19 November 2018
Since my last update in May my main aim has been to help Margaret get back to full fitness. She is doing so well and, as the medics say, help the body heal itself. Once again, our thanks to all the people in both the private and public parts of the Spanish health system who have helped Margaret on her road to recovery. Special thanks to Dr Henk Landa.
So, In this post I will bring you up to speed with what the Peckham Boy was up to in 1994. My special guest at Glen Parva did not have something of the night about him. Any ideas before you read on?
A detailed report on how my second novel Unlock These Hands is doing, new Pics & Poems and the recent goings-on at The Grove Tavern. I offer you new, stunning art which is happening both inside and outside Casa Wilcox and, last but not least, new Curios to amuse and delight.
I love to receive feedback on my work, books, poems and website, so please use the Contact page to share your opinions with me. Thanks.
Since my last update in May my main aim has been to help Margaret get back to full fitness. She is doing so well and, as the medics say, help the body heal itself. Once again, our thanks to all the people in both the private and public parts of the Spanish health system who have helped Margaret on her road to recovery. Special thanks to Dr Henk Landa.
So, In this post I will bring you up to speed with what the Peckham Boy was up to in 1994. My special guest at Glen Parva did not have something of the night about him. Any ideas before you read on?
A detailed report on how my second novel Unlock These Hands is doing, new Pics & Poems and the recent goings-on at The Grove Tavern. I offer you new, stunning art which is happening both inside and outside Casa Wilcox and, last but not least, new Curios to amuse and delight.
I love to receive feedback on my work, books, poems and website, so please use the Contact page to share your opinions with me. Thanks.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
The days were long and busy working in Europe´biggest young offender institution. Progress was slow getting a small number of the healthcare officers to realize that they were there to serve the prison and not the other way round.
Some months after arriving I took the opportunity to appear in front of a promotion board at HQ in London. Some weeks later, our governor in charge Chris Williams called me to go to his office.
I walked in and he greeted me with a smile and the news that I had passed the promotion board. As it was slowly sinking in he asked me if I would consider taking promotion in-situ and move from healthcare to take charge of the remand centre. I told him that I would need to discuss the offer with Margaret. I phoned her and we decided that we didn´t want to move house or have me driving hundreds of miles every week. She knew that I was happy at Parva so I accepted Chris´s offer and started work as head of the remand centre the following Monday. It was a massive challenge for me and one that I embraced. It was a steep learning curve and a number of very talented officers gave me invaluable help.
I was well into my new role and happy with the senior staff working to me when Chris called the Senior Management Team together to inform us that we were to receive a visit from Home Secretary Michael Howard. The governor in charge of the convicted end of the institution and me were charged with organizing Mr Howard´s tour of Glen Parva and also guaranteeing his safety. We spent a lot of time on the arrangements and were ready when the big day arrived.
The cell accommodation (units) are linked by literally miles of corridors. So, it was decided that the tour would start, under my guidance, by heading towards the remand centre. We were nearing the gates of one of the units when he spotted an officer escorting one of the trainees. We stopped them and Howard introduced himself to the trainee. The conversation went as follows,
Howard - ´How long have you been here?`.
Trainee - ´Fucking shit`.
Howard – ´Do you like it here?`.
Trainee - ´Fucking shit`.
Howard – ´What activities are available on the unit ?`.
Trainee – Fucking shit`.
Howard – ´Are you from the Leicester area?`.
Trainee - ´Fucking shit`.
With that, Howard thanked the trainee and we walked on. After a minute or so he asked me if I wanted to comment about what we had just heard. I replied that I would but it was unrepeatable. He laughed and we carried on with the tour.
More next time...
The days were long and busy working in Europe´biggest young offender institution. Progress was slow getting a small number of the healthcare officers to realize that they were there to serve the prison and not the other way round.
Some months after arriving I took the opportunity to appear in front of a promotion board at HQ in London. Some weeks later, our governor in charge Chris Williams called me to go to his office.
I walked in and he greeted me with a smile and the news that I had passed the promotion board. As it was slowly sinking in he asked me if I would consider taking promotion in-situ and move from healthcare to take charge of the remand centre. I told him that I would need to discuss the offer with Margaret. I phoned her and we decided that we didn´t want to move house or have me driving hundreds of miles every week. She knew that I was happy at Parva so I accepted Chris´s offer and started work as head of the remand centre the following Monday. It was a massive challenge for me and one that I embraced. It was a steep learning curve and a number of very talented officers gave me invaluable help.
I was well into my new role and happy with the senior staff working to me when Chris called the Senior Management Team together to inform us that we were to receive a visit from Home Secretary Michael Howard. The governor in charge of the convicted end of the institution and me were charged with organizing Mr Howard´s tour of Glen Parva and also guaranteeing his safety. We spent a lot of time on the arrangements and were ready when the big day arrived.
The cell accommodation (units) are linked by literally miles of corridors. So, it was decided that the tour would start, under my guidance, by heading towards the remand centre. We were nearing the gates of one of the units when he spotted an officer escorting one of the trainees. We stopped them and Howard introduced himself to the trainee. The conversation went as follows,
Howard - ´How long have you been here?`.
Trainee - ´Fucking shit`.
Howard – ´Do you like it here?`.
Trainee - ´Fucking shit`.
Howard – ´What activities are available on the unit ?`.
Trainee – Fucking shit`.
Howard – ´Are you from the Leicester area?`.
Trainee - ´Fucking shit`.
With that, Howard thanked the trainee and we walked on. After a minute or so he asked me if I wanted to comment about what we had just heard. I replied that I would but it was unrepeatable. He laughed and we carried on with the tour.
