Celtic Illumination, part 297, I’m so bored I could eat myself.

The eleven of us sat down for our group meal for our first evening at Lumb Bank.  Nine course participants and two facilitators.  The meal was prepared and served by the two centre directors.  We were told that we should plan our menu, for when each group had to cook, tell the directors what ingredients we needed and they would provide the necessary.  I was happy with a straw as the red wine they provided was sumptuous and going down well.  The course didn’t have a nine to five type timetable; every moment was to be used, making the most of our stay and resources.  After the meal we had a bit of fun where we all had to stand and give a short five minute talk about ourselves and our name.  I thought the project a bit strange; I mean how can you talk for five minutes about your name?

Well; I must have been on form that evening for I could have talked for fifteen minutes about my name and on reflection probably did.  I began by explaining that I didn’t know what my name was at birth, and still didn’t, and then for some reason ran over all the other names I had had throughout my life.  I hadn’t really thought about the subject and was quite amazed at what was coming out of my mouth.  I explained that in Belfast I had been called Peter, by people who knew me and a little Catholic bastard by those who didn’t.  At boarding school there were many names but it was either Boris or Fatarse.  In the forces there were so many different ranks that I had, and even one position where I had no rank or status at all when I was a TAG, and then the other names such as Paddy, an orrible excuse of a man, and of course the Newry Bomber on the rescue teams because of my penchant for blowing things up.

At one stage I used to spell my name as Peetah, to try and make people see that my name was not Paddy, but as usual it would go over their heads, “Why have you spelled your name that way Paddy?”  “Pick your teeth out of the gutter and I’ll tell you.”  I sat down and was amazed at what had just happened, I think most people there were a tish impressed too.  The only down side so far was the fact that as we had discussed forthcoming menus for the week, we discovered that there were a couple of vegetarians in the group so every meal was to be vegetarian.  As long as there was a copious supply of decent red wine I wasn’t going to complain.

With us all presented, the two facilitators began to introduce themselves.  There were six female type girls on the course and three fellows.  I can’t really remember any of the girls, apart from Joan and one of the other girls who was from Northern Ireland, but she was very much into poetry so we hardly ever communicated.  One of the chaps was a beautiful man from Edinburgh, Shields Henderson, I know, a lovely man with a lovely name.  Shields was a chartered accountant and wanted to dabble in literature, he wasn’t a serious writer, just starting out.  The other fellow was Paul, a poet who was crazy about Salvador Dali. I was still interested in the breakdown of the course as from what I could tell there were three interested in writing, five for poetry and Shields who would float between the two.

John Barton Harvey took centre stage.  This was the fellow I had to impress, I didn’t hold much hope out for impressing Carol Anne Duffy as she and the other poets would be rabbiting on about flowers and God into the wee small hours.  John began to read an excerpt from his new novel which, he informed us he was just off to promote through a book tour in America.  He began reading and it was about some detective in Northampton in England. I still to this day remember him reading something along the lines of, “He sat the thermos and his ham on rye on the passenger seat then drove north away from Northampton.”  I couldn’t help myself and asked him to stop.  I accused him of writing that book specifically for the American market as no one in England would speak in such a way.

I argued that in England we wouldn’t say Thermos, we would say flask, we wouldn’t say ham on rye, we would say a brown ham sandwich and no one in their right mind drives North, although I do believe that police people sometimes walk in such a way.  John got quite angry and we began to argue.  When he had introduced himself he confessed that although he had a good number of books published, he wasn’t sure if he would make the grade these days as it was so much more difficult to get published now.  I accused him of writing for the American audience he was about to go and smooze rather than use his own words.  As I spoke I realised that I was upsetting the man I should have been trying to impress, but I was simply stating what I felt and thought there was no harm in being honest.  How wrong I was, John Barton Harvey did not appreciate a novice writer like myself confronting him on any issue concerning his writing.

He sat in the corner fuming as Carol Anne Duffy began to give us a talk on her life and her work.  She had a book of her poems with her and opened it preparing to read one out.  She began to read a poem she had written called ‘Warming her pearls.’  At least it wasn’t about God or flowers I thought as I listened to her.  After she read the poem she explained what it was all about.  I was blown away, she had written about a black house maid who wore her mistress’s pearls throughout the day as she skivvied around the great house.  It seems that real pearls need heat from the body, and the oil from the skin, to give them lustre, so if the lady of the house decided to wear her pearls that evening then the maid would wear them through the day, as she completed her duties, warming up the necklace for her mistress.

It was exquisitely written, but it wasn’t just the language that floored me, it was the fact that the poem was relevant.  I was falling in love with a lesbian.  When I first met Carol Anne Duffy I sensed that she was a hard nut, it was later that I discovered she was from Glasgow and had a pretty rough upbringing.  She was the sort of girl you knew would smash a bottle across your head if you said the wrong thing to her, she was quite intense.  But to show that she didn’t spend her life spitting venom she then read another of her poems called ‘Stealing’ where she talks about the madness of stealing a snowman, among other senseless crimes.  There is a whole industry where academics and critics analyse and try to decipher peoples work, but to have the actual poet sitting in front of you explaining exactly what she was trying to achieve was brilliant, even down to the fact where she would clarify why she used a specific word, this was exposing the real nuts and bolts of writing.

But now I found myself in a quandary, the fellow I wanted, and perhaps needed, to impress wasn’t speaking to me, while the person I  thought I had no interest in was now most appealing to me.  The way that Carol Anne had mastered the language and used words amazed me.  We had all been asked to bring selections of our own work, and as the two facilitators had finished their presentations, we were encouraged to read our work out to the group.  As Carol Anne Duffy had been the more powerful of the two, the poets began to read their work out loud.  Who would have thought that I would find myself at midnight, in Ted Hughes house, reading poetry by candlelight, slurping red wine with the next Poet Laureate?  I promise you, I was perhaps the most comfortable and satisfied I had ever been in my life, it really was perfection.

Once again it is only with reflection that I can see what actually had happened.  The double top secret cabal who had been preparing me to take the throne of Ireland knew exactly what the perfect reward would be for me, after all the training and testing they had put me through.  And for those of you who realise that a reward is normally only given after an event, you are correct.  My training was almost over, up ahead, in the near future was the point where I would be informed not just of my real name and my heritage, but my destiny to be the greatest Master Candle Maker the world has ever known, The High Chief of the Clan O Neill and the true King of Ireland.

Celtic Illumination, part 296, Be still my beating heart.

It would be difficult to describe the mood I was in as we approached the village of Hebden Bridge before reaching Lumb Bank.  It was a nice part of the world and I enjoyed being off the motorway and in the wilds.  Hebden Bridge, despite being on first glance a standard Yorkshire town with steep hills, tiny streams and rows of beautiful houses made with Yorkstone, seemed to have a bit of a hippy flavour to it.  There appeared to be an awful lot of ‘Green’ and ‘New Age’ outlets and the LGBT rainbow flag seemed to be displayed all over.  Little did I know that I had entered the lesbian capital of the UK, although I had more important things to think about.

I knew from my research that the course was a major stepping stone for many writers and it was an opportunity not to be taken lightly.  All I had to do was impress one of the professional writers and they might recommend me to their literary agent.  Getting a literary agent to represent you is one of the hardest things to do in the writing world.  Initially you tend to wonder if it is worth paying someone ten to fifteen percent of your earnings to manage your work for you.  But you are paying for their connections and their expertise and it also allows you to be free to write and not have to deal with publishers or the like.  Following the directions I had received in the mail we began to climb out of Hebden Bridge, I do remember that it was a very steep and very narrow road that you immediately knew would not be navigable in Winter.

