the reassurance and confirmation that I hadn’t imagined it, dreamt it or even... made it up.

I ended up not knowing how to act. He behaved normally, but I didn’t feel normal, because it wasn’t normal. I felt deeper in uncertainty than I’d ever been before. That’s a place I just can never be.

And all the while, stuck in this twisted dichotomy.

Admiring someone utterly repulsive...

Desperate to impress someone who couldn’t be less impressive...

Not feeling good enough for someone inherently bad.

The male figures in life, Dad and him; turned out not to be protectors, but sources of danger. Dad was different in a complex way. Battling forces beyond him. But the alkie chose to be who he was.

And the two environments that should always be safe for children: home and school; were now both places of fear and threat.

There was no escaping it.

Home. School. Home.

These weren’t one-off incidents, or single lapses in judgment either. The lies, repeated acts, destruction, was a pattern of behaviour lasting over two years.

I’d also become very fearful of him. In the summer we went on a holiday to a caravan park. The moment we arrived; I insisted to be taken home. There was a very intense need to get away from there. And ... to get away from him.

There have been a few times in my life which go far beyond anxiety and fear, shifting to a place of fierce resistance, and an almost physical emotion. A visceral premonition that screams...

“Do not do this. Something very bad is going to happen.”

This was my first encounter with that compelling feeling. And I didn’t let go. I was relentless. Refusing to accept any other outcome. Until I broke them. And they took me home.

I was ten, and the two people who were supposed to protect me, one of which I trusted the most in the world, dropped me off, and without hesitation or even a second glance, they returned to the caravan park.

I was completely abandoned.

Left all alone.

I don’t remember my sisters being at home. Maybe they were. Maybe they were at their friends. Who knows?! Either way, the nights that Mum was away I was petrified.

Every little noise - creak of the house, the wind, the shadows of the trees or other indistinct sounds – were all amplified by fear.

But what scared the shit out of me the most was the glimpses of night through gaps in the curtains.

I rarely recall minor details, and certainly not like this, but I’ve never forgotten…. the curtains were Light Green Velvet.

Material and colour of curtains?!... 35 years ago?!

I was so frightened I started to take my first ever toy to bed with me… a bread knife.

Keeping it tucked under my pillow each night became a habit that gave me a semblance of security.

Whilst most kids took a comfort blanket or teddy to bed...

I took a knife.

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