Life's not complete 'til your heart skips a...beat!

Jean Jeanne, let yourself go!

2009-02-13T14:11:00.034+01:00

I’d been away for several weeks on holiday in the South of France . Jeanne, my then girlfriend, hadn’t seen me in such a long time. I picked her up in my mustard coloured Morris Marina it had been inherited from my grandfather and was actually my very first car.

Jeanne, came down the stairs wearing a long overcoat and very high heels, made up to the nines. We said goodbye to her mother and father and promised not to be too late home, we only planned to go to the pub after all, what with it being a weekday evening.

Once in the car Jeanne leaned over and gave me a long lingering kiss.

“I missed you” she said “I hope you behaved yourself whilst you were away”.

“Of course I did” I lied, pushing the guilty thoughts of the lovely Norwegian blonde firmly out of my mind “I really missed you too babe”.

“Good, I’ve got a surprise for you later” Jeanne winked at me as she spoke.

“Great” I said “Can I eat it, wear it, or play with it?”

“Maybe all three” she laughed conspiratorially.

“I’ve got a little something for you too” I said “It’s on the back seat”.

She reached over as I started the engine and grabbed the plastic carrier bag that was lying there. I pulled the car out onto the road and started the familiar route towards Windsor town centre from Jeanne’s house.

Jeanne looked eagerly into the bag. “What is it?” she gasped. She pulled out a carton of 200 cigarettes. “Ooooh duty-free fags, thanks babe!” she leaned over and pecked me on the cheek in gratitude.

“The other stuff is for you too”.

She reached back into the bag and pulled out a miniature bottle of Brandy and a small furry toy sea lion. The sea lion bore the legend ‘St. Tropez je t'aime’.

“Aaaah that’s really sweet, thank you babe, you’re spoiling me”. Jeanne leant over again and gave me another kiss on the cheek.

“So what’s my surprise then?” I glanced toward her raising my eyebrows in a quizzical fashion.

“You’ll find out later, won’t you, if I tell you it won’t be a surprise” Jeanne smiled.

We spent the rest of the evening in the Adam and Eve pub, outside in the garden. Jeanne was still wearing her long overcoat and insisted she couldn’t take it off, saying she was too cold, although it was only September and still quite warm out. I told her all about my holiday exploits, taking care to miss any mention of tall, voluptuous Norwegian one-night stands.

Later as our friends began to drift in we chatted excitedly with them and I caught-up on what had been happening locally whilst I’d been away. Topics covered consisted of who was now going out with whom; what fantastic parties I’d missed; who was having the next great party and all that sort of idle chatter. Other people in the pub admired my tan and asked me where I’d been. I was quite enjoying all the attention that not having been around for a while was getting me.

I was driving so I could only have a couple of drinks and I nursed my two pints of refreshingly cold Guinness over the course of the evening until well after the bell for last orders. Before we knew it the landlord was hovering over us pointedly collecting our empty glasses and ushering us towards the exit. Outside the pub we bade farewell to our friends and made our way back to where the car was parked, near to the local rugby club in grounds called the Home Park in the shadow of Windsor Castle.

As we reached the car Jeanne embraced me and we kissed long and hard and then she whispered in my ear “Move the car to the far end of the car-park where it’s dark and I’ll give you your surprise”.

I didn’t need any further encouragement. We jumped into the Marina and I moved it 100 yards further into the car park where there was no lighting, and no other cars. I stopped the car, pulling on the handbrake and turned off the engine and the headlights. “No leave the headlights on!” Jeanne insisted as she leaned over and kissed me again. “Now get out of the car” she murmured seductively in my ear.

We both alighted from the car and Jeanne walked around the front toward the bonnet. She motioned for me to follow her lead and we met in front of the car. She told me to sit on the bonnet as she walked a little further away framed by the headlights. I sat watching her as she turned around slowly facing me.

“Are you ready for your surprise now?” she asked.

“You betcha!” I said eagerly .

Jeanne began to unbutton her coat slowly and sensuously, once all the buttons were undone she suddenly flung it open in the manner of a flasher to reveal that she was wearing nothing but a figure-hugging black lacy basque with black lacy topped stockings and suspenders and absolutely no knickers. She was certainly a sight for sore eyes.

I let out a gasp “Wow!” I exclaimed “Is that all for me?”.

“It’s all yours babe!” Jeanne cooed as she walked back towards me, settling beside me on the bonnet of the Marina.

“You’ve been dressed like that all evening under that overcoat and I didn’t have a clue” I said.

“I know!” she gushed “and it felt soooo sexy in the pub, with nobody knowing but me, It’s got me really worked up. I’m at fever pitch already. I'm wetter than an otter's pocket!”.

We kissed passionately for a short while, fondling and groping each other and then I took off her overcoat completely and spread it carefully over the bonnet of the car. Jeanne needed no further direction from me as to what to do next. She lay back on top of her coat, spread-eagled on the bonnet of my car. I loosened my belt and drank in the glorious sight before me. It was enough to arouse genuine passion in any man, but for this lucky twenty year old it unleashed an unbridled and urgent desire. My trousers and underwear quickly around my ankles I grasped Jeanne around both stocking clad thighs and pulled her swiftly toward me.

It was several minutes later that I noticed the reflection of headlights lit up in the foliage of the trees ahead. At first, abandoned in the throes of an all encompassing and passionate embrace, it didn’t really register. Then the noise of a car engine grew louder and my higher brain functions kicked in, detaching me from the overwhelming feelings of lust and pure animal desire which had swamped my lizard brain. But it wasn’t until the familiar sight of flashing blue lights started that the real higher reasoning took over and I managed to disengage from my partner and hurriedly pull up my trousers, whilst somehow in the same moment, running around to the driver’s side door of my car. Jeanne had also realized that we were no longer alone and struggling to pull her coat back on was also making her way to the passenger door and the safety and comfort of the car interior. We both jumped in simultaneously and shut the doors. Sitting bolt upright totally startled, desperately adjusting our clothing; still panting hard from our physical efforts and the subsequent adrenaline rush of being disturbed whilst in the act.

We were lit up by the headlights approaching slowly from the passenger side of the car and a rhythmic flash of blue light. I sat stock still as the police car pulled up gradually alongside us.

The policeman sitting in the passenger seat of the police car now next to me lowered his window and motioned for me to do the same. I complied and was greeted by the smirking faces of two officers.

“Evening!” said the first officer.

“Good evening officer!” I countered.

“So what’s going on here then, as if we didn’t know” the officer sniggered sarcastically. Both policemen were finding it hard to keep a straight face and were obviously enjoying our discomfort and embarrassment.

The policeman in the driver’s seat lifted his torch and shone it directly into Jeanne’s face, now bright red with embarrassment, and then slowly down her now firmly buttoned coat. “Evening love” he grinned.

The first policeman looked sternly at me, “We’ve had a complaint” he said.

“Have you officer” I said politely.

“Yes” he confirmed “We have!” He continued “You do realize that this is 'Crown Estate' land?”

“No actually I didn’t” I lied.

“Well, it is, and Her Majesty doesn’t really appreciate that sort of…um…‘goings-on’ in her back garden”.

“Oh I’m sorry!” I bleated pathetically “I didn’t realize”.

“However, as you’ve both given us a good laugh and we’ve got something interesting to talk about in the canteen for a change, we’ll let you off with a warning this time”.

“Thank you officer” I nodded.

“Now get on your way, and try to choose somewhere a little less…um… conspicuous next time” he gestured towards the castle which filled the view behind us.

“Ok, we will” I nodded again submissively, as I started the engine and put the car in gear. “Thank you and goodnight then officers”.

“….and make certain the way ahead is clear before you pull out!” The officer shouted after me. I could hear their roars of laughter as I drove slowly away.

I pulled out onto the main road with the police car following behind us at a distance and turned to Jeanne “I think we just made their evening!” I sighed with relief.

“…..and I was just trying to make yours!” Jeanne snorted “That’s three for the price of one! Not bad!!”

Sweet, Certain Surprise.

2009-01-02T18:23:00.059+01:00

The recent sad demise of John Martyn made my eyes mist with nostalgia for the many times he’s seduced my sensibilities through both recorded and live mediums. His skilful mastery of the amplified acoustic guitar and gravel soaked, free flowing vocal style, hooked me from the first moment I heard him. Although, I came very late to appreciate his skill; he’d already enjoyed a career of almost 20 years before he was inserted, quite readily, amongst my sphere of musical influences.

He'd arisen in the London Folk scene of the mid-sixties, impressing the cognoscenti right through to the height of his popularity with the release of 1973’s ‘Solid Air’; continuing on this glorious plateau until 1977’s ‘One World’ whereupon, like his marriage to wife Beverly, his career trajectory and popularity went into a declining arc. So it wasn’t until the difficult mid-eighties period, where there appeared to be no place left for his brand of elegant meandering and wistful folk-rock styling, when he would finally become indelibly installed into my consciousness.

It was late July 1984 and I can still recall hitchhiking with friends Marc and Nicola to ‘The Elephant Fayre’. A weekend rock festival held in the grounds of a stately home on the outskirts of Plymouth at Port Eliot, St. Germans in the stunning county of Cornwall.

Leaving on the Thursday evening it had taken us 24 hours to reach the festival campsite. Nicola had realised her mammoth mistake about halfway down, having struggled to get lifts all night long and most of the next morning accompanied, as she was, by us two big strapping geezers. She rather gleefully abandoned us at a service station near Bath when she was offered a ride the rest of the way to the ‘Fayre’ on the back of a rather forbidding Hells Angel’s Harley-Davidson. Nicola was at that stage in no mood to compromise whilst Marc and I, still within earshot of the aforementioned Hells Angel, were in no position to argue the wisdom of accepting lifts from large greasy, lank haired strangers.

Consequently, Marc and I having finally reached our destination on the Friday evening were relieved to find a thankfully unmolested but remorseless Nicola waiting patiently, with other mutual friends, for us to arrive with the tent and sleeping bags.

With darkness fast approaching, we hurriedly erected the tent on the only clear spot remaining for us: on the side of a hill with an alarmingly angled slope! This proved later to produce the hilarious result that we’d wake up each morning in our respective sleeping bags all scrunched together at the lower end of the tent.

Now that camp was precariously but expediently established we finally went off to explore the festival grounds. I was particularly keen to see a new and promising band called Prefab Sprout who’s album ‘Swoon’ I’d been playing non-stop since seeing them earlier in the year at a local gig in Brunel University’s Union Bar.

The Sprout’s set was very impressive and I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest by my second exposure to their quirky and loose live sound, even making allowances for Paddy McAloon's and Wendy Smith’s shaky vocals in this less than intimate of environments. Frequent listening to their recent album had already proven to me that they were more of a force to be reckoned with in the studio anyhow, and that the real gems in their repertoire lay in the sublime eloquence and outstanding poetry of McAloon’s lyrics. With lines like “Words are only trains, for moving past what really has no name” and “Man made the neon and he learned how to fly, but God made the stars when he fashioned the sky” he’d caught my imagination in a way very few other songwriters could.

Having seen the Sprouts I feared the rest of the weekend would be a musical anti-climax, however (unbeknownst to me at that point), by far the most outstanding and memorable performance of that weekend was still yet to come.

Sunday morning arrived yawningly sleepy and severely hung-over. We were all still a little groggy from the copious amounts of very cheap ‘scrumpy’ cider, we’d drunk directly and continuously from brown plastic demi-johns the previous evening. Our burps still tasting resolutely of alcoholic apples we’d found a quiet spot on a hillside, high above the main stage to while away the rest of the day. Later, having drunk a strong brew of ‘magic mushroom tea’ for lunch we continued to laze around in the brilliant sunshine, laughing, joking and horsing around but not really paying attention to the artists or what was actually happening on-stage.

I must’ve drifted into some sort of reverie whilst soaking up the warm rays of the mid-summer sun, lying back enjoying the smell of the fresh green grass of a typical English meadow. I hardly noticed the new act that appeared on the stage to entertain us, lost in delightful psilocybin induced hallucinations as I half closed my eyes squinting through my shades at the bizarre shapes formed by small fluffy cumulus clouds gently moving high above in an azure sky. The sound of guitars drifted from the main stage, it sounded like about three different, distinctly separate guitars actually, and then those gruff, yet somehow smoothly slurred, warm and honeyed vocal tones came drifting through the microphone along the wires to be equalised by the sound desk, through the amplifier and then out of the immense speakers to arrive promptly at my ear-holes and pervade deeply into my senses.

“Wow. This band is amazing!” was my first thought. I kept my eyes closed and continued to thoroughly enjoy the excellent sounds that seemingly washed over, through and all around me. I think it was two or even three songs into the set when I finally opened my eyes to further investigate exactly who it was that was enthralling me so much.

When I did I was shocked. There was John Martyn with acoustic guitar, completely alone and seated at the front of the stage, plugged into an array of effects pedals and electronic gadgetry by his feet. In my minds eye I’d envisioned a whole band of at least five people, such was the intensity of the polyrhythmic tunes that had engulfed my ears, but no just this one guy on guitar and vocals making all of that noise. I sat open-mouthed and amazed as John continued to entrance me and the rest of the festival audience with a set consisting of one incredible melodic song after another. He managed to somehow throw syncopation into the mix that sounded like a full percussion section playing along simultaneously, but was in fact just the odd slap from his hand or thumb against the guitar body or the click of his plectrum against the hard steel strings echoing continually via these effects boxes.

I later discovered that the secret of John’s particularly complex yet fluid ambient style was ‘Echoplex delay’, an effect he’d pioneered in electric folk music and was still using with devastating results.

That was why I thought I’d heard three distinctly different guitar sounds emanating from his single solo amplified acoustic guitar. That effect plus his skilful, super fast and lithe fretboard fingering produced a sound the like of which I’d never heard before, and boy was I hooked!

After that I collected every recording of his that I could lay my hands upon. The album ‘Solid Air’ is, in my humble opinion, a singular piece of recording perfection without even one duff track. Forty five minutes of mellow loveliness in which one can immerse oneself as if bathing in a vat of warm translucent caramel. I have particularly delightful memories of listening to this album on my first trip to Thailand, chilling with a ‘Sony Discman’ and a ‘thai-stick’ spliff in a hammock on a (virtually empty) tropical beach paradise. Life simply doesn’t get much better than that!

Many years later I found myself invited to a gig at ‘The Mean Fiddler’ in Harlesden. One of the resident soundmen there was a guy called Dave Florence, an Australian fellow affectionately and latterly known as ‘Aussie Dave’. I was, around that time, the manager of a rock band that regularly played there and ‘Aussie Dave’ had been so impressed by them that he’d offered to become the band’s resident soundman too. Thereafter he’d come with us to every gig venue at which we played, ensuring that our sound was the best imaginable despite the ambient, architectural or acoustic limitations he would be challenged with. Subsequently Dave and I developed a strong and lasting friendship and it was through this friendship that I received a phone message from him one day informing me that he’d put me on the guestlist for a forthcoming John Martyn gig at the ‘Fiddler’. I was naturally completely thrilled.