We found the sign at the top of the hill, left the main road and began to descend down to Lumb Bank.  It is described as an 18^th century mill owner’s house standing in twenty acres of steep woodland.  There was nothing striking about the house, it was large and well-proportioned but quite plain really, you could almost say it was a standard looking farm house.  We pulled up at the main door and a fellow came out.  He introduced himself as one of the directors of the place and welcomed me. Tony was asked to stay for a cup of tea but he insisted on getting off and did so, leaving me alone with my new friend.  The director took my bag and asked me to follow him. 

As he led the way to my room he began to give me a detailed history of Lumb Bank and the Arvon Foundation.  Suddenly the building that I was in was no longer just any old farmhouse or mill owner’s house.  The director explained that the writer Ted Hughes had lived here and had also been inspirational in the formation of the Arvon Foundation.  I really was knocked for six, Ted Hughes is regarded as one of the greatest English writers since the Second World War, but not just that, he was also famously married to Silvia Plath, an American writer and poet who sadly committed suicide seven years after they married.  Their relationship still commands much discussion in writer’s circles with one famous clash in the letters pages of The Guardian and The Independent newspapers where Plath supporters and Hughes supporters battled their views out with Ted Hughes.  Silvia Plath was buried in a nearby village graveyard at Heptonstall where the gravestone is regularly defaced as fans and supporters try to remove the name Hughes from the headstone.  But on top of all the history Ted Hughes had also been the Poet Laureate for the UK and now here was little old me in his house. 

I knew that I was at the heart of literature in the United Kingdom, I was overwhelmed.  The director showed me my room where we dropped my bags.  He then showed me the bathroom and we descended down the second staircase, on the other side of the house, to come out by the dining room.  From there I was taken in to the kitchen and shown where the basics were kept and encouraged to help myself to whatever I wanted.  I was still reeling from the fact that I was in Ted Hughes house and then the director took me to the library.  Some of the floors in the farmhouse were slate and some were wooden but carpeted.  I stepped down the single step from the corridor into the library and smiled as the floor sprung under my step.

It was a medium sized room with two walls either side of me covered with shelves of books.  Ahead of me was a large oak dining table and chairs in front of a huge window.  The director explained that all the books to my right were fiction or biography while all the books to my left were poetry.  We heard a vehicle pull up outside and the director excused himself to see to the new arrival, leaving me alone in the library.  I walked over to the fiction shelves and began to nose about.  I was so excited because for me I was connected through Ted Hughes all the way back to the likes of Tennyson and Wordsworth who like Hughes had been Poet Laureate. I began to notice that all the books had been signed by the author, most being dedicated by each author to, ’My friends at Lumb Bank.’  That was me they were talking about.

As a literature geek I was stunned, it really was an emotional overload for me.  I crossed the room to the poetry section, there were a couple of books by Seamus Heaney and I dared myself to have a look.  Sure enough all his books were signed and dedicated to, ‘All my friends at Lumb Bank.’  At this point there should have been some armed police in the room  shouting, “Step away from the books!”  All I wanted to do was to kneel down in the centre of the room and soak up the atmosphere.  I’m sure many of you now believe that I was completely off my trolley, this was no writing course, this was my literary Mecca.  I took out my arrival notes for Lumb Bank and found the names of the two writers facilitating the course.

The writer, and the one I was interested in, was John Barton Harvey, a prolific novelist who wrote mainly crime novels. Luckily there was a number of his novels in the fiction section so I could pick up his biography from those.  He had also written a television detective series around a jazz influenced detective known as Charlie Resnick. I had never heard of it but at least the fellow had some form, not as well known or as classic as I would have liked, although he had achieved some notable milestones in his literary career, but who could tell what would happen.  I then checked on the poet who was the other facilitator, Carol Anne Duffy.   I was aware of the name but didn’t know that much about her, that is until I started looking at her books in the shelves.  That’s when bits and pieces I had read about her over the years began to come together.

Carol Anne Duffy had been asked to take over as Poet laureate from Ted Hughes but turned it down.  At the time she had been in a lesbian relationship with Jackie Kay, another poet, but Carol Anne also had a young daughter from a previous relationship and knew that her personal circumstances would have attracted all the wrong sort of attention from the media, especially the gutter press.  At the time it was considered to be a great loss as Carol Anne would have been the first woman to be Poet Laureate, the first Scot and the first openly gay person to hold the position.  You probably all know that Andrew Motion took over as Poet laureate from Ted Hughes and if you did know that then I will not be spilling any secrets when I tell you that thankfully and eventually Carol Anne Duffy became Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom in 2009 and remains in that position to this very day.

I really didn’t want to leave the library, I was quite happy to sit there for the whole week and steep myself in the literary tradition that swamped the place.  I was encouraged to leave the library and went outside to the veranda to meet the other participants and facilitators.  We sat in a lazy circle on the lawn throwing a ball to each other as a form of ice breaker.  We had to say something about ourselves when we caught the ball and then pass it on to someone else.  I couldn’t believe that I was playing catch with Carol Anne Duffy, I mean what do you do or say when you are next to such a literary giant?  For some time I had been wondering about the ratio of participants to facilitators hoping at best for a fifty-fifty split between the writers and the poets.

Two elderly ladies announced that they came every year for a holiday, they were not interested in the writing aspect, I loved it, the course was under subscribed anyway and with the two holidaying ladies there were now nine of us actively participating in the course.  The director came out and began to explain how the week would work, we were to arrange ourselves into groups of three who would prepare and cook the evening meals throughout the week.  There was a cut price selection of wine that would accompany the evening meals and subsequent readings and exercises.  As we broke up and moved off to prepare ourselves for the evening meal I knew I was worried.  I might have been at the beating heart of literature in the United Kingdom but I had to make an impression on some serious people and I didn’t know if I was capable of doing it.  Only time would tell, I didn’t bother freshening myself up for the evening meal, I went into the library and sat myself down for a bit of peace and quiet and I wasn’t on my own, I was surrounded with all my friends some of whom I have never met, and probably never will, but at least I knew we were connected.

Celtic Illumination, part 295, Pass the kouchie

With the job at TPT coming to an end I doubled my efforts at writing, trying to find a market where I could earn a steady stream of money.  I don’t think it was me who wanted this, but banks and mortgage lenders always needed to see a guaranteed income stream before they would part with any money, most of the time.  Most novice writers aim for the magazine markets, writing short stories however this market is top heavy, so I needed to find my own little niche.  I started writing for magazines but for men’s magazines, the top shelf.  The money was good and the writing was fairly easy.  I was producing the letters that readers supposedly send in, and had to create batches of six at a time, as the company published a number of different titles every month.  On top of this I began to write horoscopes, being just as qualified as any astrologer, but rather than write straight forward horoscopes I made mine humorous, again for the men’s magazine market.

The writer’s circle I was a member of had mixed views on what I was up to.  One lady said that I was prostituting my art, it didn’t worry me in the least and to tell you the truth I don’t think the writers circle were that concerned about it, not that it had anything to do with them.  By the way, writing pornography is not a simple act of sitting daydreaming about your fantasies and then writing them down, there are strict, hard and fast rules.  I was in good company as many writers have started their careers by writing filth and I’m not talking about D H Lawrence or the like.  I informed the writer’s circle that I had been accepted on to a course at the Arvon foundation and immediately they began to ask all about the course, who were the facilitators, what centre was I going to, how much it was costing.

I think when I went to Arvon my course was about three hundred and seventy five pounds. It was a hefty sum at the time and I was quite surprised when Betty, the chairperson of our writers circle, suggested that the writers circle pay for my course.  It was unanimous and really did surprise me; I couldn’t believe how generous they were being.  But things got even better.  At the air cadet squadron that evening I was telling the other adults about my stroke of luck when one of the newer adults asked me where the course was being held.  I told him that it was in Yorkshire, near the village of Hebden Bridge.  I knew nothing of the area or even the house I was going to.  I explained that I would probably use a combination of trains and buses to get there but Tony insisted that he would drive me.  He was a salesman and as all his fuel was paid for, he didn’t mind a little jaunt into Yorkshire, he would arrange some appointments in the area and I was sorted.