More next time...
19 May 2018
This has been a busy month with many miles travelled.
As well as more about my time in the UK Prison Service, an updated Blog, news about my first book signing event for Unlock These Hands on Saturday 26 May, a poem which some of you might remember, more goings on at The Grove Tavern, some paintings by a developing artist and more curios.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
Initially, it was strange going back to Glen Parva Young Offenders Institute & Remand Centre as a governor grade with responsibility for the healthcare centre.
Many of the healthcare staff were still in post from my time there as a principal officer but there was a definite atmosphere of unrest. A couple of very strong characters had joined the team and they were exerting a degree of negative influence. At my first healthcare staff meeting I emphasized the need to move forward with the rapidly changing shape of the Service. My comments didn´t go down well with a small faction and it would take time to start to see positive change.
One really pleasant surprise was when I met Dr Will Walker, a definite breath of fresh air. We are still in touch.
As well as my responsibility for healthcare I had to take my share of the other duties around the prison. Glen Parva was, at that time, the biggest Young Offender Institution in Europe and had lads from all over the country. I found young offenders to be particularly challenging because, often they had absolutely no respect for age or authority!
I enjoyed being duty governor because it allowed me to get around the prison, a big place. Also, I would attend the segregation unit to conduct any adjudications for that day. Prisoners who had broken a prison rule would have to attend the unit and explain their actions. Some have likened the process to that of a magistrates court.
On one of my duty governor days I let myself on to the unit and, accompanied by the senior officer in charge, started to see all the prisoners who were being held for adjudication or for other reasons.
Approaching the cells, we heard the following exchange, ´
´ Who´s the governor today?´
´ The screw said it´s Wilcox.`
´ Wilcox is a fucking racist.`
´ No he ain´t, he fucking hates everybody.` Brilliant.
Being a massive music fan, having the Birmingham NEC less than one hours drive away, meant that we always had a concert lined up.
One Friday evening, Margaret and I went to the NEC to see Barry Manilow. Many of you would guess that he would not normally have featured on my musical radar but, surprise, I had become a fan after seeing him perform the album 2.00 AM Paradise Cafe years before. So, it was a great concert and as well as a program, Margaret bought a Manilow keyring.
The following morning I was weekend on duty and used Margaret´s car to get to work. I started my rounds by visiting the segregation unit to conduct the adjudications. I must have left the car keys on the office table because the senior officer was laughing as he handed them back to me.
The following morning I started my rounds by visiting the segregation unit, although on Sunday´s there were no adjudications. As I let myself onto the unit I was met by a blast from a bugle followed by a ´different`rendition of the popular Manilow hit ´Mandy`. The choir consisted of three segregation unit officers accompanied by the senior officer on bugle. After I stopped laughing I started my tour of the prisoners in the cells. The first lad reported that ´them bastards have been making that fucking racket since six o´clock and I ain´t had no fucking sleep.`
More next time...
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
This has been a busy month with many miles travelled.
As well as more about my time in the UK Prison Service, an updated Blog, news about my first book signing event for Unlock These Hands on Saturday 26 May, a poem which some of you might remember, more goings on at The Grove Tavern, some paintings by a developing artist and more curios.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
Initially, it was strange going back to Glen Parva Young Offenders Institute & Remand Centre as a governor grade with responsibility for the healthcare centre.
Many of the healthcare staff were still in post from my time there as a principal officer but there was a definite atmosphere of unrest. A couple of very strong characters had joined the team and they were exerting a degree of negative influence. At my first healthcare staff meeting I emphasized the need to move forward with the rapidly changing shape of the Service. My comments didn´t go down well with a small faction and it would take time to start to see positive change.
One really pleasant surprise was when I met Dr Will Walker, a definite breath of fresh air. We are still in touch.
As well as my responsibility for healthcare I had to take my share of the other duties around the prison. Glen Parva was, at that time, the biggest Young Offender Institution in Europe and had lads from all over the country. I found young offenders to be particularly challenging because, often they had absolutely no respect for age or authority!
I enjoyed being duty governor because it allowed me to get around the prison, a big place. Also, I would attend the segregation unit to conduct any adjudications for that day. Prisoners who had broken a prison rule would have to attend the unit and explain their actions. Some have likened the process to that of a magistrates court.
On one of my duty governor days I let myself on to the unit and, accompanied by the senior officer in charge, started to see all the prisoners who were being held for adjudication or for other reasons.
Approaching the cells, we heard the following exchange, ´
´ Who´s the governor today?´
´ The screw said it´s Wilcox.`
´ Wilcox is a fucking racist.`
´ No he ain´t, he fucking hates everybody.` Brilliant.
Being a massive music fan, having the Birmingham NEC less than one hours drive away, meant that we always had a concert lined up.
One Friday evening, Margaret and I went to the NEC to see Barry Manilow. Many of you would guess that he would not normally have featured on my musical radar but, surprise, I had become a fan after seeing him perform the album 2.00 AM Paradise Cafe years before. So, it was a great concert and as well as a program, Margaret bought a Manilow keyring.
The following morning I was weekend on duty and used Margaret´s car to get to work. I started my rounds by visiting the segregation unit to conduct the adjudications. I must have left the car keys on the office table because the senior officer was laughing as he handed them back to me.
The following morning I started my rounds by visiting the segregation unit, although on Sunday´s there were no adjudications. As I let myself onto the unit I was met by a blast from a bugle followed by a ´different`rendition of the popular Manilow hit ´Mandy`. The choir consisted of three segregation unit officers accompanied by the senior officer on bugle. After I stopped laughing I started my tour of the prisoners in the cells. The first lad reported that ´them bastards have been making that fucking racket since six o´clock and I ain´t had no fucking sleep.`
More next time...