On the night of the gig it was rammed-full to the rafters, and I was grateful to Dave that he allowed me the privilege of watching everything next to him from behind the sound desk. The whole evening was absolutely amazing and John Martyn was on fine form, playing for at least 90 minutes, and even then being called back for a couple of encores. I’d taken the liberty of bringing my prized original ‘gatefold-sleeve’ copy of the ‘Solid Air’ LP with me, in the hope that Dave would be able to get it signed for me. Once all the commotion had died down after the gig Dave disappeared backstage with my album and a black marker pen to see if he could get John to sign it for me. I was absolutely bowled over when 10 minutes later Dave reappeared with the sleeve of this magnificent vinyl recording duly signed ‘To Rudi, One World! John Martyn’. It was a wondrous and breathtaking moment and I thanked Dave profoundly offering to buy him several beers later in gratitude.

“That’s not all”, he announced “He wants to meet you!”

“No way!” I said

“Fair dinkum mate.” Aussie Dave responded.

He gestured for me to follow him and, somewhat dazed, I did. We made our way backstage and Dave negotiated with security to let me have a backstage pass. As we approached the all too familiar dressing room door I turned to Dave.

“Hang on, I don’t know what to say to him”, I was confused and my brain just wasn’t functioning the way it should have been, addled at the prospect of meeting one of my all time favourite folk rock heroes.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something”, said Dave .

He opened the door with one hand and with the other planted firmly between my shoulder blades forcibly pushed me reluctantly into the dressing room.

I half stepped half stumbled blindly into the smoke filled room and was confronted with several seated people all of whom had stopped mid-conversation to stare at this sudden bumbling intrusion. In their midst sat the unmistakable figure of John Martyn.

“Er, Hi John…thanks for this” I vaguely waved the album at him.

“Oh that’s yours is it? My pleasure son, always nice to meet a true fan”, he answered in warm rounded-vowel tones of a pure London, almost ‘Cockney’ accent. “Take a seat”.

I looked around and saw a particularly moth eaten armchair, reeking with the sweat of thousands of spent musicians, and proceeded to sit down. My brain was stuck for ideas on what to say. I was desperately struggling to think of how I could adequately show my appreciation for this man and his music, whilst internally I was feeling like a befuddled and tongue tied 14 year old confronted with asking the girl of his dreams out on a first date.

“Excellent gig” I blurted out.

“Thanks” said John “Glad you enjoyed it!”

I could smell the heady aroma of marijuana in the air, several of John’s entourage were smoking joints and I could see that John himself had a roach between his fingers smouldering away. This gave me an idea of how better to proceed.

“Do you mind if I skin one up?” I asked.

“Course not” John nodded “The more the merrier!”

That’d made me feel slightly more comfortable. Rolling joints was one of my specialties and I just so happened to have three distinct types of cannabis with me. Moroccan; Soft Afghani Black and some Jamaican Sensimilia grass. I got out my large blue Rizla rolling papers and started to make a complex lattice work using John’s, freshly signed LP as a handy rolling surface. I was going to roll John one of my special around the world ‘Camberwell Carrots’.

Whilst I busied myself I listened to the conversation that John was now having with one of the entourage sitting in the room. It quickly became obvious that the four other people in the room were all Scottish. They were evidently friends of John’s from Glasgow. I knew from reading the liner notes on his albums that although John was born in Surrey, he’d spent his formative years, after his parents had divorced, living with his grandma in Glasgow. Subsequently he’d come back to London in his late-teens to become involved in the burgeoning London folk scene of the mid-sixties.

As I listened I realised that something a little strange was going on. When John spoke to his Glasgow friends he’d do so in a broad Glaswegian accent, using vernacular such as ‘blether’ and ‘scunnered'. Then in the same moment he’d turn to one of the backstage crew who’d just entered the room with a logistics question and answer him with a ‘Mockney’ London accent much like my own. I listened intently for a while bemused by this spectacle, when John had spoken to me he’d used the London accent and then switched back seamlessly to a Glaswegian accent to address his friends.

In a way I could relate to this, I have a talent for mimicking accents and often unconsciously do so when speaking to someone with an accent vastly different from my own. In fact I shared a flat for a while with a Scottish guy and rarely spoke to him in my true accent. So although John’s accent switching trick was familiar to me, it was nonetheless amusing to hear someone else doing it for a change.

I quickly finished rolling the vastly oversized joint, which I duly lit and then passed to John once it was well stoked. The rush hit my brain immediately after just a couple of short tokes, so I knew it was worthy of this legendary toker’s approval.

John accepted the oversized spliff from me eagerly and winked conspiratorially as he joked to his friends “Thanks man, but could you not have made it a wee bit bigger?”

His friends chuckled as John drew a deep lungful and then exhaled long and hard sending a billowing cloud of pungent thick grey smoke across the room.

“Woooooooooo” rasped John breathlessly “That’s nice and strong too, excellent work son!” He grinned at me and nodded his approval.

That felt good. As tongued tied and socially inadequate as I was in this great man’s company at least I was able to get him well and truly stoned.

I sat there for a while listening to the stories and memories from his Glaswegian friends, commenting politely now and then when I felt it was appropriate. My ‘mega-joint’ and several others were passed around sequentially in a circle and I finally started to feel comfortable amongst them as we all became more and more stoned together, chatting, laughing and joking.

After a while the harshness of all those doobies, made my mouth feel dry and I realised that I was the only one in the room without a drink. Not wishing to plunder John’s fast diminishing ‘rider’ I made my excuses, shook John’s and everybody else’s hand and left for the front-of-house bar in search of a thirst quenching pint of Guinness, pausing briefly to collect my newly signed copy of ‘Solid Air’ from beside the raggedy armchair.

I found Dave a little later, still behind the mixing desk and presented him with several bottles of beer that I’d just acquired from the bar. The grin on my face was akin to what our American cousins would call ‘shit eating’.

“Thanks Dave” I said "What an incredible evening. I can’t think of any way in which it could be improved upon.”

“I can”, smiled Dave as he reached over to the large silver TEAC machine next to the mixing desk and ejected a shiny new cassette which he then handed to me with a wink and a smile “Here's something nice to listen to on the way home.”

"That'd do it Dave", I sighed "That'd do it..."

Career Opportunities.

2008-12-15T11:18:00.031+01:00

(or how the course of your life can hinge on a single unexpected phone call.)

Trrrrllll Trrrrlll.

The telephone was ringing.

“Hello!” I answered as I lifted the receiver to my ear.

A confident and businesslike yet mellifluous voice oozed from the earpiece.

“Is that Rudi Somerlove.”

“Yes” I responded affirmatively ‘Yes it is. Who is this?”

“Oh Hi, my name’s Charlotte Menzies. I work for an employment agency called Woodley Park Associates.”

“Hello Charlotte!”

“I was wondering how you are fixed for work at the moment?”

“Actually pretty good”, I replied “I’ve just recently started a new contract with British Gas."

“Oh that’s a shame”, Charlotte sounded disappointed “I have the perfect job here for you, their requirements match your C.V. like hand in glove…and it’s in Holland, well Rotterdam to be more precise.”

“Tell me some more”, I said. My curiosity aroused by the word ‘Holland’.

“Well it’s a long term contract working for a large Dutch bank, very attractive daily rate, thirty seven and a half hour week and like I said your qualifications and experience are absolutely perfect for this position. Are you interested?”

“Mmmm sounds really good but as I said I’ve just started a new contract with British Gas, the first day was last Monday actually.”

“Shame, because you are sooooo perfect for this.”

I silently cursed my luck. This is typical; I’d waited for ages for the British Gas contract and now that I’ve already started it something better comes along. Honestly they’re like buses, these contracts, you wait ages and then two turn up at once. Bugger!

“Yes it is a shame” I said “If only you’d rung a month ago; I’d have jumped at the chance to work in Holland. Oh well, never mind, that’s just my luck I suppose!”

“Ok then if I can’t persuade you I’ll just have to find someone else, but I doubt I’ll get someone as perfect a fit as you.”

“I’m sorry. Thanks for letting me know though, hopefully you’ll find something just as good for me once this British Gas contract finishes. Keep in touch, you never know.”

“Yes I will. OK, thanks anyway Rudi. Bye!”

The click of her replacing her receiver seemed to echo around my head, followed quickly by the dial tone buzzing noisily in my ear. I was still holding the receiver, clamped to the side of my face, in a trance. Did that just happen? Did I just turn down the chance to work in Holland? I must be mad! I started hitting the side of my head with the receiver repeatedly before putting it back firmly in the cradle where it belonged. Am I crazy? What did I just do? I stumbled out into the garden for a cigarette and tried to think through exactly what had just happened.

Holland, or more correctly The Netherlands had been my favourite European country for a long time now. Ever since my first visit on a family holiday when I was 10 years old and we visited family friends in Den Haag (The Hague) and camped briefly at Duinrell. Subsequently I’d revisited it several times since.

At the age of 19 a weekend trip to Amsterdam organised by the Students' Union at college had rekindled my love affair with the land of tulips and windmills, of course I found the Van Gogh Museum interesting but not half as interesting as the gorgeously painted ladies in the windows at De Wallen. Getting ripped-off buying liquorice instead of hashish from one of the copious and persistent street dealers hadn’t soured the experience either; it just made me much more wary for the next time (and somehow I knew there’d soon be a next time). After that there were in fact many trips over the years. Usually just weekends away here and there, but once to Utrecht.; an interesting detour (and a little bit of business) whilst ultimately hitchhiking to the South of France (again). Then there was a weekend with a band to see if we could get any gigs in Amsterdam, and also New Year’s Eve 1989 with my best buddy Paul and our respective girlfriends. Plus a ‘secret dirty weekend’ away with my company receptionist during a very brief love affair. All these varied occasions and also several soft drug and booze fuelled ‘Stag Weekends’ with family, friends and friends of friends. During these I’d use my considerable experience of navigating the city of Amsterdam to guide those that were less experienced around ‘Sin City’. So, by the time I was in my thirties, I felt I knew Amsterdam and the Netherlands pretty well and could even speak a couple of sentences of Dutch.

My experiences were always positive. I loved the people and the culture and the liberal attitude in Amsterdam. So different from the oppressive class-based restrictions I felt back in the U.K. I used to relish the walk towards Dam Square along the Damrak from Centraal Station; I’d always ask the rhetorical question to whosoever was with me at the time “Can’t you just taste the freedom in the air?” It was regularly the precursor to a few wonderful and fun-packed days. So, why all of a sudden was I quite readily declining the chance to live and work for a short time in my most favourite place in the entire world?

I’d been ‘resting’ for a while in-between contracts and I was so grateful that I now, at last, had well paid work with a large corporation again that I really felt like I shouldn’t push my luck. I stood there smoking a second cigarette whilst I mulled over my current situation. Cogitating intensely as I watched the wispy white smoke curling gently away from the burning tip.

There was no getting away from the fact that I’d already started a contract at British Gas although I’d actually only been there a week. I already felt a strong sense of loyalty to continue along the path I’d chosen, almost certainly misplaced, but professionally I felt that it was the right thing to do. I’m really not a flaky sort of person. Once I’m committed to something that’s it, for better or worse I’ll see it through. Then suddenly it struck me, I’d not yet actually signed the contract. Oh my goodness, there may be a way I can actually do this and keep my integrity intact.

My current agent had got me the position on the basis that there was an urgent requirement and I could start almost immediately. The paperwork still hadn’t been finalised and was sitting in the bureaucracy of British Gas’s administration system. Most likely awaiting authorisation, rubber stamping or whatever they had to do before I finally put my signature to it. So actually I didn’t have any legal obligation to continue at all. I pondered the ethics of the situation thoroughly, I didn’t owe the agent anything and he’d at least get a commission on the week I’d already been in the job. I certainly didn’t owe British Gas anything, except gratitude for taking me on. I’m sure it happens all the time, people start at a company and then realise that they actually don’t like the ambience; their prospective colleagues; the state of the offices; the demands of the boss; or indeed find that they have actually been presented with a better offer elsewhere.

A wide grin spread across my face as slowly I began to realise that indeed what I’d previously thought impossible, might actually be possible after all. I made a beeline for the phone; entered the code to find the last received call details and hurriedly pushed the send button. A ringing tone came from the receiver then a click as it was picked up on the other end.

“Woodley Park Associates, foreign contracts, Charlotte speaking!”

“Hello Charlotte, it’s Rudi Somerlove, we spoke a short while ago about the contract in Rotterdam. Have you found anyone else yet!?"

I tried not to sound too desperate.

“Hello Rudi! No not yet. Actually I’m just trawling through some of the other C.V’s. now.”

“Charlotte. Stop right there. I might just be interested after all….”

Eleven years later and I'm still here! Proving that the course of your life can hinge on a single unexpected phone call.

Well Sometimes I Go Out, By Myself, And I Look Across The Water...

2008-11-24T14:13:00.034+01:00

From: RudiS95@zonnet.nl
Sent: 12 October 1999 21:26:46
To: Paul230T@xtra.co.nz

Dear Paul,

I've just got back from Egypt where I spent a week diving at a place called Da’hab by the Red Sea just an hour from Sharm El Sheik. Well what an amazing week!! Obviously not long enough, but it felt like a month anyway!

Where do I start? At the beginning I guess.

Well I went with a guy called Tony De Vries he’s a 'Saarf Efrikaan' who works here in Holland and with whom I have become friendly as we frequent the same bars in Amsterdam and regularly bump into one another on a Friday night. Often we deliberately meet up in a larger group with other expats of mutual acquaintance for a night out. Anyway, he told me a while ago that he was planning to go to the Red Sea because his brother works as a Diving Instructor there. So, as it has long been an ambition of mine to dive in the Red Sea, I expressed an interest in going with him and before I knew it everything had been arranged and I found myself together with him on a plane to Egypt.

Anyway we arrived at about midnight, having suffered a five-hour non-smoking charter flight from Schiphol, with seats made for extremely skinny people with really short legs. Then after the mad chaos and general confusion of immigration and customs we enjoyed a 1-hour taxi ride with a crazy Arab, his constant veering and swerving from side to side making it impossible to decide exactly which side of the road he was meant to be driving on.

Upon arrival in Da'hab Tony’s brother Phil and his girlfriend Sarah (also a Diving Instructor) met us, and I was shown to my stable. I say stable because that is exactly what it was. No window, a tin roof with a wooden door, gravel floor with rugs over it and a couple of mattresses, in a block of about four others all the same. It was actually pretty good though for $1.5 U.S. a night. As you can imagine however, at 40 degrees C desert heat daytime and 32 degrees C night-time it actually doubled up as a sauna. Good for me though, as I must’ve sweated off at least 20 lbs. I took a hammock with me which I managed to hang diagonally across the room and slept in that which was maybe slightly cooler than the floor.