So from initially worrying about actually being accepted on to a course I now had the course paid for and would be ferried free from door to door.  Of course nothing is for free in this life and I subsequently found out that Tony wanted to know if I could do him a little favour.  We had rather a good social life with the air cadet squadron, there was always a party going on somewhere, some remembered more than others.  One I do remember was caught on video which I hope never surfaces because as I was working my way through “Holes in hands, holes in feet, carries crosses down the street, has anybody seen JC?” I remember noticing the video camera pointing straight at me.  Let’s hope that performance has been consigned to the recycle bin of history, although in this day and age I suppose it would do no harm to show the X Factor generation how a real singer, with a decent voice, does it.

And then there are the rumours.  Like most domesticated men I have what I suppose you would call a signature dish, which is homemade pizza.  So we had all the adults from the air cadets around to our house one evening for pizza and wine.  I stuck close to my roots and requested, as I had been expertly taught on the Royal Air Force Valley, Desert and Mountain Rescue Teams, Wine and Cheese Appreciation Society, that the proper wine for such an occasion was a fecking big bottle.  There were also quite a lot of the older cadets there too and a great night was had by all.  My pizzas were a hit, but then what else would you expect.  The house was littered with bodies I remember three people sleeping on the landing floor.  Tony and I decided to continue drinking until dawn. We were in the kitchen and probably playing that game where we both drink a bottle of whiskey, then one leaves the room and the other has to guess who has left the room or, the even more difficult version of the game, which is to guess who remains.

We had a real laugh and chatted away throughout the night, I would have told him stories of my madcap escapades and he would have reciprocated.   I didn’t think much more about it for the next day I was told that I had been a very naughty boy.  How, or where, the rumour came from, I really do not know but it seems that half a shift of policemen, at one Warrington police station, were still off their heads on marijuana.  I had been accused of liberally sprinkling each pizza with marijuana and feeding it to half a dozen coppers.  The consequences didn’t bear thinking about, for if one of the policemen, who had been at the party, believed the rumour then I would once again have a house full of coppers, but this time they wouldn’t be so friendly and would probably have sniffer dogs with them.  So it wasn’t me, honest.  I never did nothing.

It was as we were driving over to Yorkshire that Tony began to remind me of what I had been saying to him during our little drinking session.  He was in a huge amount of debt and his house was about to be repossessed, and I’m not talking poltergeists here.  His whole financial world was about to crumble and collapse, and if that happened he would lose his job, so, did I know anyone who could fix a mortgage for him.  I promised him that I would make a telephone call but I couldn’t guarantee anything.  I was going to telephone Graham who had just completed six months working in the library at Brixton prison in London, for fraud and half a dozen other related crimes.  Tony was extremely grateful and told me that he was under a little pressure.  It was horrible to see the strain that the poor fellow was under

I was under strain as well as I didn’t really want to enter the weird and wonderful world that surrounded Graham.  Just by facilitating the deal I was probably breaking half a dozen laws, but as long as I got a job in the prison library I would be all right.  I’m sure Graham could fix it for me.  We actually pulled in to a motorway service area and I telephoned Graham who was his normal self.  I didn’t really have to relay anything to Tony who stood beside me, outside the telephone box, but with the door open, as Graham bellowed at me over the phone line.  It was strange conversation as Graham is always convinced that his telephone line is bugged.  But don’t tell anyone.  I ran the relevant numbers past Graham and even I could see that this basically was what is known in the trade as a ‘bent’ mortgage.  Graham was adamant that he couldn’t do anything himself, because of his little Brixton holiday he wasn’t allowed to be involved with lending money or mortgages, but he did think that he might know someone, who might know someone else, who might be able to arrange something, maybe.

So, if we would like to come down and have a chat with Graham he might be able to sort something out, if he ever met the fellow he thought who might know someone, again.  Oh and by the way, Graham had heard that to arrange such things these days involved one thousand pounds cash, in an envelope.  So if we did want to come down for a coffee and a chat we may as well be prepared and have a grand ready to hand over, just in case.  But if he did manage to bump in to the fellow who knew someone, who might know something about this, there would be no problem, the deal could be arranged and the money available within the week.  I wasn’t surprised in the least that Graham was still involved in the money business, I would hate to find out what other new tricks he had learned while inside.  Tony seemed to think that one thousand pounds was a fair price, so I suggested that if I gave him the address Tony could shoot down and see Graham.  Tony asked if I would go with him and so we arranged to nip down and see Graham the following week.  I agreed, but couldn’t really begin to think about Graham and his shenanigans as I had a writer and a poet to impress.

Celtic Illumination, part 294, Evidently Chicken Town.

For someone who wasn’t planning on establishing a new career working with disabled people I was doing pretty well.  In fact most aspects of my life were chugging along quite nicely.  I had actually managed to achieve my seven hundred and fifty words per day and had finished my first novel.  Now what I needed was a typewriter and I bought myself a second hand machine.  This was not my first typewriter as I had borrowed one before.  It was a tiny little manual portable typewriter but the person who lent me it kept asking for it back, not that he used it, but it honestly felt that his attitude was that, if I am a useless waste of space then I am not going to help you get on. And he was supposed to be family.

I remember that the person selling the machine lived about one mile away from me so with my two eldest boys we went for a wander.  They were only asking for fifteen pounds for the machine so it was a bargain.  I liked the look of the contraption as it appeared to be quite solid so I bought it there and then.  I know, impulsive or what, tell me about it.  I couldn’t believe how heavy the thing was and it nearly ripped the arms off me carrying it home, next time, I promised myself I would use the car or the Wobblie Waggon.  I set the machine up on my desk.  I had followed the Stephen King rule for writers, which is to have nothing more than a blank wall in front of you, no panoramic windows with views to excite the senses, or distract, just a blank wall.

There was such a satisfying thunk when you pressed a key, any key on the typewriter.  It really was quite vicious and when you were in your groove and battering out word after word, the whole house would be shaking.  It was brilliant.  It was a great feeling to know that I could actually produce the amount of words required for a standard novel.  The only problem was that I had written it in long hand and now had to set about typing the thing.  To produce my seven hundred and fifty words per day now was much easier with the typewriter, but to convert the novel from long hand to typewritten was a real pain and as I had no training in typing it really was one fingered typing, with the tip of the tongue jammed firmly between tight lips.

My spirits were given a lift as I had heard that I had been accepted on to a course with the Arvon Foundation.  I was quite excited about it as it really was a golden opportunity.    I had received some information about the course but didn’t really know anything about the two professional writers who would be facilitating the course.  All I knew is that one was a novelist and one was a poet. Well, as far as I was concerned that was fifty percent of the course gone for me for I didn’t really have much time for poets.  Yes, I liked the established and classic poets we had been brought up with and I was aware of some giants of our time like Seamus Heaney, or even the magnificent John Cooper Clarke, but most of the poets I knew wrote about flowers or God and really were of no relevance to me whatsoever.

I got some other correspondence too but from social workers.  This time they had almost finalised the process for people in Northern Ireland who had been adopted and who wished to find out information about their birth parents.  As you would expect from useless social workers and pen pushing civil servants they were not going to make it easy for anyone.   They said that I would have to undergo a mandatory one and one half hour interview with a social worker to determine if I was mature enough to receive information about my birth mother.  I am sure many of you will understand that steam was pouring from my ears.  Not only was I angry that some underachieving social worker was going to assess me, to determine if I was mature enough, but that they were only going to release details of my mother.

