Reject is available to buy on large format from lulu.com priced £4.99
Contact me at Ianduquemin@hotmail.com

                        
                     Reject

''I wanna be a drunk... But I'm just not good enough.  

Fuelled and fooled by expensive cheap red wine, my insides have a party.

There’s an orchestra playing in my heart. Hmm... But there's a blues band in my head... And all the drinks are free to them.

I wish I could get in... But my names not on the guest list... And I'm banned anyway.''  - Poetry excerpts from: Heading for the Target of Insanity - by Tyla

                      

                                     

                          Foreword - Before We Begin

      It has been six years since I decided to write down my life story. Well... If you can call it that. Scribbling and jotting down memories over a period of time. Trying to put them in some kind of order, like a fucked up jigsaw puzzle with no picture to copy from. Just a head full of flickering images and stills, stored in the back of one’s mind. This puzzle had pieces missing, and some did not seem to want to fit. These mis-shaped pieces shouldn't be in any person’s life, but they were in mine, so I made them fit. Hopefully, managed to tell this story the way that it was. No bullshit. Nothing hidden. No lies. I wanted this to be real, and from the heart. I wanted you to experience what it felt like to be a hurt child. To cry their tears, and feel their pain. I wanted you to know what it was like to carry a life full of misery and anger on your shoulders. To feel the destruction that it can sometimes bring. I also wanted you to taste what it was like to be free, and to celebrate and rejoice, in something as natural as life. I haven’t read it since putting it all down on paper. To be honest, it seemed a little pathetic...  A whole life on such a small amount of paper. The idea of scribbling it all down was to expel old demons, and to exorcise ghosts of my past. It seemed to do the job, clearing my head of nightmares that were filling up my mind, and cluttering it with memories I no longer had any use for... And of course, didn’t really want. I was getting claustrophobic in my own mind, and needed a clear out. When I had finished, I let a few of my closest friends read it, just to see what they thought. What I wrote was very personal, with stories I hadn’t even told my dearest friends and family. But it was something I felt I had to do at the time. I was a little apprehensive of the response it would get, but I was happy that they all said it was good. It brought a variety of opinions. Some thought it interesting. Others  found it disturbing. While some felt sorry for me, although this was never an issue to me. My story was not, and was never meant to be an ''Oh, woe is me!'' or self pity story like most books out there on this kind of subject. At the end of the day, it all boils down to one thing. As the saying goes, "Life is a box of chocolates" I just happened to be the coffee one. The one that everybody hates and spits out, or leaves in the box to be thrown in the bin. What I wrote was the truth and all I knew. If you never had a “Normal” childhood, and didn’t know anything different, then you had to accept the cards you were dealt. I may have looked upon other children with a kind of envy, wishing that I could be loved... But doesn’t every child deserve that? When I was a little boy, I would pour myself a bowl of Shreddies for breakfast. To anyone else, this would be nothing unusual, or special, just a bowl of little square pieces of cereals... But to me, this was a big deal. I was looking for the ones that were joined together (you know the ones I mean!) So I could secretly snap them apart under the table and make my wish. My wish would always be the same, that somebody would love me. As ridiculous as this may sound, it brought me a little hope. And when you haven’t got love, hope can go a long way. If you are (or were) one of the unfortunate ones that were born into this life, and then thrown away like an unwanted toy, you just had to get on with it. And when love did come your way, cherish it while you had it... Which usually wasn’t for very long.

          Since writing my book six years ago, I wonder how many children have been neglected, abused and even killed by the people who brought them into this world. How many have sunk so deep into despair, that they have taken their own lives? Hundreds? Probably thousands. Nothing has changed, baby P is of course a prime example of the extreme abuse right now that still carries on today. But there are many others. It could be your next door neighbour’s children! It is all so hush- hush “Nothing to do with me”, “I’m not getting involved” or just not your problem. If you suspect a child is being abused in any way “Fucking do something about it!” Before the damage is beyond repair. Stop it... Before that child has to spend a life-time in misery, all because you couldn’t be bothered. If you are heartless enough to be able to close your eyes to any form of child cruelty, then that does make you partly responsible. It may not be your concern or you causing the abuse, but you could have stopped it with a simple phone call... And saved a lot of heartache and hurt.
  

      My book has been thrown in the back of my van for years now. Dishevelled, and not looking too good to say the least. It is covered in oil and not helping anyone like I had intended it to do. It is still there as I am writing this foreword, and hasn’t been looked at since I wrote it. So, I am going to go dig it out and read through what I wrote all those years ago. I am a little apprehensive myself to tell you the truth. I am no writer, I am your friend. Not an author, merely a narrator of what was. Told as it was... In your face… No strings… No holes bared, and from the heart (and mind).  I wrote how I felt at the time. So if it’s shocking, disturbing or depressing... fuck it! That’s how it was… That was all I knew, and fucked up was normal to me.

      In the six years since I scribbled with a pencil on paper and jotted down my memoirs and adventures, a lot has changed in my life... Some good. Some bad. And some absolutely crap. But that’s life, and how quickly it flies by.

     After I read back my story and recall what I wrote with a fresher, healthier state of mind I will get back to you, and tell you how I felt after reading it again. I will also tell you of the changes... If you really want to hear them that is? The good ones. The bad ones. And even the absolutely crap ones. If it helps anyone out there, then it will all be worth it.

     So, let’s get started. I am now going to put down my pencil, go to my van, and dig out my oily, tatty little book. And read the story that I once dared to write ..... Reject.

    

Talk to you later

                                     
                                         

                         Chapter one - Born to Lose           

           It should have been a good year. The Beatles released their album “Meet the Beatles” in the USA and went on to conquer the US charts. The Rolling Stones arrived in the USA on their first American tour, and took it by storm. Martin Luther King Jr. was awarded the Nobel peace prize. The Ford Mustang was unveiled to the public. And Bob Dylan released 'The times, they are a-changin'... and they certainly were. The year was1964 and on March 22^nd of that exciting year, Ian Paul Duquemin is born. I am a scrawny little boy with big blue eyes, and of all the places in the world that I could have been born... Guernsey is my home. Guernsey is a little island between England and France. A beautiful island surrounded with the whitest sandy beaches and crystal clear sea. A haven for the rich, but a prison to the poor. Occupied by Germany during the Second World War, Guernsey has a history that has been written about in hundreds of books. At this period of time, only nineteen years after the war had ended, this little island really was a jewel in the channel waters.

     My house is on an estate named Mahaut Gardens on Collings Road, St. Peter Port. I have two older brothers and a sister. Being so young I can only tell you of stories that have been handed down to me… I remember being there though, and I do have a few memories of my own; even though I was only an infant, they are still clear in my mind. I still had the innocence of not knowing that my father was a scary, brute of a man. Feared by some, and ridiculed by others. A giant of a man, built like a brick shit house and also smelling like one as I remember; his Teddy boy clothing scented with piss and sweat. I was born to the sounds of Elvis Presley and rock n’ roll. My father being a big fan of the king. I would inherit his passion for music. It was in my blood from birth, and would bop through my veins to the beat of my heart throughout my life... but more about that later. My father did not drink or smoke, and he walked everywhere... so how did he get so fat? He spoke quite gently, was fairly intelligent, and had the loudest laugh in the world... So how could he have been so angry inside? Not being a drinker makes him a worse dad than if he had drunk, it would have at least given him an excuse for his actions, and for the way that he would treat his children. He could have at least blamed it on the fact that he was pissed; not that that is any excuse for hurting your children, but at least it’s a feasible explanation... But nothing! If I could ask him any question it would be why? What did we do that was so very wrong that you could destroy the lives of innocent children? How could any parent not want to protect and smother their children with love and affection? I don’t know if I would have liked or understood the answer if he’d had given one, but spending my life not having that answer… No excuse… Whether bullshit or truth. I have not been able to forgive him for his actions. Maybe I could have forgiven him… Or at least tried to understand why he did what he did... But not even an apology!

     My Mother is a simple woman, almost child-like with long dark hair. Not strong enough to stand up for herself, let alone against the power of such a big husband. The man who, as she told me in later years, made her do things I could never repeat. Disturbing stories still sometimes occasionally slip out from her mind in conversation. Disgusting stories that she tells me so innocently some forty years later. She doesn't need to give me any apologies for her neglect. I understand that there was nothing she could have done about it. Nowadays, I can see the love in her eyes when she looks into mine. She is proud of her son... And that is all that I ask of her. She is a very funny lady with an infectious laugh, and a beautiful smile. But locked inside her, is a lost little girl that doesn’t understand life. She doesn’t understand where the years have gone, and often remarks on her youth like it were yesterday. She wants to go back there, but of course you can’t. She doesn’t like being old, because when a little girl looks into a mirror and see’s an old lady looking back at herself... That must be very frightening. And deep down, that is exactly what she is... A frightened little girl.

     In the swinging sixties, dance halls and cinema's were the places to go... The in-things to do. So I was often left alone in my bug ridden cot for the night, with a large chunk of cake to keep me quiet and entertained; I guess there were no thoughts of the fact that I could have choked to death. I vaguely remember this, but the story was in later years confirmed by my Gran (My dad’s mother, I didn’t know my mother’s parents or family) The story was told in her usual joking, comical manner. We would sometimes visit this funny old lady who would call her son Jack, although this was not his real name at all... Maybe it had something to do with Ripper! I don’t know. I never knew why she called him Jack. Her house was a typical grannies house, filled with knick-knacks and photographs. We were given tea and biscuits when we visited, and even today I still leave a mouthful of tea in the bottom of my cup, as on one of these visits I drank it all down, and nearly choked on throat full of tea leaves that were used in those days. Above her fire place was a large framed photograph (black and white of course) of a very handsome man. My dad’s brother was nothing like him. This man was slim and gentle looking, a very cool looking guy with his greased back hair sat on his large motorcycle. He had died in a terrible accident along the coastal road known as 'The Front' by the locals, maybe on that very bike that he sat so proudly on in the picture. I never knew my Uncle Robert... I wonder if he would have been a nice Uncle? I wonder if he would have had the nerve to stand up to his brother? Would he have protected us? Loved us? Or just been there for his nephews and niece. Also in this house lived my Aunty Betty, my dad’s younger sister. And an old man I knew nothing about, he just lived there, permanently sat by the fire in a tatty armchair that he never seemed to leave.

     Of my start in life at Collings road estate, the memories I do have were not very happy ones. I remember one Christmas for instance, not for the joyful happy family holiday, but for a certain present I was given; an action man sailor. I loved this present, I don’t know why, but I did. The writing on his back said 1964, so he was born in the same year as me. He became my best friend, and I played with him for the whole day… The next day he was gone A.W.O.L. Probably sold to somebody, or returned to the shop for a refund, I guess that was good cinema money wasted. But that little plastic man in his navel uniform gave me my first ambition in life, and from that day, I wanted to be a sailor in the navy.

      I also remember a funny time when my dad made a go-cart for someone in the back shed... You know the kind!; a plank of wood with the big old pram wheels from that time, and the long rope handle attached to them to hold onto and steer. He had spent ages building this thing, but when it was finished it was too big to get out of the shed, so it had been taken apart in a temper, and then rebuilt outside. We had a lot of panes of glass lying around the house. Being from an island that produced the famous Guernsey tomato, the island was full of greenhouses, and panes of glass were easily available. I remember my dad’s hobby, and it was something I actually took an interest in. He painted pictures on the glass, Elvis I remember, being the most popular. He placed the glass over a picture from a magazine and painted over it, leaving the image on the pane when finished. They were very good, and once dry, he would sell them... Which must have been a money earner, as I remember him doing this a lot.

     The only memory I have of my brothers and sister being in the same house, was on a certain hair wash day, over the sink (or possibly a bowl) in the kitchen. For some reason or other, I didn't want my hair washed, and like any loving father, he decided to teach me a lesson for my defiance. I was roughly and easily picked up, and my head was pushed under the dirty water... And held under… Not for just a few seconds, but for what seemed like an eternity. I struggled to get my head out… My legs kicking at thin air, searching for anything that I could push against to help me get my head out of the suffocating water, but I was just fighting a losing battle… His strength was way beyond my feeble attempt at fighting back. I don’t know if he was really going to drown me or if he did intend to release me, but luckily my oldest brother Francis saw the danger, and had the nerve to jump on daddy’s back, only to be thrown aside and punched for his heroic efforts. Whist my brother was getting hurt, it gave me the opportunity to breathe in air instead of dirty water; I drew it into my lungs in desperate agonising breaths… My soaked hair dripping water down my skinny chest which was panting frantically as I tried to regain my breath. What happened following that I cannot remember, in fact that is about all I can remember about my first few years living with my parents. But sometimes I get little flashbacks that have become my missing puzzle pieces. I just find a piece out of the blue occasionally, and I know I have many more to find before I can be at peace with myself. There is still so much missing, but gradually, and piece by piece, my life is becoming complete. When my mind releases a part, it is usually a deformed mis-shaped piece that doesn’t want to slot into a place in my life, and I don’t want to add it, but I know now that I have to, so that I can progress; for instance, one day from out of nowhere, I had a vague memory of being dragged down the stairs by my feet. For what purpose I do not know, but my head was hitting every stair on my descent, and the large hands and grip of someone very strong yanking at my ankles. This memory was short, but very painful. Not because of the impact of my head on the stairs, but because I don’t remember who was doing this to me, or why! But most disturbingly, I don’t remember what happened next! This was something that came back to me years later as an adult; The mind does like to play little games with you sometimes, like... Remember this? Bam! ”Fuck! Where did that come from? I remember that!” This can be a very worrying scenario of course and a little scary. What else is in there locked away and hidden that could suddenly and out of the blue be re-shown like an old movie in your head. My Father would intimidate and degrade me many times in my life, and as strongly and vividly that I can remember those times... They never have an ending. My brain has edited much out, and maybe I will never know the full story… Which means this story will never be completed, and my puzzle will never be fully made.

      In later years as a teenager, I wrote a song; I wrote many actually. I loved to just jot down what comes into my head, rhyming words together in songs and poems. But this one in particular had a verse that meant something to me, it went like this "Hush little baby, don’t you cry, 'cause daddy doesn't care, if you live or die". I don’t know where this came from, but maybe it was something told to me once, or maybe it was a distant feeling that I once had a long time ago.

     That’s about it! Not much of a start to life but still alive. I have no memories of feeling like a loved little boy, or anything special for that matter. And every child should feel loved and special. I cannot remember once actually playing with my brothers or sister. I cannot remember one happy birthday or one single hug. What you have just read is all that I know. Stories of child pornographic photos and films for sale, yours truly the star, would come to light years later. Whether true or not, I may never know. But one day, I may see for myself... If my mind feels it needs to fuck me up even more than I already am, by re-showing me the missing pieces of my pathetic, miserable childhood.

                           Chapter Two – Into Care

       I do not know the exact reasons why I was put into care. I do not even remember being taken from my family and home. The child care system in Guernsey in the sixties was far from caring, and the children’s homes were filled with many abused and troubled children that were placed together in quite a large quantity for a small island. The younger children were sent to a large house named Swissville. Swissville was (and I think it still is) a nursery for small children. I don’t remember going in there, and I don’t remember leaving. I do however have a few memories of being in there. The thing that I remember the most is that it was safe, from whom or what I did not know. Surrounded by extremely high walls and a large fenced in garden, we were locked in like orphans. It was a very secure building and has not changed in forty odd years. I pass it regularly nowadays, and it looks exactly the same. Looking at it now through adult eyes, it must have been a scary looking house for a young child. With its tall stone walls that kept out the boogie man, or anyone else that wanted to hurt us. I have not entered the building in more than forty years but if the inside is still the same and unchanged like the outside, I think I could show you the dormitory of cots and still find the bathroom that I remember vividly. I can remember the high baths, and if I close my eyes and think back to those days, all those many years ago, I can remember other children in the water with me; the high baths were so the nurses would not have to bend over to wash the many infants. In this big house my sister Lynne and my second oldest brother Steven were with me… Again, I do not remember one time that we played together here... Yet I remember the building like I was in it yesterday. My oldest brother Francis, who had once possibly saved me from being drowned, had gone. I would not see him for many years. Being the eldest, Francis had been allowed to live with our Gran, and was never put into the children boards care. This was the first break in our family, and a major one as far as I am concerned. To this day I still do not know my big brother very well. When we are together nowadays, I can see myself in him. We look like each other, and we are similar in many ways. But there is always an uncomfortable feeling between us. I love him dearly, but I do not know him. I cannot put it into words of easy meaning, and it is a very hard thing to try to explain, but by not knowing your own brother, is like not knowing a part of yourself. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it is the best explanation I can give. I idolized Francis in my youth. With his rebellious good looks and attitude, I wanted to be like him when I grew up. Francis had a broken nose that our father had given him. In later years he told me the story of how it got broken in detail, and why his dad had done it. Our dad had been in prison, and on this particular day had been released. Francis had been hit by some school bullies on his way home from school, he had been crying due to the beating he had just received, and entered his home with tears still running down his face. His dad was sat in the lounge when he entered, and without even saying "Hello" He got up, and escorted him into the hallway... Then head butted his son in the face. Francis was then told by his father never to cry in front of him again… And he never did. Francis once told me in our later years that we were the lucky ones being put in the children’s home. That actually made me very angry at the time, but I had never thought of it from his point of view. I'd always thought that he was the lucky one. He had had his freedom. But he, as he later told me, didn't have his brothers and sister... He was alone "Getting a board game for Christmas wasn't much fun when you had no one to play it with" he had told me, and of course, he still had his father. I guess he was right, maybe freedom wasn't so sweet after all in those days. Our dad’s times in and out of prison (which was often), gave him some space. And I hope that he did have some youth to enjoy.

       Like I have already said, I don’t remember leaving that safe house. I didn’t know why I was in there, or what I had done that was so wrong that I was put into care in the first place. Whatever I did to be thrown into my next home must have been very bad… Because here, was where all the bad children lived. My next home would be a completely different environment. And my next home, I would come to remember vividly. As this place was hell itself. It would leave scars... Deep scars.

                      Chapter Three – Greenfields

‘I wish I was someone else
I'm confused, I'm afraid, I hate the loneliness
And there's nowhere to run to
Nothing makes any sense, but I still try my hardest’. 
Words by the Ramones - Something To Believe In.

      Greenfields Children's Home. This hell hole was to be my home twice. Firstly in my youth, and then later on in my teenage years. As a five year old boy, this was a very scary place indeed. The enormous building was full of children and troublesome teenagers. I wasn’t only scared; but it would be here where I would be bullied by child, and adult. And in this hell hole, I would become a closed, confused, and very disturbed little boy. Here, abused children were placed with borstal boys and thugs.

      The first thing I remember about Greenfields was being stripped down naked. I was then painted from head to foot in a black smelly substance. This was to get rid of any bugs or lice. I can still smell that stuff to this day, just by thinking about it.

      The strict regime of punishment, discipline and order was almost military, which I found terrifying. The home was run by the Head Master, Who was very much like Mr Bumble in Oliver Twist, only skinny and old. This frightening man (An ex policeman I have been told) Would loom over you with his cane at the ready. He was in charge, and everybody knew it. It would not be long before an adult would be hurting me again. Was it always going to be like this?

     Greenfields was a very large building full of corridors and rooms, and of course children. The boy’s dormitory was a long cold corrugated iron roofed bedroom with a row of beds on each side. Maybe fifteen or twenty lined up like an army barracks. As you walked through the double swinging doors, my bed was the first on the right, next to the white washed wall. At the other end of the very long room was another door to another room, which was where the older boys slept. One of these older boys took an instant disliking to me, probably because I didn't talk and I was a skinny little runt. Basically, I was an easy target, and as with all bullies, I was considered way too small, quiet, and weak to be of any challenge to him. So I became his punch bag, his little play thing. He would regularly give me a dig in the stomach here, and a slap across the head there. I would cry myself to sleep most nights under my starched sheet and rough blanket. Occasionally I would be caught by a nurse (as we called them) on her nightly patrol. When asked what all the fuss was about, I would lie for fear of occurrences, and tell her I had a stomach ache or a head ache (which of course I did, after being hit in those regions so many times. I would then be given some revolting medicine that made me feel even worse.

      If it had been a good day, my bully would have caught himself a nice full jar of cockroaches. These were readily available in this cockroach infested hotel. After the lights had been turned off and the nurse had left the room, my bully would be ready to creep out into the dormitory, and although it was great fun for him and his friends, what he had planned for me was horrific to say the least. He had enormous fun, and pleasure, visiting me in the dark night, lifting my blanket, and tipping the cockroaches all over me while I was asleep. I would leap out of bed in a frenzy to the sniggers of laughter as the door at the end of the room quietly closed. Left brushing the cockroaches off my body and hair with my pancake thin pillow, and then lay awake curled into a ball, on guard, in case he returned.

     Every following day at Greenfields would be the same as every other. The same routine. Line up, have a wash. Line up, get your food. Line up, stand at your table. Say grace aloud and all together. All sit, and then eat in silence. After eating we would all gather around the piano at the end of the dining hall to sing hymns, as the Head Master banged away on the keys, cane by his side, and ready for anyone who dare make fun of the lord’s tunes.