Next day Phil introduced me to his fellow Diving instructors and got me an excellent deal on a Rescue Diver Course plus four FREE recreational dives of my choice. Which means that now I’m a qualified Rescue Diver and the next stage takes me onto Divemaster where I can actually earn money taking people on guided dives…roll on Thailand

Anyway I digress… the Diving there is fantastic some of the best and most colourful reefs in the world with some of the most amazing fish-life anywhere. Over several dives we saw some amazing fish and sea-life. The Napoleon (or Humphead) Wrasse we came across was of considerable size and an awesome sight. It must’ve been at least a meter in length; it followed us for most of the dive on my second day there. Also there were many Blue Spotted Rays and Surgeonfish in the sandy stretches at 15 metres depth and in amongst the beautifully exquisite, delicate corals we saw Striped Butterfly Fish; beautiful yellow Angelfish, bright red Coral Grouper and a Spanish Dancer Nudibranch.

Whilst diving in what is called the Eel Garden, we came across a striking scarlet Hurghada Starfish as well as intricate Anemones and Urchins. Sometimes the small stuff is much more interesting than the big stuff and it’s great to just hang out of the current, behind a rocky outcrop or coral clump observing the smallest of shrimp going about its daily routine.

By far the best recreational dive I did was called The Blue Hole.
You enter it via a rock formation called The Bells which is essentially a vertical chute down to a little archway at about 30 meters. So, you jump into this chute and dive headfirst towards this archway, kicking hard with your fins all the while. I was descending so fast I could feel the water rushing past my mask and face. Then just as you approach the 30 meters mark you level out and go under the archway, the momentum you’ve gained makes you swoop back up again in a wide arc and you come out on the other side of the archway feeling a little like a human log flume. Once you have gained your composure you see why it’s called The Blue Hole as you look about you, suspended in complete nothingness all you see is blue ocean and behind you a sheer vertical wall of rock going on for about 800 meters below you and all around you. There isn’t any sea life or anything else visible just solid blue emptiness fading into the distance. The rest of the dive is spent drifting slowly back up this sheer rock face towards the surface. As you come up to around 15 meters there is enough light for life to thrive and only then do you start to see creatures in amongst the nooks and crannies of the coral. This was by far the best dive I did because of the exhilaration from the fast descent and the incredible seascape at the start. What an amazing experience that was dude!

The dive training I did was also great fun. The Rescue Diver course is hard work but also very enjoyable. I had a great instructor called Rob; he’s from Adelaide in Australia. He was an excellent diver and I learned so much from him.

During my recreational dives I met Valerie a 30+ year old tall busty brunette French girl who is taking a year off work to do some travelling. Obviously I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to practise my French so I started chatting to her and also helped translate some of the Dive Briefing for her. Well Paul, I’m not joking, she would not leave me alone afterwards. Every time I saw her she said “Rudi come have dinner with me” or “come have some breakfast”. In the evenings it was “I’ll buy you a drink if you come and talk to me for a while in French”. I think she was grateful to have someone who could speak to her in her own language, because her English really wasn’t that good. She also volunteered to help me on my Rescue Diver course where I needed a 'victim' in the rescue scenarios (you have to rescue an 'unconscious' diver and carry them to the beach where you perform simulated mouth to mouth and CPR on them). “I would love to do that for you Rudi” she said in her sexy French accent, and she did. Actually I think she enjoyed it a little too much!

That evening I’m walking along the beach and I notice this bar that I had walked past many times before and was always attracted by the music. Always mellow Blues, Jazz, Folk, Reggae or Ambient dance music. I had never entered before because despite the excellent music it was always empty. Anyway as I stroll past smiling to myself because they are playing John Martyn’s ‘Solid Air’, I notice Valerie inside talking to another woman (a Senegalese woman who turns out to be the owners wife). So I yell “Hi” from the beach and wave. Valerie looks up and says “Hi” and calls me over, asking me as usual if I’d like to join her. Well of course I do and we get chatting and I tell her that I’ve always wanted to visit this bar coz every time I walk past the music is so good. She say’s that that is exactly why she’s there, and that she’s leaving the following night to carry on travelling round the Middle East and Africa. So this was her last chance to visit this bar where she has always loved the music. I tell her I knew she was a woman after my own heart because of that, and the fact that she laughs at all of my jokes. Anyway, we have quite a few drinks and talk for hours about everything under the sun. Well to cut a very long story short we ended up on the roof that night under the stars in the big desert sky and got very cosy under my blanket together. It was a very romantic setting and the atmosphere, the alcohol and the conviviality all conspired to create a quite lovely conclusion. I’ll leave you to imagine what that was! ;?))

Anyway before she left the next day she insisted on giving me her phone number and her address in Paris. But alas, I don’t think I’ll be contacting her. Don’t get me wrong she was a lovely girl and very attractive and everything, we had a fantastic evening together and I thoroughly enjoyed her company and conversation. It’s just that the whole evening was so perfect and it felt like it was just supposed to happen that one time, a unique experience. If we were to meet up again we’d never be able to better the circumstances or ambience of that one evening together. So I’ve decided to leave it there in Egypt, under the desert stars forever, as a perfect memory. Besides, I’m mature enough now to know that holiday romances never work out in reality. Humdrum day-to-day existence can never be as good as the fantasy created in the mysterious lands of faraway places.

It was handy that I made some other friends anyhow as Tony was mostly busy enjoying 'family time' with his bro. I felt a bit like a 'bacon sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah' a lot of the time around them. Tony's only just qualified as a diver so we couldn't dive much together anyway, he's limited to much shallower depths than I'm qualified for. I did manage to squeeze in one shore dive with Tony and his bro though and we actually had a great time together. On the plane home Tony told me about all his brothers exploits as a diving instructor, you wouldn't believe what goes on, really.

So, buddy as you can see I had a very relaxed but full and interesting holiday in Egypt. I hope things are still going well for you in New Zealand and I’m looking forward to hearing all your news by return.

All the best,

Rudi

You Were Meant To ‘Plumb It’ Not Plummet!

2008-10-18T18:32:00.019+02:00

My father is always busy. He’s the sort that has to be doing something all the time. I used to resent this. I used to be jealous that he was too busy to give me some attention, that there was always something else that took priority. I was also feeling a little guilty too I think, because I could very easily find excuses to do nothing. I’d sleep all day or fritter away hours on frippery and frolics. I harboured these feelings of resentment and guilt for many years and then one day I had an epiphany. I realised why my father ‘is’ the way he ‘is’ and why my feelings in this regard are immaterial and that I should cherish every moment that dad is still around no matter how he chooses to spend them.

When I was about seven years old my father fell from the roof of our house. Now, if we’d lived in a bungalow this wouldn’t have been such a serious thing. As it happened we lived in a two storey semi-detached (two houses under one roof) at that time; which means he fell a total of about 20 feet (about 6.5 meters).

When it happened we weren’t around. My mother had taken myself, and my younger brother and sister on one of her fortnightly weekend visits to our grandparents, about 90 miles (almost two hours drive away) in Highcliffe near to Bournemouth on the south coast of England.

Dad, ever mindful of the needs of his family, had been installing ‘modern’ central heating for the first time. This was 1972 and up until then we’d heated the house by using a coal-fire in the winter. I can just about remember the coalman coming to fill up the coal bunkers at the rear of the garage. Although I was quite young, sometimes my mother would ask me to fill the coal scuttle and I’d have to venture outside and use the coal scoop to shovel coal into an old copper scuttle and struggle back to the house with it full to the brim.

My father was almost finished installing central heating when he fell. I know this because at the time of the accident he was about to insert a flue liner into the chimney. This is the part that enables all the hot gases from the central heating boiler to escape into the atmosphere. He was working alone which is never advisable when there are ladders and heights involved. At the very least he should have had someone else there to help stabilise the ladder as he climbed up onto the roof, but of course being my independent and over-confident father; he didn’t.

He had struggled up the ladder carrying the flue liner which was wrapped around his torso and one shoulder. Getting up onto the roof he’d then walked carefully up the roof tiles towards the chimney. Once the chimney was in reach he’d grabbed hold of one of the bricks that formed the top of the chimney to pull him further towards the apex from where he’d be able to work, legs astride the ridge tiles. The mortar around that brick must’ve been loose and the brick couldn’t take the strain he’d put upon it. That brick gave way and at that precise moment the future for my family became completely uncertain.

The shock and impetus caused him to lose his balance and he then tumbled down the steep roof tiles and clear off the roof to the garden below. Several neighbours stated that they heard a massive thump when he hit the ground. My father is a big man, much like myself, and it was later confirmed by the doctors that this was one of the factors which subsequently saved his life. Had he been a smaller man he might not have made it.
What happened next is uncertain. My father was thankfully unconscious, so he can’t remember, but one of the neighbours must have telephoned for an ambulance and my father was eventually taken to the local hospital. I have no idea how my mother was informed but somehow she received a telephone call in Highcliffe and then drove like the proverbial ‘bat out of hell’ to the hospital.

I have a vague recollection of that journey. My mother’s car at the time was a dark green Morris Traveller with a meagre 1000cc engine, but I can remember that nobody could overtake her in her haste to get to my father. She had her foot down the whole way home.

My father was in a very bad way. He’d crushed a couple of vertebrae, smashed up his pelvis and his left hand and wrist (which had, thank goodness, broken his fall) were completely mangled. He was lucky to be alive and also lucky not to be paralysed. When I was finally allowed to visit him, which wasn’t for several days afterwards, all I can remember seeing were lots of white bandages swathing him and several wires and weights from the traction system. He wasn’t very coherent though; pumped full of pain killers and tranquillisers most likely. I remember having a joy in my heart that he was still alive and, at the same time, being terribly worried that he might have to stay in hospital forever. It wasn’t easy for a seven year old to comprehend what was going on but obviously I’d picked up on the vibes from my mum and other family members and their concern was palpable.

My father was in hospital for many, many weeks. He had several operations to fix his pelvis and vertebrae and yet more micro-surgery to try to give him a functional left hand. How my mother coped with three kids and all the added stress and worry alone during that time I’ll never know. The only bonus was that it wasn't quite winter yet and thank goodness we didn’t need the central heating system as it was still fairly mild.

Eventually my father made a full recovery and after several months convalescence including a family holiday in Morocco he returned to work. To this day he still bears the scars, both mental and physical, from that incident. It was several years before he could use his left hand properly except for just his forefinger and thumb and he still has a fear of ladders. Yet these are the only things you might notice today to betray that course of events so long ago now.

I personally don’t remember that time as being particularly stressful or a hardship in any way. My mother managed admirably and with the help of friends, relatives and neighbours we all seemed to pull through. I don’t dare to think what may have happened had things gone differently that day. If the neighbours hadn’t heard the thump or the ambulance hadn’t arrived on time or my father was a smaller more feeble man. Maybe my brother, sister and I would have grown up without a father and we wouldn’t have enjoyed the many years and good times we’ve had together since. Perhaps dad is also aware of that too, and that is why he chooses to fill every moment with the things that he deems important. When you come that close to having it all taken away, I think everything takes on a greater value and becomes more urgent.

It got me thinking recently about how everything can change in an instant and that we should truly live each day as if it were our last because we never really know that it won’t be. In the matter of a fleeting moment circumstances can be changed forever and the ripples can radiate out to affect the lives of others in ways that we can’t imagine. A momentary lapse of concentration could change your own and others lives irredeemably forever. It is so important to remain fully aware in each moment. To wholly appreciate every second we are alive and to use that time wisely. Not to become distracted by the ‘what ifs’ of the future or the ‘whys’ of the past. The past cannot be changed and the future cannot be known. If we can remain completely focussed on each single moment and concentrate on getting that right then the future will naturally take care of itself.

We are so complacent about time. We procrastinate here and dawdle there. We allow ourselves to become distracted by folly and fritter hours away in torpor in front of computers and TV screens. We are so extravagant with time in the belief that we always have decades in reserve. We live constantly with the feeling that there’s invariably tomorrow, that there perpetually will be more time. But what if there isn’t? What if we knew exactly how much we had left, would we remain so wasteful and so oblivious to it? I have now resolved to become more mindful that each moment is precious and that I should treat it that way…..just like my dad.

Carpe diem!

Make Poverty History.

2008-09-26T10:39:00.063+02:00

I remember precisely where I was on July 2nd 2005. I spent most of the afternoon and the whole evening at Hyde Park in London. The largest rock concert of all time 'Live 8' was happening, an immense global event, featuring some of rock and pop's biggest and most famous acts, and I'd been fortunate enough to snaffle some tickets. This was in complete contrast to the first ‘Live Aid’ concert twenty years earlier in 1985 when I'd had to settle for spending the day glued to the TV and taping the whole event from the radio coverage, even though it was happening only twenty miles away. So, I was feeling somewhat pleased with myself.

I'd decided to take my Dutch friend Marc along with me. Marc and I have been friends since my earliest days in the Netherlands, and I can confidently say he's my oldest and dearest Dutch friend. We met because we both worked for the same company in Rotterdam, and in fact Marc still does. On Marc's first day in the office he walked in wearing exactly the same jacket as me; same colour, same style. This was an excellent ice breaker and upon further investigation we discovered that we shared similar tastes in many things. Thus a connection was forged and a solid friendship began which has since stood the test of time.

One of the things Marc and I have most in common is an intense interest in music. Marc plays bass and has played in almost as many bands as I have. One of Marc's biggest musical influences is the band Pink Floyd. Dave Gilmour is Marc's very own personal hero. I would go as far to say that Marc is the biggest Pink Floyd fan I have ever met, and I've met quite a few over the years. So it was with this in mind that I'd invited him to attend 'Live 8' with me. I'd actually promised him that I'd take him as soon as it became clear that I might just be able to get some tickets. So when, incredibly fortuitously, I actually received some tickets in the post I rang him immediately. The pure ecstasy in his voice at the prospect of seeing the four original surviving members of Pink Floyd, reunited after 24 years, was such a beautiful thing to hear. I had a lump in my throat when I told him and I felt a joy in my heart knowing that it was such an easy thing for me to be able to fulfil this dream for him.

Before too long we found ourselves in Hyde Park for the big day, all around us were many smiling, expectant faces and everyone waited patiently as we were all herded into a holding pen where we'd have to stay until they finally opened the turnstiles and started to let us in. Surrounding us was an atmosphere of enthusiastic anticipation while we waited in line to be checked by security. The bubbling murmur of excited voices made us curious about exactly what sort of momentous day lay before us.

As we approached the gates I knew that I’d have to show my ticket and therefore started to reach into my back pocket. Panic gripped me when I realised there was nothing there. My heart started pounding and my mind raced as I checked the other pockets, there was no ticket in any of them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!!" I quickly tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Marc, I think someone has pick-pocketed my ticket," I said, my eyes wide with alarm.

"You’re joking!" Marc responded with disbelief.

"I dunno it's just gone!" As I spoke I was double checking every pocket.

"Have you checked everywhere?"

"Yes! It's gone, I'm certain."