As I had been told all my life my mother had died giving birth to me so what was the bloody point in that. Now, armed with my industrial electric typewriter I was able to fire off a decent amount of letters complaining and arguing with them and at the same time rally my Mensa friends to keep the pressure up on the cretins who were supposedly in charge of this fiasco.  They were also offering three choices of location for the mandatory interview with the social worker.  You could be interviewed in the town or city where you were born, where you now live or, to tell you the truth I forget the third option, all I was interested in was getting another face to face opportunity to tell a social worker what I thought about them.

I had also won a writing competition in Northern Ireland and had been invited over to receive my prize.  It was only a couple of hundred pounds and although I was pleased at winning I didn’t really want to parade myself in front of people.  I’m sure many people, would relish the chance of getting their mug in to the newspapers and media but I’m not sure why, I wasn’t interested in that side of things.  I understood the need to promote yourself and your work but couldn’t really find the enthusiasm for it; the glam life wasn’t for me.  Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t shy or a shrinking violet in any shape or form; in fact I had been approached by some men again.  This time they wanted me to go away to a hotel with them, and they would pay me money if I accompanied them.

With all the reading and research I had completed I understood that the life of a writer was not just being confined to sitting at a desk staring at a blank wall. Apart from the different forms of writing there were so many other activities you could get involved in where you could earn money.  You could teach writing, you could visit writing groups and give a talk about writing or you could, as I had now been asked, join the after dinner speaking circuit.  A group of business men in the North West of England got together every month for a formal meal where they invited various after dinner speakers.  Now it was my turn. I was lucky enough to know that there was a section in the Writers and Artists yearbook that would not only give me a few pointers but would set out the rates of pay and conditions that I should ask for.

At the time I was aware of famous people like Jennifer Saunders, an English comedienne, who was earning fifteen thousand pounds per engagement.  One or two of those a year would do me, but as I was a new writer I was at the bottom of the pile, the lowest rung on the ladder, I would often say that I started at the bottom and liked it.  I could only ask for two hundred and fifty pounds as a fee for the evening.  Although, and thank you Writers and Artists Yearbook, I could also ask that I be picked up from my home and taken to the venue, be given a free meal and drink throughout the evening and then be taken back home, so it was a decent enough remuneration package for my first ever gig.  Well; you would think so.  I had been asked to give a forty five minute after dinner speech for which I would get a total package of just over three hundred pounds.  Not bad for forty five minutes work and that’s what I thought.

It took me seven full working days to write the speech.  This was not a situation where you would stand up and wing it for forty five minutes.  They wanted to be entertained, they wanted jokes.  So when you begin to see the preparation that goes in to it, then you can see that you really do have to work for your money.  As the evening drew closer I have to admit that some nerves began to set in.  This was going to be a part of my new life, my new career so I was going in head first, I hoped my experience of speaking to large groups in the air force would stand me in good stead, but I knew that in the air force I had only spoken to groups of fifty people on average, now I was to be faced with five hundred people who were paying for the privilege.

I was quite surprised at myself as I walked in to the hotel, a medium sized country hotel in a local village.  I asked for an orange juice.  I was nervous and I could drink anything I wanted for free, but I knew that I was there as a professional and so decided to act like one, for once in my life at least.  I was seated at the head table and throughout the meal threw my eye around the room.  I could feel the nerves building and my mouth really was quite dry when I was introduced and invited to stand.  I started to speak, regulating my voice and compensating for my accent.  I found myself almost splitting in two.   I had learned my speech well and almost delivered it automatically but at the same time I found myself scanning the faces in the room.

When I knew a punch line was coming I would quickly scan the room and if I noticed a person who didn’t react or smile or laugh I found myself focusing on that person and delivering the next portion to them, so that they would now laugh and so I continued, realising that I was controlling the room.  It was a great feeling and I loved the applause.  I wasn’t expecting the forty five minute question and answer session afterwards, but took it on the chin.  Later in the bar, holding a glass of decent single malt whisky, I accepted the envelope of used bank notes and squirreled it away in my jacket pocket.  I had really enjoyed the evening, the long seven days preparation had all been worth it, just for the experience alone, but I wasn’t convinced that the ratio of remuneration to input was worth it when I was approached by a man.  This time he wanted me to give an after dinner speech to a group he was a member of in Warrington.  I gave him my telephone number so that we could finalise the arrangement and then I began to realise that all the hard work had already been done, suddenly the ratio of input versus remuneration was turning very much in my favour.

Celtic Illumination, part 293, Survival of the fittest.

I have to say that I considered myself lucky in that I had a job I loved doing.  Most of the people I encountered were very decent people always willing to listen and almost always willing to help, except for the management of TPT.  They seemed not to be able to move their focus from making profit.  When you can arrange and organise, for an unemployed fellow to be routed through various training courses that end up with him becoming a fully qualified pilot, why waste your time and talent chasing a few bob?  So much more good could have been done for so many more people.

One of my favourite participants on the course had been John, he of the ginger hair, learning disability and epilepsy.   I was aware that certain companies existed who concentrated on providing jobs for disabled people.  The largest and perhaps most well-known, would have been the company known as Remploy.  At the time a job for a person with a learning disability would have been sitting at a bench putting a number of nuts and bolts into a small plastic envelope.  There were other similar jobs, and when I looked at them I was horrified.  I didn’t dismiss them outright.  Many of you would shudder at the idea of putting five nuts and five bolts into a small plastic envelope for eight hours a day and five days a week.

But what was the alternative?  The person could sit in a day centre, or more than likely sit at home, alone.  Despite you or I thinking the job horrific at least the person with the learning disability is getting out of the house, meeting people, making friends, having a social life.  And who knows what they thought of the actual job.  I know that I had sorted John a wee gardening job out which would keep him busy and interested and gave him a feeling of self-worth, but I had another couple of people on the course with learning disabilities and I wanted to create and establish something for them.  I really did feel that it would be possible; all I needed was some time to think about it.

Then one day I came in and found John huddled in a corner of the classroom.  He was in a right state.  He was soaked to the skin and looked as if he had fallen off a mountain.  I began to talk to him and was horrified at what I heard.  His father was an alcoholic and the previous day had been benefits day.  John’s father had been drunk and decided that he needed more drink so he had beaten John up, taken his benefits money and thrown him out of the house where he had been allowed to sleep on the front door step in the rain.  Within minutes I was on the telephone to John’s social worker who explained that this was quite a normal turn of events.  According to the social worker the father would sober up, not recall the incident and life would continue, as normal, until the next time.

I understood that John’s father had an illness and perhaps could not be held responsible for his actions, but as a caring society surely we had a duty to remove John from harm rather than, as the social worker explained, we wait for the next time.  I was aware of a local charity that helped people who suffered abuse.  I was so happy at their response; they had a flat that John could move in to immediately, all he had to do was furnish it.  I went to the management of TPT and informed them that one of their trainees was being beaten senseless by his alcoholic father.  They had a duty to help him.  I should have expected it but they were like the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights.   First of all they were unable to decide if they had any responsibility towards John at all.

I explained to them that as Christians and fellow human beings they had a responsibility to John.  It took a moment or two but eventually they realised that I was correct, now they would have to have a meeting to decide exactly what form of support they could give John.  Once again I had to step in and inform them that on their site was a business who dealt in second hand furniture.  They could not only completely furnish Johns flat, but by using the company van, and even the Wobblie Waggon, we could have the whole flat furnished and ready to move in to within the hour.   It was like finding an old antique toy car, you want to play with it, you want to push it and make it go faster, but you are afraid that it might break if you push it too hard.