     The only fun I remember ever happening would be in the un-heated outdoor swimming pools. One large, one small; This is where I learnt to swim the hard way, by being thrown in the deep end. We also had a large playing field which was surrounded by a wall. At the far end of the field was a locked gate, which to me was the end of the world. I would sometimes sit by this gate, and wonder what it must be like out there... To be free.

     We had a tuck shop where we could spend our pocket money. You could buy sweets which you would quickly eat, before somebody else took them from you.

      The games I can remember the children playing in the field were either football, or on the large rocking boat. The rocking boat was a long plank of wood attached to a rusty frame by two bars on each side. The plank had half a dozen or so handles on it, and you would sit between these handles gripping on tight. Five or six children would sit on this plank, holding their little handle between their legs, rocking gently back and forth. This would be nice, until the bigger boys jumped on. One would stand on each end of the plank, pushing and pulling on the vertical bars, until it would rock higher and higher.  Sometimes they would make it go so high, that it would become a terrifying experience, and children would be screaming to get off. Holding on for dear life, but of course it would only go higher, until the plank, or our heads, were nearly hitting the upper frame. How nobody died on this play thing I do not know. There was also an old rusty steamroller to climb on, perfect for collecting cuts and bruises.

      Outsiders would walk past on the other side of our enclosure, looking over our wall. We were Animals in a zoo for the "Normal" children to view and mock. If you should ever go to Jersey zoo and look down at the gorillas, that is what it was like. I can fully understand why the gorillas at the zoo look so pissed off, and enjoy throwing handfuls of shit at the people looking down at them. It really is irritating and degrading.

      On a rainy day, play time was spent in a big empty room. In this room was an enormous cupboard on one wall (in which, at the age of 5, I received my first kiss from a girl called Cindy) and a ceiling which was extremely high. It was in this room, in front of all the children, that I would feel the taste of real pain for the first time. I think I was on my own, although my sister may have been with me. When my very own bully approached, giving me what had become by then, one of my daily beatings. This time, for no reason other than being smaller and weaker than him, I received a hefty punch in the stomach. This caused me to lose my breath and double over. I fell to the floor in a heap on my hands and knees. I couldn’t breathe, and was gasping for the air which was all around me, yet refused to enter my lungs. I was only winded, but I felt like I was dying. When I eventually regained my breath, I began to cry, hysterically. And with every welcomed breath I drew in, I sobbed even more. He had hit me very hard, maybe harder than he had intended, but this time he had really hurt me and I could not turn off the water works. He scurried off and hid in the crowd of watching children like the little rat that he was, and found his hiding place at the back of his audience, leaving me on the floor in agony. I heard the door come crashing open, and looked up teary eyed and sobbing, to see the Head Master towering above me, cane in hand as always. He was red faced and furious due to the commotion. Surely he had come to save me! Everyone was quiet as he turned his attention on me. Still crying and curled up into my familiar little ball "Get up boy" he bellowed, towering over me. I was hurt, and angry, and I stupidly shouted "No!" I didn’t see it coming, but I heard the whistling noise that whooshed through the air before I felt the indescribable pain as his stick came down with such force, that I actually heard it before it made contact with the back of my legs. Only wearing shorts like all boys in those days, the pain was excruciating. Wood on bare skin. Again I was told to get up from the floor, but by this time I couldn't even though I wanted too, as my legs were numb from the caning he had just given me. Crying uncontrollably, I then received my second blow, which sent a burning, agonising pain through my entire body like I had never felt before. I was grabbed and yanked up to my feet by the scruff of my neck. My legs were on fire from the vicious attack, and I wanted to collapse back down onto the floor, but I couldn’t. I wanted to scream, but I knew if I did, I would have been hurt even more by this adult that was supposed to be caring for me. I learnt a big lesson that day. That nobody would ever bully me again. No matter how big... I would fight back.

      I remember on the same afternoon of that day I was stood outside in line with the other shirtless boys. This was a weekly routine, and each of us took our turn to walk into the room below the water tower (which is still there to this day) Have our hair washed, and then trot back indoors to warm up. My legs were still warm, and swollen, and very sore from earlier that day.

      I only spent one Christmas at Greenfields in the sixties. Late on that Christmas Eve, pretending to be asleep whilst on my bully watch, a nurse walked up the dormitory. And as she passed our beds, she left a little bag at the bottom of each one, ending in mine before closing the doors behind her. It was quiet for a minute or two, and then everyone jumped out of bed without a sound, we looked into our bag excitedly; everyone had the same, nuts, fruit, and the same toy car each. We must have been very bad children. Santa never came to us. Another year was nearly over.

     The one good thing to come from this horrendous place was a lifelong friendship that I would make with a boy of the same age as myself. My oldest and dearest friend Bob. Throughout my life, Bob has been there for me. From child to adult. We had a strong bond from an early age, and he became my Children’s Home brother.

     The New Year would bring myself, Lynne, Steven, and my new little brother Robert (who had joined us from I don't know where) only something that could happen in a fairy tale. We were made to stand in a line in the Head Masters office, and a young man and woman introduced themselves to us; They seemed very excited, and extremely nice. This pleasant couple would change our lives forever.

     The Children's Board were starting a new scheme of fostering families. And Lynne, Steve, Robert and I were the first to be chosen. It started out as visiting days. During the hours spent with them, we were taken to a beach, or to a park, where we would have a picnic and run around free playing together, and having fun. I never talked, but our new Aunty Lillian and Uncle Peter seemed to have a genuine liking for us. And even though it was extremely hard for me to trust an adult, I found myself liking this couple and letting my guard down. We really looked forward to seeing them on future visits. The visits became more and more regular, and in a short time we got to know each other very well. Soon it would be time to leave this hellish prison. And move into our new home with them. As a family.

                                         
                                     

                   Chapter Four - A New Beginning     

     On the day of our departure from Greenfields, I can remember driving out of the gates with an enormous sense of freedom. From Uncle Peter's car, I gazed up at the heavens as an aeroplane flew overhead way up in the big blue sky, and I said "Plane” I still don't know why I should remember saying that, but after all these years, every time I see a plane in the sky, I always think of the day we drove out of Greenfields Children’s Home, and the terrible times I had left behind me.

     Our new home would be at Les Genats Estate. A new estate, and a real house. Not an ugly, cold building. We had two actually, as there had been a doorway knocked through upstairs and downstairs, that made the two houses into one large house. There were six bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Two downstairs toilets. Two lounges. And two kitchens, one of which was made into a laundry and play room. We had a large garden in the back, and a field at the front that all the estate children shared and played in.

      It didn't take long before we loved our new family life, as we were allowed to be children; being spoilt from our new foster parents with love and attention that we had never felt before. And being with my brothers and sister.  Apart from my sister possibly being with me at the time of my caning in Greenfields, I don't ever remember us playing together. We were taken to the beach and to the park. We joined the Saturday morning club at the Odeon Cinema, which I absolutely loved. This was a real cinema A grand Art Deco building with stalls and circles. It had an old Wurlitzer organ that rose from the floorboards in front of the large screen. Before the movies began, we would all sing aloud the movie club theme “We come along, on Saturday morning. Greeting everybody with a smile” I was in my element watching Zorro or Flash Gordon on the big screen, and movies became a lifelong passion. The Odeon is long gone now, one of Guernsey’s biggest mistakes. Generations of children have certainly missed out on what was a wonderful cinema. We now have a big car park in its place.

      Steven had taken an interest in football, and would spend all of his time kicking a ball whenever he could, usually at me, as I became his goalkeeper. (He still plays to this day).

     Bob would visit me too; he and his brothers and sisters were also released from Greenfields, and were also in a similar home. I would sometimes go to visit Bob. I would stay for tea, and we would play together happily.

      My sister and I would become very close. I loved her dearly. We would spend many hours in the Mare. A woodland behind the estate. Being a bit of a tomboy back then, she was great fun to be with, and I loved her company. We would be climbing trees. Swinging on ropes. Mountaineering hills that were so steep and muddy, that we would be filthy when we got to the top. It was at the top of one of these steep hills, that Lynne was in front of me. She was a great climber and was just reaching its summit, when she trod on my hand. Being below her I lost my grip, and fell all the way to the bottom, crashing through nettles and bouncing over rocks on my descent. On my landing, I lay there on my back pretending to be dead, while Lynne was crying hysterically at the top of our mountain, because she thought she had killed me. I was fine really... kids bounce well. We had a great time together. We built go-carts and bow and arrows from bamboo found in the woods. She played action men and toy soldiers with me. We had a wonderful time.

     It was in this house that I found my life-time love... Music. We had a record player, a square box that had a lid. Under the lid was the turntable, on which you could stack up 45’s and they would drop one at a time. The arm would move across, and the stylus would land at the start of the record. It would crackle and pop for a few seconds before the wonderful music began to play. We had a stack of records that I loved to flick through. I found the covers fascinating to look at. Not really knowing who the people were on the picture sleeves, I would just try them out. One time I picked up a single, placed it on the spindle, and watched it drop. What came out of the little built in speaker wasn’t like the other children’s records I had been playing. It grabbed my attention instantly. This Chuck Berry 45 became my first favourite record, and I played it over and over again. Then I found an Everly Brothers LP. I found this beautiful and exciting at the same time. I didn’t know what harmony was back then, but I loved the way the two men sang together. This was the start of my musical journey, that still hasn’t finished, and I don’t think ever will, until my funeral Hymn.

      We made friends with children from the estate. Some would stay for tea and were allowed to play with us. Neighbours became Aunties and Uncles, and we were expecting a new addition to our family, as Aunty Lil (As I called her and she became known) was due to have her first baby. Sara Lynne (Named after my sister) was born, and nothing changed. She was just another part of our family. We would all go to Sunday school at the Salvation Army each week. Uncle Peter and Aunty Lil would dress in their black and crimson Army uniform. They were both in the Salvation Army band and while Uncle Peter blew his trumpet, Aunty Lil would bang and shake her tambourine. Sometimes the band would march through town, and I would march alongside, close to Uncle Peter, banging out of beat on a toy snare drum hanging around my neck, very proudly.

     At meal times, we would all sit around the dining table together. And once all together, one of us was chosen to say grace. We ate and talked and laughed. We had a roster where we would all do our chores and pull together to help. Washing. Drying. Or putting away the dishes or clearing the table etc. We enjoyed our time together... As a real family. Lynne made a lifelong friend on this estate, and I made friends with a big black dog named Lucky. Lucky didn't seem to be very lucky. He had sores and scabs all over him. Maybe he should have been in the home with us. Lucky found some love when he was in my company. I would run across the field, and he would chase after me, until I fall to the ground where he licked me with his big wet tongue.

     The only unhappy times in those glorious days were when my father would visit. He would sit me on his lap where I would feel very uncomfortable, being very quiet. He didn't like our new carers, although they made every effort to be friendly towards him. On later visits he would become aggressive. Threatening them with obscenities, and on one occasion with a knife.

     Another unhappy feeling was when you made a new friend, and although most of the estate people were very nice and got to know us, the odd few children were told by their parents that they were not allowed to play with us. We were in care... So we must be trouble makers.

     Other children would join our family for short stays, and then move on. Whilst they were with us they were made very welcome, and became our brothers and sisters. At the age of six, I was rewarded for keeping my bedroom the tidiest, and Uncle Peter drove me to Clairvel Estate to pick up my first winning prize… A black and white kitten. I can remember picking her up and holding her to my chest. She was the most beautiful gift ever, and I wondered if I would have her for more than a day. On the way back home Uncle Peter asked me what I was going to name her. I called her Timmy for some unknown reason (not a very good name for a female kitten). I adored this gift, and Timmy remained a member of our family until way after I had left Guernsey in my teenage years. A much loved cat that kept many children happy, for such a long time. I also had a big teddy bear that I named Fluff; due to it being so fluffy. It became my comforter, and my pillow for years to come, until it had no fluff left on its belly… He protected me whilst I slept, and kept the bullies away.

     Things were wonderful, and life was great. Nothing could go wrong now surely. Even visiting days from our father became no longer a problem, as we would be safe under the watchful eye of our childcare officer, a giant of a man that I remember with great fondness. The kind. Caring. Smiling Mr Broad, a man who loved children, and would not stand for any nonsense, as I would occasionally find out when I had been naughty, with a stern telling off in his strong, Scottish accent.

     I was not allowed to see, or speak to my father unsupervised. But one day, he would break that rule, and all of Aunty Lil's and Uncle Peter's hard work in bringing me out of my protective shell and darkness, the wall of confidence and trust that they had helped me build, would all come crashing to the ground in ruins. I would once again, become a scared, frightened, and confused little boy.

      It would be on this certain day that Uncle Peter, the kindest, gentlest of men, would stand up against my towering, raging father. And this wonderful loving man, would become my Hero.

     The next chapter in this book I would like to dedicate to my Uncle Peter. When he reads it, he may remember the time when he and I alone, were faced with the wrath of my father. If he ever had any self doubts that he failed me that day, I hope that after reading this, he will know this was never so. And that he probably saved my life.

      So Uncle Peter, this next chapter - When David Met Goliath... Is for you.

                                           

                  Chapter Five - When David Met Goliath             

‘You rescue me

You are my faith
My hope
My liberty
And when there's darkness all around. You shine bright for me.
You are the guiding light to me’  
Words by the Mission - Tower Of Strength.      

     It was just a normal morning at Vauvert Primary school. I had done my work, and the lunch-time bell rang. I rushed out of the main exit to meet Uncle Peter, who always met me by the large iron gates. As I ran out into the playground, I noticed the large figure standing by the gates... It was my father. Frightened, I turned and ran back into the building, and quickly made my way to the Head Master’s office. The Head Master held my hand, escorted me quickly out of the rear exit, and along the back of the school. Obviously worried himself, he peered around the corner, nobody was there. He led me to the wooden classroom at the entrance of the school (This is still used to this day) We entered the classroom, and he locked the door behind him. He now had a clear view of the road ahead, and we would wait there until Uncle Peter came for me.

     All of a sudden, an almighty crash hit the door. Another, and then another. The Head Master pushed me gently behind him as a wave of obscenities came flooding through the door. Firstly just words, before a boot came smashing through the bottom of the wooden door. The Head Master told him that I would not be coming out, and asked him to leave in a stern voice that was normally used for telling children off, not a very angry man, who had now started to punch at the door. The Head Master asked him to calm down, and told him that he would talk to him, but only once he had simmered down. My father told him he would have to come out of the room as he would not talk through a fucking door. It became quiet, and they agreed to talk but only the two of them. I would stay in the locked room... Agreed! I was placed under a table and my head was stroked. A nervous voice asked me to be brave, and to stay put. Instead of unlocking and opening the door the Head Master climbed out of the little square fire escape at the back of the classroom. He closed it behind him, and then went around the building to meet my now raging father. He was instantly attacked, and beaten to the ground.

      It was quiet… What was happening? Where was Uncle Peter? Terrified, I looked up at the door from my little shelter. It was then that I saw my father’s eyes looking straight at me through the hole that he had earlier kicked in the door. It didn't take him long to finish off the wooden barrier between us. He calmly walked in, grabbed my arm, and then dragged me from my hiding place to my feet.

     Holding onto my wrist, we walked out of the school gates and began to walk down the hill towards town. Only a short distance passed the school entrance, I spotted my Uncle Peter nearing the school. He looked terrified. We came to a stop, and my father looked down at him. Uncle Peter nervously demanded him to hand me over. He held out his hand for me to take, but with a little flick of my dad's wrist, I was thrown behind him, still in his mighty grip. Trying not to meet the fierce gaze of my father, I remember the fear in my Uncle Peter's eyes. The usual gentle, friendly, loving eyes, were now frozen, and focused on mine. I tried to reach out to him, but again I was yanked back behind my dad. He gripped my wrist like a vice.

     Uncle Peter looked up at my father, and again demanded he hand me over, more positively this time. At this point, my father lunged at him, pulling me over at the same time. Uncle Peter managed to quickly move back a few steps, still asking for me, and for my dad to calm down and hand me over. Again my father went for him... But this time he was not going to stop. Uncle Peter read the danger, turned, and then began to run. My dad charged right behind him like a raging bull, and I was dragged behind him down the hill like a rag doll by my limp skinny wrist, which was becoming numb from his ever increasing grip.

     At the bottom of Victoria road was our little van. The family transport. Uncle Peter couldn't find a nearer parking space, hence, being late to pick me up that lunch-time. When he reached the van, he fumbled with his keys to open the lock, he jumped in quickly, then slammed the door shut and locked it just in time. My dad grabbed at the handle trying to get him. I still have the vivid image of Uncle Peter's eyes at that moment, glazed, and full of love and hurt as he looked down at me from behind his window. Maybe he thought he had failed me by having to leave me in the hands of this now furious monster. I was hurt and bruised, and all he could do was drive away and leave me... He had to get some help.

       Help would come the following morning, but by then... It was too late.

       My father and I walked a short distance to a house; we went around the back of it and entered the shed, which was his home. It was dark and smelly inside. In it was a dirty single bed. A cupboard with a broken hanging door. A table, and a small cooker with two rings caked in bits of food and black lard. Although it was dark, my eyes soon adjusted, and I could then see the pictures of naked women all over the walls. Crude graphic pictures torn out of explicit sex magazines. He opened my backpack, and took out my lunchbox. He inspected my marmalade sandwiches, which were my favourite, and that I had planned to eat, sat in the park with Uncle Peter. He threw them across the room. He then slammed down a plate of cold, burnt sausages in front of me, and told me to eat. Being so frightened, I did what I was told. But under the black burnt skin of the sausages, the meat was still pink. I ate it all, and felt very sick.

     That was all that I remember from that horrendous day. I don't know what happened next. I don't know what happened that night. I don't remember the Police finding my father’s little hide out the following morning. And I don't even remember them taking me home.

      I had changed. No longer the happy little blue eyed boy that Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter had made me. My nights were troubled once more, and my days were quiet and lonely again. I did not want to talk anymore.

       

Thirty odd years later that day remains my most horrific memory. I drive to that school daily, as my children now go to the same school. And I can still see my dads shadow standing at the gates, and that little wooden classroom that was my shelter. But the most vivid memory I still have, and will never forget, is of a small gentle man, trying to save me from the hands of a raging, snarling giant. And although he may not have succeeded, my Uncle Peter became my knight in shining armour. I had seen my dad’s eyes that day, and I believe he was willing to kill. I think Uncle Peter saw this too. He had to leave me that day. He had to run. Not for his own safety... But for mine. His only concern was for me... To get me to safety.

 
        From the moment he looked down at me and tried to take my hand, this man became my father, and my hero. My dad may have won his trophy that day... But it was my Uncle Peter that won my heart.

       

                           Chapter six - Darkness

'I don't want to see you go. I don't even want to be there.

I will cover up my eyes... And pray it goes away' 
Words by Alice Cooper - Steven.

      Although this was my darkest stage, I was back in the loving arms of my family again. Time is a great healer so they say, and with the love and help that I required, things slowly got back to normal... Well, as normal as they could be.

      Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter's second child was born, and we all welcomed our new little brother, Christopher Ian (Named after me). My brother Steve had been moved back to Greenfields after he had kicked Aunty Lil in the stomach in one of his temper tantrums. Luckily, nothing had gone wrong during the pregnancy, and Chris was fine and healthy. Steve visited regularly, and we would play football whenever we could. Aunty Lil held no grudges, and he was always welcome on his visits.

     Steve was at Valnord School. This school was for special needs children with learning difficulties, so I never had the chance of having my big brother with me at school. My new school was to be the newly built La Mare De Carteret junior. My sister was at La Mare De Carteret secondary; both schools newly built a stone’s throw away from our estate.

     My Teacher was a wonderful lady by the name of Mrs Rene. She took an instant liking to me, and was very kind. She had noticed how much I liked to draw and paint. If I was on a down day, she sensed this, and would sit me in a small room with a pencil and paper, leaving me to doodle away whilst she carried on teaching the rest of the class. She seemed to know when I needed some space on my own, doing something I enjoyed. Throughout the year, from her own pocket, she would treat her pupils. Looking back now, she was a very generous lady. Every birthday was celebrated with a large box of chocolates that we would pass around until empty. At Easter, she would buy us all a chocolate egg each. And for Christmas we would all receive a card with money in it. What a wonderful woman. I enjoyed school here. I was a very quiet boy, and I liked being near to home. Things seemed to be getting better, but of course, things never got better, only worse... And worse they would become.

     On the day that we were all sat down and told that Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter would be leaving us, was a truly damaging experience for the whole family. How could the couple that had become so dear to us, and had showered us with love and affection, turn their backs on us now. Reject us! What had we done for them to not want us anymore? Of course they had not rejected us at all, or meant to hurt us. We were just too young to understand that Aunty Lil had become very ill and was unable to look after so many children. They would shortly be moving to Scotland. And we would be handed over to new carers.

       

     This would have the most damaging effect on my sister and I over the next few years. Our younger brother Robert, was still too young to have the feelings that we had. This would be a time of anger and trouble, and for me... Rebellion.

     Our new carers were a large woman and her Policeman husband named Aunty Molly and Uncle Brian. They also had a son and a younger daughter, and a dog named Sheba. Through no fault of their own, things were never going to work out between us. Though we all loved Sheba; she would open doors herself with the scratching of her paws, and loved to get under our blankets to go to sleep for the night, if she wasn't found and removed that is.