"Oh shit! It's not here with mine is it?” Marc checked the envelope I'd given him earlier containing his ticket. "No look there's only one here. What the fuck have you done with it?"

"It was in my back pocket, I'm sure," I said, desperately trying to remember what I’d done with my ticket. "Some bastard in this crowd must've stolen it without me noticing."

I felt sick to my stomach as these words echoed inside my head and I realised their significance. My whole day would be ruined; my one chance to be a part of this historical day had disappeared in an instant. Dark thoughts quickly enveloped my brain as I silently cursed whoever had been clever enough to steal my ticket from under my nose. I was standing on the lip of a precipice looking down into the boiling flames of a fire-pit from hell and feeling the inexorable pull downwards.

We were close to the turnstiles now. Within a couple of minutes I'd have to show my non-existent ticket to security and face expulsion. Marc, seeing the disappointment on my face and sympathising with my plight, offered me his ticket like a true friend. I thanked him, but I wasn't about to allow him to miss this phenomenal day. I'd just have to accept the consequences of my negligence and step aside. I folded my arms across my chest in resignation, shaking my head. Then I felt it, under my T-shirt, tucked into my waistband under my belt…where I'd put it…for SAFE KEEPING!!

I quickly pulled out the envelope containing my ticket and let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh what a stupid twat I was, oh my God how utterly inane! Marc was grinning. I had been saved from the pit at the last moment, it felt as if a huge eagle had swept down and picked me up from the edge of the precipice and now I was soaring up into a bright blue sunlit sky. Every little bit of tension that had so suddenly enveloped my back, neck and chest was now instantly released. The day was saved. Internally I scolded myself for being so quick to blame someone else for my own foolishness. How quickly darkness can fill our thoughts; how readily we seek to blame faceless villainy for our own shortcomings. There was indeed a lesson to be learned.

I showed my ticket to the security man, he tore off the stub and waved me through the turnstile. I was then greeted by one of his colleagues, frisked and had my bag checked for glass bottles, bombs and heaven knows what else. Then we were in. Marc and I strode purposefully toward the stage to claim our spot amongst the throng as the 250,000 strong crowd slowly built up. The sun was shining on and off, as big white cumulus clouds scudded gently across the sky. It felt great to be there.

After a short delay the biggest concert the world had ever known kicked off and it's difficult to describe the varied feelings of emotion that welled up inside me when Paul McCartney took the stage with U2 to kick off with “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As soon as I heard the words "It was twenty years ago today…" and the special poignancy those lyrics now held, alluding to the first 'Live Aid' concert, tears filled my eyes and I felt immense pride; proud to be a part of this; proud to make a stand against world poverty; proud to be British; proud to be old enough to remember the first one and above all proud to be a part of history.

The rest of that afternoon Marc and I watched, danced, cheered and sang along to nearly all of the numerous groups and solo artists that took to the London stage. Once or twice we went to queue for one of the port-a-loos to relieve our bulging bladders or buy some food & drink from one of the many catering concerns on site, missing part of an act in the process. Occasionally we sat an act out because they didn't particularly interest us – Snoop Dog and Mariah Carey spring to mind. These were also prime opportunities to rest our aching legs, neither of us being used to standing for a whole day. Highlights for Marc, I think, were Velvet Revolver and Sting; and for me Bob Geldof (re-living his 'Live Aid' moment during “I Don't Like Mondays”), Annie Lennox and Joss Stone.

We also watched, with interest, footage shown on the giant screens to the sides and at the rear of the stage of the other 'Live 8' concerts going on simultaneously that day, in other parts of the world. It felt as if there was a real force for global change and finally we lesser-mortals had the attention of the most powerful leaders in the world: the G8. It felt like a real 'people-power' moment similar to that which we'd witnessed in the 90's after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent decline of Communism in Eastern Europe. Sadly, in retrospect, although the movement had some initial successes in its endeavour to eliminate poverty, since then it appears that what we were actually given by the G8 was mainly rhetoric and platitudes. In some instances promises, assurances and pledges made at that time have entirely failed to materialise. In my opinion this is a great and abiding shame. Of course in the current economic climate nothing will change; and if anything, more of the promises made that day are likely to be broken.

As the evening fell and the skies above London began to darken, Marc and I started to edge forwards in the crowd to get an optimal position for what would surely be the biggest highlight of the whole day: Pink Floyd's reunion performance. Slowly over the course of two or three hours we occupied spaces left by people in front of us as they moved back for toilet or refreshment breaks.

We both thoroughly enjoyed Robbie Williams and after years of completely misunderstanding my reverence for this British cultural icon, Marc finally got it. He could at long last see, hear and feel for himself what an incredible performer that guy is. Robbie truly held the entire audience in the palm of his hand with his inimitable charm, overwhelming panache and unbelievable charisma. His showmanship was on top form as he pleased the crowds with some of his greatest hits, having recently returned to the U.K. after a prolonged stint of living in America. He certainly didn't disappoint anyone.

After Robbie Williams' awesome performance we made the most territorial gains as the youngsters vacated their forward positions which were eagerly filled by 30- 40- and 50-somethings, like us desperate for the prospect of a better view of The Who, Pink Floyd and finally McCartney's grand-finalé. As we neared the barrier, which was the closest point we could get to the stage without a V.I.P. pass - excluded from the 'golden circle' as we were - competition grew fierce amongst the restless crowd. Many of the positions we tried to occupy were strenuously defended by people who'd been camped out there for the whole day. More than once we were threatened with violence by drunken or drugged-up louts, fiercely guarding their metre-square patch of turf whilst we stealthily inched forward into any free space which became available.

The Who provided some welcome relief from our stressful machinations. Happy with our hard won emplacement, two rows away from the barrier and slightly off-centre to the left of the sound-desk tent, Marc and I settled in to watch one of the hardest working bands in show business. Because only Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend remained from the original line-up, the band on that night was supplemented with Steve White (Paul Weller's drummer) and Damon Minchella (Ocean Colour Scene's bassist). Despite this, and the fact that they were at that time celebrating 41 years in the business, they put on a performance worthy of the British rock stalwarts they truly were. Both Marc and I watched entranced as Daltrey swung his microphone and Townsend windmilled his way through “Who Are You” and “We Won't Get Fooled Again”. It was mind blowing to see them in full throttle, remaining almost as vigorous and energetic as they must have been in their youth. These two men who have inspired so many to learn instruments and start bands of their own were equally inspirational to me and I personally hope that I have as much energy and verve when I reach their age.

After the compelling delights provided by The Who, Marc and I held our premium position and I could see that Marc was barely able to contain his excitement with the prospect of all his dreams coming true in the very immediate future. There was a delay on stage and it was already becoming clear that the concert would over-run by a couple of hours. This precipitated a tension in the air as the Hyde Park audience wondered whether they'd be able to get a tube train home. The build up was excruciating and you could feel a tangible electric buzz from the masses of Floyd fans, old and new, waiting for the magic to begin.

An immense roar arose from the patiently waiting crowd as the familiar sound of a heartbeat which started the song “Speak to Me/Breathe” was heard through the giant P.A. system and a reunited Pink Floyd took the stage for the first time in 24 years. Marc's face was a picture, like a five year old boy faced for the first time with a jolly, bearded real-life Santa Claus; the delight and awe was only too evident. He was completely enraptured, caught up in a single moment in time; for him nothing else mattered except for the “right here and right now”. For me too the moment felt enormously significant, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these massive British rock legends do what they do best.

I was thoroughly entranced from beginning to end. The four all-too-familiar songs were executed perfectly. Roger Waters’ tribute to Syd Barrett at the beginning of “Wish You Were Here” caused a lump to rise in my throat. More tears started to well up when the four great men took a final bow, arms around each other in a symbolic display of unity. A greater and supremely worthy cause had motivated them to set their differences aside, just for once. They provided a few moments in time which, I'm sure, for everyone there will be remembered forever. Looking back these moments take on a particular poignancy; the recent death of keyboardist and founding member Rick Wright ensures that this magic will never be repeated.

After Pink Floyd had left the stage Marc looked disappointed and yet overwhelmed at what he had just witnessed. He thanked me again for enabling him to be there and seemed lost in wistful reverie. Although the show still wasn't over we felt that we'd already witnessed the highlight and our aching legs and feet longed for the chance to rest a while. This was of course impossible, we were completely packed in like sardines in the middle of the crowd and the proximity of others meant that sitting down wasn't an option. We resolved to ignore the aches and pains and watch the show's finalé as Paul McCartney was due back on stage; a nice way to round off, I thought, with the same person who had begun the whole event.

The world’s most celebrated, bass playing, rock 'n' roll icon finally reprised the whole show in his own highly professional and unforgettable style. I remember thinking how tired he must have been having spent the whole day on site knowing he'd have to remain fresh to complete his act. He was joined briefly by George Michael to help sing backing vocals on “Baby You Can Drive My Car” which elicited another huge cheer from the hordes of exhausted onlookers. Another poignant moment was McCartney's piano rendition of “The Long and Winding Road”, the lyrics of which now appeared to be about “The Long Walk to Justice” a march to Edinburgh, close to Gleneagles where the G8 summit was being held, taking place in 4 days time. I'd vowed to become involved in this as testament to my commitment to this cause, Marc unfortunately had to return home to the Netherlands but I'd be accompanied this time by my brother and his wife.

The whole cast of musicians appeared on stage for the extended coda finalé of 'Hey Jude' with Bob Geldof centre stage and once again there were more echoes of 'Live Aid' from twenty years previously. Then swiftly it was all over. As we began to leave Hyde Park, bowled along by the thronging masses I told Marc that I'd have to sit down just for a while by the gates to relieve my aching feet. We were both comprehensively tired and even though we'd been told that trains would keep running later than usual, there was still a sense of urgency to get out of town.

A few days later my brother, his wife and I were returning from Edinburgh on an early morning shuttle flight having attended “The Final Push”, a concert at Murrayfield to mark the end of “The Long Walk to Justice” featuring amongst many others the legendary performer that was James Brown. Although fatigued from very little sleep we were all quite buoyant upon arrival at Heathrow. The day before it had been announced that London's Olympic bid, against Paris, for the 2012 games had been successful and it seemed that, just for once, everything was right with the world. Making our way from the arrivals hall into the terminal we noticed that there were more policemen than would normally be seen at the airport and a strangely sombre atmosphere was pervading the place. My father picked us up in his car and immediately told us that, whilst we were airborne, terrorists had bombed several tube trains and a bus that morning in central London causing horrendous carnage. We all fell silent in a state of complete shock; there had been a threat that something like that might happen but nobody believed it really could or would.

I'd felt personally spoilt over the last week; I'd had the incredible fortune of being able to witness, first hand, live performances from some of the most celebrated rock and pop musicians ever. For someone like me, wholeheartedly interested in that genre, it had been a veritable orgy of delight, but right then I had the overwhelming feeling that the party was well and truly over.

Oh White Water Keep On Rolling....

2008-08-29T16:23:00.088+02:00

It was my first Christmas away from home. I’d travelled across to the other side of the world to New Zealand to spend a few weeks with my best friend Paul. It was the first time that I’d spent so many hours on a plane. Arriving on Christmas Eve I was invited to a social event that very evening arranged by Paul’s company on a large boat out in Waitemata Harbour. I was so jet lagged that I was falling asleep whilst doing my level best to be sociable and make the acquaintance of Paul’s work colleagues. Whatever those Kiwi’s must’ve made of this weird Englishman lapsing into an unconscious torpor after only two beers and right in the middle of a conversation (and, I’m told, actually mid-sentence at one point) I’ll never know. Paul found it hilarious of course.

The next morning, after a much-needed night's sleep for me and a Christmas morning breakfast of champagne and strawberries in Paul’s garden, we headed to the beach for a traditional Kiwi Christmas day. Along the way Paul stopped at the only open service station we could find, where he purchased the ingredients for a very non-traditional Christmas Dinner of eggs, bacon, snags (Antipodean for sausages) and baked beans, which we then cooked on the (thoughtfully provided) public beach barbeque.

It didn’t really feel like Christmas Day; there in the bright sunshine in the middle of a southern hemisphere summer on a sandy beach as we watched families playing cricket together and the azure and white surf waves of the Pacific Ocean come tumbling rhythmically up the beach. I wondered about my family back in the U.K. who in twelve hours time would be tucking into their traditional Christmas Dinner of turkey with all the trimmings, in my absence for the first time ever, and probably in a typically English cold and drizzly winter setting. My wistful cogitation on this matter didn’t last long though as my attention turned to the adventures that lay ahead of me in Aotearoa or The Land of the Long White Cloud, as they call it in Maori.

New Zealand is renowned as the adrenaline sports capital of the world and Paul and I would take full advantage of this fact over the next fortnight or so. Travelling around the North Island in his sporty green Honda, we'd be staying at various motels and caravan parks and visiting all the sights on offer. Amongst the activities that we would enjoy during that couple of weeks were bungee jumping, jet boating, a helicopter ride, quad biking and tandem sky diving. We lived on New Zealand’s famous Ponsonby Meat Pies (steak and cheese being a particular favourite) and the McDonald’s special Beefmeister Burger (I couldn’t get enough of those: two quarter pound patties with cheese, loads of special sauce, onions and a minimal amount of salad on one huge toasted bun). Also occasionally we'd eat a Kiwiburger although it was somewhat of an acquired taste (a normal cheeseburger but with the addition of a fried egg and a slice of beetroot).

New Year's Eve was spent mostly at a house party in Mount Maunganui, but also at an especially laid-on rock concert on the beach. I found the whole thing weird, I must say. Sitting on a beach on a relatively warm evening where it didn’t get dark until gone 10pm, and later hearing everybody wishing each other ‘Happy New Year’, it just didn’t feel right to me. I was used to spending my New Year's Eves inside, comfortable and cozy out of the inevitable cold and damp weather, during dark dingy winter nights.

I thought about the only other time I could recall that I’d spent my New Year's Eve wholly outside, one year when I was around 17 or so. Several friends and I made the short trip by train and tube to Trafalgar Square with plastic bags stuffed with bottles of cheap cider and cans of supermarket-brand lager. In those days the fountains were left open (before they started boxing them in sometime around the mid-eighties) and you could, and I did in drunken abandonment, frolic in the gushing waters. My overwhelming memory was that after the rowdy countdown to midnight I was snogging and groping a plethora of equally drunk women of various ages and levels of beauty in amongst the heaving crowds; this commotion was accompanied by the chimes of Big Ben from a few hundred yards down the road, as the cheer for another promise laden new beginning went up. Because I was a fit, blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenager of limited sexual experience I found it a little intimidating when the less attractive older women (in their 30's!) grabbed a hold of me, breathed alcohol-laden fumes in my face, slurred “Appienooyuuurrr darlin'!” and plunged their tongues down my throat before I had a chance to escape. I’m sure that is precisely when I picked up my very first cold sore infection.