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
23 April 2018
Since my last post on 16 March, Margaret has undergone major surgery. The surgery was successful and she is about to begin the next stage of her journey to full fitness. We would like to thank everyone who supported us, in so many ways, during this very difficult time in our lives.
My second novel, Unlock These Hands, was published on 30 March and is available in paperback and ebook from Amazon. So far, the feedback has been good. I hope that, commitments permitting, I´ll be able to actively start promoting the book here in Spain.
In this post I´ll be telling you a bit more about my career in HM Prison Service. Also, two poems, more about the goings-on at The Grove Tavern and some more Artwork and Curios.
Since my last post on 16 March, Margaret has undergone major surgery. The surgery was successful and she is about to begin the next stage of her journey to full fitness. We would like to thank everyone who supported us, in so many ways, during this very difficult time in our lives.
My second novel, Unlock These Hands, was published on 30 March and is available in paperback and ebook from Amazon. So far, the feedback has been good. I hope that, commitments permitting, I´ll be able to actively start promoting the book here in Spain.
In this post I´ll be telling you a bit more about my career in HM Prison Service. Also, two poems, more about the goings-on at The Grove Tavern and some more Artwork and Curios.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
The initiative we called The Birmingham Roadshow was a regular feature at conferences across the Service during 1993/4. We certainly gave representatives from other prisons food for thought. The picture on the left is John (second left) and me at a meeting wth staff from the Raeside Clinic.
When I became a junior governor (Governor 5) I also joined the prison Governors Association (PGA). When the Governor 5 representative became vacant on the PGA committee, I put my name forward and, much to my surprise, I was elected!
The committee, at that time, was lucky to have individuals such as Brendan O´Friel, Lynne Bowles, Chris Duffin and Paddy Scrivens. They were a force to be reckoned with. It was effective and was the first part of the Service to introduce sponsorship, from the private sector, at the annual conferences.
I was on the committee for a couple of years but I found it increasingly difficult to mix my PGA work with my prison duties. Although I was officially given a number of days, per year, to conduct PGA work, this really didn´t help. My boss at Winson Green asked me, on more than one occasion,
if I was really committed to the place. Unfair pressure for a junior governor but some would say that I had brought it on myself.
Added to this was the fact that I was traveling a round trip of 101 miles every day. Not a massive distance, but most of it was M69 and M6 motorway which, on a bad day could be horrendous, particularly around Spaghetti Junction. So, long and tiring days.
In 2005 I heard that a vacancy was about to be announced at Glen Parva Young Offenders Institution in Leicester. The job was Governor 5, Head of Healthcare. As I had been a principal Officer there, and the thought of a 20 minute drive to work, I applied and got the job.
I was sad to leave Birmingham Prison but I was overjoyed when John Malpas was promoted to take over from me.
We are still in contact with John and Kate, as well as Dr John Hall. Recent events may make it necessary for us to cancel our planned trip to the UK in June when we had planned to meet up with these great friends, but it will eventually happen.
More next time...
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
The initiative we called The Birmingham Roadshow was a regular feature at conferences across the Service during 1993/4. We certainly gave representatives from other prisons food for thought. The picture on the left is John (second left) and me at a meeting wth staff from the Raeside Clinic.
When I became a junior governor (Governor 5) I also joined the prison Governors Association (PGA). When the Governor 5 representative became vacant on the PGA committee, I put my name forward and, much to my surprise, I was elected!
The committee, at that time, was lucky to have individuals such as Brendan O´Friel, Lynne Bowles, Chris Duffin and Paddy Scrivens. They were a force to be reckoned with. It was effective and was the first part of the Service to introduce sponsorship, from the private sector, at the annual conferences.
I was on the committee for a couple of years but I found it increasingly difficult to mix my PGA work with my prison duties. Although I was officially given a number of days, per year, to conduct PGA work, this really didn´t help. My boss at Winson Green asked me, on more than one occasion,
if I was really committed to the place. Unfair pressure for a junior governor but some would say that I had brought it on myself.
Added to this was the fact that I was traveling a round trip of 101 miles every day. Not a massive distance, but most of it was M69 and M6 motorway which, on a bad day could be horrendous, particularly around Spaghetti Junction. So, long and tiring days.
In 2005 I heard that a vacancy was about to be announced at Glen Parva Young Offenders Institution in Leicester. The job was Governor 5, Head of Healthcare. As I had been a principal Officer there, and the thought of a 20 minute drive to work, I applied and got the job.
I was sad to leave Birmingham Prison but I was overjoyed when John Malpas was promoted to take over from me.
We are still in contact with John and Kate, as well as Dr John Hall. Recent events may make it necessary for us to cancel our planned trip to the UK in June when we had planned to meet up with these great friends, but it will eventually happen.
More next time...
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
16 March 2018
A short post this time, only this page is updated.
A few weeks ago we found out that Margaret has a serious medical problem. After many tests, she will undergo major surgery next week. I would like to thank our friends for the many messages of love and support we have received.
My second novel, Unlock These Hands, will be published on 30 March.
...........................................................
A short post this time, only this page is updated.
A few weeks ago we found out that Margaret has a serious medical problem. After many tests, she will undergo major surgery next week. I would like to thank our friends for the many messages of love and support we have received.
My second novel, Unlock These Hands, will be published on 30 March.
...........................................................