     The day arrived when Aunty Lil, Uncle Peter, Sara and Chris would say goodbye to us. We gathered in the front garden, hugged and kissed, then had to stand and watch, as they drove out of our lives. Leaving us heartbroken in Uncle Peter’s rear view mirror. Aunty Lil was crying in the back seat, holding Chris in her arms, waving out of the car window as they drove out of the estate, and out of our lives... They were gone. They really did go! And beneath my now long scruffy hair, hate and anger filled my bright blue eyes. I hated everything about me. I hated my fucking life. And I hated these people that stood with us in our moment of grief. I was changing into something, but as yet, I didn’t know what it was. That person who was me, wasn’t like everybody else. He was different, and he wasn’t normal like all the other children. The change had now begun.

      Rejection from the people I had grown to love. And who had told me so many times that they had loved me, even stood up for me! This was the final blow. I would turn into a cold, stubborn teen. Shut off from the world around me. I took up boxing so I could enjoy punching someone in the face and get away with it; I was very good at this, and had good prospects, only to have to stop due to a lump the size of an egg that appeared under my kneecap. I would not get hurt again, and I would not get close to my new foster parents. I wanted nothing to do with them. My life was at an all time low.

     I took an instant disliking to Aunty Molly, although the poor woman did nothing to deserve it. Whoever would have taken over looking after me at this time would have received the same negative response that I had developed, however caring they were. If Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter could leave us, then how could I possibly trust anybody ever again?  Yes, I would now start to reject people, and my new carers and I would fight continuously. I developed the most ferocious temper that was all aimed at her and her husband. In my eyes, she did everything wrong. It was her family, and ours. No sharing. No love... Caring for us was her job. They had their own lounge. Her children had duvets while we had sheets and blankets. They had their own bedrooms ,and as much as I liked her children they were never like us. We had become different, and separated from them. Not that I wanted anything to do with them, but it still hurt. Every Sunday we would have to go and watch as they played Archery. Our whole morning was watching them have fun. 
There were some good times though, one of my fondest memories was when the Navy came to visit and take us on their ship docked outside of the harbour. I absolutely loved this. They would pillow fight on a beam protruding from the side of the ship, where the loser would plunge into the sea below. I was fascinated while exploring the ship, with its narrow passageways, bunks and equipment. My favorite times at this period were when my brother Francis would pick me up on his motor bike. A beast of a thing. Francis was a cool dude in the early seventies. He was extremely handsome. He had the biggest bike. The longest hair. The shoes on his feet gave him an extra five inches as the heels were so huge. His bedroom walls were covered in giant sized pictures of David Bowie and Easy Rider. On one of this rides, I clung to my brother with pride. Hoping that everybody was watching as we zoomed down the roads. We arrived on the bridge, where he lived all his life, and we pulled into a vinery. All his friends were there. He introduced me as little Duquie, the name that he was known by. His girlfriend at the time was beautiful, and he had many friends. Once there, my brother pulled out a gun from his denim flared jeans. This was not a pellet gun, it was the real deal. His friends gathered around as he raised it towards a row of five greenhouses. When he pulled the trigger, there was an almighty bang. The bullet smashed its way through all five greenhouses. My brother seemed to have it all. And I thought he was the coolest guy in the world.  

      I hated peas when I was young. I would look down at my plate at the little green clones and urge at the sight of them. One day I pushed them to the side, and ate the rest of my lunch. I was told I had to eat them, but point blank refused. I was asked to leave the table, which I did happily, thinking that I had won. At tea time I sat down for my meal, and was presented with the same left over’s from lunch-time. I really could not eat them now, so I left them again. The following morning they were there for my breakfast all shrivelled up and dry. I stubbornly swallowed them with a glass of water and threw them up later.

     My sister was cleverer than me. She hated any fat on meat, and would even pick fat out of mince and she just secretly stuffed it down her sock to flush down the toilet later. I wish I had thought of that! Another time, myself and another boy were caught smoking, so Uncle Brian sat us in their lounge and pulled out a box of big fat cigars. He gave us one each, lit them up, and made us smoke them. The idea was to make us feel sick and put us off smoking forever, but on the contrary, they were very nice so I asked for another. I didn’t get it of course, but was sent to my bed without tea.

      One evening I came downstairs as I was hungry (probably for missing so many meals due to punishment). The chocolate biscuits were kept in a high cupboard out of reach. I quietly climbed up the shelves and took out two Blue Ribbon biscuits from a box, which I ate in my bedroom later. The following day, we were all called into the kitchen, lined up, and Aunty Molly asked “Who has been stealing biscuits from the cupboard?” Everybody was quiet, until I stupidly lied “It wasn’t me, I don’t even like Blue Ribbons” of course, she had not even mentioned what biscuits had been stolen... I was in trouble again.

      I had developed an anti-adult barrier which only a few people would eventually knock down. One being a man who would unknowingly become a major inspiration on the rest of my life, an art teacher at my new school, La Mare De Carteret Secondary. Although my new class teacher was a very attractive woman who was very kind, it would be Mr. Dingle that I took an instant liking too. I found him hilarious and comical, but he was very serious about his art. I took great interest in his class, and focused on all the knowledge he was sharing with us. I would find it fascinating, watching him drawing and painting, mixing and smudging with colours and charcoal to produce an amazing picture. It was in his classroom that I would be at my very happiest. When asked to make an animal in clay one lesson, the boys and girls set about making their cats and dogs etc. I, on the other hand, for some unknown reason, began to sculpt a unicorn. Mr Dingle was very impressed with my effort, and remarked to the rest of the class about my creative imagination. He praised me for being a little bit different. And a little bit different I would become. With all the ideas that Mr Dingle taught me over the year or two I spent with him, his passion for art, colours and design, using your imagination, being colourful and creative was what I was too become. It was 1977. And in all of the national papers a new buzz of excitement was hitting the headlines... Punk Rock.

                      Chapter Seven - A Definition of Punk

'I don't need anyone. Don't need no mum and dad
Don't need no pretty face. Don't need no human race
I got some news for you... Don't even need you too' 
Words by the Dead Boys - Sonic Reducer.

   
        What is a punk? I’m sure that most people would answer, a scruffy individual with spiky hair who likes loud music. Maybe aggressive. Possibly arrogant. That’s totally wrong in my opinion. That possible person is a punk rocker, somebody categorised in the mid 70’s by the media. Yes, I was scruffy and had spiky hair. And yes, I did enjoy the music while it lasted, which as far as I am concerned died around 1979, which means the real true punk rock music only lasted for a few years. The so called punk bands became very popular, very famous and very rich. Which really doesn’t give them much cause to be singing about depression, revolution and struggling due to poverty etc. I was never aggressive as such, and I am certainly not arrogant. So where did that stigma come from?

     So, what is a punk? And what makes a person a punk? You may wonder why I am asking these questions, but to me it’s important. It’s part of this story. How did I become the person I am today? I have known plenty of punk rockers who were brought up very well from rich backgrounds and had nothing to rebel against. These were by far the worst kind. They liked the music so became sheep, wearing their punk rock clothing as a uniform with their “look at me everyone, I’m a punk” attitude. I personally don’t see punk as an attitude solely, yes you need a bit, but it’s not the be all and end all. To me, it’s an emotion. And something causes that emotion. When Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter left us and drove out of our lives, it triggered an emotion deep inside of me. I really can’t explain what it was that happened to me on that day, at that moment, but it was powerful enough to change me forever. Punk rock was a few years away when this happened, yet I had all the right emotions to be one, anger, hate, depression and despair. Those were the main ingredients of punk rock in my opinion.         

     When did punk start? Most people would probably say around 1977, and again they would be very wrong, think about it, and trace it back. In the 60’s, you had groups like Iggy and the Stooges. Very poor kids from the very poor city of Detroit, whose first album, The Stooges, had songs like ''I wanna be your dog'' and ''No fun'' Their third album, Raw Power released in 1974 is possibly the most punk album of all time. It is stripped down rock and roll, and would go on to inspire all the better punk rock bands of the 70’s. Go further back, and in the mid 50’s a young man by the name of Elvis Presley went into a recording studio and changed the shape of music forever. He was considered extremely outrageous in those days, and was labelled a punk by the previous generation who just didn’t get him, or were too ignorant to the fact that he was just different, and new.

     Back still farther, and in the roaring 20’s gangsters were labelled punks, who were mainly poor people that broke the law to make a living. I’m sure I could go back farther than that but, I think I have made my point. I was a punk long before becoming a punk rocker. So don’t judge a book by its cover. Underneath my punk rocker image, there was a lot more to me than my scruffy, degenerate exterior.

        My son, now aged twelve, loves rap music. The lyric content may not be to everybody’s taste, and some may find it offensive, but that’s the music of today. I’m not going to stop him listening to it, as that would make me a hypocrite, which would make me like the people that tried to stop me being who I was. I am just happy that he loves music the way that I do. All this rap attitude is not new anyway. It’s all been done before by people labelled punks in the 40’s. Little Walter was a blues harmonica player back in that time who carried a gun, shot opposition and “Mother fuckered” this and “Mother fuckered” that way back then. So we are just going full circle, and will always end up back to the blues and rock n roll.

       I am now heading towards 50 years old. I still don’t like being told I have to do something. I still don’t like the law, that give victims less rights than the offender, and I could still have a full blown argument on how our Island is run. So I am still a rebel that will fight for fairness any-time. I still have the same feelings, the same attitude. And I am still the same person inside. So I guess even now I could still be labelled a punk, but nowadays I collect 50’s records. I have loved this music for far longer than I liked punk rock music. So this just proves that it wasn't the music that made me this way (although I can still be heard blasting out a classic punk record when the moment suits me) It was an emotion that was caused and although that same emotion brought with it heartache and hurt, I am very pleased it happened, otherwise I would never have been myself. I hope that makes sense to you all. Let’s go on with the story.         

      

       

             Chapter Eight - The Night That Still Haunts Me           

‘There's nothing in my dreams
Just some ugly memories’. 
Words by Iggy & the Stooges - Gimme Danger.    

      We had another new house, as our old home was built on swampy land and actually started to sink. It needed some major maintenance. The new house was built on the other end of the same estate. We had a large part of the woods that was fenced off as our garden. I was becoming more and more uncontrollable approaching my teen years, bunking school to go fishing, and running away regularly. The usual things, that growing children got up to, but in the Children’s Home, it was a little more frequent. 

      I had a new childcare officer, as Mr Broad had moved on. His absence would also have a massive effect on my up and coming troubled years, as I no longer had his strength or support. I had zero respect for my new Childcare Officer. He didn't have the patience, or the gift that Mr Broad had with children who needed assistance with their lives. The ability to roar like a lion when you were bad, but be as gentle as a pussy cat, and full of praise when you were good.

     From then on, everything that I did would be naughty or bad. And I couldn't do anything good or right. Aunty Molly had a lot of rules, so to me they were made to be broken. She had days off that she spent with her family, but with Aunty Lil, we were her children, as much loved as her own, and we had done everything together. I started to resent everything, and everyone.

     My father visited more often, and I felt so uncared for at home. So much so, that one day I was to do something extremely odd and out of character. I actually voluntarily paid my dad a visit. Something that I had never done before. A visit that would throw me into the world of sex and sleaze. A visit that would leave a mental vision that would remain in my mind forever. To this day, I still cannot erase it, as it is branded in my mind. If I close my eyes, it is as clear now as it was back then.

      I was twelve when I happened to accidently bump into my dad. I was at the bathing pools in town. He was with a teenage boy and two young girls, one being the sister, and the other being the girlfriend of the boy. I knew one of the twelve year old girls, the teenage boy’s sister. I don’t remember how, or where from. The girls were wearing the very revealing skimpy bikinis that my dad had just bought them. He was living with the family of these children, and I was invited to their home for tea. I wouldn't normally have gone with my dad, but I was in no rush to go home. I hated it there... So I agreed.
       

     We walked to the tall house in Pedvin Street, just on the outskirts of town. Inside, it was dark and gloomy. The house had a large back yard which was surrounded by a very high wall, and there was an outside toilet with torn up news papers as toilet roll. Inside the house there were other older brothers and people which I did not know. The bedroom was on the top floor, a few flights up the stairs. We were all in this grubby room when there was a loud knock on the door. It was the Police. I had been missing all day and I was very late home, so a search had been put out for me. I had been spotted with my dad and his young friends, which had led them to this house. My dad opened the bedroom window and roared a load of profanities at the Policemen below. He told them that I didn't want to come out, and that I would be spending the night in this house with him. I had only come for tea and had absolutely no intention of staying here overnight. I could not believe my ears when the Police told him that they would be back to get me the following morning. They left, and my father closed the window shut. I really did not want to be in there! It went through my head that if Mr Broad was still my childcare officer, he would never have allowed this to happen. I am sure that he would have come and knocked the door down himself to get me out of there and take me to safety. But then again, if he had still been my childcare officer, I probably would never have been in there in the first place.

      Later on, we were all downstairs in the lounge when I noticed my dad was not with us. I needed to tell him that I really should be going, so I went upstairs to find him. I climbed the stairs to the top of the landing, and I could hear him mumbling something to someone. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, and I quietly looked through the gap to see who he was talking too. I was frozen in horror at what I could see. My dad was on top of the young girlfriend of the boy downstairs. Her jeans were pulled down to her ankles and her top was raised high. She was struggling beneath him as one of his hands covered her mouth keeping her quiet, while the other groped at her breast whilst he growled into her ear. She was shaking her head from side to side, and looked so helpless under such a big man. I turned around and ran down the stairs as quietly as I could, and then made for the door... It was locked. I went out the back door forgetting about the high walls, so still no way out. I was trapped. I opened the door to the outside toilet, closed it behind me, and crouched beside the smelly, filthy, shit covered bowl, and I cried at the sight I had just witnessed. Although I knew little about sex at that time, I had never done it, and I had certainly never seen anybody else doing it, yet I was sickened at what I had just witnessed. I don’t know how I knew, but I sensed that something was very wrong about it... And extremely disturbing.

     I stayed in the toilet for a while, then I dried my eyes. And went back in the house. I returned to the lounge where my father had rejoined the young teenagers. He was laughing and acting like nothing had happened. The young girl had gone.

      I often think about that young girl. What happened to her after she was raped? Where did she go when she left that house? And did she ever return? I also wonder whether she ever told anybody about her ordeal, or has she had to live with it in silence all these years... And was my father the bogey man that tormented her nightmares?

     It was late, and it was time for bed. I followed everyone up the stairs, totally unaware of the sleeping arrangements. In That bedroom, three or four beds had been pushed up together, making one enormous bed. The girl got in first, nearest the wall. I was told to get in next; this was planned and a set up. Unbeknown to me, the young sister had a crush on me, the two teenage brothers followed. And my dad got in last.

      In the darkness the girl put her arm around me, so I put my arm around her; nothing sexual crossed my mind, just a bond. We were both neglected children. The hug felt nice and comforting. Sniggering came from behind me, and then a hand was pushing me in the back. I was being squashed against her. She kissed me on the lips, and her hands began to explore my body. She was experienced and had done this before I’m sure, yet she was only twelve! I was the same age, and had never been this close to a girl. I was absolutely terrified to be honest. She guided me as to what to do, and it was here that I lost my virginity, with a girl that I hardly knew. In a bed with three other men beside me... One of them, my father.

         The next morning, I would be taken home by the police. It would be the last time that I ever saw my father. It would be twenty odd years later before I ever trusted somebody enough to tell of what happened all those years ago, and of the terrible thing that I had witnessed on the night that will haunt me to the day that I die.

                                             
                     Chapter Nine - Let Me Be Me

‘No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes’ 
Words by the Who - Behind Blue Eyes.

     In 1977, everyone had long hair and flared jeans, myself included. Sometimes it was hard to tell a boy from a girl. The music in the seventies had become very boring, and if you were not into Saturday night fever. Abba or disco music, you would have the choice of the many progressive rock bands or Glam bands, all very boring to me, but for the odd few. I loved T.Rex, they were my first favourite band. Marc Bolan was so cool. I also liked Sparks and Alice Cooper. That was my choice. My sister and her friend would be sat in front of the television, dressed in their white suits with tartan strips down the side, with their tartan scarves held high in the air above their heads, rocking from side to side and singing along with the Bay City Rollers, their favourite pop group. Lynne was growing up fast, we didn’t play much together anymore, and I would often find her unused Barbie dolls in sexual positions with my naked old action men.

     Whilst flicking through a pop magazine one day, I came across a picture and write up of a new group that was causing quite a stir in the U.K. I found myself absolutely mesmerized by this photo of these four scruffy haired teenagers dressed in torn clothes held together with safety pins. In big bold letters their bands name The Sex Pistols was splattered across the page. I studied the picture for days, and I read the review over and over again. Four reject kids playing sick music called Punk Rock, who were turning the music world upside down. I had never heard them as they were not allowed to be played on the radio, but I knew it was going to be loud and obnoxious. I rushed to the shop with my pocket money and bought their new record, and was not disappointed. I absolutely loved it. More groups were coming out weekly, and they were singing songs about things I could relate too. Before long, I had my hair all chopped off so it was short and spiky on top. I got rid of my flares and got some tight drain pipe jeans; this was actually a head turner as I walked down the high street, and I hadn't even started yet. My carers at home, and my teachers at school were becoming quite concerned about the new me; except for Mr Dingle that is, he seemed to have an interest himself, and once asked me to bring in some records to play during class. I remember him loving a song called Peaches by The Stranglers. This was very cool, somebody else liked my music, and it was a man that I admired. I had found the real me. I was a Punk Reject Kid who didn't care about anything or anybody anymore. Now I knew I was not alone in this world. There were other angry kids out there. The papers told stories of this Punk revolution, and these new groups were singing about what I had been feeling all my life. Rejection. Anger. Despair. Boredom. And it was my God send. And it showed me what I was.

     Punk rock was all about rebellion... And rebel I would. All rules were made to be broken. And my childcare officer would be paying me more and more visits.

        As a family, all the children got on okay. Other children came and then left, while others would stay on with us. I was close to my sister, but my younger brother would turn into added problems for me. As much as I loved and cared about him, he had a knack of getting me into trouble all the time. Whatever Robert told Aunty Molly about me she believed, and I would be punished. Being a very nervous child, Robert had his own problems which only he could deal with. We had no counselling, so we were on our own. Nightmares were his torment; He would wake up and shake uncontrollably, sweating and crying. He would come to my bed and I would try my best to comfort him and calm him down. I would be told off the following morning because he had told Aunty Molly that the reason he was wet was because I had tipped water over him. If that’s what he had said I did, then that is what I had done. His dreams were so vivid that if he had dreamt that I had hit him, then I had really hit him! And I was in trouble again. I was being punished for things that my brother was dreaming about!  My way of being a big brother never really worked out the way that I had planned. Robert was a gentle, shy little boy, much like me when I was younger.  And I had learned that being gentle was not a good thing to be. Being good to acquire love and attention had always backfired on me. I would start to back off from him, and we grew further apart. I was not going to be the one who would let him down, I loved him very much, but I was not going to let him know how I felt. I did not want him depending on me. He needed to be able to defend himself as he grew older in this shitty life that he was going to have to struggle through... Like I was. I was going off the rails, big time, and I didn't want him going in the same direction as me. Nowadays I feel that I let him down as a big brother. I should have been there for him more in our youth. We have a bond in our older years which I feel very strongly when we are together; even though we don't really know each other we are now so much alike... So maybe I didn't do such a bad job after all, as I am very proud of him.

     My fights with Aunty Molly and Uncle Brian got more frequent and more violent. I would be so angry that I would pick up an armchair with ease, and hurl it at them from across the room. I would normally end up locking myself in a bathroom, screaming obscenities through the door and making up a bed in the bath for the night. Only to be punished for my actions the following day. Being a teenager can be a very tough, depressing time for anyone, but here, you had nobody that you could talk to, or anybody to help and guide you through these troubled years... You were on your own.

      In 1978 my anger and foul temper would separate me, my brother and sister for a long time. On a night when we should have all been asleep. Aunty Molly was on the other side of the house in her lounge, whilst on our side, one of the teenage boys that lived with us was with me, messing around.. He was an enormous boy for his age, though only a year older than me. He was showing off his great strength by weight lifting a sack of potatoes, lifting the heavy sack high above his head and up to the ceiling with ease until… he dropped the bag on the floor, and its contents rolled everywhere. Worried about the trouble he was going to be in, he said he would say that I had done it. This caused us to end up in a fight, and being such a large boy, he was easily getting the better of me, so I ran into the kitchen. He was in a rage as I had actually hurt him without even realizing it, and he was going to make me pay. Seeing the anger on his face, and knowing that I was likely to get hurt, I reached into a draw and pulled out a very long carving knife, which I held out in front of me. I told him to back off, or I would stab him. But his anger was as strong as his ego, and he wanted to hurt me back. He moved slowly towards me as I raised the knife above my head, ready to strike. I warned him one last time. I was not fucking around! I meant business, and was not going to back down... But neither was he. Adrenaline was pumping and he took another step towards me, and that was my cue. I brought down the knife like a guillotine, and it sliced into the top of his arm, cutting through his skin with ease. The fight ended instantly as he stood there in shock. I held up my weapon for a second attack, blood covered him and was pouring from his arm in large drips unto the kitchen floor. The blade had cut him very deep, and we stood staring at each other for a moment, wondering what to do next. What started out as a game, had now turned into a very serious situation. We had been friends, but I was so intent on not being bullied that I had done something very, very stupid. But I didn't care... I had to get out of that house.