We couldn’t afford a taxi and all the trains had stopped running, so we walked the six miles to Chiswick High Road where one of my friend’s older brothers had a flat in which we could all crash-out on the floor. That journey probably took about three hours as we were all so completely inebriated. I was absolutely freezing cold in my soaking wet jeans and squelchy boots from my earlier fountain frolics. I’d lost my jacket too, as I recall, and I have vague memories of someone wearing a traffic cone as a hat and some of us stealing flashing roadworks' lanterns. At one point, in desperation, we realized that if we pooled our remaining cash we could probably afford to get a cab the rest of the way and so we started trying to hail black cabs, none of which stopped of course. One look at this motley gang of drunken teenagers in damp clothing and sporting stolen flashing lanterns would be enough to tell any self-respecting cabbie that this really wasn’t a fare worth picking up...what a complete contrast that evening was to where I was now!

Later that week I found myself arguing with Paul, we’d decided that we wanted to go white water rafting and we’d picked up a leaflet from the Rotorua tourist information office. We just had to book whichever excursion we fancied, once we’d had a chance to mull over all the options of course.

“Look, it’s our first time doing this don’t you think it would be more sensible to do a nice sedate Grade 2 trip first?” asked Paul.

“Mate, this is probably my one and only chance to do this. There isn’t gonna be enough time for us to do another excursion during this trip. So we might as well do the top one - the Grade 5. It’s meant to be an adrenalin buzz anyway; what sort of buzz are we gonna get from doing a pansy-arsed Grade 2?”

The International Rapid Classification System qualifies Grade 5 as: very powerful rapids with very confused and broken water, large drops, violent and fast currents, abrupt turns, difficult powerful stoppers and fast boiling eddies; with numerous obstacles in the main current. Complex, precise and powerful sequential manoeuvring is required. A definite risk to personal safety exists.

Do we really want to put ourselves in mortal danger for the sake of a quick buzz?” Paul asked, sensibly.

“Quite frankly mate YES!” I grinned.

“But you’re a much better swimmer than me, what if I fall in?”

“Then I’ll just have to save you won’t I?”

“God you’re so fucking arrogant,” said Paul.

“I know,” I smirked. “Look mate, I'm certain we won’t regret this…it’s gonna be awesome…TRUST ME!”

After what seemed like an hour of arguing, I finally had to resort to the dubious macho tactic of questioning Paul’s sexual orientation and proclivities before he was eventually browbeaten into submission and agreed to attempt the formidable Grade 5. We returned to the tourist information office and the nice blonde woman behind the counter booked it for us, took our money for the reservation and gave us directions to the Kaituna River where we’d be rafting.

Upon arrival at Trout Pool Road, the setting off point, we had to sign disclaimers exempting the rafting company, Kaituna Cascades, from any liability. We kitted up into wetsuits, fleeces, surf booties, life jackets and helmets. Greg the instructor gave us a paddle each and introduced us to the rest of the crew that would be in our large inflatable raft. They were a mixture of people of various nationalities and, like us, all virgins to the sport.

Greg briefed us about the rafting route we were about to embark upon. Running through an extremely steep and narrow canyon, in the course of about an hour we would paddle 14 awesome drops, including two Grade 5 waterfalls and some great rapids from Grade 3+ to Grade 5. We received some dry land instruction, first practising procedures on the river bank and learned how to respond to the commands Greg would give us along the route. At the ‘put in’ point Greg organized everybody according to their weight and body build. I was positioned at the back because of my bulk and upper body strength. Paul was seated at the front to balance me out and fend us away from the rocks. Greg then told us how to operate the raft in the water, what each person’s responsibilities were and what to do in case of an emergency.

There were three other rafts in the water with us, each with a virgin crew and instructor busily explaining things. As we set off down the river in a gentle current, our raft was third in line. The first few rapids were gentle and easy and gave us a chance to practice the manoeuvres and techniques for the more challenging rapids that lay ahead. The trick was to guide the raft into the best entry point for any given section of rapids and essentially hold on for dear life as the waters took you. The raft had ropes at the sides and front to hold onto, and special handles built into the floor. We were advised on how to move to adjust the weight within the raft according to how we wanted to manoeuvre it. The most difficult thing seemed to be holding onto the ropes and your paddle simultaneously whilst being wildly buffeted by the water against the large rocks.

In between the sections of rapids and waterfalls, in the canyons and gorges, there was a chance to enjoy the scenery as we waited in clear, still pools until each raft had completed that section. The mountains rose up either side of us, covered in a thick forest of native trees. We saw trout jumping for flies in the pools ahead of us and birds swooping low skimming the water for insects. Artists and filmmakers will tell you that there is something magical about the light in New Zealand and it really does make those landscapes even more breathtaking and special.

We came to a quiet section where it appeared that, over eons, the river had carved a niche for itself out of pure granite. Cliffs rose up tightly on either side of us and there was just enough room to get a raft through. Beyond and above the strange and beautiful rock formations of this natural cutting the forest towered majestically, echoing with weird and wonderful calls from the native wildlife.

The fun really started when we went over the top of the world's highest commercially rafted waterfall, the Tutea Falls, and experienced an almost vertical drop of 7 meters. The raft was tossed violently to the swirling whirlpool at the bottom and with the thousands of litres of water falling around me, I felt like a lone sock in a washing machine on a spin cycle. There was a brief moment when the water just poured over us as if we were being bombarded from all directions by water canons. We clung firmly to the ropes and some of us had shifted around in the raft, but nobody fell out. Incredibly we remained afloat and continued to find our route through the turbulent waters until we were ejected out the other end.

It’s difficult to explain the exhilaration you feel when you complete a section of rapids and waterfalls; maybe it’s to do with relinquishing that need for control. There is a palpable excitement as you approach the entry point to a dangerous section; the anticipation is unimaginable. The water gradually deepens. It bunches up at the horizon and swells. Ahead you hear the thunderous roar as the river tumbles inexorably downward, obeying the laws of gravity. When the raft tips over the edge, through the mists you glimpse the tumultuous chaos ahead. Your heart stops momentarily, your grip tightens and you brace yourself. You surrender completely to the mercy of the flow. Huge jagged rocks loom; just as you know you are going to be dashed against them the raft lurches to one side and you are swept away by the torrent.

At the end of our incredible joy ride down this fevered stretch of water, the other rafting crews had to make several stops to pick up members who'd been thrown overboard and were clinging to boulders awaiting rescue. Our crew lost nobody.

Paul and I were unusually quiet as we drove away from the Kaituna River that evening. Our bodies were aching from the day’s exertions and a delicious tiredness was seeping through us, but there was nonetheless a warm glow within and a comforting sense of achievement.

“Thanks mate!” said Paul.

"What for?" I asked.

Paul's broad grin was lit up by the lights of an oncoming car. “You may be an arrogant shit but you were absolutely right. That Grade 5 was just fucking awesome and at least you didn't have to fish me out of the drink!”

A Page From Rock History.

2008-07-22T16:33:00.033+02:00

March 1981. Rudi was walking with Giles back to his house. After school he’d popped into the Chelsea Coffee House as usual and Giles was there. Giles was a year older than Rudi, he was at the same school and they both attended the same youth club, which happened to be located a couple of doors down from Giles’ house. Giles was above average height with a round cherubic face. Rudi’s girlfriend, Ash, thought Giles was lovely, this made Rudi a little jealous but he didn’t let it show. Rudi had become great friends with Giles’ sister Harriet and it was Harriet that Rudi was on his way to see. Harriet was a no-nonsense; mature for her age, artistic type. She was petite and pretty but not in an obvious sort of way. Harriet had asked Rudi if she could borrow some of his clothes for a Japan gig she was going to be attending. Rudi had a black Adidas kit bag with him, which contained a few choice articles from his wardrobe he thought she’d like.

Japan were about to become huge. Their latest album Tin Drum, was incredibly their 5th, and to date they were a little known cult New Wave attraction but the times were about to catch up to Japan’s unique style, the age of the New Romantic was upon them. The well crafted and haunting song ‘Ghosts’ was a perfect vehicle to showcase the stunning voice of David Sylvian the band's vocalist, and was highly unusual in chart hit history in that, like Minnie Riperton's 'Lovin' You' several years previously, it featured absolutely no drums. It was the standout track of that album and it was about to propel ‘Japan’ to stardom…just in time for them to split up.

Giles and Rudi had just passed the hall above the church where they both attended the youth club and were nearing Giles’ house when Rupert, Giles’ brother, appeared looking excited. He had just left the house and was bounding towards them.

“Hey, you’ll never guess who’s in the house”, blurted Rupert.

“Who?” said Giles.

“Only…THE Jimmy Page!” Rupert exclaims.

Rudi looked at Giles in utter disbelief.

“No way!” Giles retorted cynically, shaking his long curly ginger locks. “What, right now?”

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen with Mum, he came to see how she’s getting on with the paintings she’s restoring for him apparently”, Rupert assured him.

“Bloody hell!” Giles gushed excitably.

“Bloody hell!” Rudi concurred.

Jimmy Page was the renowned lead guitarist with rock legends Led Zeppelin. He lived locally and Rudi had seen him before buying petrol from the petrol station where Rudi worked at the weekends. To be fair he’d not known who Jimmy Page was on sight. It was only afterwards when a co-worker pointed it out, that it registered. Now perhaps Rudi would get the chance to meet him properly.

Life for Jimmy had been tough recently. Only about six months before John Bonham, the band’s drummer, had been found dead at Jimmy’s house after a day and night of heavy drinking whilst rehearsing the new album. He had asphyxiated on his own vomit. Because of the band’s reputation as rock ’n’ roll hell raisers, media speculation abounded at the time that drugs had played a large part. This proved to be unfounded. Speculation was also rife amongst media and fans alike that perhaps Jimmy’s dabbling in ‘the occult’ had something to do with John’s death that evening. Understandably as a result of all this Jimmy had been feeling the stress lately and was deliberately maintaining a low profile.

Giles and Rudi strode hurriedly toward the front door. Giles was barely capable of getting his keys in the lock fast enough, unable to contain his excitement at the possibility of meeting one of rock’s true legends. They both stepped inside and stopped as the door shut gently behind them. Giles was listening intently. There were audible voices coming from the kitchen along the hallway, one of them was unmistakably Jose - Giles’ mum. The other voice was male but otherwise indistinguishable from behind the closed door.

“What should I say to him?” Giles asked Rudi.

“I dunno” Rudi shrugged in that way only fifteen year olds can. “Why don’t you just ask him to sign an album?”

“Good idea!” The frown lines on Giles’ forehead relaxed. “Let’s go and get one first” Giles said as he started to mount the stairs.

Rudi followed. As they marched upwards Rudi quietly cursed the fact that he didn’t also have a Led Zeppelin or even a Yardbirds album handy for Jimmy to sign. He thought about running the mile home to pick one up or, running the half mile in the other direction towards the town centre, to pick up an L.P. from Revolution Records his favourite record shop. Then he realized he probably didn’t have time to do all this. As they reached the top of the stairs Harriet appeared from out of her bedroom.

“Harriet, Jimmy Page is downstairs” Giles beamed expectantly.

“I know” said Harriet nonplussed.

Giles disappeared into his room to seek out a suitable Led Zeppelin LP.

“Hi Harriet” said Rudi “I’ve brought some clothes for you to look at”.

“Great!” smiled Harriet, “You’d better come in. Excuse the mess won’t you”.

The room looked immaculate compared to Rudi’s own bedroom that he grudgingly shared with his younger brother, and refreshingly feminine too. As the only girl amongst several brothers Harriet had the luxury of a whole room to herself.

…

A couple of minutes later Giles walked in holding a record.

“This jacket might work, with a hanky in the top pocket, but you’ll have to roll the sleeves up because they’ll be too long otherwise” Rudi was in the process of helping Harriet on with a 1950’s style second hand jacket he’s bought from a charity shop weeks earlier. It did look a bit odd over her convent school uniform though.

“Ha ha” Giles laughed “You look weird! That’s a men’s jacket”.

“Shut up Giles” snapped Harriet “What would you know about fashion?”

“I’ve got this album, Rudi” Giles showed Rudi the cover of Presence by Led Zeppelin “Will you come down with me and ask him to sign it?”

“Only if I get to keep it afterwards” smiled Rudi

“No bloody way!” Giles countered. “Harriet?” Giles looked at his younger sister entreatingly.

Harriet smiled “Are you too shy to ask him yourself Giles?” she teased.

“No, of course not” Giles answered unconvincingly.

“OK then we’ll come down with you for moral support” Rudi offered.

“Yes let’s” Harriet effused enthusiastically.

The three of them trundled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Giles’ mum was at the table and Jimmy Page sat opposite, they were drinking coffee from large brown mugs and chatting animatedly.

“Hi mummy” Harriet started “just going to make a coffee for Rudi.”

“Ok dear!" Harriet’s and Giles’ mum smiled at Rudi “Hello Rudi, how are you?”

“Hello Mrs. H., I’m very well thanks” Rudi smiled back and tried to sound as polite as possible.

“This is Jimmy” Mrs. H. gestured towards Jimmy Page “I’m doing some work restoring some of his Aleister Crowley paintings” She gestures with her other hand toward a painting on an easel in the corner featuring a demonic looking creature with what appears to be a giant red engorged penis.

“Hi Jimmy!” Rudi grinned inanely at the 'rock legend' and shook his hand.

It felt weird… Rudi didn’t have a clue what else to say, he was completely in awe of this man because of his colossal acclaim. The fingers of the hand he’d just shaken had plucked the solo on Stairway to Heaven possibly the most famous rock anthem since rock began. Hell for that matter this is the guy that practically invented 'Heavy Rock' single handedly, well dual handedly actually; he’d had to hold down the strings with his left hand too.

“This is Harriet, my lovely daughter and Giles one of my darling sons” Mrs. H. was continuing with the introductions.

“Hi” Harriet smiled sweetly at Jimmy and continued with making the coffee.

“Hello!” said Giles bounding over to shake the Rock legend’s hand, first sweeping his long curly ginger locks from hanging in his eyes. “Errrrm...I’m really pleased to meet you!”

“Giles has something he wants to ask you Jimmy” said Harriet with an impish grin, clearly enjoying herself by putting her older brother on the spot.

Giles started to blush slightly and produced Led Zeppelin’s Presence L.P. from behind his back. “Would you mind?” he asked hopefully.

“No of course not” laughed Jimmy “Presence eh! Good choice”.

Mrs. H. pushed a pen that was sitting on the table, towards Jimmy. “Thanks Jimmy” Mrs. H. laughed. “You’ve just made his year!”

“And mine” thought Rudi “and mine!...”

* Revolution Records, Windsor 1982 Copyright Mike Bennett's Photograph reproduced with gracious thanks.

London's Calling.