26 January 2018
As promised, more regular updates to the website. Margaret and I are still struggling to beat the cold virus which seems to be effecting everyone at the moment. My sympathy´s go out to those suffering from the flu virus, it must be horrendous.
Today I´ve continued my odyssey in HM Prison Service with more to read in Living The Life - A Peckham Boy. Still waiting for more news about progress with my second novel Unlock These Hands and the Blog page recounts our recent UK visit. More goings-on in The Grove Tavern and more stuff in Pics & Poems, Artwork and Curios.
I´ve set myself some creative targets for the next twelve months, which include the written word, music and canvas (not camping, I hasten to add).
I particularly like a recent Buddhist quote which was along the lines of
´Surround yourself with people who listen as well as speak`.
As promised, more regular updates to the website. Margaret and I are still struggling to beat the cold virus which seems to be effecting everyone at the moment. My sympathy´s go out to those suffering from the flu virus, it must be horrendous.
Today I´ve continued my odyssey in HM Prison Service with more to read in Living The Life - A Peckham Boy. Still waiting for more news about progress with my second novel Unlock These Hands and the Blog page recounts our recent UK visit. More goings-on in The Grove Tavern and more stuff in Pics & Poems, Artwork and Curios.
I´ve set myself some creative targets for the next twelve months, which include the written word, music and canvas (not camping, I hasten to add).
I particularly like a recent Buddhist quote which was along the lines of
´Surround yourself with people who listen as well as speak`.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
Birmingham Prison (Winson Green), did not have a great reputation inside or outside HM Prison Service. I must say that during my two and a half years there most of my experiences were positive. The place was always busy, from unlock to lockup. The staff were cheerful and the prisoners were, by and large, cooperative.
As I mentioned in my last update, I was lucky to be working with John Malpas once again. John was held in high regards across the different disciplines in the prison which definitely helped me on a number of occasions.
Some months after my arrival I felt as though I´d got to grips with the job of being a junior governor in a large, local prison. John and I often shared our lunch breaks and we started to talk about possible ways to improve the reputation of the place. The obvious place to start was, of course, the healthcare centre.
John had developed a great working relationship with staff at the local Raeside Regional Secure Units so I went along to have a look. Following their introduction of psychiatric nurses interviewing suspected mentally ill persons in police cells, funding was agreed with Winson Green and Raeside for psychiatric teams to interview all receptions received into the prison, either on immediate receptions or within 24 hours. This being an extension to the already existing police and court diversion scheme. John was responsible for making this happen, the first intervention of its type to be introduced in to the Prison Service.
It also soon became apparent that the staff always found time to talk to the patients, an area which was often lacking in a prison environment. John and I spent hours at work and many phone calls at home, working up a series of strategies which we hoped would work in the prison. I believe that we made a real difference and benefitted both the patients and staff. We eventually called it the Birmingham Roadshow.
It got that name because other prisons heard about our ideas and wanted a presentation, so on the road we went. Area Office´s were also in contact, which gave us the opportunity to reach a number of establishments in one go. Our first conference was held at a hotel in Daventry and was oversubscribed. It was also the first time private companies were able to sponsor the work we were doing and, obviously. promote their product. This would soon become a feature at future conferences across the Service. John has reminded me that we also got a full page plus photo in the Nursing Times. High praise indeed.
One presentation, in particular, is worth a special mention. Across the Service, healthcare officers were gradually being replaced by nurses and the transition was not without its problems. We delivered our three hour presentation at a hotel in the Lake District. John and I knew a few of those attending and some were very resistant to the change.
We always encouraged questions but it soon became apparent that the audience were exhibiting a total lack of interest. So, we ploughed on and the three hours seemed to last forever. Before leaving Winson Green we had discussed how many booklets to take for distributing to the audience after we had finished the presentation. I think we took 20 and agreed that we would probably come back with most of those.
Eventually, we came to the end of the presentation and thanked the 70 plus people for attending. As we turned away to to collect our papers and make a speedy escape we were stunned to receive a round of applause. When the applause finished we started to hand out the booklets and realized that we had massively underestimated the number required. We took a long list of names and posted the booklets when we got back to base. Many of those attending were honest about the fact that they feared the changes which would surely come but felt that the bones of our presentation would be helpful as a way forward.
It was probably one of our most successful presentations and, sitting talking in the hotel bar afterwards we forgot to go in for dinner!
Around this time I was elected on to the committee of the Prison Governors Association.
More next time...
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Birmingham Prison (Winson Green), did not have a great reputation inside or outside HM Prison Service. I must say that during my two and a half years there most of my experiences were positive. The place was always busy, from unlock to lockup. The staff were cheerful and the prisoners were, by and large, cooperative.
As I mentioned in my last update, I was lucky to be working with John Malpas once again. John was held in high regards across the different disciplines in the prison which definitely helped me on a number of occasions.
Some months after my arrival I felt as though I´d got to grips with the job of being a junior governor in a large, local prison. John and I often shared our lunch breaks and we started to talk about possible ways to improve the reputation of the place. The obvious place to start was, of course, the healthcare centre.
John had developed a great working relationship with staff at the local Raeside Regional Secure Units so I went along to have a look. Following their introduction of psychiatric nurses interviewing suspected mentally ill persons in police cells, funding was agreed with Winson Green and Raeside for psychiatric teams to interview all receptions received into the prison, either on immediate receptions or within 24 hours. This being an extension to the already existing police and court diversion scheme. John was responsible for making this happen, the first intervention of its type to be introduced in to the Prison Service.