     The situation was soon in the hands of the hospital, and of course, the Children’s Board. The boy had numerous stitches to mend his wound, and I was dragged kicking and screaming back to Greenfields, returning to the hell of my younger days. I was so angry, and in such frenzy, that it took five adults to get me from the vehicle to the cell, which I was thrown into. I was to be kept in here until I had calmed down... And that took quite a while. The cell was a square box of a room, which had bars on the closed window. It was totally empty and very hot. The big heavy door had an eye hole on it, which the staff could observe me through. I kicked it over and over again until I was too tired to fight anymore.

     After a couple of days I was back to my old self again, and moved into my own room. This room would have been in the dining hall in the sixties, where we would sing around the Head Masters piano. But that was all gone now, and a row of bedrooms built in its place. Massive changes had happened to Greenfields since I was in there last. Gone was the Head Master that beat me, and with him the rules and regulations. The staff had names instead of Sir or Mr or Nurse. My brother Steve was no longer there, at sixteen you would be told to leave, even though you had no idea about the outside world that you had never known. I actually liked it here. My room would soon be covered in pictures and posters of my favourite punk rock bands. There were still rules we had to go by, but things were much more relaxed. Two staff members, a young hippy kind of couple, were to become the special people in this period of my life. And it would be them that gave me my trust back in adults. Alan was a typical seventies guy with his long hair and denim flared jeans and shirts. His partner Margaret was a lovely looking woman with the most beautiful smile and gentle voice. They were to become more than just carers; they treated me more like a friend. We would have conversations about music... And they would make me smile again.

     Whilst in my bedroom, where I would spend most of my time playing my Punk records, Alan and Margaret would come in to see me regularly. Not only to see if I was alright, but also just for a chat. Never before had anyone actually wanted to talk to me and want to get to know me as a person. After they left me, I would feel warm and happy. I remember one conversation in particular with Margaret. A Teenager from the U.K was staying with us for a few days. He told me stories about the Punk rock scene in London, and of the groups he had seen; I listened and hung on to every word. One night after he had gone, Margaret came to my room and sat on my bed. She smiled her beautiful smile, and asked me how I was feeling after hearing all the stories the boy had told me. She had thought that I would be jealous after hearing his exciting tales. I told her that I was just happy to talk and listen to the boy about something I was fascinated by, and that the more he had told me, the more I had wanted to know. She told me she was sorry that I was in my prison and not able to do the things that this boy had done, and seen. Then she got up, smiled her wonderful smile, and before she left she said something very important to me. She told me that I would be able to do whatever I like soon… That I was getting older, and in a few years I could go to England, or anywhere else that I wanted to go. And I could do anything I liked... I would be free. That night she gave me something that nobody else had ever given me, she gave me hope, for the first time in my life. All I had in my life at the time was my music; it had taken over my bad thoughts, and rattled around my head twenty four - seven. She squeezed my hand, kissed me on the forehead, and said goodnight. I think this was my first crush.

      It was during this time, whilst walking through town, that I would bump into an old Children’s Home friend of mine. Tardy was with another boy, who was tall and slim. They were both dressed like me with short scruffy hair and a messy appearance. We hung out together all day, and then they began to visit me at the Children's Home. This other boy and I would become the very best of friends. And we would become the talk of the Island... But more about that later.

     When the Sex Pistols album came out it was very hard to get hold of as it had been banned due to its content and controversial title... Never mind the bollocks, here’s the Sex Pistols. In 1977, this was considered extremely outrageous. Abba and disco music was still ruling the charts. It was now March, 1978, I still didn't have this album, and I wanted it desperately. On my fourteenth birthday I was asked what I would like to the value of ten pounds, and of course, I asked for records! I asked for Nevermind the bollocks by the Sex Pistols, and the Stranglers second album No More Heroes. The Children’s Board turned down my request, so I disappointedly asked for two other albums.

     On my birthday morning, Alan and Margaret brought my presents into my bedroom, smiling as they gave them to me. They had been given the money to go into town and buy me my second choice of records. I ripped open the paper they had wrapped them in, and to my absolute delight, I was holding in my hands the Sex Pistols and Stranglers LPs that I so desperately wanted. They wished me a happy birthday, told me to keep it hush- hush and left me to play my new music. This was the kindest thing that anybody had ever done for me. They actually broke the rules and could have got into trouble, just for me. Now that, is what this job was all about, helping a child, whatever it takes. That was a very happy birthday, and these two very special people will be forever in my heart.

      I enjoyed my stay at Greenfields at this time. In fact, I loved it! I would begin to dress as outrageous as I could get away with. Leather jacket. Tight shinny black plastic trousers, and my hair cut short and scruffy. I was to start my new school, Les Beaucamps, where I was considered a little odd, and even menacing by the other children and staff. I soon made new friends and girlfriends, and I would quickly become one of the lads. We would have great fun cutting each other’s arms with broken glass. Placing drawing pins on each other’s chairs, and blatantly taking the piss as much as we could. I loved to shock my new friends by pushing safety pins through my lip and ears.  I would pierce many ears at this school. I attended school for two reasons only, music and art. I painted a life size picture of Johnny Rotten of The Sex Pistols in art class and got high reviews from my art teacher. And when asked to do an essay on our favourite group in music, I wrote an extra long piece on The Stranglers. Receiving top marks and much praise from my music teacher for my effort and originality, as the rest of the class had done half a page on Abba or Showaddywaddy.

     At school my untidy appearance was becoming a concern and a talking point amongst staff, and in one of my school reports it reads 'Ian is a very good student and tries his hardest. It is a shame about his Punk Rocker image' Of course, I was very proud of this, and treasure it to this day.

      It was at this school I made friends with a boy named Vince who was in my class. We hit it off straight away. He was into the whole Grease thing that was making it big at the time, the rock n roll revival. I also loved this film, and still do now. I visited his home on a regular basis, and got on very well with his mother, Gran and his two lovely sisters. His father, like mine, was an old teddy boy that still wore the large side burns of his generation. He didn't understand that the Rock n Roll image and music of his youth, and the Punk image and music of mine, were both very similar in many ways. Our images were a statement. But he didn't like the way that I looked, and because of his ignorance, I didn’t like him very much either.

     It wasn't long before I was asked if I would like to live with them, and although I was very happy at Greenfields, I liked the idea of living with this family. The Children’s Board did too, probably pleased to get rid of me, so they got the ball rolling instantly. Very soon, I was to leave Greenfields, and begin a new life with a family. But not out of the Children’s Boards care.

     Vince and I shared a bedroom, and we got on very well. His half of the room was covered in John Travolta pictures, and mine with The Sex Pistols etc. We had a record player that we would share, spinning to the tunes of Rock n Roll and Punk. They had regular parties in this house, which would usually end up with everybody drunk, including myself once or twice. Not that they gave me alcohol, I would just secretly swallow as much as I could without them seeing me. One time I got so pissed that Vince and a couple of friends had to walk me around the estate a few times until I sobered up a bit. In the summer we would all go hay making, this was very hard work. Loading up trailers with bales of hay in the hot Guernsey summer sunshine, very heavy going, but the money at the end was worth it. We were each given our cut, which was quite a lot. And I spent mine buying some more records.

Things seemed to be going great... Until one more drunken night.

    
       Over the months, I tried to become a member of the family. The Mother, Children and Grandmother all tried to make me a member of their family. And although I enjoyed my new freedom, I still felt trapped inside. I wasn’t free enough. I would become a cause of tension between the Father and Mother. Quite simply, she cared for me, and he didn't. He drank quite a lot and was having an affair with a younger woman. One night he would use me as an excuse for his guilt... And I would hear every word.

   Vince and his sisters were fast asleep upstairs, and so was I until I was woken by the sound of an argument between the adults downstairs. I heard my name being mentioned, so I got up to listen. I sat on top of the stairs to hear what was being said about me. The Mother was being accused of having sex with me by the foul mouthed, drunk, guilt ridden man, who said that was the reason she cared for me so much. The Mother was crying at the accusations being thrown at her. Of course this was absolute rubbish, it was just his cowardly way of getting out of a marriage that he no longer wanted to be in, and then go running to his bit on the side. Hearing what he had said about me hurt, but I had been hurt way more than that before. It was time to go.

      I didn't hang around. It was time for me to move on again. I didn't want to be somewhere where I wasn't wanted. I got dressed, packed all my things, and then crept quietly down the stairs, out of the door and into the cold, dark night. Never to return. I would never tell my ex-family about the hurtful things that I had heard that night, and if they get to read this, I am sorry for leaving like I did, and thank you for giving me a chance. But you cannot tame a wild animal, and that is what I had become. I had had a taste of freedom, and I yearned for more.

      I walked around for awhile, wondering where I could go as I had nowhere really, to go. I ended up making my way to one of my oldest friends. He had been one of my brothers in the Children’s Home on and off throughout my youth. I spent the rest of night hiding out at his house. He was also into punk music, and his bedroom was plastered in painted slogans and names of punk rock bands. We had great fun that night, he bleached my hair blonde, and then used green food colouring to transform it. He pierced my nose with a safety pin and inserted a stud. We played music all night, and got very drunk.

     Tardy was a very troubled teen, and had a heart that not many would get invited into, but he was, and always will be, a true friend to me. He was always there for me, and a friend or a brother whenever I needed one.

     The following day we made our way into town. My green hair and new piercing was attracting us a lot of attention, people were actually stopping to look at me and shaking their heads in disgust. We met up with Tardy’s old friend who was by now my good friend too. Gary was very tall and a year older than myself. I hadn’t known him before, even though he lived on the same estate that I had lived on in my early years. He had short scruffy hair and wore a leather jacket with safety pins in it. His trousers were covered in zips which he had stitched on himself. Like me, Gary was obsessed with the punk movement that was going on in the U.K. Tardy though was using the punk attitude as a form of releasing his anger and the image to acquire attention; he would soon become the trendiest, coolest mod on the island. Gary and I, we were hooked on everything that punk stood for. We were to become the very best of friends.

     Still being in the Children’s Boards’ care, I was in fact unknowingly, on the run. And the police had been informed and were looking for me. I had been walking around town all day, sticking out like a sore thumb, and I had been reported as being seen with my two friends. That night while back in Tardy’s room, there was a loud knock on the front door. His room was at the back of the house, so he went to the front bedroom and peeked through the window. The police were on the door step and he ran back to warn me. I leapt out of the window without even thinking of the height, and it was very high! I crashed to the ground in a heap, looking like a skinny incredible hulk, nearly breaking my legs as I landed in his back garden. I jumped over the garden wall and ran as fast as I could, until I could run no more. I couldn’t go back to my friends, so now I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, and only one option left. I made my way back to Greenfields Children’s Home.

     A day or two later, I was called into the office at Greenfield’s by my Childcare Officer. A meeting had been set up and my foster parents were also in the room. I was asked why I had run away, but I didn’t tell them the reason. I don’t know why! I was asked to leave the office, and I waited outside the room while they discussed any future I may have with them… I knew there would not be one. The damage had been done. I returned to my seat in front of these people and was given my option. 

I could go back with them and give it another go, but I would have to smarten myself up and change my appearance. Or, I could stay on at Greenfields. I said my goodbyes and was a Children’s Home kid once more. They had asked me to be somebody else, somebody that I was not. And if they could not accept me the way that I was, then I was not the person they really wanted. At school Vince and I grew apart, once calling me ungrateful for what his family had done for me. But I was never ungrateful, I appreciated everything that he, his sisters, Gran and Mother did for me in my short stay, it just wasn't meant to be.

     Margaret and Alan were still here, so it wasn't so bad. Gary and Tardy would visit me and we would meet up in town whenever we could. We were causing a bit of a stir around town, and people were taking photographs and talking about us.

                         Chapter Ten - The Return

‘I drank a river in my time
Just to get on through’ 
Words by the Cult - Heart Of Soul

       Gary and I would start spending more and more time together, and our images would become more and more outrageous. We both had girlfriends, and we would just hang out together. With my bed room being on the ground floor, I could get out of my window easily, and meet up with them on a night, have a drink, a smoke and a laugh, before returning home without it even being noticed that I had gone out with my friends. Alcohol, was quickly becoming a problem.

    The day I was told that Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter had returned to take over their rightful place at the Les Genat home once again, was a major boost in my now troubled life. So much had changed in so short a time during their absence, that I was barely recognisable. Nothing like the loved little boy they had left behind. I was nearing the stage of being non-repairable. I was drinking too much. Smoking. And I would swallow any pill I could lay my hands on. And although it was the way I wanted to look... I looked a fucking mess. My family had split. We had become strangers. I hadn’t seen Steve for a long time, and my sister Lynne had her own problems, simply because she hadn’t had Aunty Lil around. Robert was safe though; he had adapted well with the previous family, and was turning into a lovely young teenager. It had been Steve that I had missed so much. I had accepted that life was just crap, and in the end you lose everything and everyone, but Steve seemed to be drifting through life, with no goal, and little hope. He couldn’t read, so plodded along with his dead end jobs, still playing football in his spare time. The really sad thing, is that he could have been somebody. If someone had actually taken the time to pay any attention to the skills he had with a football, and had given him the support and encouragement that he needed to become a profession player (that he so longed for), I know that he would have made his little Island very proud, and he would have been somebody.

      After I left school, I got a job working in a vinery, picking and packing tomatoes like everyone else did in Guernsey at that particular time. I quite enjoyed it, and the money at the end of the week would be spent on records. If I bumped into Steve, I would give him some too.

      Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter were shocked to see their beloved family in such a state. And they made it their goal to repair all the damage that had been done. It would not take long before we would all be back as a family again, apart from poor Steve, who was now too old to be in the Children’s Boards care. But he visited so much that it was like he did live with us. Gary lived just up the road from me know, and we were inseparable.

      Aunty Lil made no attempt at changing the way that I looked, or dressed. And Gary would come to our house and be a part of our family. When he wasn’t at mine, I would be at his playing our records. Gary’s parents were lovely people. His Mum, who I called Ginge, as she was a small ginger haired lady, loved her family very much, and was always proud of her children. Ginge had given up on Gary and me a long time ago, it was getting hard for us to shock her. When we showed her our new piercings, tatty items of clothing or our different coloured hair; which we still coloured with food colouring then, she would just smile and call us, “Stupid boys” shaking her head in disbelief at what we were doing to ourselves. Gary’s dad was a lovely man with a rock hard exterior, who roared like a lion. He would just look us up and down, and then growl at us “What the fuck have you done now?” or “Look at the fuckin’ state of you” But my favourite one that he used all the time as he walked passed me was “You scruffy little Bastard!” in his deep, rumbling voice, which even when talking quietly, was loud. He didn’t mean it though. Gordon was great, and he too, was very proud of his family. I would ring their doorbell and hide around the corner, if Ginge answered, I would leap out… Grab her around the neck and play fight her to the floor. She really was a lovely lady. 

     We would just stay in our bedrooms playing music, or making some clothes, which Gary was extremely good at. If he saw something we liked in a picture, or something a member of a group was wearing, he would knock up a pretty close copy in no time. He had a great talent with design. We got about the Island on his little Suzuki 50cc motor bike. Sometimes we were caught up by the local biker gang. For a small island, Guernsey has always had a biker gang of some description. They actually looked pretty cool, but they didn’t like us. And we would do our very best to provoke them. My job was to try and kick them off their bikes, while Gary tried his best to keep his bike under control. This was very hard, as they were trying to kick us off too. But nobody ever fell off, it was just a game that we played. We must have looked very comical, us on a little chugging bike, whilst they were rumbling beside us on their big powerful machines. In town, the local young Teddy boys would stop and chat to us. In the UK at that time, punks and teds hated each other, and were fighting in the streets. But here, it was different, we had a bit of respect for each other. I guess the new generation of rock and rollers, unlike the original 60’s boys, actually understood that although we were dressed differently, really, we were pretty much the same. They were actually nice guys, and looked very cool in their rock n roll clothes and quiffs.

      If you didn’t like sport or the many lovely beaches on our Island, Guernsey was a very boring place for non-sporting teenagers. As always, tourists and money would always come before locals. And there was absolutely nothing to do. If there was, we couldn’t get in anyway due to our appearance. Most of our time was spent just hanging around town, as we couldn’t get in most of the shops and café's. But Number 19, the Pollet (Street name) was where we would always end up. This was our favourite place. We got all our records from here. Played space invaders, and we were never judged. The man behind the counter was another Gary, (to save confusion I will put a 19 in brackets for you) a tall bearded man with a great interest in music. He was our supplier for all the punk music we craved. Whatever we wanted, Gary (19) would try his best to get it. He would even manage to get hold of banned records for us. He gave us promotional posters to hang on our bedroom walls, and we just talked about music in general. He became our friend, and never minded us just being there. Without Gary (19), we would have had nowhere to go. If it wasn’t for his passion for all kinds of music, then we wouldn’t have got our records. We liked him a lot. He once gave me a large poster of my favourite group, The Ramones. They were different to the UK bands at the time, and I absolutely loved the power and speed of their songs. In later years I would get to see them live 12 times in all, but for now a poster meant a great deal. Gary (19) had this way of keeping us happy. It was always a pleasure seeing him, and he always made us feel very welcome in his shop. Gone are the days of this personal and friendly service, and it comes as no surprise that the music world is crumbling nowadays; in modern day record shops, nobody seems to have that passion and knowledge of music that people like Gary (19) had, and that is very sad. 

     We were in number 19 one day, just hanging out, when a German film student approached me and Gary. He asked us if we would be interested in starring in a film. He had an idea, and we would be perfect for the leading roles. Being something to do with Art, and giving us something to do, we both jumped at the chance. We arranged to meet at number 19 the following day, and he asked us to bring our girlfriends as well, as they too could have a part.

     The next day we all met up as agreed, not knowing what he had planned. He was carrying his camera, and a teddy bear. We took the bus, and got off at the Red Lion pub, crossed the road, and made our way to the German bunker on the rocky sea front. My girlfriend Alison, and Gary’s girlfriend Sarah, were told they had to sit at the entrance of the bunker, playing with the teddy bear that our new German friend had prepared; he had opened its back, filled it with fish guts, and then sewn it back together again. He told us what he wanted us to do, and instructed Gary and I to make our way down the rocky beach. He made up a joint, handed it to me, and then started to film us. What we were asked to do was extremely bizarre. We had to walk towards the bunker smoking our illegal cigarette, passing it to one another as he filmed us stumbling over the rocks (which was hard as we were wearing our Teddy boy creeper shoes) until we reached the bunker and our girlfriends, who were playing with the Teddy bear. We grabbed the teddy, and began a tug of war, the girls pulling one way, and us pulling back. The bear eventually ripped apart, and the fish guts came pouring out of its innards. We then dropped the thing on the rocks as the camera zoomed in on the butchered remains. That was it... The end. He thanked us for taking part. Gave us some pot, and then left very excited about his project. I would love to have seen what the film came out like, but I guess it is something that is lost forever.

     Alison was my first real girlfriend, a year younger than me, and my first love. Her family were well off ,and her father took an instant disliking to me, forbidding her from seeing me. I don’t remember much about him. I wasn’t interested, as by this time, I was well used to not being liked and considered a freak. She ignored her father’s wishes, and would see me whenever she could. She would change out of her nice clothes on the way to meet me, and punk herself up a bit before we would meet up in town. Most weekends we would crash somebody’s party, we had enormous fun and always ended up drunk. At one of these parties held in a school gym, we were reported to the police due to our condition; we had been given some tablets, Gary had taken a couple, and I had taken a handful. When the police arrived, I was crashed out behind a school shed. Gary was taken inside the same shed to be searched, but he had nothing left on him so was let go, and they left. After I came around, we went back in to the party, where I sprayed a fire extinguisher at a guy who didn’t see the funny side, so we had to leave before a riot started. While we were walking around, Gary had found a hotel shed, he put his arm through the window, and pulled out a bottle of alcohol, it was Vodka but we weren't bothered what he pulled out from his lucky dip. Before every party, which was becoming quite frequent, we would knock half a bottle back each, so by the end of the party we would be in a bit of a mess to say the least, but it was all free and it was all great fun.  

      I was given a set of old Guernsey prison hand cuffs (see cover picture) I broke them apart. I gave Alison one half, and literally locked mine on (I wore that heavy thing on my wrist for years, unable to get it off and had to have it cut off in the end). When we met up in town, we would join them together with a clip and be attached to one another. We thought this was very romantic at the time. I still have my half. Gary and I had to make our clothes, unless he brought us stuff back from England whist visiting his sister. So we dressed in homemade bondage outfits, our legs tied together with straps, and straight jacket style shirts. We looked like lunatics that had escaped from a freak show. I wore a chain around my neck that was padlocked and could not be removed, as once I had locked it I’d thrown the key down the nearest drain. It eventually started to sink into my neck, and this too needed to be cut off years later. One of my favourite homemade outfits was to cause quite a stir. I decided I wanted to be so colourful (thanks Mr Dingle), that everyone would feel sick when they looked at me. I succeeded by wearing my florescent pink jumper and clashing bright aluminous green bondage trousers that Gary had made me. I had sickly orange hair,, which was very spiky by then and I wore white china doll theatrical face paint. I looked absolutely horrible... It was great. People were actually putting their hands over their eyes when they talked to me as they really couldn't face me.