2008-06-30T23:11:00.045+02:00

I was the sanguine age of 23 when I moved the twenty three or so miles eastwards into Central London. The main reason for this was that I was working for a company at Mile End in East London which meant that every single working day I’d drive down the motorway and into London through the rush-hour traffic to get to my office for 8.30am, a journey of twenty five miles or so which took around 90 mins. Returning westwards at five 'o' clock each evening back to the far outer reaches of suburbia just beyond the M25 perimeter took 2 hours. So every weekday for the privilege of working in the big city I was spending roughly 3.5 hours in the car doing a fifty mile round trip.

At first the excitement of working in London offset the drag of the daily commute, after all I had a company jeep, company paid petrol, a great (self installed custom) car stereo and I enjoyed driving. However, pretty soon the novelty wore off and I found that those journeys began to become a great physical drain. Still living with my parents and enjoying the sizeable disposable income that the peppercorn rent I paid for my bed and board allowed me, I was loathe to make any dramatic changes, but fate and fortune were about to play their inevitable hand.

At the time my weekends consisted of drinking locally, until the pubs shut and then taking a car full of inebriated friends back into London where we’d dance all night at clubs such as the WAG club (Wardour Street, W1), which played mainly cool Soul and R&B or the Limelight (Located in an old Welsh Presbyterian Church on Shaftesbury Avenue just off Cambridge Circus) pumping out more contemporary 80’s dance and pop tunes. At around 4am we’d go for breakfast at the 24 hour Beigel Bake shop in Brick Lane or to one of the all-night cafés in and around Soho, Harry’s (19 Kingly St. W1) was a favourite, as was Rocky’s* (3 New Burlington St.) before I would drive everyone back home completely shattered and slip gratefully into a welcoming bed...quite often my own.

I had come to accept that both my working and social life seemed to revolve around Central London, so moving into the smoke finally became a priority. I calculated that what I lost in disposable income would be compensated for by the fact that my journey to the office would be much more pleasant and socially I'd be able to drink more from no longer having to drive everywhere. Helen, a friend with whom I would regularly find myself out clubbing, had already made the move up to town and she had a friend Gaynor who was also looking for permanent city central based accommodation. A colleague of Helen's knew of a place that had recently become available in Camden. Pretty soon the arrangements were made and I found myself moving in together with Gaynor to a two-bed council flat just off of the Euston Road in a quite lovely but unprepossessing little area called Somers Town.

Our tenure of this property was, however, not entirely above board; it was actually a council sub-let and the legitimate tenant from what we understood was serving some considerable time at her majesty’s pleasure. Now, not being ones to look a gift horse in the mouth and hugely impressed by the extremely cheap rent we decided that these trivial details would not deter us from enjoying our tenancy. Indeed neither would the generally run-down state of the property which would take more than just a lick of paint to put right nor the fact that the number on the door was ‘unlucky’ thirteen.

Over several weeks we started to settle in to our new abode and I found that Gaynor, a very pretty petite doe-eyed brunette around my age and from my home town, was a pleasure to live with. We started doing a few bits and pieces to make the place a little more comfortable and generally everything was going rather well. Until…one night at 3am I was awoken by someone pounding rather heavily on the door and shouting the name of the previous occupant through the letterbox. He was becoming more and more insistent despite my attempts to ignore him by putting a pillow over my head and trying to block out the sounds. Eventually, worried about him awakening the neighbours and Gaynor whose bedroom was on the other side of the living room, I dragged myself out of bed and toward the front door.

"Hello" I whispered through the front door glass "He doesn’t live here any more. Go away! Don’t you know what time it is?".

"Sorry" came the reply through the letterbox "I didn’t know that. Listen man I’m desperate! Can YOU hook me up maybe?".

"Hook you up?" I answered quizzically "With what?".

"You know... some 'aitch' " came the equally perplexing response.

"'H' what?" I said still half asleep.

“Some smack, skag, horse... 'H' ".

Suddenly my brain kicked into gear "Heroin" I said.

"Yeah dude of course. I’m hanging out here. I really need it, now! I’ll take whatever you’ve got, I’ve got the cash".

It all started to make sense; the guy that used to live at this flat was a heroin dealer. That’s why he was in prison…and that’s why we got the place so cheap.

"Sorry" I said "I haven’t got any 'H', that’s not what I do".

Eventually after some considerable effort I managed to persuade the junkie on the other side of the door that there really was no heroin inside the flat; that the previous occupant wouldn’t be back for a good length of time and that he should go elsewhere for his fix. I slunk back into bed and told Gaynor about it the next day. She’d fortunately slept through the whole episode.

I didn’t really think anymore about it until a couple of weeks later when it happened again, this time at a more reasonable hour. Having heard a knock I opened the door to what could only be described as a prostitute with pock marked ashen skin caked with make-up and a blackened tooth, in a very short skirt and halter top showing just a little too much cleavage. We went through exactly the same scenario as with the guy a couple of weeks before. She was disbelieving at first and even offered me sex if I could help her out. I of course declined her offer and had to be quite insistent before she also left the doorstep and went elsewhere.

The third time it happened it was in the early hours again and I’m not sure if it was the same guy as before or a different one because I didn’t answer the door. Again I covered my head with the pillow, trying to ignore his insistent pounding and waited until he’d gone. This was starting to become a nuisance…

A while later and Gaynor and I decided to have a ‘flat warming’ party the following weekend. We both invited several guests and were looking forward to entertaining for the first time in our new cool London pad. Around 2pm on Saturday, the day of the party, I went out to fetch some booze from the local supermarket leaving Gaynor to finish preparing party snacks and generally just getting the place ready for a party.

I got into my jeep and headed for the exit archway in the courtyard (which served as a car park for the block of flats). The courtyard was bounded by two archways either side of the square shaped block. These arches incorporated into the block were like medieval castle gatehouses, without the portcullises, through which one had to drive or walk to gain access to the street beyond. As I approached I was confronted by a man hopping up and down smack bang in the middle of the archway and clutching at his ankle as if he’d just injured it. This meant that I had to stop the jeep and wait for him to get out of my way. I duly stopped at the narrow exit and waited. At that precise moment the driver’s side door to my jeep was abrupty opened and an arm came in and removed the keys from the ignition before I even knew what was happening. The guy who, moments before, was hopping in agony and clutching his ankle had made a miraculous recovery and was also coming around towards the drivers door walking at a fair pace now. My adrenalin started pumping as the 'fight or flight' instincts took over and my initial impression was that I was being mugged for the jeep. The guy who’d faked an ankle injury was now standing at the open driver’s door with the guy who had my keys and he shoved an official looking badge, encased in embossed leather, into my face.

"Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad. Get out of the car, NOW!" he shouted.

I glanced at the badge which was no more than a millimeter from my nose. It looked authentic, but how would I know, I’d never seen one before. In the passenger door mirror, I now noticed another two guys approaching the jeep from behind. They looked like they meant business too. Well if they were mugging me then they’d certainly come mob handed! I stepped down out of the jeep and was immediately pushed against the side of the archway my hands forced aloft and my legs kicked apart, so that they could frisk me. "Ah hah" I thought "Muggers don’t frisk people".

I was told that they suspected me of being a dealer of ‘Class A’ drugs and that they had a warrant to search my premises, which they then showed me. It was in triplicate, a pink topsheet with green and blue carbon copies. They ripped off the blue copy and gave it to me to read. I was completely gob-smacked! I naturally protested my innocence and they looked at me with the skeptical eyes of men that had heard it all a million times before.

One of the ‘nice policemen’ got into the jeep, reversed it back to my parking space and started searching the interior. Meanwhile I was led back towards the flat on foot by the others. As we passed an unobtrusive dirty white transit van with mirrored back windows several more ‘nice policemen’ jumped out of the back and joined us. I now realized that the transit van had been parked there for several days and as the back windows faced our flat they must have had us under surveillance.

We reached the door to the flat, which I duly opened once my keys were returned to me. I was surrounded by eight or nine ‘nice policemen’ at this point whom I realised would be helping with the search. As we entered I was frog marched through to the lounge. Gaynor stuck her head out from the kitchen and started to greet the ‘nice policemen’ with a cheery "Hello, I’m Gaynor, how nice to meet you all!". She obviously thought that these were my party guests who had arrived early. One of the ‘nice policemen’ joined her in the kitchen and must have explained what was going on, because she emerged white faced and looking very concerned. She was ushered into her bedroom where they started to question her. All around us ‘nice policemen’ were starting to search the flat; opening cupboards and looking up the chimney all with the professional efficiency and resigned air of people who do this sort of thing every day. The ‘nice policeman’ that had stuck his badge in my face earlier took me into my bedroom to start interrogating me; it was becoming plain that he was the boss of this operation.

The first thing he asked me was if I had anything in the flat that I shouldn’t have. I replied that I did and that I would fetch it for him. I went into the lounge and reached into the basket sitting on the shelves, full of ‘extra long’ cigarette papers and an interesting little wooden container with a nice imprint of a familiar five leafed plant on it. I returned to my bedroom and opened the container in front of the ‘nice policeman’. My hands were shaking slightly, after all what I was about to hand over was still an illegal substance. I stuck my fingers into the small wooden container and pulled out a plastic bank bag of the type used for sorting coins. Inside the bag was a tiny piece of hashish the size of a pea. I handed this over to the ‘nice boss policeman’.

"I’m sorry I haven’t got more otherwise I’d skin one up!" I announced cheekily.

Inwardly I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t have a more significant amount of marijuana in the flat at that moment because I'd actually arranged for one of my party guests to bring a quantity from my hometown to the party later. Surreptitiously I breathed a huge sigh of relief at the fortuitousness of the timing.

The ‘nice boss policeman’ was not amused. It was becoming very obvious that there were no ‘Class A’ drugs in the flat and that whatever intelligence or observation they were working on was flawed. I remained overwhelmingly polite and good tempered explaining how I came to live there; who Gaynor was and answering all the other questions I was asked honestly and openly. Gaynor’s story obviously matched mine too, as I discovered when ‘nice boss policeman’ stepped out to confer with his colleague who had been interviewing her. It was becoming increasingly certain that this young pair of middle-class ‘kids’ were not and never had been part of a major hard drugs network. The other ‘nice policemen’ started joking around and visibly relaxed as the idea that I was not the suspect they were looking for became apparent. I asked them please not to make too much of a mess because I was having a big party later. One of the ‘nice policemen’ suggested maybe he and a couple of colleagues should pop back later that night. I really hoped they were joking, knowing that within a few hours the place would be heavy with the smell of marijuana and a few of my guests might be on somewhat stronger stimulants; plus the fact that my own ‘gear’ would be delivered later too.

It felt weird to have people going through all my personal stuff with a fine-toothed comb. Personal letters were read; the stash of porn at the bottom my underwear drawer eagerly perused and even the cornflakes in the kitchen emptied into a separate bowl, sifted through, and then replaced in the packet. I felt slightly violated. It must have felt much worse for poor Gaynor.

After little more than an hour the ordeal was over. The ‘nice boss policeman’ apologised for any inconvenience caused and the rest of the ‘nice policemen’ left cheerfully still making jokes about how I might just see them later. I wasn’t going to be charged for the pathetically small amount of dope in my possession and nearly everything in the flat was back in its normal place with no damage done. Gaynor and I were left standing looking at each other in a state of shock and incredulity.

Finally, having had the chance to go and fetch the booze unmolested, the party that evening went amazingly well. Although I felt a little disconcerted that the ‘nice policemen’ might make good on their promise to return later that evening, everything proceeded without a hitch. Gaynor and I neglegted to mention to the partygoers that ‘we’d been busted’ earlier in the day for fear of spreading the unease we already so tangibly felt. There were certainly enough soft drugs on the premises now to make it worth the ‘nice policemen’s’ while returning but we were thankful that the ‘half hinted at’ raid failed to materialise.

The next day once the party was over, whilst we were cleaning up the mess and through the haze of a hangover, I had my first chance to reflect on the significant events of the previous 24 hours.

"You know what really disappoints me the most" I said to Gaynor as we filled a couple of black bin liners with empty beer cans and the contents of several ashtrays.

"No" she said "What?".

I raised an ironic eyebrow.

"They forgot to give me my 'I’ve been busted' button badge!".

* sadly no longer open

Back to Earth With a Bump.

2008-05-30T16:16:00.024+02:00

It was my idea. I’d been living in Rotterdam for just over a year and my brother-in-law was coming over for a visit. I’d done some research about things we could do together whilst he was over and, apart from the usual tourist stuff available, I’d found out that it was possible on alternate Saturday mornings to either abseil or death slide from the Euromast. It worked out that the Saturday Brian would be here was an abseiling day, so I booked us in. Now I should point out here that I regularly enjoy doing crazy, adrenalin-pumping things and felt I had an advantage because at the tender age of twelve I’d actually done some abseiling.

It was at a Butlins holiday camp on a school excursion and I think the idea was that we took part in various activities as character and team building exercises. You know the sort of thing: swimming; canoeing; rafting; assault courses and also, of course, abseiling. At the time I remember we were abseiling down a wall especially built for the purpose which must have been about 10 meters high, which doesn’t sound like much, but to a twelve year old is extremely scary. I recall that at the first attempt I was totally petrified. The instructor had helped me get into position and all I had to do was lower myself gently over the edge so that my legs were perpendicular to the wall. Then it was just a case of walking down the wall whilst letting out the rope, it sounded simple. I stood on the edge of the wall with my back facing out clinging for dear life to the rope with ice white knuckles at a 45% angle to the ground which seemed to be so very, very far below. The instructor was encouraging me to let out some more rope so that I would then naturally adopt the correct position for abseiling down the wall. I kept looking down and was unable to function because of the fear pulsing through my veins. I remained hanging there, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The instructor continued gently trying to persuade me that everything would be OK. After a while my fears lessened to the point where I gingerly let out a little rope and my bottom lowered so that I was finally in the correct position to walk very slowly down the wall. It still took me several minutes to reach the base. However, upon reaching the safety of solid ground I found that my anxiety had evaporated, not only that but I was eager to do it again with a new found enthusiasm. I continued to do it many times that day each time my confidence growing to the point where eventually I was positively bouncing down the wall in three bounds like an SAS commando at the Iranian Embassy siege.

So actually I was relishing the prospect of abseiling the Euromast knowing that the secret was just to overcome your initial fears of actually leaning out perpendicular to the building. What I hadn’t thought over was that it had been twenty two years previously that I’d had my ONLY experience of abseiling and that it had been less than one tenth the height I was about to attempt.

My brother-in-law Brian arrived on the Friday evening, I picked him up from the airport and as usual we proceeded to get completely mashed showing little regard for what we were about to attempt the following morning. After very little sleep I awoke Brian early and following a hearty breakfast we drove to the Euromast for our appointment with destiny.

Arriving at the top of the Euromast we quickly signed the disclaimer forms stating that if one should die during this foolhardy attempt the only person that was to blame whatsoever would be oneself. The view from the observation platform was awesome and I was pleased to note that although there was some wind it was fairly light. We were given and quickly kitted up in a helmet and thick gloves. Now, keen to show absolutely no fear in front of Brian and remembering that the toughest part was the initial going over the edge, I started to clamber over the railing (the only thing between me and a sheer 110 meter drop) right next to the ropes which were already in place and firmly secured (I hoped) somewhere above us. I looked back at Brian and the instructor who both looked extremely startled by my actions.