John was over the moon with his new living arrangements; it was to be an exciting new adventure for him.  Action For Blind People were giving the matter some thought, as in how much support they could give John, but the local charity were convinced that they could provide John with all the support he would need.  So once again everyone was happy, apart from the social workers, who complained that everything had happened far too fast.  John should have been assessed by them, to consider if he was capable of living on his own.  Then, and only then, could they start to teach him the skills he would need to support himself. Once they were convinced that John was capable of supporting himself they would begin to look for a suitable place for him to live. When, and if, he moved in they would support him, teach him how to access local amenities and use the local public transport system.  John would have to move back in with his father and when they had the man power they would begin to assess John as to whether or not he was capable of living on his own.

I could not believe that no social worker had ever been positive about what I was doing.  Every time I came up with an idea, or got someone a job, they put the brakes on and demanded that they approach the problem in their own fashion, after all, they were the professionals.  I was still desperately trying to think of a scheme I could set up that would allow the people with learning disabilities, on my course, to start up a little company where they would be supported but where they also earned themselves some money and was a little more interesting than putting nuts and bolts into plastic envelopes.  I went over to the main day centre one day to talk to people and listen to their views, see if they had any ideas on the subject.

I wasn’t going to talk to the professionals; I wanted to talk to the people with learning disabilities.  I soon found myself being asked to come to the main office where I could have a chat with a couple of social workers.  They were very nice, pleasant people, completely useless but very polite.  They asked me what my plans were and I explained that I wanted to start a small company, probably backed up with support from Action For Blind People, but where disabled people could find meaningful work and be encouraged and supported to follow their own ideas.  Guess what.  Once again I was told that I didn’t understand.  You would think that by now I would be sick of being told this, but I wasn’t, I was just used to it.

It was explained to me that the day centre we were in had a certain number of people it could cater for, at that moment they were up to full capacity, they even had a waiting list of people who wanted to join.  There was a certain ratio used that equated the number of members of the day centre to the number of social workers employed.  If I started getting people jobs and putting them on courses it would reduce the number of people who attended the day centre which would in turn reduce the number of social workers employed. Now did I understand?  Of course I did, the social workers were not interested in the lives of the people they claimed to support, they were only interested in keeping their own jobs.  Suddenly all the excuses they had used to stop my guys from taking up jobs or starting courses made sense.

I left there in a strange mood.  In a way the social workers had warned me off,  whatever I tried to do in the future they would simply come up with some excuse and make sure that the person stayed under their control.  I think the social workers thought that they were dealing with a normal person, that I would go away and do what TPT wanted me to do, which was keep fifteen bums on fifteen seats for six weeks.  It was a difficult position to be in, TPT didn’t want to help me and it was clear that the social workers were not going to help me.  Action For Blind People were on my side, or I was on their side, whichever, but I was determined to beat the lot of them.  Normally I am quite a determined person but this time I became even more determined.  I learned that John had been returned home and that he wasn’t coming back to the course.  The social workers hadn’t put the brakes on this one, well; not directly.  It was a combination of a severe beating and sleeping on the front door step in snow that killed him. John wasn’t coming back, John was dead.

Celtic Illumination, part 292, Arvon calling.

Despite the fact that I had effectively told TPT to shove their job I was still very committed to the participants on the course.  One of my initial wishes was answered and a deaf fellow joined the course.  It was great being able to communicate with him using sign language.  He was a fully trained and qualified carpenter but couldn’t get a job anywhere.   I suppose this was the part of the business I really loved, because just like the priest who had started TPT, I would actually go to places and ask people for jobs.  When it’s not for yourself it’s so easy.  My guy lived in a local village so I made a list of firms that used carpenters and set off in the Wobblie Waggon.  My sales training came into play as I structured the conversations, so that the people I was dealing with never had a chance to say no.

Little did they know it but if I turned up at their place of work they would be giving someone a job.  My first call was with a window frame manufacturer, I allowed him to give me the usual guff about filling out an application form and submitting it through the normal channels, before I told him to wise up and give this fellow a trial.  I left fifteen minutes later with a promise that the fellow would be given a fortnights trial and if successful he would be given a full time position.  Once again everyone was happy, apart from the management of TPT, who only saw my success as a loss of money for them.  I was sad because I knew that after I would leave they would simply put someone else in my place.  I also knew that this time they would choose someone who couldn’t really do the job, but at least they could guarantee fifteen bums, on fifteen seats, for six weeks.

I really enjoyed the job as it required me to really extend myself and my abilities but my focus was still on becoming a writer and for those of you Illuminati who have read this blog you will know that I wouldn’t be settling just to be any old writer.  I was still devouring books by the shelf load and I had managed to find that there actually are one or two recognised or established routes to becoming a professional writer.  You still ended up at the final hurdle of trying to secure the services of a literary agent or a publisher but it was a proven method that had worked for others.  The route I chose was to go through the Arvon Foundation which I am sure all of you are aware of.  For those heathens among you who do not know about the Arvon Foundation I shall explain.

The Arvon Foundation is a charity that was established by professional writers to help and encourage up and coming writers.  At the time I became interested in them they had three centres in the UK, one in Scotland, one in Devon and one in Yorkshire.  They offered week long residential courses which had two professional guest writers as tutors.  During the week you would undertake writing exercises, talk and listen to the professional writers.  At the same time you were also encouraged to bring some of your own work along, which the professional writers would read and assess, giving you feedback on how you could improve your writing and or your chances of becoming a professional writer.

For me the most important fact was that if you managed to impress either or both of the professional writers on the course they could recommend you to their own literary agent.  This was viewed as one of the better, or more positive, ways of trying to secure the services of a literary agent.  Up until now I was, like many other aspiring writers, getting letter after letter from a long line of literary agents who would say that they were very sorry but they simply did not have the time to take on any new clients.  I applied to the Arvon Foundation to attend a course at their Yorkshire centre, Lumb Bank.  All I could do was sit back and hope that I would be successful and get on one of their courses.  Meanwhile I had my own course to attend to and I wanted to try and help as many of the guys of my course before I left.

I walked in to my classroom one day to see two young ladies sitting at the back.  I went over to have a chat and asked them what was going on.  They told me that they had applied to be trained as nursery school assistants, but were told that, as there were no actual courses for such a position, they could join my course for six weeks.  I was incensed that people could be treated like pawns.  Here were two young people who wanted to improve their lives, who wanted to go through training and achieve something, being used in the ridiculous game of look how many trainees we have on our books.  If I had been a young person and had been treated like that, I would have been quite angry, so it was no wonder that many of the young people in Skelmersdale had lost interest in the system that was supposed to help and encourage them.  The system was not fit for purpose.

In order to maintain standards in the scientific research field, I would highly recommend to Professor Nathaniel Butler, the lead scientist for the controversial Mind Reader experiments in the UK, that rather than placing an Aspirational Dispersal Field over Skelmersdale to control the population, just make sure that every town has a useless training facility, like TPT, and you will soon drain the young, unemployed, youth of any and all aspiration and ambition they ever had.  Oh, sorry, you already have, carry on.   I know you think I was probably being a little bull headed in my approach but I wasn’t.  Constantly being told that I didn’t understand did actually cause me concern because I wasn’t daft enough to think that I had all the answers.   But to tell you the truth the only conclusion I could come up with was that either I was one hundred per cent correct or else I was totally off my head.

In fact I was so off my head with not understanding that I put the two young ladies in the Wobblie Waggon and drove off.  I went to a local primary school, walked in and asked to see the head teacher.  She was a lovely woman and ten minutes later I left having secured two training places for the two young ladies starting on the Monday of the following week.  TPT were quite angry as they had planned on the two girls staying in my classroom for the full six weeks.  It was a scam.  I soon recognised that even the local college was involved in this fiddle and once again I shall give you an example.  If you remember I told you that a blind fellow had asked to join my course.  He had told me that he wanted to become a disc jockey and became quite emotional when I agreed to try and help him.  I have to admit I was completely lost but I had been working away at this problem for a number of weeks.  I had the full backing of Action For Blind People so this one fellow was going to succeed whether he liked it or not.  This was long before the internet so research involved scanning newspapers, telephoning people and a lot of leg work, but then with legs like mine, not only was I working, I was giving people I came in to contact with an enormous amount of pleasure.

