Ye Olde Scrodders of Holland Park Skool

To be or not to be a Scrodder. That was the question at Holland Park School during the 1980's and 1990's. 

To be a "Scrodder" is not a good thing. A "Scrodder" is a white, petty bourgeois, low-achieving male, one with no birds, wardrobe, or access to society; a Smart Alec, bereft of skills, qualifications or prospects. Overseas since October 2003, I often wonder, 'Whatever happened to ol' what's his name and ye olde Scrodders of yore?' Little did I think that the Scrodders of Holland Park Skool thought the very same thing a propos de moi... 

SCRODDER  NUMBER 1: "Dildo Speakerbloke" 

I recall a neighbor in London mentioning an RV (rendezvous) with a fella from art school he'd not seen for 60 years. At first, he was excited about reconnecting over a booze soaked lunch at Maggie Jones restaurant off Kensington Church St. He soon regretted it. The old boy had grown up to be a total bore, a miserable sod, who, despite being rich, famous and oversexed, did not have a good word to say about anything or anybody. "That was the worst two hours of my life," fumed the neighbor. "Never again." Funny that. The very same thing happened to me on a return visit to London in the summer of 2018. 

"Dildo Speakerbloke", an unemployed unemployable who crashed out of school with zero qualifications, wanted to RV for a session. I'd not seen him since 1989. Why? Maybe it was because Dildo was a moan-a-lot, know-it-all, who never-ever left his dad's super-posh mansion flat in Holland Park. Like the old neighbor in Notting Hill, I soon had cause for regret. Dildo had not changed at-all. He was still a misanthropic dilettante. A complete and utter twat who didn't have a good word to say about nowt. More fool me!

Like a lot of old boys (and girls) from Holland Park, there were significant gaps in his knowledge (he didn't know the difference between libel and slander.) And, being self-educated, he was possessed by maniacal, crackpot views on the world about us (he thought the BBC no different to Fox News). Yep. It was double-plus-weird meeting up with a chap, once full of boundless energy and raw talent, now ground down and defeated by the realities and compromises of adulthood. Old boys (and girls) use to call this inability to adapt "the Holland Park malaise."  

SCRODDER NUMBER 2: "Maxi the Marxist" 

These days you hear much about millennials living at home, never leaving the nest. Take Maxi. He's the daddy of all that. Aged 50, the Scrodder never left home. And why the bloody hell should he? Home is a lofty Victorian house off gentrified Ladbroke Grove (bought for a song in 1971). Last summer, I hooked up with this ageing man-brat for a pint at the Earl of Lonsdale, which, according to Trip Advisor, is now one of the worst pubs in west London. Good old Maxi. He always had lousy taste. Like dining at Wong Kei, the rudest Cantonese restaurant in the West (he reckoned it was the best joint in Chinatown). 

Like Dildo, Maxi had not much changed. In fact, he was worse. Much, much worse. Impetuous and impulsive like a child, flitting from subject to subject, his conversational range was limited and attention span shot to shreds. Then I remembered the LSD craze at Holland Park back in the 80's and 90's. And Maxi ticked a lot of boxes for psycho. White. Single. Living at home. Badly dressed. Bitter. Bitchy. Entitled. Grandiose. Narcissistic.  Oh, dear. Another sad case. Another Scrodder from Holland Park Skool but with shades of Travis Bickle. Time to drink up and jump on the 52 bus for home. 

  

SCRODDER NUMBER 3: "Sergei the Geek" 

Recently, I got Facebook stalked by a Scrodder from my O level History class. I'd not seen nor heard from this geezer since 1986. I remembered the greasy, porridge bowl hair, the zitty mug, Tesco Trainers and Leo Gemelli jumpers. And laughed at the time Mr Sulatycki refused to mark an essay he'd written because it was typed out on a Commodore 64 computer ("Sergei," he said in an exasperated 10 AM tone of voice. "You'll have to write in the exam.") Like me, Sergei the Geek was on the infamous school trip to communist Russia in 1985. Perhaps the greying nerd had some amusing pix on file? 

Fat chance. Sergei was another old skool bore. An armchair soldier who insisted that Colonel Gaddafi and Idi Amin were graduates of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst (WTF?) He was, he claimed, a success, having left school via uni to work in the aerospace industry, and, later, as an IT department head for a fat cat bank in Germany. But why reach out after so many years? Simple. He'd made a pile of bread and was calling up the old boys to lord it over 'em. More to the point, he was pushing 50, single, friendless and... lonely. Aww poor diddums! At one point he wanted to fly out to Atlanta and talk writing. UT-oh. Scrodder alert. Time to cease communications forthwith and lower the portcullis. 

SCRODDER NUMBER 4: "Jeers the Spleen Ripper" 

The last idiot bastard son is Jeers the Spleen Ripper, a snitching, bitching, thieving, Alpha Scrodder who was me best mate at Holland Park for three minutes and thirty seconds during the 1980's. Last time I saw Jeers was down the boozer in the summer of 2010. He was whining about the mid-life crisis and dating a foxy Latina roughly the same age as his eldest daughter. My guitar gently wept.  

He was lucky that I didn't go off on one. The previous RV was in March 1998. I'd been dispatched by the Torygraph to do a hatchet job on school and my old partner-in-crime agreed to meet. Still living at home with mum, the Scrodder was solely focused on what I was up to. No quotes, no corroboration of memories, no pix, no nuttin. It was a wind up. A wasted journey. And I was on deadline with no time to wank.

Last year I reached out to Jeers to discuss the miserable meet with Dildo Speakerbloke (his bestest fwend). "I'm sure he didn't mean to be rude," claimed Jeers. But ipso facto that wasn't enough. When I'm back in the homeland, I wanna cheery time; I don't wanna deal with bitter Scrodders projecting their insecurities and inadequacies onto me. "Looking forward to sorting youse lot out next time in the UK," I snarled. The Scrodder flipped. "Are you fucking serious? You think it's OK to threaten me? I'll rip your spleen out, you cunt." I explained the finer points of English criminal law to the Scrodder. He promptly calmed down. Scrodder learns. Good. It's never too late to mend.

           

To be or not to be a Scrodder. That was the question then, it's still the question now.