“Wait!” shouted the instructor “First you need to put on a harness and then to be attached to the rope!”

“Oh yes of course” I replied trying desperately NOT to look down as I struggled back over the railing and attempting to sound nonchalant as if I did this every day.

Brian just laughed and shot me a look that said “Easy tiger!”

We got into our harnesses and were attached to the ropes via karabiners. Only then were we told by the instructor to go over the railing, which I did even more confidently than the first time and this time feeling slightly safer. Remembering once again that the difficult bit was getting in a perpendicular position I quickly lowered myself into the appropriate stance and looked over to see how Brian was getting on, making sure that I wasn’t tempted to look down at the 110 meter drop below us.

Brian seemed to be getting along fine; I was impressed considering that it was his first time. He was being encouraged by the instructor who was positioned on a rope between us. I turned back to concentrate on my own actions and started to walk down the first part of the mast from the observation deck. The technique certainly did seem to be coming back to me from when I was a frightened twelve year old and I confidently fed the rope through the karabiner as I eased myself slowly down. I was standing on plate glass and suddenly realized that I could see people staring back at me from the restaurant. How weird, I thought, to be eating breakfast whilst someone walks down the windows outside. This however proved to be the easy bit!

When you imagine the Euromast you must think of a large syringe and needle standing upright, 185 meters tall, with a marshmallow pushed over the needle (radio mast) and resting, a little over half way up, at the point where the needle meets the body of the syringe. The topside of that marshmallow is the observation platform that I had just left, and the body is the restaurant I was now staring into, watching diners gawping back at me whilst they masticated their ‘broodje ham kaas’s ‘ and slurped their coffee. Having easily and confidently worked my way down these huge windows I suddenly realized that what I now faced was a drop into effectively nothingness. There would no longer be anything solid to rest against. The last 100 meters I would be just suspended in an abyss, hanging free with nothing but the rope for support.

I waited at the bottom of the last glass window and looked to my left to see how Brian and the instructor were getting along, deciding sensibly that it was better to listen to the professional tell me how to do this tricky manoeuvre. Brian was coming down very well and had got the hang of it immediately. Soon they were both at the same level as me and I watched as the instructor showed us how to elegantly launch ourselves into the void from a rail which was conveniently placed, and went entirely around, the bottom of the aforementioned marshmallow.

I followed his example and took a leap of faith, to find myself suspended and spinning in mid-air. As I gently turned on the rope a breathtaking panoramic view of Rotterdam’s skyline, river and 'havens' (harbours) moved from left to right before my eyes, 360 degrees of awe inspiring vista...and there it is again...and again. I felt the breeze blowing in my face and heard the roar of the traffic below entering the Maas Tunnel. My arms started to ache as I realized how tightly I was holding onto the rope, every sinew of every muscle in my whole body was tensed. I conciously suppressed the urge to vomit as I spun around yet again and concentrated on controlling my racing heartbeats. I looked down at the spiralling 100 meter drop below, which was a really bad move. I tried NOT to imagine myself splatted on the pavement beneath like a stray glob of raspberry jam, falling from some giant piece of buttery toast. I tried to relax, and remember that if I let go nothing would happen. I would remain suspended and sitting cradled safely by my harness and would not move earthwards until I started to feed more rope through my karabiner. I was in control. However, my brain knowing that and my body knowing that were two different things. My hands continued to grip the rope steadfastly as if my very survival depended upon it, I flashed back to being a twelve year old with ice white knuckles petrified of the drop below. I dared to glance over to Brian and was pleased to note that he looked as terrified as I felt. He was also spinning gently in the breeze.

Once we'd stopped revolving the instructor started to speak bringing us both back to focus on the job in hand - i.e. getting down from here. He told us both to relax and remember that if we let go nothing would happen. He demonstrated the fact by completely relinquishing hold of his rope and leaning back in his harness until his body was almost completely prostrate and revolving slowly in the wind.

“Like this!” he showed us, smiling broadly.

I took every ounce of courage I possessed and gradually let go of my rope one hand at a time. My muscles relaxed a little and I started to enjoy the sensation of being suspended like a puppet high above the streets of Rotterdam. I let out an audible sigh of relief and heard something similar from Brian who had also started letting go of his rope. My muscles started to relax, and my breathing slowed as my body finally came to the realisation that I was actually not in any imminent danger of becoming a pavement pizza, squished, warm and sticky like fresh roadkill.

After this of course we got cocky.

The adrenalin was accompanied by testosterone and macho competitiveness kicked in. As we continued the innevitable descent, we carried on feeding more and more rope through our karabiners at a faster and faster pace. A race developed between us. We started to come down at a very rapid rate and finally the last twenty meters I was literally in freefall and touched the ground a fraction of a second before Brian, landing with both feet once again reassuringly on terra firma. We were both laughing uncontrollably, visibly high from the adrenalin rush and also, I think, very relieved to be down in one piece, with all our body parts still intact.

We spent the next couple of hours sitting in the sunshine on the grass in the nearby park watching others abseiling down the Euromast as the morning's events began to sink in to our hung over brains. We both agreed that it was an amazing feat and mutually congratulated ourselves for the achievement. I remember feeling that having done that, then nothing else would ever seem like quite such a challenge again. As the excess of hormones, adrenalin and other bodily chemicals subsided from our overworked bloodstreams and the muscle aches disappeared, a gentle peace descended and engulfed our very being, a calmness and oneness that only placing yourself in mortal danger can elicit. Nothing however could remove the stupid self satisfied grins that remained on our faces for the rest of that weekend!

Three Cheers for John Metcalfe.

2008-04-29T14:50:00.016+02:00

I’m about 14 years old, sitting in the library at school. It’s well past 4’o’clock and I should be well on my way home but I’m not. I’d like to be able to tell you that I’m busy studying in my spare time, but that wouldn’t be true. Although extremely bright I’m not one of nature’s swots. I’d like to think I’m ‘too cool for school’ but that’s most likely not true either. I’m probably holding a book in my hand for the sake of appearances but I’m unlikely to actually be reading it at this particular moment as there is too much going on in my head to concentrate. The stark truth is I’m hiding here. Adrian Farley has decided that he wants to fight with me and I’m here busy evading him. I know he’ll be looking for me and I really don’t want to fight him, so I’m avoiding him. It’s not that I’m scared. Well maybe I am a little scared…scared of pain certainly. It’s just that I’m really not into all that macho posturing to ‘prove’ myself. It all seems like too much hassle to me and someone always gets hurt…usually me! I’ve never been very competitive and I hate confrontation. I really just don’t want to fight him. I mean really what’s the point. I certainly don’t have anything to 'prove' and I don’t understand it.

At my last school I was bullied…for two reasons. Reason No.1 was that I was the brightest boy in the class and always came third in exams. Generally there were always the same two girls ahead of me…but I was always the brightest boy. Reason No.2 was that I was tall for my age, broad shouldered with blond hair, very easy to spot and single out, and although I was bigger than average I was definitely not aggressive, retiring rather than forceful, introverted rather than extroverted. This was obviously seen as challenge by some of the smaller but more aggressive lads who seemed to pick on me as a way of making them look bigger and more powerful.
So I was used to being set upon, often by several boys at once and usually after a class where the exam results were announced. They would corner me and knock me down, goading me for being too clever, all of them kicking me simultaneously as I curled up in a protective foetal position. I’d often come home covered in bruises, but I never told my parents why. My father would probably have urged me to fight back but I just didn’t want to risk it. It seemed to be easier to take the beating than to try to make a stand and possibly make it worse for myself.

Now, this school is a ‘boys only’ school and I’m unfortunately no longer able to say that I’m the brightest boy in the class. But still it seems any excuse is often good enough for the emergence of hostility from my peers. There is a tangible reek of testosterone in the air and if anything the absence of a female contingent means it’s even more brutal here. Pubescence provides an abundance of the aforementioned hormone and it seems boys will seek out many ways to express this sudden excess of masculinity. Sometimes rugby and football are just not enough to dampen the energy and enthusiasm of an overbearing adolescence.

So here I am again, cowering in the school library rather than going out to make a stand for myself. An older boy walks in. I know him only vaguely, he’s in the year above me, but he has a reputation that is legendary. His name is John Metcalfe. He’s a bit of a rogue, a ‘hard nut’, a larger than life character and he’s known for being tough. He is also notorious as a ‘bullshitter and teller of tall tales’, not just at my school but throughout the entire locality. I have no idea how he gained this status, but everyone around my age seems to know about it. It is commonplace for example if you think someone is telling a barefaced lie to rub your chin in a wistful manner as if stroking a long invisible goatee beard and counter them with ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ in a sarcastic tone.

Now the boy to whom this mega reputation pertains is standing in front of me having approached the table at which I’m sitting and I must confess to being a little in awe of him, if not trembling slightly from fear.

‘Wotcher doin’ ‘ere Somerlove?’ He enquires .

‘Er, reading!’ I tentatively supply an answer I hope won’t antagonise him.

‘Bollocks! You’re hiding from Farley aren’t you?’ His perspicacity is obviously as sharp as his reputation.

‘Ok, yes I am’ I look down at the desk shamefaced.

He pulls up a chair and sits opposite me.

‘You don’t want to be scared of Farley, he’s all front!’ he declares.

‘Do you think so?’ I look up at Metcalfe again.

We talk for a while about the whole sad, sorry situation, about me cowering in the library whilst Farley stalks the corridors and playgrounds searching for me. About how I really am quite a big lad and shouldn’t be scared of the likes of Farley. Metcalfe tells me I should stand up for myself.

'Sometimes in life you find you have to fight back and assert yourself' he explains, and then the one piece of information which has resonated throughout the rest of my life.

‘If you don’t make a stand now, the likes of Farley will dog you your whole life. You’ll be a doormat! Everyone will take advantage of you simply because they can.’ Metcalfe outlines the cold hard truth with a maturity and worldliness that belies his tender fifteen years on the planet.

I agree. At least, I have the foresightedness to see what he means. In my head I picture years and years of me running scared every time a confrontation raises its ugly head to greet me. I envisage a lifetime of cowering and trembling every time someone tries to assert themselves over me, with me backing down at the slightest opportunity. It's not an appetising prospect. I look up at Metcalfe entreatingly.

‘Look, if you go and fight Farley I’ll referee. OK?’ Metcalfe obligingly suggests. ‘The moment it looks like you’re going to get hurt I’ll stop the fight’

Hesitantly I agree, motivated by the images of a life spent fleeing from bullies still buzzing around my head.

Metcalfe and I leave the school library and go off in search of Farley. We find him and several of his cronies a little later waiting just outside the school entrance and Metcalfe explains to them that I agree to fight as long as he referees the contest. A location away from the school underneath a motorway bridge is deemed to be the best setting for the fight and we all nervously make our way there, Farley and his cronies are leading the way with Metcalfe and I bringing up the rear.

Metcalfe is covertly giving me fighting tips as we walk.

‘Go in really hard, don’t pussyfoot about. Let him know you mean business. That’ll scare him. He thinks you’ll be a walkover. Remember: maximum violence immediately. He won’t be expecting that. It’ll give you the element of surprise.’ He whispers nonchalantly so as not to arouse the suspicions of those ahead of us.

Once in place, Farley and I remove our ties and blazers. We then roll up our shirt sleeves and square up to one another whilst Metcalfe outlines the rules of engagement.

'No scratching; no biting; no gouging; no kicking and no hitting below the belt. Now shake hands and lets have a clean, fair fight.'

We grudgingly shake hands and then Metcalf stands between us, arms outstretched, holding us apart. He then takes a step back and motions for us to begin. I immediately lunge forward toward Farley and swing my fist as hard as I can in the direction of Farley’s face. Thud! It connects with Farley’s jaw and he collapses like a sack of potatoes, crumpling in a heap. I feel the sting of pain on my knuckles, and wince as they start to redden. Ouch! Farley stays down. Metcalfe starts counting. ‘1, 2, 3’ Farley groans in pain and clutches his jaw. ‘4, 5, 6,’ Farley looks back at me from the floor in utter disbelief…and with…what exactly is it I detect…perhaps the unmistakable glare of…wide eyed FEAR. Farley is suddenly afraid of ME? ‘7, 8, 9.’ Now I finally understand…in the monochrome world that Farley inhabits THIS is how you earn respect. Metcalfe reaches the end of his count and declares Farley ‘OUT!’. Metcalfe grabs my left wrist and raises my arm aloft declaring me to be the winner. Farley’s cronies gather around him on the floor and try to rouse him. He's bleeding from a cut lip and is slightly groggy. I step back completely amazed, hardly believing that the fight is over so quickly. Metcalfe just stands there grinning at me with a look of pride on his face.

That evening I walk home with a spring in my step. I feel completely different. I feel confident for the first time in my life and it feels good.

Farley doesn’t ever dare bother me again after that and once word has got around the school neither does anyone else. John Metcalfe nods to me everytime we pass in the corridor; I've earned his respect too.

Of course now I appreciate what an important moment that was in my life and what a debt I owe to the infamous John Metcalfe. For several years after that kids around the town would still stroke their imaginary goatees and utter the magical words ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ when feigning disbelief. I doubt most of them even knew who John Metcalfe was. It had become learned behaviour, just something you did when you thought someone was bullshitting. I never did discover how he actually earned that particular reputation. I remember, a couple of years after the events of that evening, reading in the local newspaper how he’d saved a young woman from getting assaulted and raped in a dark alley one evening, chasing off the girl’s assailant, and was being hailed as a local hero even getting a mention in our school assembly.

John Metcalfe will of course always have my eternal respect. If I met him today I would shake his hand heartily and thank him for the profound effect he has had on my life. He would almost certainly be completely unaware and I wonder whether he would even recollect that incident so long ago. I find it strange that this single moment should have so much significance for me, yet probably so little for him.

Naturally, nowadays I am nobody’s bitch. I have consistently asserted myself throughout my life thus far and have always taken the former option when the ‘fight or flight’ instinct has arisen. But I’d like to think that should I ever again feel the need to cower, hide or run away whilst vacillating tremulously I’d summon a degree of defiance by philosophically stroking an imaginary goatee beard and mumbling sarcastically under my breath ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’

Whale Shark!

2008-03-20T16:21:00.044+01:00

It’s April 2001, I’m sitting in a beach bar on a small Thai island in the Gulf of Siam. The sun is setting and the sky is a mosaic of colours: reds, blues, purples, oranges and yellows. The atmospheric conditions round here often conspire to paint such breathtaking sunsets, the like of which I’ve never seen anywhere else in the world.