I found a company in Liverpool who dealt with disco equipment, but they also provided mobile discos.  I went along in the Wobblie Waggon to have a word.  I had no fixed idea of how they could help me and probably went to see them just to get some local information from them.  As we began to chat, the guy in charge told me that they not only hired out mobile disco equipment and DJ’s but that they had a permanent gig at a hotel in Liverpool.  They hosted a disco every Thursday, Friday and Saturday evening.  Suddenly this guy took over on the enthusiasm front.  If my guy didn’t mind they would use the fact that he was blind as a promotional tool, in that they would claim to have Liverpool’s first blind disc jockey.  But more, they also had contacts in Radio Merseyside.

He suggested that my guy begin to attend the Thursday, Friday and Saturday events where he would be trained in how to use the equipment and encouraged to create a bit of a performance for himself.  Once he was up to speed they would not just get him some exposure on Radio Merseyside but they would try to get him a weekly show.  Don’t get me wrong, I understood this was all linked in to promoting the event so that the company would be making a shed load of money.  I didn’t mind that for I could see that my guy could actually achieve what he wanted.  I contacted Action For Blind People who reacted as if I was walking on water as a party trick.  To say that they were over the moon would have been an understatement.

Action For Blind People said that my guy would be picked up by taxi, which they were paying for, and taken to and from the event every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.  They then asked if I would give him some one to one support until he felt comfortable enough to go it alone.  I too would be picked up by taxi and given a little cash something every week to compensate me for my efforts.  I agreed as I wanted this fellow to achieve his dream.  It was about the third week when he felt confident enough to go on his own so I left him to it and asked him to keep in touch and let me know of his progress.

It was a good number of weeks later; I was walking past the local bus station when I noticed him at a bus stop.  I went over to say hello and asked him what he was up to.  He told me that he was learning to walk from the bus stop to the local college.  Working three evenings a week and studying, I was impressed, but I should have known better.  His social worker had told him that if he was to become a disc jockey he would be self-employed so in order to be able to organise his life and business, he should attend the local college and complete a two year business administration course.  Once he had successfully completed this course the social worker would help him get a job, somewhere, as a disc jockey.  

Celtic Illumination, part 291, When we get to Canada Chief.

So, the maternity fortnight has passed and I now find myself back at TPT.  In the classroom nothing has changed in my absence.  The TPT management has successfully kept all fifteen course participants sat sitting where they were, so nothing has been achieved or accomplished, apart from TPT managing to maintain the low standards it constantly set for itself.  TPT has earned some money, and that’s what it is all about, see; told you I didn’t understand business.  No, sorry, it was them what told me.  It was nice to see all the smiling faces welcome me back, well; at least in my classroom.  Foremost in my mind was my letter asking that my salary be doubled.  TPT too had money at the front of their mind and had devised a cunning plan to make themselves even more money.

Action For Blind People had been very generous.  They made every effort to help each individual, something I completely empathised with, for they were trying to improve people’s lives.  They offered to refund any travel costs involved for participants who attended the course.  Some wheelchair bound people and some blind, caught taxis to and from the course.  Others used public transport, and everyone sort of managed to get to TPT about nine o clock in the morning, even me sometimes, and Action For Blind People refunded all costs involved.  TPT however came up with a brilliant plan to make money.  They bought a bus.  Not just any old bus, not some piece of junk that would block the A5 road in North Welsh Wales now and again, no; they bought a specially adapted bus for disabled people.

It was like a small inner city bus with the back three rows of seats taken out and a wheelchair lift on the back.  They were so excited when they explained their little plan to me.  To make it easier for the participants they would all be collected from their respective homes and taken to TPT every morning, then, at the end of the day, they would be taken home in the bus.  Initially I approached this as a glass half empty or half full scenario.  Yes each individual would be picked up from their front door, nice, but with some of the participants living in outlying villages the route could take up to an hour to complete, especially battling through the morning commuter traffic.

I was asked to plan and plot what I considered to be the most effective route for both the morning and afternoon run.  I’m sure that like myself you are thinking well; yes, getting an expert in maps and route planning and plotting was perhaps a very smart move on TPT’s part.  If you thought that then you have not been reading this properly.  This was TPT, the sort of people who would take time off work because of a life threatening paper cut.  They wanted me to plan and plot the route because I was to be the driver of the bus.  Normally I walked to and from work.  It was about a two mile journey both there and back.  I followed a ring road which had a single pathway next to the road, but hidden by deep bushes, so it was quite a pleasant walk, the traffic didn’t annoy me, there were normally no other people about and I had time to think and just enjoy being on my own.

They now wanted me to start work one hour earlier, so that I could drive around and pick everyone up, but with dropping them off that would mean I would finish one hour later.  That would mean extending my working week by ten hours, which as we all know requires a serious pay rise.  Please don’t think that I was money orientated, but I’m not a mug.  I asked my manager if he had considered how this new transport arrangement would affect the course time table.  He hadn’t, the course time table was my domain, I would have to sort it out, oh and by the way there will be no extra money for you for this extra duty.  So TPT were quite happy to completely re-arrange all travel arrangements for the course participants so that they could make a few pounds extra profit.  If I had to act as driver then the individual participants would lose up to ten hours per week, as rather than help them, I would be driving the course bus.

I so wished that I was clever enough to understand these fantastic go getter business people.  You know the ones I mean, you will see photographs of them every week in your local newspaper giving each other awards.  And don’t forget, as if you could, that two hours a day, times five days a week, for fifteen participants, would give a total of one hundred and fifty hours that TPT were claiming money from the government for training these people who were actually sitting in a bus and not in a classroom.  Oh and by the way, if one member of the course made their own way in, they had to sit in the classroom on their own until I got there.  I went to look at the vehicle on the day that it arrived and found it in the motor mechanics section being fixed.  I should have known that TPT wouldn’t buy a new vehicle.  This one looked as if an air force bloke had owned it previously, because it was held together with bodge tape and string.

The participants on my course had become affectionately known as ‘The Wobblies’ so the bus became known as ‘The Wobblie Waggon.’  I began to push the boundaries a little.  Rather than me walk all the way into work each morning, wouldn’t it be better if I took the Wobblie Waggon home with me?  I promise you, if you have never had a personal vehicle with a wheelchair ramp at the back, where your children can pretend to be batman, then you’ve never lived, you can even take a fully loaded shopping trolley, using the wheelchair lift, into the vehicle and unload it in comfort, especially if it is raining, or so I would imagine.  After a few days I had perfected the morning and afternoon routes.  Admittedly I was starting work one hour later and finishing one hour earlier, but there is only so much you can do against an ineffective system.

My immediate manager came in one day and presented me with a letter.  “It’s about the pay rise you asked for,” he said, handling me the envelope.  I took the letter and opened it.  Great news, I had been given a pay rise, but only three thousand pounds.  “That’s a pretty good pay rise,” said John.  “But it’s not what I asked for,” I said.  “It will make you one of the highest paid tutors in this place,” said John, as if that would make everything all right.  “But it won’t,” I said, adding.  “I shall not be working here.”  John couldn’t understand me.  “I will not be asking for my contract to be renewed,” I explained, and far away in the back ground of my mind, I could hear dear old Johnny Paycheck once again begin to strum his guitar and sing, ‘Take this job and shove it.’

