familystories - lying in interviews

When to everyone's surprise, I somehow passed some sort of 11 plus exam , it was thought that my best chance of getting into a Catholic Grammar school would be to apply to Salesian College. The year was 1966 and England had just won the World Cup. Anyhow, Mum and Dad set about helping me to prepare for interview.

Mum and Dad accurately predicted the types of questions that I was later asked. However, one particular question caused a problem. Dad said that if I was asked which football team I supported, I should tell them I was a Chelsea fan. Mum couldn't see why I should pretend to support a football team but Dad, with a look of exasperation, said that every normal boy supported a football team . It's probably my memory playing tricks on me, but I seem to remember a particular emphasis being placed on the word "normal," followed by an exaggerated raising of his eyebrows.

Sure enough, this question cropped up and I seemed to have satisfied my interviewer in my passion for Chelsea. I even managed a dismissive grunt when he told me who he supported, even though I had never heard of the team.

Unfortunately, at the end of the interview, the priest said to me: "Well let's hope the cat keeps them out on Saturday". I remember smiling weakly and asked him to repeat his last remark. This seemingly sensible man was now talking gibberish, I believed. So, I asked him once again to repeat himself. By this time Dad was trying to gently escort me from the room but I was determined to give him another chance to explain himself.

The next thing he seemed to lose it completely and started ranting " the cat.... Bonetti.... the cat... Bonetti". It sounded to me as if he had some strange obsession with cats and Italian ice cream sellers. It was about then that I noticed a peculiar throbbing in his veins and his whole face turned a strange purple colour. I can tell you, I was never so happy to leave a room.

It turned out he wasn't a madman at all. As we were walking to the bus stop, Dad explained that the priest hadn't been talking about real cats, or indeed ice cream sellers. It turned out that "The Cat" was the nickname of a World famous goalkeeper called Peter Bonetti who played for Chelsea. Oh well, I thought, at least that little misunderstanding has been cleared up. The letter arrived the following week saying that I would not be offered a place. I believe that even today Chelsea fans feel unfairly victimised