It also soon became apparent that the staff always found time to talk to the patients, an area which was often lacking in a prison environment. John and I spent hours at work and many phone calls at home, working up a series of strategies which we hoped would work in the prison. I believe that we made a real difference and benefitted both the patients and staff. We eventually called it the Birmingham Roadshow.
It got that name because other prisons heard about our ideas and wanted a presentation, so on the road we went. Area Office´s were also in contact, which gave us the opportunity to reach a number of establishments in one go. Our first conference was held at a hotel in Daventry and was oversubscribed. It was also the first time private companies were able to sponsor the work we were doing and, obviously. promote their product. This would soon become a feature at future conferences across the Service. John has reminded me that we also got a full page plus photo in the Nursing Times. High praise indeed.
One presentation, in particular, is worth a special mention. Across the Service, healthcare officers were gradually being replaced by nurses and the transition was not without its problems. We delivered our three hour presentation at a hotel in the Lake District. John and I knew a few of those attending and some were very resistant to the change.
We always encouraged questions but it soon became apparent that the audience were exhibiting a total lack of interest. So, we ploughed on and the three hours seemed to last forever. Before leaving Winson Green we had discussed how many booklets to take for distributing to the audience after we had finished the presentation. I think we took 20 and agreed that we would probably come back with most of those.
Eventually, we came to the end of the presentation and thanked the 70 plus people for attending. As we turned away to to collect our papers and make a speedy escape we were stunned to receive a round of applause. When the applause finished we started to hand out the booklets and realized that we had massively underestimated the number required. We took a long list of names and posted the booklets when we got back to base. Many of those attending were honest about the fact that they feared the changes which would surely come but felt that the bones of our presentation would be helpful as a way forward.
It was probably one of our most successful presentations and, sitting talking in the hotel bar afterwards we forgot to go in for dinner!
Around this time I was elected on to the committee of the Prison Governors Association.
More next time...
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
8 January 2018
Welcome to 2018, my apologies for not updating the website for some months. The format for this post will be different because there is so much to tell. This Home Page will bring you up to date with the goings on in my life since July last year.
My usual feature, Living The Life-A Peckham Boy, will be carried over to the next post.
The Blog page will describe my short career as a radio presenter. It was a great experience which I´m happy to share with you.
The Unlock These Hands page will bring you up to date with my second novel, soon to be published.
In Pics and Poems I´ll give you a sneak preview into Unlock These Hands.
I´m presently gathering more tales about the regulars who inhabit The Grove Tavern. David ´Don´t call Me Dave` Roper told me a story about a mate of his who had been ´away on business`. Tickled me pink.
I´m pleased to be able to show you more of the incredible wall hangings which Margaret has completed during the past few months. There will also be a couple of my 45 minute attempts at art! Last, not least, are some of the cartoons and pictures which have delighted and amused me since my last post.
So, here we go, 17 July was my 68 birthday. Enjoyed meals with Victor and Bettina and David and Eileen. The weather was superb and we used our pool a lot. Nothing like a dip when the day is at its hottest.
July 23 saw me present my first four-hour show on TotalFM. More about radio presenting on the Blog Page.
Regular chats with Steve and Marsha in California is now the norm even though they are nine hours behind us. There´s always so much to say.
Margaret was busy with her projects (see the Artwork Page) and I kept myself amused doing my 45-minute paintings. If they are half reasonable they go in the lounge, if not they are relegated to the downstairs studio.
August 6 saw Victor as my guest on The Lock Down Blues Show. It was interesting to hear about his early days in Puerto Rico and his dad, who is 100. This was, of course, before the island was devastated by a natural disaster.
Hilary, Lauren and Charlie visited from Northumberland towards the end of August. The weather was on its best behavior and they had a great time.
We enjoyed lovely BBQs and great meals out at Guantanamera and Tapes. Our local La Xara fiesta week was the usual mix of dressing up, music, fireworks and carnival floats. The Spanish people really know how to enjoy themselves. We are slowly integrating ourselves into village life, which is great.
Early in September we visited IVO (Institute of Valencian Oncology) for my six-monthly checkup. All was good.
Around this time Margaret started to be in regular contact with Avonia, a friend she had lost contact with over 40 years ago. Avonia sent a picture of Margaret when she was 11. Wonderful. We met her later in the year and she is a lovely lady. So much to talk about.
As we moved into autumn the weather continued to be excellent and we enjoyed our regular visits to the gym for workouts and yoga.
One of the guests on my show was Jenny Morrison, an incredibly talented artist and life-long Buddhist. We visited her house, met husband Willi and saw her collection of paintings. We also discussed Buddhism which has reawakened my interest in the subject.
As we moved into October, excitement was starting to surface about our trip to Washington DC in November. October also saw me approaching my last radio show. Boo hoo.
We are in our second year of living in this beautiful house in La Xara and the more time that passes the more we love it. The cobbled streets and the sense of history which surrounds the place never ceases to amaze me. As I come to the end of the process of preparing my second novel, Unlock These Hands, for publication, I´m looking around for the next project(s). One will definitely be to work on my guitar playing. Maybe another writing project, who knows.
Towards the end of October we had dinner with Chris and Wendy Williams, Mr & Mrs TotalFM as I liked to call them. Shortly after, they moved back to the UK and TotalFM was no more. Chris mentioned that he was hoping to start an internet radio station in the future and would I be interested in presenting a show from home. Yes indeedee. I hope we get to see them in 2018.
Halloween saw us virtually overrun by local kids and they particularly developed a liking for my stash of flying saucer sweets. A lovely evening.