It was sort of liberating to know that I was in control, I might not have a job in a few weeks’ time, but at least I would have my pride and I don’t mean that in a chest thumping, jingoistic, sort of way.  TPT’s attitude was that having a job is better than not having a job, so you will take our job, on our terms and you will thank us for it.  It reminded me of Victorian altruism, where stinking rich mill and factory owners said to the poor, ‘Yes you have a hard life working for me, in bad conditions, for pathetic wages, which is no good for your family life or your health, but look, I’ve opened a library for you!’  TPT had unleashed the inner beast in me and I promise you they didn’t know what was about to hit them.

One morning I had picked up the last course participant on the route, it was a grey old day; I was approaching the final roundabout, after which I would turn in to the TPT site.  I looked at the traffic sign before the roundabout.  All the guys and girls on the Wobblie Waggon were staring blankly out of the windows.  Turn left for Skelmersdale, straight ahead for TPT and Ormskirk, right for Liverpool.  As I hit the indicator to show I intended to turn right, I thought, a day out in Liverpool would now become ‘Life skills’ on my course timetable.  What would it entail, I wasn’t sure, but I could see all the Wobblies begin to smile, it was like something from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.  It was forty minutes to the Albert Dock in Liverpool.  The first lecture of the day would be about slavery and I could show them all the history, carved in stone, about the slave trade in Liverpool.  The second lecture, I don’t know, I wasn’t sure, but I would be next to the Beatles museum and not too far away from the cavern Club.  I knew it was going to be a good day out, Day Trippers on our very own Magical Mystery Tour, and when I got back.  Who cares, all I would have to do would be to ‘Act Naturally.’

Celtic Illumination, part 290, Doing the Duke.

It certainly was nice to get back home again.  The day hadn’t been too bad, sitting around in a car park for four hours you might think could be rather boring, but remember I was in the middle of North Welsh Wales, surrounded by mountains and rivers and sheep, let’s not forget the sheep.  The cadets and children handled it pretty well, but it was the following four hours, in a mini bus, that was a little tedious.  There was no rest for me when I got home for I was now on double top secret standby; Irene was pregnant and about to give birth to our fourth child.  The whole thing did cause us some concern as we had, after some detailed scientific research, put the cause of pregnancy down to me being on detachment for six or seven weeks.

We could never actually pin point the exact cause, but we knew that there was some sort of connection between long detachments and pregnancy.  This time I hadn’t been on detachment, I wasn’t even in the air force anymore, so I would have to reopen my research and run it alongside my continuing research on how pillows caused hangovers.  Apart from my scientific research projects I was determined that someone’s head would roll for the mistake with the camp site, however, my presumption that the senior positions in the Merseyside wing of the air training crops, were being handed out to members of the masonic lodges and had nothing to do with ability or commitment were confirmed as no one was interested.

I can remember cornering the wing commander and demanding an explanation.  I told him that someone had not updated the maps.  “Oh, is that what the problem was?”  He said, before he walked away.  I could see that they had no concern if it happened to anyone else; I would have expected an assurance that the map would be checked and updated, but no, nothing.  In fact the only reaction to that memorable weekend was that we should have a car wash to raise some funds to pay for the recovery and repair of the coach.  It was as if it was more important to talk about something rather than do it.  I could see that there was no point in me getting myself worked up about it.  I had mentioned that I had used the Duke of Edinburgh’s award scheme as an excuse to get the cadets out and under canvas; this was now brought back to me.

Every air cadet squadron was part of a Wing, and each squadron competed against each other, using a points system.  Various points would be awarded for positions gained in marching competitions, or swimming competitions.  Points were awarded for the number of cadets on the squadron and for a number of other activities and levels gained in them. One of the activities where points were awarded was the number of participants each squadron had on the Duke of Edinburgh’s award scheme.  The scheme is open to anyone between the ages of fourteen and twenty four.  There are three levels, Bronze, Silver and Gold.  For each level participants select and set objectives in four areas, volunteering, physical, skills and expedition with an additional fifth level at Gold being residential, which involves the individual staying and working away from home on a shared activity.

Andy told me that we needed to score some decent points from our Duke of Edinburgh’s participants that would ensure we were placed high up in the squadron rankings.  Apart from bringing points to the squadron the cadet’s would use their participation in the award scheme on their CV’s if they were applying for jobs or courses, so it was regarded as quite an important activity.  What I was really being asked to do was falsify records, you may think that in such an unequal society I would have no problem in helping my cadets with a few little white lies, I wouldn’t, what concerned me is that I was being asked to do this by a policeman.  The problem was much greater that a handful of cadets on a squadron, it affected every news story you might read in the newspaper.

The cadets were already at a disadvantage, if they moved anywhere outside the Merseyside region because of their accents, and who should know more about that than me.  I had no problem falsifying their records, I wasn’t that interested in whether the squadron got extra points or were rated higher than some other squadron, if I could help one cadet in their search for a better job or higher position then I was happy.  I find it strange these days that most people accept that most CV’s are exaggerated, and no one does anything about it.  The cadets didn’t even question the fact that their handbooks contained write up’s of activities they hadn’t completed, they had achieved their awards and were given their badges.  Not one person complained.

The only people who were complaining to me at the time were TPT, where I was working.  I was used to being told that I didn’t understand things, such like when I was a publishing executive in advertising, I didn’t understand business, I did it was called blackmail.  In the world of insurance and investments, I didn’t understand achieving personal sales targets, I did, it was called lying and cheating, or basically theft.  In audiology, it wasn’t being successful; it was called being a confidence trickster.  Seems now that I didn’t understand the world of government sponsored training schemes.  I was amazed that I was being told off for getting people jobs.

One person joined the course, he was male and in his mid-fifties.  He had suffered a massive heart attack and now, with limited mobility, was classed as disabled and also unemployed.  I began talking to him and discovered that he had been a member of the REME, the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, a highly efficient unit of the British Army.  After talking to him for a while I could see that he had the correct attitude, in that he loved working with mechanics and the like and he didn’t want to be unemployed or disabled, he wanted a job.  There was the hard fact that physically he was restricted but it would be a shame to lose all those years of experience.

That evening, even without the use of a bath, I had a eureka moment and couldn’t wait until the following morning.  I took a leaf out of the book of fellow who had started TPT, the priest with the truck full of unemployed parishioners, and went around to a local garage who offered MOT tests.  These are the mandatory tests that every vehicle over three years of age must undergo and pass to legally drive on the roads of the United Kingdom.  After a brief discussion with the garage owner we agreed that my fellow could come around for a two week trial as an MOT inspector and if they liked him and he liked them, oh and he was good at the job, then he would be offered a full time job.  I was happy, Action For Blind People, who sponsored my course, were happy and the fellow himself was very happy, for he was no longer consigned to the human scrap heap.

TPT on the other hand were not so happy.  I had fifteen places on my course with each place lasting six weeks. Great that I had found this fellow a job, but I should have kept him on the course for the six weeks, before passing him on to the garage.  It was all my fault, I didnt understand; again.  I agree, but what I didn’t understand, up until then that is, is that TPT, as are all training establishments, paid per pupil per day.  Each course or trade received a certain level of payment and the disabled category, my course, received the highest payment of the lot.  So by all means, get people jobs or secure them courses but keep them on the course for the complete six weeks so that TPT would receive full payment.

Action For Blind People agreed with me, so I knew I was right, people came first, not profit.   The managers at TPT were getting quite angry with me as were the local social workers, so I knew I was doing something right.  I knew I had been quite successful in getting people jobs and placing them on to training courses.  Action For Blind people were very pleased with what I was doing so I typed a letter explaining that I needed a pay rise, as you do.  This was no ordinary letter asking for a five or ten per cent pay rise, as I was doing so well and so many people were now queuing up to get on the course, I asked that my salary be doubled.  I know it might be considered a little bit cheeky but it would only bring me in to line with what other people, doing the exact same job as myself, were being paid elsewhere and I have already said that the money TPT was paying me was rubbish.