     Everything that we did seemed to cause a stir, and Gary and I loved it. We were the first and only two true punks on the Island, there were other kids into the music, but no one anywhere near as outrageous as us and we got all the attention up until 1980 when I left Guernsey. Other punks would later walk down our streets. A second more aggressive generation, where Mohicans and studded leather jackets became the punk rock uniform, sadly, gone were the colourful, creative days. We were not trouble makers by any means, yet the police were always trying to pin something on us. We were just having fun, but even having fun can be illegal on a boring little island.

    Having a little bit of fun can sometimes get you into a lot of trouble. And one day, we ended up right in the shit due to just messing around. Outside the Guernsey police station were parked four or five police motorbikes. Gary had his Polaroid camera with him, and I decided it would be a cool photo if I pretended to be kicking their bikes... Anarchy style. I stood next to one and raised my foot for the pose, while Gary snapped away, on his camera. It was only a laugh, and no harm was intended. We then made our way into town. Gary had taken a few photos and they had come out well... Very funny too. Later on we met up with Tardy at the only cafe that we were allowed in. It was here that Tardy spotted a purse sticking out of a coat pocket hanging up on a coat stand.. And he nicked it.  He gave Gary and me a tenner each, which we spent at number 19 on a bag of singles before making our way to hang out outside the town church. I popped into a shop to buy a drink, and when I came outside Gary and Tardy were being bundled into the back of a police van. The van then started heading up the high street, so I ran up behind and jumped on the rear bumper, holding onto the door handle, trying to let my friends out... But the door was locked. I clung on and enjoyed the free ride on the back of the police van through the busy town, until I was finally reported. The van then came to a stop, and I too, was thrown in the back. At the police station, we were searched and out of Gary's pocket come the photo's that he had taken earlier... Oh dear. We were banged up in a cell each for quite a long time while a mechanic was brought in to give the motor bikes a good checking over. Of course, we hadn't damaged them, and luckily they found nothing else wrong with them. After we had been interrogated we were released, and as we walked out of the police station door, Gary told me to open my hand and kindly gave me a present he had acquired during our visit... A handful of police buttons that he had taken off an officers jacket... And we were in trouble again. Another time, Gary had bought a lock knife. It was massive and had a long handle and blade. We would play chicken, of Knifey -Knifey. But Gary had an idea that would cause a bunch of holiday makers a scene not in a Welcome To Sunny Guernsey brochure. He bought some fake blood from Woolworths and gave it to me. I then squeezed its contents onto my T. Shirt and covered it with my jacket. We were at the bus station in town where many visitors had gathered. And then put his plan into action. We started shouting at each other. Pretending to fight in front of the shocked people gathered near by. And then of course, he pulls out this enormous knife, and pretended to stab me in the stomach. I staggered to the terrified onlookers and fell to the ground in front of them, lying on my back so my blood soaked shirt was in view. There were screams of horror as I lay there pretending to be dead. After a few minutes. I jumped to my feet and Gary and I burst into laughter as we walked away from our grizzly murder scene. Other visitors would ask if they could take a photograph of us and we would tell them to Fuck Off. We never did use out image as a glorified show as many of the London punks did. We were not sideshow freaks, and resented them viewing us as just that.
    

     Walking passed a near- by park one day, we noticed the abandoned house. The house looked empty from the outside, and Gary decided that he wanted it, so broke into the side window. When we entered we found it was still poorly furnished, so we made it our place to go. The telephone was still connected, so Gary would find any international code, make up a number, and when he got an answer, would have lengthy conversations with whoever was on the other end.

     Alison and I would normally be in the bedroom. Doing what teenagers do very badly... Enough said. We would visit this house for quite some time, but on one particular night, the darkened room became flashing blue. Alison and I leapt out of bed and struggled to get dressed. We ran to the lounge and all three of us bolted out of the back door. Gary jumped over the hedge first, and disappeared into the darkness. I took my leap of faith next, and came crashing down into the field below, we hadn’t realised just how high the jump was. I waited for Alison, but she was panicking and was afraid to leap into the unknown. She suddenly fell, with a policeman wrapped around her, and they landed with a mighty thump. There was a barking of dogs, so Gary and I ran, leaving poor Alison in the hands of the law. We didn’t stop until we reached a main road not far from our estate, then we made our way home. It was obvious that it was us, being the only two punks in Guernsey. The police were already waiting for us by the time we got to our houses.  A week or two later Gary and I stood in court, his hair spiky and white, and my hair spiky and black. The judge mocked our appearance in court and Gary was fined £40 and I was fined £30. Alison went to court alone, and in the Guernsey press a few days later the headlines read “Nothing better to do” Alison’s father’s plea read; the incident had arisen out of an unfortunate friendship with one of the youths, which he had been unable to stop.

      In 1979 two Scottish punks came to Guernsey for a holiday, and they introduced Gary and me to glue sniffing. Glue was a nasty but cheap drug that we could buy over the shop counter in any hardware store. I would walk casually through town with a bag full of glue over my mouth and nose, not giving a damn who saw me.  Other kids tried it, they passed it on to their friends, and in no time at all it was an epidemic on our little island. So much so, glue was banned from most shops. I was glue sniffing all the time, drinking, and taking any kind of pill I could lay my hands on, but my main problem was the drinking; I even kept it quiet from Gary and Alison, the two people I cared about most. Most nights I would go to bed with a bottle of vodka, and nobody knew of my night time addiction. I had become a time bomb... And my countdown had already started. One day whilst sniffing glue and drinking at the Cow’s Horn (an odd name for a cliff top in Guernsey that overlooks the harbour and surrounding channel Isles) with Gary, our girlfriends and another female friend. I decided that I would hang from the cliff by the smallest of branches. I was literally hanging over the edge holding on to a twig, swinging my legs and laughing until I was pulled up by my friends… I survived another day.

     1979 brought with it sadness and tragedy. From my early punk rocker days, Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols had been my main inspiration, and my image mostly came from pictures I had of this crazy bass guitarist. Whatever he wore in the photographs, Gary would make me a near perfect replica. From Swastika t shirts to leopard skin waist coat. We had crashed a party like we did most weekends, and as usual we were very drunk and had taken some kind of drug. It was here, that somebody told me that Sid had died of a Heroin overdose whilst awaiting trial for the murder his girlfriend Nancy Spungen in the USA. I was very upset that night ,and celebrated my first experience of death by getting completely paralytic. A gang of the local bikers turned up at the party. They had come for one reason, and that was to beat up me and Gary. I was in such a state that I decided I would take the whole gang on myself, and as they jeered at us on from outside the front of the house, I made my move. Luckily, as I was about to confront them, I was grabbed by a few friends, taken out of the back door and lovingly dumped over the rear garden wall, where Gary and I made our getaway before we would have no doubt been beaten to a pulp by these old guys on their motorbikes.

     One day at home I received a telephone call, Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter were away for the day, and another carer was looking after us. Aunty Leslie was a lovely woman that I liked very much, she handed me the telephone... It was my father, who sounded different, and very distressed, like he was in a panic. He told me of a horrible crime that he had been accused of, and he needed a favour from me. He wanted me to take the responsibility, and to tell the police that I had committed the vile thing he had done, to get him off the hook. He told me that I would be okay, because I was in the Children’s Home and was too young for jail. He said that I would probably get away with it if I confessed that it was me. I said that I wouldn’t do it, and as he begged on the other end of the phone... I hung up. That would be the last contact that I would ever have with the man that had ruined my life. I would never see, or hear from him again whilst he was alive (more to come on that, stay tuned).

                
                Chapter Eleven – The downward spiral

'I am tired, I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colours made of tears' 
Words by the Velvet Underground - Venus In Furs.

       I didn’t realise the mess I was in until it was too late. I had lost my job. I was drinking all the time on my own. I was sniffing glue regularly. And to top it all, Alison dumped me out of the blue. I was heartbroken to say the least. I guess I had changed without even knowing it, and my constant moaning about being bored would have been enough to drive anyone away. I had been rejected yet again, but this time, by someone I had loved in a different way. Alone in my room, I began drinking more and more. Depression had got a hold of me, and it wouldn't let go. It was choking me. Gary tried his best to snap me out of it, but to no avail. Life was shit, and I’d had enough. I really could not take anymore, and knew what I had to do.

     It was late, and everyone was in bed when I got home that night. My head was so fucked up that voices were screaming inside it, daring me, and taunting me to do it. By the time I staggered home in the dark from Gary’s house, I knew what I was going to do before I even got in the door... And nothing, or nobody could have changed my mind. I walked into my house, opened up the medicine cupboard, took out the full bottle of Paracetamol tablets, and then made my way up to my bed room, only stopping on the way to get a cup of water from the bath room tap. I entered my room, laid on my union jack blanket, and then opened the bottle of pills. My room was plastered in posters, walls and ceiling. There was not a space left anywhere, and all eyes were on me. Sid Vicious. Johnny Rotten. The Ramones, and many others, all watched as I filled the palm of my hand. And then, without hesitation, threw the foul tasting pills into my mouth, over and over again. I crunched them up, and took a mouthful of water to get them down ,urging as I swallowed them. Luckily, I had no vodka, or I would have used this instead of water to help disguise the vile taste. I repeated this again and again, until the bottle was empty. Then I curled up into my still present ball position, and fell into a long… Long sleep. No angels called on me that night. No white light blinded me and guided me in its direction. There was only black, of complete darkness.

      I didn’t wake up the following morning, and Aunty Lil knocked on my door as it was getting late. There was no answer, so she entered my room. When she found me I was unconscious, covered in pill filled vomit, as pale as a ghost, and barely alive.

     All I remember about taking my overdose was lights flashing by. I don’t remember getting there, but as I was rushed through the hospital corridors to the casualty ward, the florescent lights zipped above me in a haze, flying passed very fast and making a deafening buzzing noise. It was like having a million bees in my head, screaming to get out. I heard muffled panicked voices in the background, but they made no sense, as the bees were so loud. And that was it.

     By rights, that should be the end of my story. But being a failure all my life, I even managed to fail in suicide.

     When I opened my eyes some days later, all was a blur. Where was I?  How did I get here? A nurse was sat next to me, and I was instantly sick My stomach hurt so much that it was unbearable. The curtain around me was pulled closed, and a doctor and nurse entered. They cleaned me up and checked me over, shining lights in my eyes and gently pressing parts of my body. The drip in my arm was sore, and my blood rose up the tubes to the bag of liquid hanging above me. I felt terrible to say the least ,and extremely weak. My stay in the hospital was a peaceful one; the bees had escaped from my head. Although very ill indeed, I began to gain a little strength and slowly became better. I had to do some small exercises at first, stretches and slight movements before I was made to get up and walk around my bed, which was extremely hard work, as just standing up seemed impossible. I can remember that Mathew Le Tissiers (our local football hero) father was in a bed across from mine. He was a very nice man, and would keep an eye on me, calling the nurse if I needed any help. Gary would visit me, and find the sight of me hilarious, as I had recently dyed my hair black, and being as white as my sheets and pillows, all you could see was my jet black spiky hair.

      After the help from the nurses the exercises paid off and I was walking again, but with the need of a walking stick. I got as much strength back as my damaged body would allow, and I was ready to leave. I had survived, but for how long? This is never certain after a Paracetamol overdose, and I was told I could still suffer and be very ill for many years to come, as the Paracetamol had seriously damaged my liver. I was given my clothes to put on, it felt good to lose the hospital robe and get back into my tartan bondage trousers and Sex Pistols T. Shirt. I slowly hobbled out of the hospital, with my walking sticks for support, looking like the ghost of Sid Vicious... But that was okay with me.

     Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter were still there for me even after all the distress I had put them through. My sister was angry with me, but I knew it was because she was upset at nearly losing her brother. Over the weeks I made a steady recovery, the only problem I still had was the word Paracetamol. Whenever I heard THAT word, I would subconsciously taste the bitter pills and want to throw up. So, Gary developed this very annoying habit and would suddenly, half way through a sentence slip in the word Paracetamol, even though it was nothing to do with what he was talking about. He found it hilarious that he could make me nearly throw up just by saying the word. Soon, I could go into town again with Gary and hang out, but it wasn’t the same without Alison with us. Our little gang was never the same. I was soon drinking again, as I went in and out of bouts of depression, oblivious to the fact that I shouldn’t be drinking, due to my traumatised liver.

     One day, Gary and I were sat outside the town church, when a young woman came running out of the hair dressers across the road, she was very excited. A new hair dye had come out called crazy colour, and she asked if we would mind being guinea pigs so they could experiment with it. It was free, so we didn’t hesitate, we still only used food colouring or poster paint, but that would wash out. We sat in the salon chairs and let them loose after choosing our colours. Gary had red on the top, with blue on the sides. And I had a bright green streak through the centre of my black hair, looking like a very sick skunk. They spiked us all up, took some photo's, and then we made our way up to number 19 to show Gary (19). As we walked up the high street you would have thought we were aliens, everyone was stopping to look and stare. At number 19, Gary (19) thought we looked great.

       

     We made our way home, stopping at Gary’s house first. His parents went absolutely mad with him, and they were serious, we had gone too far this time. They told him that he had to dye it a normal colour, or he would have to move out, they had had enough. He went up to his room very upset, so I left him and walked slowly to my house. What would my reception be? If Gary's usually laid back parents were that angry, then what was I going to be in for? I opened my front door and walked into the kitchen, where Aunty Lil looked up at me and said with a giggle “Ah, that’s nice” Uncle Peter just gave me the, Oh my god, what next? look, with his usual 'tut' and the raise of his eye brows. The children that were now in our family all loved it, and nothing more was said. Even my Child Care Officer, who I think had given up on me by then, had nothing to say the next time he saw me. I had got away with it! The next time I saw Gary, I felt so sorry for him, his parents had not backed down this time, and his hair had been bleached back to blonde. He still looked very punk, but for once I looked the most outrageous, which I don’t think he liked very much.

     Weeks turned to months, and on one summer’s day in town, we made friends with two skin heads from Wales. Not the violent aggressive type of skin heads you read about in the papers, these guys were great fun. They introduced us to a punk girl they had met who was also on holiday in Guernsey. She was very pretty with her bleached hair and leather jacket. She called herself Kinel and was a year or two older than me. Gary liked her as soon as her saw her, but she made a beeline for me. We became an item, a holiday romance, and we spent their entire vacation together. It was a great time, and the cloud above my head moved on for a while. Over the years, Gary and I had become notorious in Guernsey due to our looks and attitude, but I was now getting all the attention.

       The skin heads returned to Wales, but before they left they cut off a piece of our hair as a souvenir, mine being pink by then. When it was time for Kinel to return home, she asked me “Why don’t you move to Leeds? You will love it there” The thought echoed around my head as we said our goodbyes. I was still only sixteen at this time, and still in the Children’s Boards care... Surely they wouldn’t let me go! I called a meeting, and asked my Child Care Officer in the presence of Aunty Lil, if I could leave and move to Leeds... He immediately turned me down. The leaving age had been raised to eighteen years old, and I was only sixteen. I was devastated and angry at his response. I wasn’t in the home due to being a trouble maker or because of anything I had done... I was fuckin’ put in here! Whatever rage or sadness went through my mind at that moment, Aunty Lil read something in my eyes. She knew me better than this man in the suit and tie, who would only visit me now and again if I had done anything wrong. She knew that this was my escape. I was a wild animal locked up in a cage, that had to get out, or it would die. She knew that this was what it would take to keep me alive. Aunty Lil set out to change the Children’s Boards’ minds. She held more meetings about my release and very soon, she did it! She had fought for my cause and in 1980 aged only sixteen, I was unlocked from the chains that had held me back all of my life... I was free.

     Kinel had kept in touch with me the whole time from Leeds. She had found me a place to live, and it was soon time for me to join her. With my suit cases in hand, I headed into unknown territory. Away from my prison. Away from my family. Away from my friends, and away from my miserable past. I was very excited.

                   Chapter Twelve – Leeds

‘’Once you were tethered..... But now you are free'' 
Words by the Waterboys - This Is The Sea.

       I arrived in England. The Children’s Board had kindly arranged all my tickets etc, including a letter to the Children’s services in Leeds, in case I needed any help. The journey from Southampton to Leeds was a long one, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I was fascinated as I watched all the towns and cities flashing by through my train window. England was enormous, and beautiful. So many different people of all nationalities got on and off the trains. At one station, two punks got on board and came over to sit by me. They kept me amused for a few stops by telling me of all the groups they had seen. I had a lot of catching up to do, as I had done nothing as exciting as these two boys had seen and done, me, being from a small island that they had never even heard of.

     As the train approached Leeds City centre my heart sped up. I was dumbfounded by the sizes of row upon row of red brick houses. The dirty old factories with black smoke billowing out of gigantic chimneys into the skies above. The graffiti covered walls with names and slogans splattered across them from multi-coloured spray cans. And the masses of people. So many different races including some I had never even seen before. It was beautiful in a strange way, and I fell in love with Leeds in an instant.

     The train pulled in slowly, and came to an abrupt stop. Everybody stood up to get off, so I picked up my suit case and followed. The sign read Leeds City Station. I stepped out onto the platform, and I was relieved to see the happy smiling face of Kinel waiting for me. She waved, ran over and hugged me, and then led the way out of the train station into the heart of the city. I was mesmerized. Buildings towered above me. Traffic came from every direction. And my head was buzzing with excitement. There were so many people, and none with the slightest bit of interest in the way that I looked. I was no longer the freak that my own people had made me out to feel. We jumped on a double Decker bus, and made our way to Kinel's flat where we stayed the night. In the morning I was to be shown my new home, and introduced to my new friends.

     The following morning Kinel made up some drug in a tin foil pipe, took a drag, and then handed it to me. I inhaled and coughed. My head swam, but it was a good feeling and it calmed my nerves. On the bus journey to my new house, I looked down at my foot, which to my horror was gone! Just a melted mess, like a blob of mercury was in its place. I jumped up a little scared, but when I looked again my foot had returned, so I calmed down. Nobody had paid any attention to my little freak out what so ever, and the whole moment was very surreal.

      In the built up area of Beeston, were rows of identical red brick houses. It looked a very poor place, with Asian and African people living in most of the rundown buildings. Reggae music could be heard all around, and Rasta’s sat on door steps in their big yellow, green and red hats, with dreadlocks snaking down their backs. The smell of exotic spices and Cannabis filled the air... It was wonderful. We came to a house that looked like every other. We entered, and went into the lounge. In it was a settee, an armchair and an old television, and that was about it.

     I was introduced to my new house mates. Johnny was quite straight looking; he had blonde highlighted hair, a passion for Reggae music... And an even bigger passion for pot. Stuart was a hippy kind of student. Jewish in looks, with his prominent nose and his thick black wavy hair. He sounded stoned when I first met him, and was permanently in that condition thereafter. Andy was another student who was tall and seemed very smart. I don’t know what they were students in, but they seemed very interested in weeds, maybe that’s what they were studying, as the only homework I ever saw them doing, was smoking pot. And last, but by no means least, there was Sid. Sid was a punk from the start of it all and a few years older than me. A Marvel comic fanatic, and a huge fan of The Cramps. Sid was an extremely good looking guy who liked his women, if there was a punk girl in Leeds that Sid hadn’t been with, then she wasn’t from Leeds. Not only did he look very cool, but he had the gift of the gab, and could talk a lemon into tasting sweet. We would become good friends, and I liked Sid very much from the moment I met him. I was shown to my room, which was on the ground floor at the front of the house between the lounge and the front door. It was a very large room, with a double bed, cupboard and gas fire. Kinel left me to sort out my stuff ,and I unpacked my bags. I hadn’t brought much with me. I couldn’t have brought all my records that I had acquired in Guernsey as there were too many, so I had to leave most of them in safe hands. I did bring a few of my favourites, even though I had nothing to play them on yet. I had all of my clothes, and some of my posters which I put up straight away, making it feel like my room instantly. When I finished unpacking, I returned to the lounge to get to know my new friends better. They all seemed like very nice guys. They asked me questions about Guernsey in their strong Yorkshire accents; they found my accent a little odd, and would laugh as I spoke, because everything I said ended with “Eh?” It wasn’t long before a joint was being passed around, and we hit it off straight away. This was my new family, and I already felt a part of it.