I’m travelling with my friend Bruce enroute to see our mutual friend Paul in Auckland, New Zealand. It was my idea to make a short stop-over on Koh Tao; this will be my third visit to this little known ‘gemstone set in a sapphire sea’ since first discovering it in 1993. A true diver’s paradise, it is where I first learnt the veritable art of SCUBA and qualified for my PADI Open Water certification. We’d had to make a stop-over in Bangkok anyway and I really wanted Bruce to experience the delights that Koh Tao has to offer, plus I’d get to do some serious diving in one of my most favourite spots in the whole world. All this with the added bonus that now I had risen in the ranks and become a qualified Rescue Diver.

Problem is I hadn’t figured on Bruce putting his back out on our first night here. There we were sitting on the balcony outside his room, smoking the local Thai weed. We were sitting on the cheap sort of molded plastic garden chairs that are seemingly ubiquitous now. Bruce leans back on his chair to put his feet up on the balcony rail and then BANG! The back feet of the chair slip forward on the glossy tiled flooring and Bruce is lying flat on his back groaning in pain and can’t get up. Well, as soon as I’d stopped laughing hysterically (I’m sorry but I suffer terribly from schadenfreude!). I pulled him up and managed to get him onto the bed in his room.

The next day Bruce couldn’t walk because of his back pain, so I arranged for the local doctor to visit him and then get a masseuse sent to his room. I also had to put my own plans for diving on hold as I didn’t think it was fair for me to disappear all day whilst Bruce was in so much pain. This continued for the next few days and each day that passed my opportunities for diving grew less and less likely.

So now here I am sitting in a beach bar the evening before the day I have to leave this island, admiring the sunset. Tomorrow is my last chance to dive and, as Bruce is getting better and walking around fairly well now, I’ve booked a dive trip for the morning to Chumporn Pinnacle. I’m drinking beer with some of the people I’ll be diving with tomorrow and generally having pleasant conversation. ‘D’you know!’ I announce to the assembled divers ‘I have a feeling in my gut we’ll see a Whale Shark tomorrow’. ‘Yeah, yeah’ comes back the chortled retort from the skeptics amassed before me‘…and we’ll be ducking the flying pigs!’ ‘Nevertheless’ I say ‘you mark my words, my instincts are rarely wrong. Who wants another drink?’

Next morning we board the boat to take us out to Chumporn Pinnacle. It will be my third time diving at that particular spot over the years. Basically it’s a kind of underwater mountain with a very pointed top which lies a couple of metres below the surface. On the slopes of the mountain are coral gardens and beautiful underwater seascapes with multitudinous varieties and species of fish. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I listen intently to the dive briefing with the wind whistling past my face as we scud over the waves.

As soon as the boat comes to rest about 20 minutes later my ‘buddy’, for this dive only, (diving etiquette requires that you always dive as one of a pair so that you can watch over one another- you pair up together as ‘buddies’) Malcolm and I are already kitted up and keen to be the first in the water. Another boat has since arrived at the site and those divers are already starting to enter the water.

Malcolm takes a ‘giant stride’ off the boat holding his mask tightly in place with one hand and holding his gauges, second stage regulator and dangling straps tightly to his chest with the other. I follow, in exactly the same fashion, as soon as he’s clear of the boat. As I rise back towards the surface of the water after my plunge, surrounded by tiny air bubbles there is a shout from some of the divers already in the water from the second boat. ‘Whale Shark...WHALE SHARK!’

Malcolm looks at me and grins behind his mask, I grin inanely back from behind mine. I give the ‘thumbs down’ hand signal that we should descend. He signals ‘OK’ back with his first finger and thumb forming a circle and the other three fingers erect above it. We press the deflator button attached to our BCD (buoyancy control device) jackets and descend rapidly fins first. Visibility below the surface is great. About 20 meters before everything merges into a deep blue haze. To our left we see a group of four divers swimming rapidly towards a very large black shape still blurring in the blue haze. We head in that direction and the shape emerges from amongst the blue background, sharpening in focus gradually. My breathing quickens with the excitement and I consciously try to calm down to preserve my air and thus lengthen my dive. We swim closer to the Whale Shark and it comes into very sharp focus…

Wow! It’s magnificent! It’s really only a baby but still incredibly awesome to see at this proximity. We are no more than 2 meters away from it and can clearly see the Remora fish hitching a ride on its underside. It glides slowly past us, all 7 meters of it and then we are looking at its huge but slow and elegantly pumping tail. As I said: it’s a baby, these things are reputed to grow to about 18 meters in length. We chase it for a while surrounded by other divers who have also come to realize that this could be one of their greatest dives ever. I head it off as it turns gracefully following the contours of the underwater pinnacle and get a look at its huge mouth; almost 1 metre wide and specifically designed for filter feeding (krill etc.). I marvel at the near perfect matrix of white spots on its back, giving this ‘largest fish in the ocean’ its most distinctive markings. I reel off many, many photographs, some of which will come to grace the wall of my bathroom later and then after what seems like only a few minutes into the dive I glance at my air gauge. Shit! I’m down to about 50 bars already; I’ve been down here 25 minutes already. Moreover, all the excitement has made me use up my air much more quickly. I signal to Malcolm to check his air too. He signals back that he’s on 50 bars also….we really should have started heading for the surface 20 bars ago. I signal the ‘thumbs up’ to tell him we should ascend and he give’s me an ‘OK’ sign in affirmation.

We hang around for the required safety stop for 3 minutes at 5 meters depth and whilst I’m suspended there watching the other divers from 20 metres above, chasing the whale shark and snapping pictures, I start to grin to myself. I wish I could explain this to Malcolm right now but it’ll have to wait until we surface. I have this sudden notion of seeing things from the Whale Shark's viewpoint. Here he is surrounded by divers in awe of his size and power and strength and just the sheer spectacle of seeing an almost prehistoric creature up close and personal and they’re all thinking…Wow amazing. A real live Whale Shark!...and he’s thinking...Fuck me! Will you look at all those underwater swimming monkeys!

A Pivotal Moment.

2008-02-06T11:27:00.010+01:00

It had never happened to him before. He stood in shock looking at the burnt out shell of what once had been his lovely vintage car. ‘Bloody kids’ he thought, ‘Bored most probably, nothing better to do, little bastards!’.

‘Hadn’t you better ring the police?’ the ever sensible voice of his erstwhile girlfriend came from behind him. ‘Damn it!’ he mused ‘It was her fault he’d parked here in the first place’.

Four days previously he’d reluctantly left his lovely old vintage Merc here at this Car Pool car park next to Junction 23 of the A29 motorway near a place called Willemstad.
Having removed anything worth stealing and securing the car, he’d jumped into his girlfriends brand new Jaguar and vowed not to think about the treasured Merc until his return.

She had been supposed to be meeting him at his house, in which case he could have left the Merc safely on the drive at home. Instead she didn’t arrive at the predicted time, nor had she arrived half an hour later when he decided to ring her and find out where she was.

‘Hello’

‘Hello it’s me. Where are you? You must’ve got off the ferry a couple of hours ago.’

‘Er yeah I did, I’ve been following the Sat Nav and the traffic’s been really bad, it’s choc-a-block here’

‘Oh OK. I didn’t realize it was THAT bad. So, where are you now?’

‘Er….the A29’

‘What! Are you sure?’

‘That’s what it say’s on the sign……near a place called Willemstad’

‘But that’s miles away….down south! You are meant to be traveling north!’

‘Oh shit……I thought it was taking longer than usual. I think the Sat Nav’s playing up then’

‘Didn’t you realize the sun was on your right when it should have been on your left?’

‘No, but I thought it strange that I didn’t recognize any of these roads, I thought the Sat Nav was diverting me to avoid the traffic though’

‘Stupid bitch!’ he thought. ‘She’d traveled the journey from the ferry port to his houseboat at least ten times, twice when she’d driven herself.’

‘Do you want me to turn around then?’ she asked, snapping him back to the current dilemma.

‘No!’ he exclaimed ‘Stay exactly where you are, I’ll come and find you. I’ll be a couple of hours though, turn off at the next junction and park up!’

It was already gone 10pm when he eventually found her. They’d decided that it would be better to leave the Merc there at the Car Pool parking spot and travel on to France in the Jag. Now it was four days later, the sojourn in France lay behind them, and his nicely relaxed muscles were again beginning to tighten at the sight of his burnt out Merc being loaded onto the back of a tow truck from the local scrap dealer.

As if finding the car in that state wasn’t bad enough, the local police had told him he’d have to pay for the car to be scrapped and to get the debris cleared up too. He’d followed the tow truck back to the scrap yard to sign the necessary paperwork, and then persuaded his girlfriend to give him a lift to Schiphol Airport so that he could hire a car to get to his office the next day. She was worried that it might cause her to miss the ferry back to the UK, but was feeling guilty about the wrecked Merc too, so it didn’t take him long to persuade her to drop him at Schiphol. In any event she didn’t miss the ferry.

However, in retrospect, now that he thinks about it with the benefit of hindsight. It was definitely at that precise point that he decided the relationship between them was over. It was really the last in a long line of incidents where her general incompetence and ineptitude had caused him to lose something of value. Not always material value either, in this case it was certainly the sentimental value which mattered more to him anyway, but there was always something of worth involved.

It was the last straw as far as he was concerned, time to cut his losses and move on. His association with her was proving to be more destructive than it was fruitful and THAT was the key issue. 2006 lay ahead of him shimmering with promise, and from deep within he felt that, with a little focus in the right places, this really could be HIS year……

Recollections...

2008-01-09T15:33:00.011+01:00

When I was eighteen I hitch-hiked alone from London to Port Grimaud (near to St. Tropez) in France. It was 1983, Punk was officially dead and the New Romantics were already in their death throes. I thought I looked so cool in my tan moccasins (no socks); faded blue denim dungarees (rolled up 3 inches above the ankle); light brown leather jerkin (no shirt); loosely knotted red neckerchief and navy blue beret (at a jaunty angle, of course!). Dexy's Midnight Runners were 'where it was at' for me that summer. The Celtic Soul Brothers were on the rise... ever so briefly anyway!

Why Port Grimaud? I'd been there a couple of years previously with a friend and his family and thoroughly enjoyed myself. So it was a safe, familiar and certain destination. I'd never hitch-hiked before and in those days it wasn't even thought of as a dangerous way to travel. Having walked the mile to the nearest motorway junction. I found it relatively easy to get my first lift, waving a tattered piece of corrugated cardboard with the legend DOVER scrawled in thick black marker.

Three uneventful lifts later, and before I knew it, I'd left the comforting familiarity of Blighty behind and I was a foot passenger on a ferry to Boulogne and looking forward to my journey, the whole of France stretched out before me. It felt like a rite of passage, and in many ways I think it was. I was learning to be independent, breaking away from my mother’s apron strings. I stood proudly on the deck surveying the coastline ahead, squinting in the bright sunshine contemplating the adventures that may lay ahead of me, and puffing contentedly on a fat 'roll-up' made from Old Holborn tobacco.

Getting lifts once on French soil proved to be difficult. I managed to get a ride toward Paris from Boulogne fairly quickly with an English couple on holiday, but soon realised it wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. After Paris and heading south it became much harder, the time I would have to wait between journeys became longer and longer and I would find myself doing much more hiking than hitching. I'd already met a few other hitch-hikers along the way, of differing nationalities, and many told me that France was by far the most difficult country in Europe to 'faire de l'auto-stop' (hitch-hike).

I soon found out that just being English was a liability in France. I'd get offered lifts by people and we'd start driving along, all smiles and polite questions, then they'd ask me where I was from. The answer to this question often changed the atmosphere completely. Once I confirmed that I was 'Anglais' (English) my ride would often suddenly come prematurely to an end, "this is as far as I'm going" they'd explain apologetically giving me the Gallic shrug. Then I'd end up stuck in the middle of nowhere, trying to get my next ride.

It was after one of these occasions when I found myself stuck in a lonely spot for many hours. The road was bordered on both sides by maize fields, I'd been walking all morning and the scenery hadn't changed. Cars had appeared once every 15 minutes if I was lucky, and were usually going in the wrong direction. I'd been singing to myself out loud to keep my spirits up and as the day ground monotonously on I'd started talking to myself too. I had the distinct impression that I might be going slightly mad. One thing was for sure I had to get away from this place, back to somewhere that had a busier road and much more frequent traffic.

The blue Mercedes that pulled up came as both a surprise and a relief, I was a little dubious at first because I'd noticed this very same car driving past me going the other way not 5 minutes before. The single male occupant got out and motioned for me to put my heavy kitbag into the boot, which I did before opening the passenger door and slipping into the shiny tan leather seat. My initial concerns quickly set aside in the knowledge that I'd soon be escaping this godforsaken backwater.

We set off driving at a leisurely pace, whilst I answered the usual questions. I'd decided to tell people I was Irish, which is partly true because almost half of my antecedents actually were. But this seemed to get a much better reception from the French than when I said I was English, my lifts lasted longer and the atmosphere was always much more cordial.

The driver was Middle-Eastern in appearance, maybe Algerian or Moroccan and he spoke French with a very strong guttural accent, to the point where I found it difficult to understand him. He was fortyish and of average build and when he smiled I could see the flash of several gold teeth, glistening in the late afternoon sun.

He asked me where I was eventually headed to and when I told him St. Tropez he offered to drive me all the way there, even though we were still several hundred kilometers away. I said it was kind of him to offer but that it must be well out of his way and a lift to the next town would be more than generous enough. 'It's not a problem for me' he said and took his hand off the gear stick to pat my knee, whilst he again smiled his Aladdin’s cave smile. Of course I was still young and relatively innocent; I quickly dismissed the doubts arising in my mind. He's just being friendly, I convinced myself, and it’s probably just a cultural thing.

After a while he turned the radio on, Arabic music drifted from the speakers and we drove on for several kilometers. I looked out of the window at the French scenery rolling by, villages, churches, and cornfields. Then he softly patted my knee again, I looked down just as he grabbed my left wrist and pulled it toward his lap. I glanced over to where he was pulling my wrist and saw that he'd undone his trousers and unzipped his flies. The sight that greeted me was his erect penis poking through the cloth of his trousers and he was desperately trying to put my hand on it. I pulled my hand away quickly. What are you doing I exclaimed in broken and very surprised French. He spluttered, whilst readjusting his clothing, about how he thought that if he would be kind enough to take me to St. Tropez then the least I could do was comply with his wishes. 'No way!' I said suddenly realising at that precise moment that what he'd actually been proposing earlier; and what I'd misunderstood due to his thick accent and just nodded politely in agreement; was evidently "a ride for a ride".

'Stop the car!' I screamed 'I want to get out'. We pulled over to the side of the road and I went to open the door. Then I realised that my bag was in the boot and if I got out the guy would most likely just drive off taking all my belongings with him. 'Get my bag first' I yelled somewhat panic stricken. The guy turned off the engine got out of his seat and, still adjusting his trousers, opened the boot. I ran around the back and hauled my kitbag out. The guy just shrugged, got back in the Merc and drove away leaving me at the side of the road kitbag in hand, breathing hard with my heart racing. 'Welcome to France!' I thought 'Welcome to bloody France...'