November arrived and we were hyped up about our impending trip to Washington. On 17 November we travelled from Alicante to Manchester and spent a lovely afternoon meeting up with Margaret´s friend Avonia. We had afternoon tea in Selfridges and three hours flew by. Hope to see her in 2018.
The following day we travelled to Heathrow and then it was business class all the way to Washington DC and the Hyatt Hotel on capital Hill. During the first week we visited nearly all of the museums and tourist attractions. The following Monday Steve and Marsha arrived from California. We visited the White House and, in particular, The Phillips Collection which houses many Renoir originals. It was stunning, almost overpowering.
We experienced our first Thanksgiving dinner, celebrated our 31st wedding anniversary and saw Squeeze at the 9.30 club. The Americans take customer service to the next level. Our hotel was superb and certainly ticked all the boxes. We arrived back in Spain on 4 December.
The evening of 9 December saw us, with Victor and Bettina, in Altea, at the auditorium, to see Carmen. Great dancing.
From 15-18 December we were in Ashington, Northumberland as the guests of Hilary. Our surprise
Christmas present, which we had on the Saturday, was a tour of Newcastle United´s stadium. St James Park. It was a great couple of hours and it´s easy to see why football is a multi-million pound concern. We had a great weekend and arrived home on the Monday afternoon.
Christmas Eve saw us with Victor and Bettina at the Guantanamera Cuban restaurant. Great food and entertainment. We enjoyed a quiet Christmas day, feet up.
On 30 December we enjoyed the Don Quixote ballet at the Teulada auditorium, with David and Eileen. We ended the year at Victor and Bettina´s for dinner and then off to the beach to see the new year in by letting off fireworks!
The pic below is the moment Margaret met Avonia for the first time in 40 years. Magic
Please share the website with friends and give me your opinions on the content, using the Contact page. No swear words, please!
Welcome to 2018, my apologies for not updating the website for some months. The format for this post will be different because there is so much to tell. This Home Page will bring you up to date with the goings on in my life since July last year.
My usual feature, Living The Life-A Peckham Boy, will be carried over to the next post.
The Blog page will describe my short career as a radio presenter. It was a great experience which I´m happy to share with you.
The Unlock These Hands page will bring you up to date with my second novel, soon to be published.
In Pics and Poems I´ll give you a sneak preview into Unlock These Hands.
I´m presently gathering more tales about the regulars who inhabit The Grove Tavern. David ´Don´t call Me Dave` Roper told me a story about a mate of his who had been ´away on business`. Tickled me pink.
I´m pleased to be able to show you more of the incredible wall hangings which Margaret has completed during the past few months. There will also be a couple of my 45 minute attempts at art! Last, not least, are some of the cartoons and pictures which have delighted and amused me since my last post.
So, here we go, 17 July was my 68 birthday. Enjoyed meals with Victor and Bettina and David and Eileen. The weather was superb and we used our pool a lot. Nothing like a dip when the day is at its hottest.
July 23 saw me present my first four-hour show on TotalFM. More about radio presenting on the Blog Page.
Regular chats with Steve and Marsha in California is now the norm even though they are nine hours behind us. There´s always so much to say.
Margaret was busy with her projects (see the Artwork Page) and I kept myself amused doing my 45-minute paintings. If they are half reasonable they go in the lounge, if not they are relegated to the downstairs studio.
August 6 saw Victor as my guest on The Lock Down Blues Show. It was interesting to hear about his early days in Puerto Rico and his dad, who is 100. This was, of course, before the island was devastated by a natural disaster.
Hilary, Lauren and Charlie visited from Northumberland towards the end of August. The weather was on its best behavior and they had a great time.
We enjoyed lovely BBQs and great meals out at Guantanamera and Tapes. Our local La Xara fiesta week was the usual mix of dressing up, music, fireworks and carnival floats. The Spanish people really know how to enjoy themselves. We are slowly integrating ourselves into village life, which is great.
Early in September we visited IVO (Institute of Valencian Oncology) for my six-monthly checkup. All was good.
Around this time Margaret started to be in regular contact with Avonia, a friend she had lost contact with over 40 years ago. Avonia sent a picture of Margaret when she was 11. Wonderful. We met her later in the year and she is a lovely lady. So much to talk about.
As we moved into autumn the weather continued to be excellent and we enjoyed our regular visits to the gym for workouts and yoga.
One of the guests on my show was Jenny Morrison, an incredibly talented artist and life-long Buddhist. We visited her house, met husband Willi and saw her collection of paintings. We also discussed Buddhism which has reawakened my interest in the subject.
As we moved into October, excitement was starting to surface about our trip to Washington DC in November. October also saw me approaching my last radio show. Boo hoo.
We are in our second year of living in this beautiful house in La Xara and the more time that passes the more we love it. The cobbled streets and the sense of history which surrounds the place never ceases to amaze me. As I come to the end of the process of preparing my second novel, Unlock These Hands, for publication, I´m looking around for the next project(s). One will definitely be to work on my guitar playing. Maybe another writing project, who knows.
Towards the end of October we had dinner with Chris and Wendy Williams, Mr & Mrs TotalFM as I liked to call them. Shortly after, they moved back to the UK and TotalFM was no more. Chris mentioned that he was hoping to start an internet radio station in the future and would I be interested in presenting a show from home. Yes indeedee. I hope we get to see them in 2018.
Halloween saw us virtually overrun by local kids and they particularly developed a liking for my stash of flying saucer sweets. A lovely evening.
November arrived and we were hyped up about our impending trip to Washington. On 17 November we travelled from Alicante to Manchester and spent a lovely afternoon meeting up with Margaret´s friend Avonia. We had afternoon tea in Selfridges and three hours flew by. Hope to see her in 2018.