     The house was a bit of a shambles, but I liked it. The basement was supposed to be the kitchen/dining room, but it was flooded and nobody ever went down there, it was like a spooky cellar from a horror film. So the kitchen had been moved to the top of the stairs next to the lounge. This consisted of a cooker that nobody used... Well, not for cooking food anyway! The rings however would be heated up for hot knives (two red hot knives with pot put between, and then pressed together to produce a pure shot of dope, which you would then inhale) Or to boil magic mushrooms. Food was from the many nearby takeaways, usually chips, rice and gravy from the nearest Chinese, which was cheap and filling. I made toast by sticking a knife through the bread, then pushing it into the gas fire in my bedroom until it browned. The lounge would be where we spent most of our time, and usually most of the night. Visits from other friends were continuous, and when you got up in the morning, somebody was more than likely asleep on the sofa, or crashed out on the floor. It was like a commune, a place to crash, quite simply... If you came for a visit you would probably end up too stoned to leave.

     Sid took me to the dole office and I signed on. He sweet talked them into giving me quite a bit extra for pots and pans, blankets and other necessities, none of which I needed, but I was able to buy a second hand record player with the money which to us, was a necessity. Sid showed me around Leeds with a great pride. He loved his city with a passion. We went all over, and he was a great tour guide. The place we would always end up though was the comic shop. Sid was in heaven here, surrounded by all of his favourite comic book hero’s, Spiderman and the X-men etc. He worked there sometimes, and was quite content to just sit there reading comics all day.

      The Fan Club was The punk club of Yorkshire, where all the groups played, run by a man named John Keanan, a big man with a beard; he was the music promoter that brought all the good bands to Leeds.

     Stuart worked behind the bar at the Fan Club and Sid was a permanent fixture. The first time Sid took me there was the most exciting thing I had ever done in my life. We arrived there early and a queue had already started to form outside under the big painted picture of Hugh Cornwall (the singer from the Stranglers) on the wall at the entrance. Sid, Johnny and I, walked to the doors and were let in by two of the biggest black bouncers I had ever seen. Through the doors, was a steep flight of stairs which led down to the dark club below. As you walked in the bar was the main feature, it led all the way around to the wooden dance floor and stage. Beside the stage, looming over the dance floor was the DJ stand and everything was painted in dark colours. The ceiling was very low and the little spot lights beamed down on grubby seats and mushroom shaped stools dotted around on the sticky floor. At the entrance to the club was a separate place with more seats and space invader tables. I was introduced to John and Sid asked if I could be of any help at the club. I was instantly hired to help bring in the groups gear before the gig, and then load it back up when they were finished. For my work, I would get into the club free, and have a drink on the house too. The stage had already been set up that night, and the guitars, amplifiers and drums were at the ready... And so was I.

     We had a drink and the doors were opened to the waiting crowd outside. Punks piled down the steep stairs and in no time at all the entire place was heaving and crowded. People came over to talk to me as I was a new face. The atmosphere was friendly... And electric. The DJ was sat behind the turntables; this man was different to everyone else, not a punk like the people below him. He had long jet black hair, black clothes, sun glasses and a very pale complexion. He looked like a vampire, and extremely cool. He was also in a group called the Sisters of Mercy who would in later years became very big. Andrew Eldrich put on a record, and the song boomed out loudly. I remember it being one of my favourites by Iggy & the Stooges. The place erupted, and you could have got drunk on the atmosphere alone. It was such a good night, that after years of wanting to see a live group, I couldn't even tell you who played on my first night at the F club (as it was known to its regulars) I was so over whelmed at the friendliness of these people and of course, very drunk.

     Over the next few months, I would arrive early at the F.Club and help the groups unload their equipment. I would have a great night with my new friends. Watch many of the groups that I had played on my record player back in Guernsey. Help them to load up their vans again, and then head on home. Not only was I watching some of my favourite groups, but I was meeting them too. I was very happy here. Leeds had become my home.

      When we weren’t at the F.Club, Sid and I would go to the cinema. We had a lot in common. Our music tastes were similar, and we were both horror film fans. These films would be shown in seedy porno cinemas in those days, and sometimes there would be all night horror shows. Five or six films in a row, which would start in the evening and finish the following morning. This was great fun, and Sid was the best friend I could have asked for at that time.

      Futurama was a two day music festival, held inside the Leeds Queens hall, a giant place that held thousands of people. Again, I was asked by John Keanan to help set up the huge stage. And again I would get in free for my help. Sid, me and a few others worked hard unloading the masses of equipment from the backs of lorries to get the giant stage ready. We got our guest passes and the hard work would be worth it. Futurama was to be filmed for a two part TV special. Cameras were at the ready. We were ready, and the waiting crowd outside were ready. Outside there was a queue that seemed to go on forever. Row upon row of people that looked like a scruffy multi coloured rainbow that arched gloriously around the immense venue. The doors opened, and when all were in, the huge building was full. Many bands played over the two days (around forty if I remember correctly) Some new, and some well known. Some were good, and some were bad, but that didn't matter, as it was just great fun being there. One of my favourites was a duo that although they were Leeds based I had not heard before. I thought Soft Cell were very good, and they were probably in my opinion, one of the best performances. I bumped into the singer Marc Almond later on that night, and had a lengthy chat with him. He was a lovely guy, and appreciated the comments that I made about his show on the stage. He was obviously a born entertainer even back then, and would rightfully, not too far in the distant future, become a superstar and a household name. Everybody loved their first big hit, a cover of the sixties classic Tainted love, which shot to number one in the charts. Another of my favourites groups at this event was The Psychedelic Furs who, were an awesome act to follow. But topping the bill on the first night was Siouxsie and the Banshees. Siouxsie and the Banshees were one of my friend Gary’s favourite groups, and it was very strange watching such a big band that I had only seen plastered all over Gary’s bedroom wall. While they were playing I phoned him, so he could listen to who I was actually watching. But it was so loud, I couldn't hear the person on the other end of the line. I was missing Gary, and called him regularly. I wanted him to be here too. I slept there the first night with a girl I had met at the gig. She had come all the way from Cornwall to be here. We woke up on the following morning surrounded in beer cans and plastic glasses, and we had a TV camera pointed right down upon us. The second day was pretty much the same, and Echo and the Bunnymen plus many others entertained. Gary Glitter topped the show that night. He was quite emotional, and I guess a little confused at the sight of his new generation of fans. Glitter and flares had been replaced with studs and bondage. A great weekend was had by all. When the show appeared on Yorkshire television soon after, we all watched hoping to see ourselves on the TV. I was wondering if I would be shown with the girl I was with, crashed out amongst the mess on the floor, but it wasn't shown, in fact, all of the audience footage was edited out which was a real shame. I would love a fully uncut copy of that weekend for old times sake. I found out 30 years later whilst looking up this event on the internet, that U2 played on that weekend. I must have been pretty drunk whilst they were on, as I don’t remember them playing at all, but the highlights remain in my mind clearly, and I will always remember this great gig in this once great hall.

     One of the most special and exciting days of my entire life had arrived. Something I had only ever dreamed about was here at last. I got kitted out in my usual torn jeans and worn out tatty leather jacket, and made my way to the Leeds Polytechnic. A large university during the day that hosted the bigger gigs on an evening. I was buzzing with excitement as I piled in the door and made my way to the front of the large stage. The building was packed, sweaty and hot. The chants began, and the crowd screamed out ''Hey Ho - Lets Go! Hey Ho - Lets Go!'' Then the lights dimmed, and out came The Ramones.  DeeDee and Johnny strapped on their guitars. Marky sat behind his drum kit. And then Joey grabbed the microphone, he called out ''Yeah! It’s good to be back in Leeds... Take it DeeDee!'' the bass guitarist shouted 1.2.3.4 and the power that hit me was the most amazing sound I had ever heard. My favourite band of all time.....  Just blew the place apart, and were the most fantastic, awesome spectacle I had ever witnessed. I would see them live many times over the coming years, but this first time would become one of the highlights of my life, and something very special in my heart that I will never forget.  

      Kinel and I had agreed from the start that we would not be an item. I was fine with that, as I was far too busy enjoying myself to be tied down in a relationship. I became a bit of a tart, much like my good friend Sid, who would bring a girl or two home every day of the week. He would come home with a smirk on his face, and then disappear up to his bedroom to blast out The Cramps, which had also by now, become one of my favourite groups, along with Bauhaus after seeing them play live.

     Gary had had enough of Guernsey without me there, so he came to Leeds, and shared my room in the Beeston house. I went through all of the routine at the dole office like Sid had showed me, and I gave him the same tour of the city that I had been shown. I took him to the markets. The many record shops. The punk shop called X-clothes, run by a cool looking guy named Russell, and a punk girl named Debbie. And of course, I took him to the F.Club. Like Sid I had that feeling of pride for this wonderful city which had become my home. It was great to have my best friend back with me again.
        

     Another of my favourite groups at the time, Killing Joke, had played at the F.Club. They were amazingly loud and new, and it had been a great evening as usual. Later on that night, I was in my room when there was a knock on my bedroom door. I shouted for whoever it was to come in, and to my amazement it was the bass guitarist from Killing Joke. I was sat on my bed under my massive billboard Killing Joke War Dance poster, while one of them was in my bedroom, how very surreal. Youth, (as he was known) needed to borrow my mirror for the drug of his choice, so I gave it to him. I heard voices coming from the lounge, he told me to come on through, so I followed, and the other members of the group were all there having a drink and a smoke. Johnny had brought them all back to our house from the F.Club. We had a laugh for awhile before they left to make their way to another city. Another gig. And another waiting crowd.

        Our house got busted one night by the police. Stuart had been giving his house mates free drinks all night at the F.Club. The police came crashing into my room and dragged me out of bed. I got dressed and although Gary and a load of girls were in my room asleep on the floor, they were left alone. It was very late, and me, Sid, Johnny and Stuart, were taken to the police station in town in the back of a van. You would have thought we had robbed a bank the way that they treated us. I had acquired a few hand done needle and ink tattoos by then, and sprawled across one of my arms I had the words 'I’m a mess'  And 'I killed Bambi' on the other. These were mocked by the burley police officers, and my arms were roughly yanked behind my back as I was smashed against a wall face first. They were pretty rough with me, until they found out how old I was. By then nearly 18, but once they found out that I was underage, they then softened. After interrogating us as if we were terrorists (very over the top) They let us walk home, it was miles, and Sid and I were not wearing shoes... So it was a long, painful trek back.
   
        Walking through Leeds town centre one day, Gary and I passed three punk girls. We looked at them, and they looked as us… There was an instant attraction between us, so we turned around and followed them, and soon got talking. I couldn't take my eyes off one of the girls and she did the same with me. We flirted a while, and soon became an item. Gary started seeing one of these girls too. We became a gang of friends, and they all moved into my room at the Beeston house. We did everything together and had great fun. Hanging out in the day time. Going to the F cub on an evening. I adored this girl, and fell head over heels in love with her, and the months we shared were very exciting. One day though, she finished with me. I didn't cope well with rejection and this was a very hard time for me, as she left me for a close friend. I was heartbroken, and my childhood cloud returned to surround me in darkness once again.

      I couldn’t get any breathing space at this time. My once quiet room at Beeston had become over crowded, and the gang of friends were all living in this one room that had once been quite big, but now seemed very small and claustrophobic. One of the friends was a glue sniffer, and one day I needed something Anything that might help with my impending doom. Glue was the closest thing to hand, so I filled a bag and inhaled the toxic vapours. Glue sniffing is not a nice buzz, and it is extremely dangerous. Sid smelled the substance, and called me out into the lounge. He was really angry with me, and gave me a real bollocking for what I was doing. He was my friend, and he cared about me. That meant something to me, and from then on I never sniffed glue again. After I split up with my girlfriend, everything was getting on my nerves to be honest. I remembered that I had a letter that the Children’s Board in Guernsey had given to me, and I decided to use it. I went to the Children’s Board in Leeds, and handed them the letter I had been given before I moved here. We talked, and they thought that I needed a break. They offered me a ticket back home to visit my family. I took them up on their kind offer, and got a plane back to Guernsey for the first time since leaving. I had lasted way longer than anyone back home had expected. And I arrived on Guernsey soil once again. My old Childcare Officer met me at the airport. After saying hello, he was only interested in when I would be going back. I was looking a mess, and I was an embarrassment once again. Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter were as pleased to see me as ever. And so too were my brothers and sister, and all the children. It was nice to see them all. The children had grown a lot since I had left. The slow pace of Guernsey did me good for a while, and I was able to breathe again. I visited my family and friends who all seemed pleased to see me. But it didn’t take long before I was bored to tears once again, as nothing had changed over here. Leeds was in my blood now, and very quickly I needed to get back. I had only been back in Guernsey for a month or so, and it was already driving me up the wall, especially without Gary here. I was soon on a flight back to my new home Leeds, and this time, my suit cases were filled with my old records... And I could barely lift them.

     My room at the Beeston house wasn’t mine anymore. We had people crashing on the floor all the time, so Gary and I decided to move out and get our own flat. We went to an agency and were given an address to view, but the man at the agency said it would be better if Gary went, as they probably wouldn’t let us have it if they saw me. We went to view it, and while I waited around the corner, Gary met the landlord and was shown around the place. We got the two bed roomed flat in Harehills, which is a few miles out of the city centre. It was nice to have a bit more space of our own. Our flat was on the top floor of a big house. We had a bedroom each. A lounge and a large kitchen. The bathroom was shared with the rest of the house. This area had been a hunting ground for the Yorkshire ripper. Chapel Town was just around the corner, and prostitutes were once again standing on street corners. Peter Sutcliffe had been captured, and they were once again able to make a living and get back to business. Black and Asian people were the majority here. They were always very friendly towards us, and we liked it here. It was only a short walk to the city, and the F Club.

     A Popular Punk band at the time was a group called the Exploited. They were from Scotland, and were on tour. They had needed somewhere to stay the night, and were given our address by some friends. These hardcore punks just turned up at our door, asked if they could crash, and we let them invade our flat in drunken chaos. Gary didn’t really like them there, and stayed in his room most of the time. I however, got on really well with them. Under their studded leathers. Mohicans and drunkenness, they were a great bunch of guys, and we hit it off instantly and became friends. They gave me a copy of their new album “Punks Not Dead” and they all signed it. I gave the bassist one of my t-shirts that he really liked. It had Little Richard and the words “Vive la Rock” on the front of it. On their following album “Troops Of Tomorrow” he can be found wearing my shirt on the inner sleeve. I went on tour with them. These concerts were wild and violent, not like the gigs I had become used too. This was a new generation of punk rock, and I didn’t like it very much as the old. The creativeness had gone, and so too had the meaningful songs. The singer named Wattie and I became good friends. I even told them that if they ever go down to the south of England, they should go over to Guernsey to play a gig there, they said they would, and in the early eighties, they actually did just that, playing at the Hermitage. I never saw them again, but I received post cards from around the world, signed... Wattie.

         

                      Chapter Thirteen – Understanding

'Man seems

Spirit is

Man dreams

The spirit lives

Man is tethered

Spirit is free

What spirit is man can be' 
Words by the Waterboys - Spirit.

       My stories of Leeds may be of no interest to most but are of great importance to me, and to this story. Having been a Children’s Home kid with what looked like no future. And been given no goal in this life to aim for, you can only take one step at a time, which can make it seem like a very long hard journey. Fate is what it is all about, and life is a big puzzle. You have to find the correct piece before you can move on to the next. If you put in the wrong piece it becomes crooked, and then you have gone in the wrong direction. Going to Leeds was my path in this puzzle of life, otherwise why would I have ended up there, of all places? If you read back or remember what I have told you, you will realize that every bit of my life so far, has been linked together. If I hadn’t have done this, then that would not have happened. If I hadn’t have done that... Then this story would not have been told. If I hadn’t have started out in a Children's Home then I would not be where I am today. It was supposed to be that way. If I had put in the wrong piece of puzzle, then I would have gone in a different direction, and not done any of the exciting things that I ended up doing. So if any children in care are reading this, then this is what you need to understand. You are in care for a purpose, so accept it. Take your one step at a time, it may feel crap, and you will have your up’s and down’s but along your path, you will be led in the direction you were born to follow. Any adults that were abused in their youth and still carry that baggage around with them... Let it go! You can’t move forward if you live in the past… It happened… There was nothing you could have done about it. So don’t spend your life dwelling on it. You will never find happiness with that heavy black cloud over your head, and that chip on your shoulder. Fate took me to Leeds. I had been down as far as I could possibly go, so the only way I could go then… Was up! But when you are up and as happy as you can be, you sometimes need to go back down, so that you can get back up again. Life has its crap times no matter how you started out. And is never up all the time for anyone. Fate will lead you to happiness, if you follow your heart.

      It is nearly 2004 while I am writing this, and in our local newspaper is a story of a young 15 year old girl that has committed suicide. She was in care and she was depressed. This was me all those years ago, so maybe nothing has changed. Abused, neglected children may think that every adult is a monster, but they are not! You just have to find one that you can trust, and open up to let them know how you feel. Don’t lock it all away in your head to fester, as it will poison your mind and lead you in the wrong direction on your journey.

      I was a punk. I was ridiculed and some people tried preventing me from being who I really was. They didn’t like the outside, so they didn’t want to know the inside. Some looked past my clothing and image and could see that I needed help on the inside. I put my trust in them, told them how I was feeling. Told them what I needed, and got it all out… Only then could I move on. When I didn't, depression crept up on me like a demon sent to destroy me. It would take its stranglehold, and prevented me from achieving what I am here to do in this life. When I talked, I may have moved onto another problem later, but I had put another piece of puzzle in its right place. This path of fate led me to Leeds and beyond. Where there would be more up’s and many more down’s. As they say “Life is a roller coaster” and sometimes it may feel like this terrifying ride will never stop, but it will if you really want it too.

      I will return to my story, hopefully with your interest. If you had just expected to read about a poor little neglected boy, and of how he had struggled in a Children’s Home, with only stories of abuse, bullying and hurt, then you will be disappointed, as you are reading this book wrong. It is not about any of these! It is about progression. It is about finding yourself. And most importantly, it is about finding that next piece of puzzle that will take you to the next stage of this incredible life. Not all my time in England was good, and sometimes your past can rear its ugly head bite you right in the arse. But even at the lowest parts of your life, just remember... There are always people much worse off than you.

                         

              Chapter Fourteen – The Journey to Adulthood

'Now I see the times they change
Leaving doesn't seem so strange
I am hoping I can find
Where to leave my hurt behind
All the shit I seem to take
All alone I seem to break
I have lived the best I can 

Does this make me not a man?' 
Words by Korn - Alone I Break.

   
       My eighteenth birthday was great. Although becoming eighteen wasn't really a big deal at all for me, because I had done so much in the previous few years that I felt, and looked, much older than I was. The only difference was, I was now legal to do the things I had been doing for many years. My girlfriend (that I was with at the time) gave me my present that I unwrapped excitedly before heading to the F Club. When I arrived, everyone was waiting for me, and I was given a massive birthday card that everybody had signed with their drunken signatures. I also received the new Stray Cats first album from my friends, and a box of 48 Creme eggs, which I ate in a week... Yuk!
     It was a memorable day that I will never forget, and it was a wonderful night. What I will remember most about my eighteenth birthday, is that I spent it with special people. In a special club. In a very special city.
     

      I had only known Kim a couple of weeks, a tiny woman with enormous spiky blonde hair. She was obviously interested in me, and each week would come over to sit with me. I wasn’t that interested at first, I enjoyed casual relationships as I wasn’t tied down and could do what I wanted. We got to be friends, and I found that she was very sweet. She was very grown up, and different to the other girls. I started to like having her around, she wasn’t a one night stand type of girl, and we soon became an item. After only a few days Kim wanted me to meet her parents, so we got the bus to her home which was just outside of Leeds, and some distance away. We got off the bus in a lovely, pretty part of Yorkshire, and made our way down a very tidy cul-de-sac. They were horrified when they saw me walking down the road with their daughter. We were greeted first by her dog Bonnie, a big golden retriever that excitedly greeted us on our arrival, by holding your arm in her jaws and pulling you to the ground in her gentle welcome, and then we entered her home. I was introduced to Margaret and Terry, Kim’s parents, her brother Steven and her sister Karen. They were very friendly and pleasant, and made me very welcome during our visit. We stayed for tea before making our way back to my flat. Over the weeks we saw more and more of each other, and I would visit her family every Sunday for dinner. Kim’s mum was a wonderful cook, and made so much food that you would be totally stuffed. A big roast dinner to start, and then the deserts Steamed sponges and Treacle tarts. You really couldn’t move after a meal there, and we would all collapse in front of the TV for the rest of the afternoon. Terry and Margaret would soon learn not to judge a book by its cover. That under the spiky hair and raggedy clothes, I was a nice guy. They became very fond of me, and I liked them very much too. They were dedicated to their family, and were fantastic parents.

       Gary and I returned to Guernsey for a short holiday. We caught up with old friends and family. By this time Gary had a white Mohican with short black sides, he looked great. Gary had been a big Adam and the Ants fan from their beginning, and although they had become one of the biggest pop groups of the time, he still loved them. They were playing at Beau Sejour Leisure Centre, and Gary decided to go to the Guernsey airport to meet them as they landed. He had a plan that would make the press headlines. As Adam got off the plane Gary made his move. He jumped over the railings and ran across to Adam. We had met them before in Leeds, and Gary stood out a mile with his Mohican and Ants painted leathers. Adam recognised him, and shook his hand. These made great pictures in the press that still occasionally get printed all these years later. Gary got us both got on the guest list, and were invited to the after gig party. Being such a big group at the time, Beau Sejour was packed. Not only by screaming young girls, but adults too were singing along to the many hit songs. It was a very good night, and it was free. We didn't go to the party afterwards, but gave our passes to a couple of girls we knew. I heard they had a good time, and I'm sure Adam and the Ants did too.