I was dithering about looking for the best time to drop the letter on the general manager’s desk when the decision was made for me.   Irene had gone into labour and was on her way to the local hospital.  I went to the general manager’s office and gave his secretary the letter, explaining that I was immediately taking the two weeks holiday we had discussed as my wife was about to give birth.   I left TPT and, carefully observing all the local speed and traffic regulations, made my way to the local hospital.  Once again I was smothered in fear as I had always been told that my mother had died giving birth to me so not only was I hoping that any child produced would be alive and healthy but that Irene would too.  I knew I would probably faint, again, but that really didn’t concern me.  I arrived and found that Irene was already in the process of giving birth.  The midwife refused me entrance to the delivery suite so I sat outside waiting and worrying.  I don’t know how long I was there, I know it wasn’t long but the doors opened and the midwife poked her head out.  “Mother and baby are doing fine,” she said, with a big smile.  I was relieved, but had a question which she knew I had, and she answered before I asked.  “Irene said to tell you it’s a Charles.”

Celtic Illumination, part 289, Breaking up is hard to do.

It took about two and a half hours for the breakdown truck to turn up.  It was a huge heavy affair, almost as big as the coach.  When the driver or operator, I’m not sure what his proper title would have been, but when he climbed out of his cab and came over to me I promise you if he had been dragging his right leg and muttering something along the lines of, “The bells!  The Bells!”  I would not have been surprised.  He had an associate with him, not as big but just as monosyllabic, dragging large metal chains around as if they were silk scarves. 

They were very quick and very professional, it was quite clear that they knew what they were doing.  I felt a little out of place, not that I couldn’t help them but that once again I found myself responsible for halting all the traffic on the A5 road in North Welsh Wales.  They clambered back into their cab and set off, heading North towards the coast, with a three mile tail back of traffic crawling along behind them.  Considering the job they had to do, they did it very quickly and very professionally.  However I was not happy to see their efforts scoring so lowly, as once again, the drivers held up in the traffic jam, were indicating to me that most of them only awarded two points for their efforts out of what had to be a maximum of ten.

I was about to leave the car park when I noticed a delegation come out of Cobdens and judging from the way they walked and the way they held themselves they were coming for me.  I pretended not to be interested and made my way toward the bridge.  “Excuse me!  Excuse me!” shrieked the person I now knew to be the hotel manager.  I stopped and waited for them to reach me.  “We need your contact details,”  “Why?” I asked, wondering why his mother had never taught him to say please. “Because as I explained to you before, we intend to take legal action against you to recover the money we have lost through passing trade this afternoon.”  A lot of ideas came in to my head as to what I could say to him but I simply wandered away.

“You are not to use this car park again!” he shouted, after me, and if I had turned around I would probably have seen him stamp his feet.  “It’s private property and you are barred from the hotel and its facilities.”  I suppose I should have been angry, for to take an attitude like that when someone is in difficulty was beyond me.  I always thought we were supposed to help our fellow man.  Base camp was deserted, I brought a chair out, made myself a coffee and sat and enjoyed the peace and quiet.  I couldn’t believe how much had gone wrong in such a short space of time.  Of course it wasn’t over yet, not only did I have the slight problem of getting everyone home the following day I now had the added pleasure of making a choice.

There were two ways out of the camp site, well three really, but Cobdens had closed their route to me.  To my right was a long boggy field, once base camp had been packed and ready to go we could carry everything off across the field and along the narrow lane to the road.  Where the lane met the road there was nowhere really I could safely assemble the cadets and the equipment to wait for whatever form of transport was coming to get us.  The other route had much more to offer.  Directly across from me was the Tyn Y Coed hotel.  I had been in once or twice over the years but we tended to stay away from it as we regarded it as an army pub.  So soldiers on exercise, or survival courses, in the mountains would be billeted there, however they had an enormous car park where we could assemble our kit and the cadets and wait for whatever form of transport was coming to get us.  As with most decisions I was making that weekend there was only one slight problem with the Tyn Y Coed hotel, and their massive car park, in that there was a huge fecking river running between us and them. 

(I am not sure if this will work but I have inserted a snap shot from Google Earth to give you an idea of the problem I was facing.  If you can see the image clearly then you will understand that when I said there was a river between us and the car park, I mean a river!)

It was the sort of evening where I could have enjoyed a few quiet pints of beer but as I was now barred from Cobdens and had no real way of getting over to the Tyn Y Coed I would have to settle for tea and coffee.  The squadron were now returning in dribs and drabs, indicating that the adult staff had shown no effective control over the cadets.  I didn’t mind as most of them were smiling especially my two boys.  I was wondering whether I should inform the squadron that the following day would see us undertaking a massive river crossing.  If they didn’t like the idea it would give them time to think up excuses as to why they shouldn’t cross the river.  My other option was to wait until the whole camp had been taken down and all the kit had been packed, the following morning, and then spring it on them.

After our evening meal I took John, the coach driver and wandered off, across the field and around the road, the long way, to the Tyn Y Coed Hotel.  Knowing how the jungle drums worked I knew that I needed to get in and speak to someone in charge, make sure that I had their permission to use the car park before the rumours could sprinkle down from Cobdens.  It was quite a difficult walk, the ground was very wet and boggy and I could see that we really didn’t have two exit options the following day, we only had one and that was directly across the river.  Luckily the guy running the Tyn Y Coed was ex-military and assured us that we could stay in his car park as long as we wanted, which was good news, in an odd way.

I had telephoned Andy to be told that they were sending a bus for us the next day, but it was a minibus, or as he called it a crew bus.  Whatever you called it, it would still only hold twelve people.  My mind immediately began to calculate the time table for the following day.   With the crew bus expected to arrive at eleven o clock in the morning, then undertake a four hour round trip, taking eleven people away each time, my mind stopped working.  We would have to start quite early, before eight o clock, to get breakfast ready for the squadron, then break camp and then carry it all across the river to be ready for the arrival of the crew bus.  The privilege of being in charge would mean that I could remain with the cadets until the last group left which would mean that I was to sit in a pub car park in North Welsh Wales for most of the day.

John and I had a couple of beers and then wandered back to the camp I didn’t tell anyone my plan, not even John.  We were going home, so it didn’t really matter if some of their kit got a little wet.  I had an uncomfortable night as it wasn’t so much that I was not looking forward to a long drawn out day the following day but that the river crossing was dangerous.  I waited until the squadron were feeding on their breakfast and called them in so that I could brief them.  I decided not to tell them what form our return transport would take, just that we would be picked up at eleven o clock in the car park across the river.  I instructed them to put one set of dry clothes in an air tight plastic bag and make sure it was secure and to have a towel ready.  I was quite surprised at how well they took it.  Most of the cadets were quite excited; some of the adults were not.

I was quite prepared to establish the river crossing and secure the rope but one or two of the older cadets asked if they would be allowed to set the crossing up.  It was nice to see their enthusiasm lead the younger cadets willingly into the exercise.  Thankfully their participation allowed me to stand back and supervise the operation.  I could then act as safety man slightly downstream just in case one of them came off the rope.  Thankfully none did.  We got all the kit and cadets across the river; one or two adults refused to get wet and walked the long way around.  Most of the cadets really enjoyed the exercise, needless to say my two boys loved wading, chest deep, across the river sensing a feeling of achievement.  I was tremendously happy to see two minibuses turn up, one which towed a trailer.  I would only have a four hour wait to endure.  I know I said that I had the correct attitude but I can tell you that sometimes it was pretty hard to maintain.