The following day we travelled to Heathrow and then it was business class all the way to Washington DC and the Hyatt Hotel on capital Hill. During the first week we visited nearly all of the museums and tourist attractions. The following Monday Steve and Marsha arrived from California. We visited the White House and, in particular, The Phillips Collection which houses many Renoir originals. It was stunning, almost overpowering.
We experienced our first Thanksgiving dinner, celebrated our 31st wedding anniversary and saw Squeeze at the 9.30 club. The Americans take customer service to the next level. Our hotel was superb and certainly ticked all the boxes. We arrived back in Spain on 4 December.
The evening of 9 December saw us, with Victor and Bettina, in Altea, at the auditorium, to see Carmen. Great dancing.
From 15-18 December we were in Ashington, Northumberland as the guests of Hilary. Our surprise
Christmas present, which we had on the Saturday, was a tour of Newcastle United´s stadium. St James Park. It was a great couple of hours and it´s easy to see why football is a multi-million pound concern. We had a great weekend and arrived home on the Monday afternoon.
Christmas Eve saw us with Victor and Bettina at the Guantanamera Cuban restaurant. Great food and entertainment. We enjoyed a quiet Christmas day, feet up.
On 30 December we enjoyed the Don Quixote ballet at the Teulada auditorium, with David and Eileen. We ended the year at Victor and Bettina´s for dinner and then off to the beach to see the new year in by letting off fireworks!
The pic below is the moment Margaret met Avonia for the first time in 40 years. Magic
Please share the website with friends and give me your opinions on the content, using the Contact page. No swear words, please!
16 July 2017
The weather over the past month has been exceptionally hot, even by Spanish standards. The trick has been to know when to expend energy and when to rest. I took this picture a few minutes ago.
In this post you´ll read more about my time at Winson Green Prison in Birmingham, UK. New Blog, news about Unlock These Hands, Pics & Poems, Artwork, Curios and the goings on at The Grove Tavern.
It´s always good to get feedback so put fingers to keys and let me know what you think.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
I soon settled in to the duties of a junior governor at Winson Green Prison in Birmingham. The place dated back to Victorian times and frequently held more prisoners than it was certified to.
My principle area of responsibility was the Healthcare Centre. As I mentioned earlier, I was fortunate to have John Malpas working with me. Also on the healthcare staff was senior officer Alex Smail. I had worked with Alex when we were both officers at the Verne Prison in Dorset. In fact, we had done our healthcare officer training together at Parkhurst Prison in 1976. He´s a nice guy and a safe pair of hands.
I was about to tell you about how John and I developed what became known as The Birmingham Roadshow, but I´ll save that for next time. Instead, I´ll tell you about an incident I was involved in.
Once again, I was duty governor. The day had been pretty uneventful until just after tea time. I received a message to go to the Centre. Winson Green is a radial- style prison, The wings are like the spokes of a wheel, where they meet is known as the Centre. Technically, the prison is controlled from the Centre.
When I arrived at the Centre, the duty principal officer told me that information had been passed to staff that a suspect package was being hidden in a cell on the fourth floor (landing) of one of the wings. He advised me that we should stop all movement of prisoners and search for the package. I agreed and gave the order. The prisoners remained in their cells and were surprisingly quiet. They knew that something was up.
Before we started the search on a number of targeted cells, I was advised that two of the dog handlers on duty had animals that were trained to detect explosives. I ordered that they be involved in the search.
It was quiet when the search teams, dog handlers and me went up on the landing to begin the search. As we were about to start, one of the handlers approached me and said that his dog´s training certificate had expired and what should he do. I responded that if he didn´t tell the dog, I wouldn´t, and that he should carry on as normal. He stomped off and the search was successfully completed. I thought no more of it.
The following morning I was called up to the senior governor´s office to be told that a complaint had been made against me. The dog handler, from the previous evening, had complained that I had been sarcastic to him and his dog!
I won´t repeat what my response was.
More next time....
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
The weather over the past month has been exceptionally hot, even by Spanish standards. The trick has been to know when to expend energy and when to rest. I took this picture a few minutes ago.
In this post you´ll read more about my time at Winson Green Prison in Birmingham, UK. New Blog, news about Unlock These Hands, Pics & Poems, Artwork, Curios and the goings on at The Grove Tavern.
It´s always good to get feedback so put fingers to keys and let me know what you think.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
I soon settled in to the duties of a junior governor at Winson Green Prison in Birmingham. The place dated back to Victorian times and frequently held more prisoners than it was certified to.
My principle area of responsibility was the Healthcare Centre. As I mentioned earlier, I was fortunate to have John Malpas working with me. Also on the healthcare staff was senior officer Alex Smail. I had worked with Alex when we were both officers at the Verne Prison in Dorset. In fact, we had done our healthcare officer training together at Parkhurst Prison in 1976. He´s a nice guy and a safe pair of hands.
I was about to tell you about how John and I developed what became known as The Birmingham Roadshow, but I´ll save that for next time. Instead, I´ll tell you about an incident I was involved in.
Once again, I was duty governor. The day had been pretty uneventful until just after tea time. I received a message to go to the Centre. Winson Green is a radial- style prison, The wings are like the spokes of a wheel, where they meet is known as the Centre. Technically, the prison is controlled from the Centre.
When I arrived at the Centre, the duty principal officer told me that information had been passed to staff that a suspect package was being hidden in a cell on the fourth floor (landing) of one of the wings. He advised me that we should stop all movement of prisoners and search for the package. I agreed and gave the order. The prisoners remained in their cells and were surprisingly quiet. They knew that something was up.