     Back in Leeds Gary, started dating Kim’s best friend, who would also spend most of her time at our flat. Soon both girls moved in with us, and very soon Gary and I were living separate lives. Although we were living in the same flat, we started doing our own thing. I was an F Club regular. Gary and Sue liked to go to another bar called the Warehouse, which was very eighties new romantic, and a bit too posy for me. I tried getting in once, and was refused entry for being too scruffy. We began to grow apart, and before long Gary and Sue moved out. We hardly saw each other after that; we would bump into one another in town occasionally. They would change their appearances, still alterative but what was then weird looking, and very gothic.

     Kim and I bought ourselves a little black puppy. We called her Carrie, after the horror film of the same name. I would zip her up in my leather jacket with her little head poking out the front. She was our baby, and she lived a long and happy life.

     My brother Steve and my old friend Bob would appear a couple of times out of the blue. They would stay with us, and then disappear as suddenly as they had arrived... But it was always nice to see them.

     Kim had some old friends she had known a long time that had a band together. They called themselves Icon A.D. They desperately wanted me to join their group, but mainly for the way I looked, not for my musical ability, as I had none. I did however have a little hobby. I would right songs in my spare time, and they used one of my songs for the b-side on one of their singles. The song was called 'Medals for the Dead' I got the inspiration from the Falkland war that was raging at this time. It was seeing a field full of white crosses that gave me the lyric's for this protest song. Icon A.D were an anti-war protest group, and appeared on radio on the John Peel show. They also achieved great success in the indie charts, and even crawled into the mainstream charts.

     After four years together, Kim and I became engaged. Her family were delighted. We found ourselves jobs in the little town of Harrogate, twenty odd miles north of Leeds. Harrogate is a very conservative town, a short journey away from the most beautiful Yorkshire dales and Moors. The stunning countryside is like something straight out of an Emily Bronte novel. She was born in 1818 Yorkshire, and this breath taking scenery was her inspiration.

      We found a gorgeous little country cottage in a village called Killinghall, that was just outside the small town. Kim had found a job in a retirement home, and I worked in a nearby hotel in town. I toned down my image and tried to be grown up. The music scene had become boring again, keyboards taking the place of guitars. All there seemed to be were pretty boys in make-up and mullet haircuts, with songs with no power or meaning. I hated the 80’s scene, so I lost interest in music at that time. Although I wasn’t dressed in my punk attire, I still didn’t look normal. And I certainly didn’t feel normal. Inside I was still the same person, but my exciting life had become extremely dull.

     On our wedding day four years later, Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter came up trumps yet again. Not only were they my only family at the event but they brought two little girls from the Children’s Home with them. I had wanted them for our brides maids, and they looked wonderful. My best man was Mark, the drummer from Icon AD. And the two female singers from the band were Kim's chief bridesmaids. Kim looked beautiful in her wedding dress, her parents were extremely proud. After the ceremony our black horses and carriage took us to our reception. On the surface it was a fairy tale wedding, but under the uncomfortable suit that I had to wear, and on what should have been a happy day... I was choking inside. I felt trapped.  My freedom taken away so soon.  Something was wrong, and I couldn’t wait to get out of that suit and remove the tie that was choking me. I struggled terribly with the family bond that I had no memory of ever having. And although this may sound a horrible thing to say, I couldn't wait for the day to be over.

        Our honeymoon in Italy was lovely. I had needed to get away, and this beautiful place was relaxing, and extremely hot.
        Kim took control of our marriage from the start. I have never been one to be in control of anything. We worked hard, and before I knew it, Kim had found the house that we would buy. She took the money we made to pay the bills etc, things that I would have been useless at basically. Kim and her parents were the closest I had ever had to a real family. But my past would once again raise its ugly head, playing little games that to me, were a big problem. As much as I had grown to love Kim’s parents, I found it extremely difficult to call them Mum and Dad. The words just wouldn’t come out of my mouth. And there were many more silly little things that would irritate me. Things that normal families would over look. I began to feel very depressed. I had this wonderful family that I had always dreamed of ,and yet I began to put up a barrier between Kim and myself. She also had some personal problems that she could not share with me, so communication broke down, and although together... We seemed a million miles apart.
       

     My best friend at the time was a very funny guy named Calum. Calum moved in with us, and rented our spare room. It was extra money coming in, and I had my friend there. We got a group together with friends Dale and Mark and practiced all the time, but we were never very good. Calum was a big hit with the girls, they loved him; with his bleached blonde hair and pretty boy looks. Calum was great fun to have around. I started drinking again, and my old image began to creep back. Then one day, out of the blue, after being together for eight years, I broke Kim’s heart. I told her that I didn't this anymore, and I left her. I was having a break down. And I was a mess again. Alone, with no one to turn too. I jumped straight into another relationship instantly. This was relationship was disastrous, which resulted in another break down. Would I never be happy? Due to this failed relationship, I calmly walked into a shop. Bought a packet of razor blades. Sat in the middle of a field, and slashed my wrists very deep. The blood poured out, and it felt so good. Self harming seemed to release a lot of anger and tension, for many years to come. I was found by my girlfriends brother, then rushed to the hospital to be stitched up, nineteen in all. Due to what I had done, I was then put in a mental hospital in York. This was a crazy place, and surely I didn't belong here? I felt like Jack Nicholson in the film One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. After a couple of days I discharged myself, and walked the twenty odd miles back to Harrogate. I soon found a small room to rent, hit the bottle, and became myself again... And it felt great. This posh little town, like Guernsey, had its dark hidden side. And once again, It would be there where I was to find new friends, lurking in the darkness.

      I started going out with a hippy girl who had not long split up with her ex. He was a hard drug dealer, and not a very pleasant guy. Like all dealers, he was a creep, and a sleazy one at that. I had got myself another job and was working in a factory at this time. Dunlopillo was a massive place. I worked on the line which made car seats. Very hot and dirty. everyday you would leave stinking of sweat and covered in wax that was used to spray and lubricate the large seat moulds. Not long into my new relationship, there was a call for me to go to the entrance of the building. I knew it would be him, and went out to meet him. He instantly cowered as I approached, and like the rat that he was, he pleaded for me not to hit him, saying that he only wanted to talk. He asked if I had a cigarette. I didn’t have any on me, so he told me he would just get his car that was parked around the corner, and get his. He reversed it back towards me, came to a stop, and through his wound down window asked me in a calm voice to get in the car for a chat. He said that he didn’t want any trouble, he just wanted to talk, so I calmly walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door. His tone then completely changed from being creepy, to aggressive "Get in the car or I will blow your fucking head off" he shouted. He had a gun pointed at my face, and with his weapon in hand, he suddenly became a hard man. I smiled, and sat down in the passenger seat next to him. Not breaking his gaze. I should have been a little bit scared surely? But I was not in the slightest bit afraid. In fact, I found it extremely exciting, and I wasted no time in telling him what I was thinking. I just leaned towards him. Looked straight into his eyes, and growled "Put the gun down, and I will punch your face right through the fuckin' windscreen!" He was a bully, and at that time in my life, one who had picked on the worst person in the world that he could have chosen to start on. Because when you pick on somebody who doesn't give a shit if he gets killed. And that particular person is prepared to fight back, no matter what. There is only one winner in that kind of situation... And it's not the dick with a gun in his hand. He had already lost, whichever way it turned out. He wouldn’t put the gun down, being the coward that he really was. And kept it aimed close range at my smirking face. Not only had he brought a gun with him, but he had also brought a gang of some of the meanest guys from Harrogate as backup, just in case I did attack him. I had noticed the car full of men drive passed a couple of times, and they had pulled up a little further down the road, keeping us in view whilst we talked. He told me he loved this girl, and he couldn’t cope without her. I just sat and listened, and suddenly he broke down crying. Blubbering like a baby at how upset he had been over losing his girlfriend. He lowered his gun. And in those moments I thought about punching his head through the fuckin' windscreen, but I found myself feeling quite sorry for him. I knew how hard it was to lose a loved one. I had lost a few myself. He told me he was sorry, and I forgave him. We then got out of the car and he waved to his boys. One got out of his car and walked toward us (a mean looking half Chinese guy) He took the gun, came towards me and, we stood face to face, like a couple of boxers ready for action. I was pumped with adrenaline by then, and said "Is this the fuckin’best you can do?" He stared at me for a few seconds, and then turned and walked away. My girlfriends ex then got in his car, said he was sorry again and they drove off. I let out a large breath. The confrontation was over, and my heart beat slowed down. I don’t know what gave me the courage to stand up to these thugs that day. Maybe they thought I was going to fall apart with their intimidation tactics. And because I didn't and showed no fear at all, they were out of their comfort zone and really didn’t know how to handle the situation. The girl and I never lasted anyway, she couldn’t handle me being nice to her, as she wasn’t used to that. She had become used to being treated like shit, and went running back to him soon after. I hadn’t known the half Chinese guy before this incident, but was to find out later that he wasn’t one to mess about with as he was extremely tough. I was in a bar a couple of weeks later buying a pint. A good friend of mine came over to warn me that this ferocious half Chinese bloke was also in the bar. He also said that I had better leave as the guy was going to hit me. Again adrenaline rushed through my veins. This bar was full of sofas. A casual place where you could sit comfortably and talk with friends. I paid for my drink. Walked over to the sofa that he was sitting on, and calmly sat down next to him. He didn’t say, or do a thing. I guess back then I had a bit of a death wish, but this little story just goes to show you that if you stand up to a bully... They really aren’t as tough as they make out to be. 

      I started going back to Leeds again. The F Club had long since gone. It was now a night club, blasting out its night life repetitive beat. Dum... Dum... Dum... Dum... Dumb. Goth was now the music of Leeds. And it had taken over from the earlier punk scene. My hair was now grown long and black. And my black clothes and hat, were dusted down with flour. I wore thick black eye liner that I would smudge under my eyes. And my face was painted with white theatre face paint. I looked like a ghost from an old western movie. The Phono was the Goth night club I would go to. It was dark and smoky, and played even darker music. I would become popular here, and even crowned King Goth by some the other strange looking people in this club. Looking back this was probably the time that I looked my best. I really did look the rock star. I loved the attention from the girls, and would take every opportunity that came my way. I also loved the envy of the boys. Many just tried too hard to look good, and failed due to that added effort. This was a sleazier place than the F.Club. Transvestites carrying whips would dance in their leather stilettos amidst the smoke that bellowed out from under the DJ desk. Weird looking people all dressed in black would emerge from the smoke, and when you were drunk, became quite an eerie sight mixed with the deep growling vocals coming from the very loud speakers dotted around the dance floor.

     After I got divorced I had some money after Kim kindly paid me back what I had put in to the house. I took driving lessons, and second time round I passed my driving test. My first car was an old Ford Escort. Once I had gain confidence, I sold that and bought an old Dodge/Comma van. A bright yellow ex telecom vehicle that I loved the moment I saw it. It looked a sorry looking thing when I bought it, and it kind of reminded me of me in a strange way. Ugly, yet strangely attractive at the same time. I needed a small part after I'd bought it. So made my way to the scrapyard. While looking, I noticed another van of the same year and model as mine. It sadly sat under three cars that had been placed on top of it. This one however, had windows on the sides, so I asked how much they would be. The scrap man said I could take anything I wanted from it for £25, and he would even fit the windows in my van for another £25. I happily paid him, and went to scavenge what I could from this once beauty. To my amazement, when I opened the back doors of the scrapped van, it was a fully kitted out campervan; Sink. Cupboards. A table and two settee’s that folded down into a spacious double bed. A two ringed cooker. And it even had curtains with little chains to pull them back. My windows were fitted, and I spent the day dismantling the poor old neglected van. I literally took it out of the old one, and slotted it all straight into mine. It looked fabulous when I had finished, and after a hard day’s work I drove out of the scrap yard in my lovely camper van. I then painted it red and black, and I now owned my very own home. My new girlfriend Helen and I would spend many hours in the van. We would drive out into the country and have a wonderful time, surrounded by beauty and peace. Not long after, out of the blue, I decided I wanted to do some travelling. Helen liked the idea too, so before long we were saying goodbye to our friends. We packed up with limited things that we might need, and our journey began. We didn’t really know where we were going. We had no time limit or destination, so we just drove out of Harrogate heading south. It was a great feeling of freedom. We stopped at roadside cafes, and pulled over at night to rest. The journey south led us to Southampton. There, we got on a Ferry, and were soon heading towards France. Once we arrived in France, we just followed whatever road we came upon. We found ourselves ending up at the most lovely old towns and villages. France was a strange place when you looked as different as we did. The French locals looked at me like I was an alien, and they would actually stop and stare very rudely, which became extremely annoying. We made one decision on our journey, and that was to drive to Paris and visit Jim Morrison’s grave, the late singer of one of our favourite 60’s groups, The Doors.

     On our way we stopped at a very lazy French village. Pulled into one of the many lay-bys to take some rest time. And just relaxed for a day or two. This very rural place was typically French, like a post card picture. It was so quiet, that even the policemen looked sleepy and bored, leaning on crooked walls in the baking sun. We spent a couple of days here, enjoying the peace and quiet. When it was time to carry on with our journey, we pulled out of our lay-by and headed on. About a mile down the road, a big van with a siren wailing like a banshee, drove up behind us. Its driver waving for me to pull over. So, I slowed down to let him pass which he did. But then he pulled up right in front of me, slowing down until we came to a stop. In my rear view mirror, I noticed another police van behind me. The police Officers got out of their vehicles and came to my van. I was told to get out by a policemen with gun at his side. And soon, we were surrounded by six or seven armed men in uniform. I was asked to climb onto the roof of my van, and sit down quietly. I was only wearing my torn ripped jeans, and my long black hair covered my back and shoulders from the burning sun. The policemen then went to one of the vans and took out a barking German shepherd. They opened my rear van doors and Helen was asked to open the cupboards inside, the eager dog was then sent in to see what he could find, while another policeman looked through my driving area, hoping to find something to liven up their boring beat. My leather jacket was by my seat, and the policeman picked it up. I watched as he went through my pockets, searching every one, before he dropped it on the ground. As he picked it back up, I saw him put the small silver foil wrap in a pocket, before putting the jacket back on my seat. They asked us why we were here. Where we were going. And then wished us well. Got back into their vans, and drove off. I panicked and quickly went for my jacket thinking it was a set up and a plot for the lazy town policeman to get a promotion. I looked to see what had been put in my pocket, but to my relief, it was only a packet of polo mints that had fallen out, that he had put back... Scary stuff. I had expected to be pulled up again a mile or two down the road, and arrested for drug charges. By then, our money was getting low, and there was no way we would make it to Paris on the little we had, so we decided to head on home.

     Back in Harrogate I lived in my van for a while, staying at Helens flat sometimes. I loved my van, but it was a little small. I met a farmer and he told me that he had a caravan that I could live in that was sited on his land. When I went to see it, I instantly fell in love with it so I asked if he would sell it to me. I bought the Bluebird caravan that was pre-nineteen forties. It was absolutely beautiful, and looked like an old gypsy home. Inside was a kitchen. A bedroom. A spacious lounge that had an old wood burner for heating. I decided that I did not want to live on the farm, so, I towed my new home away and parked it on the side of a dusty road with some traveller friends of mine. Still in Harrogate but out in the country. North Yorkshire is a truly beautiful place, and beside our site, the River Nidd ran passed, and flowed out into the unknown. Twisting through the surrounding fields and countryside. I mellowed due to this wonderful countryside. I would walk for miles, all day sometimes, and not see one person on my travels. Our evenings were spent around the campfire, smoking pot and listening to Bob Dylan. The Waterboys. The Levellers and other music to chill out to. Close to our site was a quarry. I got a job there making patio flags. I worked hard, and in no time I became Forman, in charge of a great group of lads that became good friends. I later moved my caravan into the quarry, and this wonderful place became my home. I became fitter than I had ever been in my life, actually becoming quite physical due to all the amount of heavy lifting. As much as I loved my caravan I soon sold it, and bought a large mobile home, which gave me much more space and comfort. I was then able to retrieve my records and stereo which were being looked after for me. I now had electric, this made life even better, as I could now blast my music out as loud as possible... As there was nobody around for miles.

       It was during this time that I paid a visit to Guernsey with another girlfriend of mine. And during this short break, I did something that would become one of the highlights of my entire life. The day I met Mr Oliver Reed truly was a wonderful moment. My favourite actor lived in Guernsey at this time, and it just so happened that I was reading his great biography Reed all about me. I parked outside his house and walked to his big gated entrance. As I approached, I saw him playing with his dogs close by, and politely called out his name. The big man opened his gate, greeted me and invited me into his garden. He was drunk, but extremely friendly. He showed me his life size Rhino statue that Keith Moon from the Who had given him, and inside his spectacular house. All the way along his hallway walls were row upon row of pictures of famous actresses that he had starred with in his movies. Each photograph had a little piece of cloth from the women's outfit, and a snip of their hair. A lovely gesture I thought. At the end of the long corridor was the most fantastic painting of the great man as Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist, with Bullseye, his faithful dog sat beside him. Before leaving, Oliver posed with myself and my girlfriend Christine and blatantly showed off in front of the camera... A true showman. I asked if he would sign my book and when I handed it to him he commented on the wonderful black and white picture on the back cover. He was young. Extremely handsome yet very tough looking. He has his hand rammed down the front of his jeans in the picture, and he looked at it for a moment as if reminiscing at his youth ''That's when I was a boy'' he comically said in a drunken slur as he took my pen and wrote the words - Ian we are boy (he missed the s from boys) He then scribbled his name across the picture. He put his arm around me, and gave me a hug. This colossal of a man oozed power and charisma. He truly was the most polite, kind and funny gentleman I had ever met, and it was an absolute honour to actually meet this great, if not the greatest British actor.

     Back home months passed by. All seemed perfect, although I was drinking quite heavily again. One evening, out of the blue, I went to the sink in my tiny wash room. I felt a little odd, and I remember holding onto the sink, taking in deep breathes  to try and relax. It was then that I looked into the mirror to see if I looked ill. What I saw staring back at me, and why and how and who, was the most frightening sight. Where this all came from I will never know. I was not even smiling, but in the mirror my father was staring back at me. Laughing the most horrible laugh. I sat down on my toilet seat, trying to make sense of it all. Feeling my face with my hands in a panic. I stood back up, and cautiously looked back at my reflection but it was just me again. I looked closer at my eyes, the same blue eyes that had been the talking point throughout my youth. The very eyes that had now become a curse to me... As I had my father’s eyes. What I was about to do at that time was quite horrific to say the least, but it was something that I felt I needed to do at that time. I took out a razor, the old style flat blade kind. I was going to cut my face off. I pushed the razor blade to my forehead, and held it there bracing myself for the obvious pain that I was about to inflict upon myself. Waiting for my father to return, so that I could finish this once and for all. I obviously did not go through with the torture that I had planned that night. But I did however manage to disfigure myself enough never to look like my father ever again. Another breakdown was looming up on me.

                Chapter Fifteen – A Man’s Best Friend

'Then an angel would come
with burning eyes like stars' 
Words by the Cure - If Only I Could Sleep.

       
        Jake was a sorry sight. The enormous black Labrador had been rescued by a friend of mine from being put down due to biting a boy. The boy and his friends had hit the poor dog with a cricket bat, and the dog had fought back. Of course, in the human world, it was the animal that was to be punished. My friend couldn’t keep Jake, so I took him on and very quickly, that enormous black Labrador had become my best and most loyal friend. He had a great life with me. The quarry was his home now too, and the immense country side was his garden. He was built like a Rottweiler, and would run after sticks from morning to night. During work hours, my work friends and I would all take it in turns to throw the stick that he would continuously bring back over and over again, dropping it ready for his next sprint across the yard. If nobody amused him, he would pick it up again and drop it closer to you until he would get your attention. His long wet pink tongue hanging from his lips, and his panting muscular chest jumping up and down like a piston in an engine. Jake was in a bit of a bad way when I got him. His teeth were all smashed. He was blind in one eye, and partially blind in the other. And to top it all, he would have fits quite regularly. One day I threw him his stick ,and off he ran to retrieve it. As big as it was, he didn’t even see the forklift truck that was parked in the yard, and he ran straight into it, letting out a painful yelp. Enough was enough, and I booked an appointment with the vets for a check up. His eyes had got worse. The poor thing could barely see at all, and if I was prepared to pay for it, I could get his worst eye mended. This became my priority, and I saved up the £500 needed for the operation.
     

