It was depressing working in the unemployment
industry. It was quite apparent that the
only purpose, of the combined effort, was to produce figures that showed the
government was succeeding, which of course they were not. Statistics are manipulated, as are the great
unwashed, to provide figures that show the, privately educated, multimillionaire
politicians are fantastic. I did enjoy meeting most of the people who came
through the system and did what I could to help those that wanted it. Being ex forces my outlook and beliefs had
been controlled, so that employed and unquestioning was good, unemployed
trouble maker was bad. Suddenly I was
learning that what I had been encouraged to believe might not be true.
I remember approaching one young man and
mustering as much enthusiasm as I possibly could, asking him what he wanted to
be when he grew up. It was my normal
attempt at humour approach, which resulted in him pulling out a handgun and setting
it on the desk before him. I don’t think
he wanted any help, and who was I to question him. Most of the people on the courses were quite
reluctant attendees, which is no real shock when you realise the standard of
idiot that had been advising them up until now.
It is a most discouraging environment no matter which side of the fence
you are on. In the media most unemployed
people are all clumped together and blamed for all the problems within
society. Once you start to meet them,
you understand that they are all individuals with dreams and aspirations; it’s
just that some haven’t been beaten down yet, while others have given up and begin
to believe the lies told about them.
It was the one thing I was trying not to do, to
give up. Sometimes it was difficult
motivating yourself. I was receiving
replies to the letters I had sent out to all the literary agents within the
UK. Thirty five in all. Thirty two replied and they all said that they
were too busy to look at my work or even consider taking new clients on, yet in
the newspapers almost every day you would read a story about some lucky writer being
signed by a literary agency. I still had
the recommendation to Carol Anne Duffy’s agent, so was planning to make the
most out of it. I needed something positive
to happen so I rang Action For Blind People hoping that the situation may have
moved forward and they could give me a date for my move to Ireland.
By the way if any of you would like to step in
and take over my life and give me a rest for a few weeks you would be more than
welcome. I was told that both directors
in the Preston office had been suspended; one of them was having an affair with
the secretary while the other was embezzling funds from the charity’s bank
account. All decisions made by the pair
had been put on hold and were to be investigated thoroughly. I explained that I needed a date for when I
could take up my post in Ireland and was saddened to hear them laugh at me as
they didn’t have any presence in Ireland.
This is why I had tape-recorded my interview with Scrivens in Birmingham,
when they offered me head of training, because, although I don’t believe in it,
I seemed to be in line for the title of unluckiest person in the world.
I needed a holiday and I think the double top
secret cabal who were preparing me to take the throne of Ireland realised that
too. I received a letter with a fifty
pound note in it. It was from Tony in
Ipswich, well; Shotley. He was moving
house, would I take the train down and help him out. I jumped at the chance of getting away from Skelmersdale
for a few days and hopped on the first train to Ipswich. Tony had sold his practice, in Clacton, to
Boots, the chemist chain. In order to avoid paying any tax on the transaction
Boots and Tony had agreed a price and Boots had bought a farm on the Isle of
Man, for the exact same amount, which they now gave to Tony. The year before the tax man had dragged Tony
in and demanded that he pay a fifty thousand tax bill there and then. This of course was at the end of a right long
and drawn out affair. Tony played
ignorant and claimed that at that point in time he only had five thousand to hand.
The tax man accepted it and the bill was satisfied.
I couldn’t believe the amount of hassle unemployed
people were getting for being accused of fiddling ten or twenty pounds a week,
whereas business people were fiddling millions and getting away with it. It upset me that the system was so out of
kilter, yet so clever that the government had the media blame the poor, and the
bloody foreigners, for everything. All I
could work out was that whatever it took I would be trying to stay well outside
the system at all costs. It was nice to
be back in Shotley. I took a wander over
to the families club and was disappointed to find that the club seemed to have been
taken over by young civilians. I didn’t really
know anybody there so I didn’t hang about.
Tony and Mary had packed two cars with
belongings. I was to drive one car while
Tony would drive the other. Mary would
fly to the Isle of Man that evening; we would already be on the island, when
she landed, so we would pick her up from the Isle of Man airport. Tony’s son Tim was coming to have a look
around the new house, but they didn’t want him flying back to the UK on his own,
so he brought a friend to keep him company for the return journey to the
UK. We set off nice and early and I
quite enjoyed the three hundred mile drive up and across mainland England. We arrived in good time at Heysham and had a
beer or two as we waited for the ferry.
Really the journey was uneventful, the fun started once we arrived on
the isle of Man. It was late in the evening so we had to rush around for Tony
to sign papers and collect the keys to his new home.
With all the official stuff out of the way,
Tony and I headed over to the airport to wait for the remainder of our
party. By the time the four of them
landed, yeah four, sorry I forget to mention the cat, by the time the four of
them had landed and we were driving across the Isle of Man it was dark. Tony had actually been to the house once
before so he knew where it was and he also knew where the front door was. We got in to discover that there was no electricity
or heating. I can remember saying that it
was a stupid idea putting a shilling in the electricity meter as it was quite obvious
it had been disconnected but Mary insisted. We then each went our separate way
looking for something, anything that would make our stay a little more comfortable.
Tony suggested that we all go and stay in a
hotel but Mary insisted that we would stay at the house. I found some gas canisters outside against a
wall and came back inside to see what they were connected to. They had been connected to a gas fire, but as
it was now on the opposite side of the room to the inlet pipe I deduced that it
might not work. Unfortunately I had told
Tony and Mary about my find. I say unfortunately
as Tony had gone outside and turned on the gas while Mary was wandering about inside
with a burning newspaper looking for where it was coming out. With the newspaper extinguished, the gas supply
turned off and heartbeats back to normal all eyes seemed to turn to me. I sent the two boys outside to gather wood, coal;
anything they could find that would burn and began to build a fire in the fireplace,
the fireplace without the gas supply.
Now we had light and heat in one room. I then fashioned a griddle on the fire and heated
some tinned stew and beans, which was rather nice. We did have duvets and blankets and a large bottle
of whiskey, so having made sure the whiskey was fit for purpose, settled down
to try and get some sleep. It was one of
those moments I’ll never forget, neither, to my shame, will the others. A medium sized room, it’s dark, very quiet
with a fire glowing at one side. Five of
us have settled down and are trying to get some sleep. Then you feel this build-up of gas and you
realise that you are going to have to expel it.
In the air force, or with air force people, there is an established way
of dealing with this situation which causes those involved no embarrassment at
all. It’s referred to as ‘The Badger.’
If you feel a sudden internal build-up of gas which
you suspect will result in flatulence you issue a ‘Badger warning.’ All those around you now know that there is a
good chance you are going to fart.
Should you find that you have no option but to forcibly expel the gas,
having done so, you will now issue the ‘Badger loose!’ call, so just in case
the expulsion was silent you have given your colleagues fair warning. As Tony, Mary, Tim and his friend were all civilians,
I’m not sure about the cat, but as they were all civilians I wasn’t sure if
they would understand the ‘Badger’ code, so simply farted. Now when I saw farted, I mean a real ripper,
the sort of fart that would make Julian Clary turn around and say “Oh a virgin!” Luckily it was dark so I wasn’t that
embarrassed but there was a deathly silence, after the thunderclap had echoed
its way around the bare walls of the empty farmhouse and died a death. It wasn’t the first time that evening that a
foul smelling cloud of gas threatened our very existence. I did the only thing any decent ex air force chap
would do. In the best feminine and
whimpering voice I could muster I called out the most appropriate thing I could
think of, which was of course. “Nurse!!”
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