     The operation was to be done just outside of London, and me and my companion drove the long journey to the surgery. It was hard leaving him there in the hands of the staff. I said my goodbyes and lovingly told him that I would be back in a couple of days to pick him up. Driving back up North seemed very lonely without my friend. It was a long agonising two days without him. I was excited on my trip back towards London, and was anxious to see if they had made him better. When I got there I sat patiently in the waiting area. eagerly waiting for them to bring him back to me. Staring down the long hallway in anticipation, I saw a door open at the end of the hallway, and they brought him out. He had a big plastic cone around his neck, and looked ever so sad. I stood with an enormous smile on my face, and it was then that he saw me. It was quite a distance as the hallway was very long, but he dragged the young handler all the way to my waiting open arms. I will never forget the love that I felt right then. His tail wagging with excitement as he jumped on me and licked me with his big pink tongue. We got in the van and headed home. That was the best money I have ever spent, just for that one moment. The he gave when he saw and recognized me was worth every single penny.

     Jake was still having fits, so it was back to the vet for another visit. Under examination, the vet found a little lump. Then another, and another. He was x-rayed and the image was startling. It showed that the lumps were due to him having been shot in the past, with an air rifle, twenty five times. Some of the pellets had got into his blood stream, causing led poisoning which was causing the fits. Another £250, and twelve of the lead pellets were removed and handed to me in a little glass tube.
       We spent many years in our caravan home surrounded in beauty. We sweated out long hot summers. And braved the cold harsh winters, Together.
      Jake came into my life for a purpose. I truly believe he may have even saved me from going over the edge, for what may have been the final time. This dog was the best friend I could have asked for at this point in my life... And I will never forget him.

                   Chapter Sixteen – A Vision

‘You know that life really takes its toll
And a poet's gut reaction is to search his very soul
So much damn confusion before my eyes,
But nothing seems to faze me and this one still survives’. 
Words by the Ramones - Poison Heart.

         Something very strange happened again to me one night alone in my caravan. Yes, I had been drinking and smoking with a good friend of mine. After he left, I went to bed and fell fast asleep. In the darkness and silence of the night, I woke up suddenly and was faced with a terrifying vision. I wasn’t in my body, but floating in the air looking down on myself in my bed. I was curled up in my still familiar ball, yet not looking like I did now at thirty two years of age. I was fifteen again. I had black spiky hair. I was very pale and extremely ill. Vomit full of pills was around my open mouth. I had taken an over dose. I was in my Children’s Home bed, and I was watching myself dying.  All the things I had done in my life up to now became things that might have been if I hadn't died in that bed of horror. My life was what would have been, if I hadn't died. I awoke feeling breathless and frightened. I leaped out of my bed in a sweat, it was so real. So fucking real that  it could not have been just a dream. It was far too real. Some of you drug takers reading will probably laugh at this, thinking I freaked out, or had a bad trip. That may be so. But on the other hand, it may not have been. It was certainly very real to me. So much so, that it frightened me for days, and would not leave my thoughts. No matter how hard I tried to push the vision aside.

     Soon after that, after sixteen years in England, I suddenly had a strong urge to go home. As though something was pulling at me to return to the little Island that I once hated. Where this feeling came from I do not know. Until my creepy nightmare it had never even crossed my mind in the whole time I had been away, but now, I desperately wanted it more than anything in the world.

     In no time at all I sold the caravan that had been my home for the past five years. I said goodbye to my dear friends in Harrogate. To my girlfriend, who I was very fond of. And lastly, to my best friend Jake (a friend took him in for me) I got into my car that I had recently bought, which I had loaded with all of my belongings, and I drove out of the quarry. Out of Harrogate, and onto the motorway, heading south. As I passed by Leeds, I said "Thank you and goodbye" aloud, to the city that I had grown to love. I was now on another journey. Leaving the past exciting sixteen years of my life in my rear view mirror behind me. Fate had plans for me. And fate led me back home.

               Chapter Seventeen – My Path Leads Me Home

'Just when you think it's over
Just when you think it's done
Out of every nowhere
You never see it come
I know the lines are showing
I can't keep them in
Like everybody's story
It's written on the skin' 
Words by Echo and the Bunnymen - Rust.

         Driving off the boat I had butterflies flapping in frenzy in the pit of my stomach. At a glance, the place hadn’t changed at all, and old memories came flooding back instantly, like old photographs flashing through my mind. Black and white ancient film projected from my head, and I viewed it through the lens of my eyes as I looked on unchanged familiar sights. Castle Cornet, the giant fortress over looking St. Peter Port, which I would visit with the school in my youth. The Light house, which as a young lad, I would go fishing while bunking off school. The Salvation Army building high up above, overlooking the little town below it. The very place I would attend Sunday school with Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter as a child. Where I once gave my heart to Jesus as a little blue eyed boy, even though many times in my adult life, he didn't seem to care. And through that little town below, the same high street that Gary and I once haunted and caused so much commotion. Had I really been away for so long? The faces of my past would tell me that I had. I felt I was the same person inside, but everyone looked so much older. The children I had once known from my youth, now had children of their own. I had a family that I didn’t know. Nieces and Nephews that I had missed growing up. I suddenly felt I had grown up for the first time in my life, and without even realizing it, until now.
       

      But things had changed in Guernsey. Maybe it was Gary and I that gave this old fashioned island the kick up the arse that it desperately needed all those years ago. When we left, a new generation of punk rockers had walked down our high street, they too, long gone now. When I had my nose pierced and my hair dyed green by my old friend Tardy, it was considered absolutely outrageous, so strange that even on a visit to my doctor back then, he refused to tend to me due to my appearance. But now, the teenagers had piercings everywhere on their bodies. Your normal house wife or shop assistant would have a flash of colour through their hair. And in the men's fashion shop window displays, the mannequins would be wearing designer ripped jeans that cost a fortune. All that we stood for, and suffered years of piss taking, had now become trendy, and accepted in society.

     My oldest friend Bob, who I had known all my life from the Children's Homes we were brought up in during our miserable childhood, was there when I needed him. He and his lovely family put me up for awhile in their own beautiful house. For a boy who started out with nothing, Bob now had everything. I soon moved out to give them their space back and lived in a small tent in the very woods that I played in as a child. Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter who are still caring for young people also let me stay with them. Their son Chris, who once listened to the punk records being played from my bedroom as a little boy, was now a giant of a man. He kindly gave up his hammock bed for me, and slept on the sofa until I could find my own place. My dear friend Tardy was there as he had always been throughout my life. He let me move into his flat and then at last, I was settled. These kind people are true family and friends. They gave me more than just a place to stay, they gave me a fresh start. And a new life.

     
                                 On Returning

It was lovely to see my sister again. I had missed her over the many years. She now has a family of her own, and is a beautiful Grandmother herself.

     My mother, now frail in old age, lives with her partner. A man, funnily enough, with the same name as my father. Only this man loves her dearly. She at last has found happiness, and this isn’t the same woman that had been beaten through the floor boards while pregnant with my brother Steve. Or the woman that was abused by her husband all those years ago. She might still have the scars in her mind, but there’s a light in her eyes now. She has found true love. And she deserves it.

     On arrival in Guernsey, I popped to Gary’s old house to visit Ginge. I was all ready to hide, and then leap out, grab her, and wrestle her to the ground. But when she came out, excited to see me. I was now looking into a smiling face of an old lady. Gone was the ginger hair which was now grey.  She is a wonderful lady who will always stop and chat every time I see her. She is so proud of her son, who is now living in London and doing very well for himself. Gary is now into the trendy club scene, acid house and the rave drug scene. He is also a fantastic photographer. 

    My brothers Steve and Robert both live in England. They have both visited me in Guernsey since my return. Robert and his partner Teresa have a lovely son who they adore. He is a great father, and has become a better man than I ever was. He doesn’t understand his past, and I hope one day he can let it all go, as he now has something very special in his life.

     Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter have since, retired from their long service as carers. Now those young children are adults, but still live with together as a family. Aunty Lil and Uncle Peter will never stop caring for any of us. And they will always be there if we need them.

     My oldest brother Francis now lives alone. His two sons are now fine young men, and he seems lost without his family.

     My father died alone in England many years ago. He now lies at rest in the Vale Cemetery, in an un-named grave. Maybe fitting for a man who caused so much heartache and hurt, as Karma, will catch up with you in the end.

     
     And what about me ...

     I started working in a factory once I settled down. It was here that I met Kathy. We lived together for many years with her son Glenn, who became my stepson. And soon were blessed with two beautiful children of our own. My children have become my world. And although Kathy and I didn't last, due to me being too laid back, and her being so fired up, we remained the best of friends, and she is a friend that I can rely on. Which is more than most ex couples can say. Kathy and I have a bond, our children. And that will never be broken. My daughter Jade, and my son Ciaran are now my reason for living. I still have my bad days like everyone else, but gone are the thoughts of suicide. too much alcohol, and drugs whatsoever. I wouldn’t want to miss a single day without my children... Good or bad. If I find myself feeling down, I just have to look at them and I feel better. Sometimes when I watch them, I see a glint of rebellion in their eyes. And it fills me with pride that one day, they will do their own thing... Maybe rebel like their old man. But one thing is for sure, I will always be there for them no matter what happens on their journey... Every step of the way.

      I am happy. And fate never gave up on me. My fate was written all along. And it was right here, on my little Island home all along... Guernsey.

   The End.

                                                           

                  Chapter Eighteen - After Reading

‘I've loved, I've laughed and cried

I've had my fill, my share of losing

And now as tears subside
I find it all so amusing
To think I did all that
And may I say not in a shy way
Oh no, oh no, not me

I did it my way’ 
Words By Paul Anka - My Way (Song by many but best by Sid Vicious)                                                                   

     
Well, that wasn't so bad. One hell of a roller-coaster ride of memories, smiles and emotions. I thought I would have to re-write the whole thing, but I am going to leave it just as it was meant to be, although I had better sort out the grammar and spellings. All sorts of emotions collided through my mind and heart. The anger at my father is still there. Pride for my Uncle Peter remains. Love for my brothers and sister, my mum, Aunty Lil and friends as ever. And excitement, as fresh and as thrilling set my heart racing as I read of my adventures in Leeds.

     What’s happened since writing this story? Well quite a lot actually! When Kathy and I broke up after eight years together, although this was a tough time, we had our children to consider, and we pulled through as best of friends. I know Kathy will always support me, and vice-versa. Our priority is our children, and they are now growing into fine, if not spoilt teens… Beautiful children, who are showered in love, and they are my pride and joy. Kathy is now engaged to a lovely man named Mark, who has become a good friend. Although the children live with me, Kathy does more than her share of bringing them up, and Mark has become a big part of their lives too. They love him, and I couldn't have asked for a better man to be involved with my children as they grow up. Kathy and Mark are both very dear to me, and make a wonderful couple. And this makes me very happy.

     My mother died a few years ago not long after her partner passed away. At the hospital I met Aunties and Uncles that I never even knew existed before she became ill. Where were these people when I thought I had nobody in my youth? This I found very strange. I spent my mum’s final days sat constantly by her hospital bedside. I don’t know why I did this. I just didn't want her to die alone I guess. She drifted in and out of consciousness, and looked so frail and scared. This was the first time in my life that we actually spent any real time together, which I found very sad. But in those final days we became very close. At the end of the day, I didn't really know her. The doctors and nurses would ask me questions about her, and my reply would always be the same "I’m sorry but I don't know” I know it was not my fault, but I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable that I knew very little about my own mother.

      I managed to get my sister to visit her. This was very hard for her, and I could see that Lynne was very scared and apprehensive. She hadn't seen our Mother for many years. This visit would become one of the highlights of my life. As sick as our mum had become, and how frightened Lynne was of the reception she would get, the little curtained cubical lit up when my sister walked in with me. When she saw her daughter, our mother smiled the most beautiful smile. She was so happy to see her little girl, who was by now, a grandmother herself. It was a wonderful reunion that I will never forget, and it would be a final goodbye between mother and daughter.

     Steve managed to come over from England to see his beloved mum. They were always so wonderful together. They had a special bond, she adored Steve, and he loved her dearly. He could not stay although he wanted to. So, he said his sad goodbye, hoping that she would make a miraculous recovery, and then he returned home to England.

     For the final three days I sat by her side holding her hand. She would fall asleep while I read a book, not really taking any of the story in. Sometimes I would feel a feeble squeeze of her hand, and as I looked up, I would see her gazing at me through terrified eyes. I wondered what she was thinking, and what it felt like when your time was drawing to an end. I hadn’t felt anything when I nearly died as a teenager, but I had been unconscious. It didn't look very peaceful to me. What horrors were locked in her head from the days with her husband? It got to the stage where she could barely breathe let alone talk, but on her final evening she told me she was sorry. She repeated this six or seven times in a very fragile voice. I kissed her on the forehead and I told her she had nothing to be sorry about. She cried a little before falling asleep. A little later she awoke, and looked very frightened. I hushed her by whispering in her ear, and I spoke to her for the final time. I told her not to be frightened. That her beloved recently deceased partner would be waiting for her. I told her she had a very important job to do for me now, to watch over my children and help guide them on the right path. To also watch over Steve, Lynne, Robert and Francis... And I told her that we  all loved her very much... No matter what. She fell into a peaceful sleep, and being early in the morning... So did I.

      I was woken about half an hour later by a doctor and nurse, gently telling me that my mother had passed away. Her hand was still locked in mine. I looked up at her for a moment, and the woman lying there in the hospital bed was no longer my Mother. Lying in her place was just a body that was empty and cold, and almost unrecognisable. The doctor separated our hands, and I went outside to have a cigarette in the early hours of a Father’s day morning. While the nurses did whatever they do to dead people. Outside in the dark I didn't cry, in fact, I couldn't tell you how I felt. Sad if anything, but only because this woman who had brought me into this world had left without me even getting to really know her. I had no happy childhood memories, in fact, no mother and son memories at all. Those last few days I spent with her was all that I remembered. And that’s not much in a lifetime.

      I would see her one more time. And I would hear from her again. My brother Steve came back from England for the funeral. He needed to say goodbye face to face, so we went to visit her one last time at the funeral home. After seeing her on her death bed I was rather apprehensive, and a bit concerned about Steve seeing her in the condition that I had seen in the hospital. But I’m pleased we did, the funeral parlour had done a wonderful job. Gone was that horrific death mask I had seen, and in its place was our mother again, only looking twenty years younger. What a beautiful lady. I said goodbye, kissed her frozen forehead, and then left Steve to say what he needed to say. Just the two of them.

     I organised the funeral with my unknown Aunty and Uncle. It was something I had never had to do before, and as funerals go, it went well. The cremation was surreal. People and family that we didn't even know filled the little church. It was a hard day for Steve, but he pulled through and as sad as he was, he even apologized to me for crying in the church. A comment was made about Lynne by a member of our unknown family afterwards outside the church, but Aunty Lil soon put an end to the remark about her not visiting her mum for so long, with a stern “Where were you all their lives?” 

      I kept the ashes of my mother in my house for a couple of months. I honestly didn't know what to do with them. One day, the perfect place came to me. I decided to release them into the sea where she and her partner loved to sit and watch the boats come in and out of the harbour. It was an eerie sight seeing the ashes cloud out under the crystal clear water, then slowly disappear out into the ocean. It felt like I had let her go in the place she wanted to be. It was beautiful and very peaceful. I said my final goodbye to the Mother I never knew.

       

                Chapter Nineteen - The Future Looks Bright.                  

“I felt you coming girl, as you drew near,
I knew you'd find me, 'cause I longed you here" 
Words by Nick Cave - Are You The One That I've Been Waiting For?

     Along with the bleak comes a ray of sunshine, with love and inspiration. My partner Sam. I never would have believed that someone would come into my life and love me for who I am. To look past the scars and make me feel like I am somebody special. The love and support that she shows me every day is beyond anything I have ever felt before. There is something so powerful between us. Two damaged souls that have come together to become one strong spirit. We inspire one another to do things neither of us would ever have done without the other. She is my soul mate. And I hers. If I were to die now, then I would die a happy man having spent our time together. That time together has made my miserable life seem all worth it. And I would go through it all again as long as she was there at the end. She has shown me and proved that there is a light at the end of the darkest of tunnels. And that life, however hard or bad it has been, can lead to a beautiful thing. There is always somebody there, you just have to find them. I am one lucky man... I have.

The End ....Or maybe, just the Beginning.

                     
               Chapter Twenty - The Spiritual Sitting

'Father of mine
Tell me where did you go
You had the world inside your hand
But you did not seem to know
Father of mine
Tell me what do you see
When you look back at your wasted life
And you don't see me' 
Words by Everclear - Father Of Mine 

      Again, this may not be of any interest to anyone but me. I have added it since finishing my story, but it happened a few years after, so I am going to include it. I recently went to a medium for a spiritual sitting. She had come from England and she knew absolutely nothing about me, and had no way of finding out anything. Whether you believe in an after-life or not is up to you. But you cannot deny that this is pretty damned impressive... If not a little spooky.

     I sat in front of this unusual looking woman, who had curly hair and big bulging eyes. She looked into mine, smiled, and then told me I had the most beautiful eyes which she could look into all day long. She closed her eyes and began to breathe in an unusual way, and then relaxed. The lady smiled and told me in a light manner that a jolly gentle man had come forward. I believed this to be my dear friend Stuart, who had passed away suddenly a few years back, as she described him perfectly, and mentioned things that only he and I had spoken about. It was wonderful to hear from him. The lady paused after being rather silly in Stuarts Company. Her gaze and manner then changed drastically. Gone were the smiles and laughter, as a more frightening presence had bullied his way forward. The lady’s expressions changed to a more frightened look, and her face turned cold and very serious. She looked terrified, and frozen. She told me of a very powerful man that had come forward. She had never felt such an angry, hostile spirit in all her years. She then told me, that it was my father. Taking in some heavy breaths, she calmly asked him to calm down. Of course this was very spooky, and more than freaked me out to say the least. She then went on to tell me that if I had not been taken away and separated from him, that he would have hurt me terribly. He was sorry, and that in the spirit world he had softened, not better by any means, but he was, getting better. She told me that in his life he was very sick. Not physically, but mentally. The spiritualist stiffened, and demanded him to leave as he had pushed his way to the front of others who had also wanted to pass on a message. Stuart came back, and the heavy atmosphere lightened, to mine and the lady’s relief. She looked in my eyes once again, and with a gentle smile, told me of a woman who was here. She is your mother. The woman sits with her eyes closed, smiles and softly tells me that my mother is surrounded by children, and that they are all singing to her. She is very happy in her new life. She is well, and thanked me for all I did. She explained that she could not come earlier, as my father was here. That she was scared, but he has gone now, so she could leave her message. This is how the sitting ended, and I felt exhausted and a little overwhelmed. It has sent shivers running down my spine just writing this. I can almost feel my dad here now trying to intimidate me, but I’m not a frightened little boy anymore. I am not intimidated by bullies, and I am certainly not scared of him. So I have just told him out loud to "Fuck off" And I feel he has.

      In this life the good memories have replaced many of the bad. True friends have put smiles on this once saddened face. Love has filled my once cold heart. And yet, even after death, my father is still with me. But only a distant memory.

     My brother Francis died a few years later. He suffered with dementia whist only in his fifties. He didn't even know his family by the end. My big brother would look at me during visits with total confusion, maybe he wondered who this man was sat in front of him, who looked like him. He would stare into my eyes in a vacant gaze, and I'm sure he looked straight into my soul, searching for answers as to what happened to him and why. I felt relief for him when he passed away. Gone was his pain. And gone were his memories. He too, was now free. At his funeral, I chose David Bowie's A Space Oddity, a song my brother loved in his youth. I took his two children that he had during an affair who were not invited. I insisted they came with me as they had every right to be there. After the funeral, me and the two boys passed the waiting crowd that had gathered outside, and we left without looking back at the dumbfounded people. He was my brother. They were his children. And I was never going to let them be rejected as I was.

                   

                For The People in My Heart (In No Order)

Thank You

Lynne, Steve, Robert, Francis (R.I.P) & Mum (R.I.P).

Aunty Lil, Uncle Peter (R.I.P), Sara & Chris

Gary Young

Alan & Margret Brown.

Mr. Dingle

Mr & Mrs Broad (R.I.P)

Mr & Mrs Young

Aunty Leslie

Aunty Sandy

The Doctors & Nurses that saved me

And All my Children Home Brothers & Sisters (Especially Bob & Tardy)
The De Careret family

Kathy, Shelia (R.I.P), Glenn & Mark

Mr (R.I.P) & Mrs Bendall

Kim, Steve (R.I.P), Karen

Alan & Shelly

Sid

All My Wonderful Friends in Leeds & Harrogate, you know who you are. Too Many To Mention - Miss You All.

The Bishop/Carre Family

Stuart Gibson (R.I.P) & Family

Gary (No.19) (R.I.P)

Jake, My Dog and wonderful companion (R.I.P)

Calum Paterson

Gaz Douglas

Al Plunkett

Mike Firth

Shaz and Wendy

Stang

Dale Manby

Adam Johnson

John F Keenan

Mr Oliver Reed (R.I.P)

And of course

My Reason for Living, Jade Parris Duquemin & Ciaran Tyla Duquemin

My Love, Sam x

And a massive thanks to -

Vinnie Cain – Guru. Thanks for pushing me to do this

Marcus Honey - Cover art

The Management of Intersurgical Guernsey

Saiko - Guernsey

Di Digard - Guernsey Press
Nicci Martel - Guernsey Press
Every Band that gave me incredible music. Records and Live performances 
All the True Punk Rockers at Punks Not Dead But I'm Not Far Off Facebook Group