Before we started the search on a number of targeted cells, I was advised that two of the dog handlers on duty had animals that were trained to detect explosives. I ordered that they be involved in the search.
It was quiet when the search teams, dog handlers and me went up on the landing to begin the search. As we were about to start, one of the handlers approached me and said that his dog´s training certificate had expired and what should he do. I responded that if he didn´t tell the dog, I wouldn´t, and that he should carry on as normal. He stomped off and the search was successfully completed. I thought no more of it.
The following morning I was called up to the senior governor´s office to be told that a complaint had been made against me. The dog handler, from the previous evening, had complained that I had been sarcastic to him and his dog!
I won´t repeat what my response was.
More next time....
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
14 June 2017
Since my last website post so much has happened. The two terror atrocities, in Manchester and London, produced an outpouring of national pride which effectively told the people who would seek to destroy us to´fuck off and die`.
We then had to sit through a general election, in the UK, which would have done justice to a Brian Rix farce. As I´m writing, we are awaiting the outcome of a government deal which has the very real potential to wreck the fragile peace in Northern Ireland.
In this post there is more about my career in the UK Prison Service, a new Blog, news about my next book Unlock These Hands, two new Pics & Poems and more Artwork and Curios.
I´m replacing the Short Stories page with a new feature, The Grove Tavern. In the first installment I will be introducing The Grove Tavern, the owner, the bar maid, some of the regulars and, of course, her indoors. Each new installment will tell you about the goings-on in and around this South London boozer.
The weather, here on the Costa Blanca has settled down to the expected wall-to-wall sunshine. As I´m writing, the temperature is 29C. Some of the Ex-Pats who live in this beautiful country seem to be making a lifetimes hobby of moaning about everything from the shop opening hours to having to wait to have their cars ITV´d. The solution is to go back to the UK where everything works. Really!!!
If you have a spare minute or two, use the Contact page to let me know what you think of the website. All comments are welcome.
Since my last website post so much has happened. The two terror atrocities, in Manchester and London, produced an outpouring of national pride which effectively told the people who would seek to destroy us to´fuck off and die`.
We then had to sit through a general election, in the UK, which would have done justice to a Brian Rix farce. As I´m writing, we are awaiting the outcome of a government deal which has the very real potential to wreck the fragile peace in Northern Ireland.
In this post there is more about my career in the UK Prison Service, a new Blog, news about my next book Unlock These Hands, two new Pics & Poems and more Artwork and Curios.
I´m replacing the Short Stories page with a new feature, The Grove Tavern. In the first installment I will be introducing The Grove Tavern, the owner, the bar maid, some of the regulars and, of course, her indoors. Each new installment will tell you about the goings-on in and around this South London boozer.
The weather, here on the Costa Blanca has settled down to the expected wall-to-wall sunshine. As I´m writing, the temperature is 29C. Some of the Ex-Pats who live in this beautiful country seem to be making a lifetimes hobby of moaning about everything from the shop opening hours to having to wait to have their cars ITV´d. The solution is to go back to the UK where everything works. Really!!!
If you have a spare minute or two, use the Contact page to let me know what you think of the website. All comments are welcome.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
I´m a recently-promoted junior governor at HM Prison Birmingham, two weeks into my new role.
It´s my first stint as duty governor, I´m tired and I have to make a very important decision. Its 6.30 in the evening and all my colleagues have gone off duty. Shit,
A solicitor had arrived at the Main Gate requesting to see the person in charge of the prison. Me. I made my way to the Gatelodge and met a smartly dressed man who showed the correct identification. He politely informed me that his client was being held illegally and should be released immediately. What was I going to do.
I informed him that I would return to my office and give him an answer within the hour. He seemed satisfied. Took a seat and started to read the stack of legal papers he´d brought with him.
I knew that there was a formula for calculating when a sentenced prisoner should be released but I didn´t know what it was. Fortunately, I was walking through the Administration Department wondering what the hell I was going to do when I saw a young lady beavering away at a pile of prison records.
After I introduced myself I asked if she had any idea how to check if we were, in fact, holding a prisoner illegally. It turned out that, praise the Lord, she was one of the Administration staff who did the calculations when sentenced prisoners arrived at Birmingham Prison. She smiled when I admitted that I didn´t have a clue
She found the prisoners record and checked the calculation. She then checked it again. The solicitor was correct. Fortunately, she wasn´t the person who had done the original calculation. After thanking her profusely I sauntered over to the Gatelodge and informed the solicitor that his client would be released within the hour. He thanked me and, smiling, said that it was nice to meet a governor who actually knew what he was doing. I knew that he was being sarcastic but I shook his hand and arranged for the prisoner to be released.
Some six months later I was selected to attend a course at the Prison Service college Newbold Revel, near Rugby in Warwickshire. The course was sentence calculation and the person in charge was the lady who had been so helpful during my first day as duty governor. She was a great tutor but I came away from Newbold Revel none the wiser. Sentence calculation was definitely NOT my forte.
Next time I´ll tell how John Malpas and I came up with the Birmingham Road Show.
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
I´m a recently-promoted junior governor at HM Prison Birmingham, two weeks into my new role.
It´s my first stint as duty governor, I´m tired and I have to make a very important decision. Its 6.30 in the evening and all my colleagues have gone off duty. Shit,
A solicitor had arrived at the Main Gate requesting to see the person in charge of the prison. Me. I made my way to the Gatelodge and met a smartly dressed man who showed the correct identification. He politely informed me that his client was being held illegally and should be released immediately. What was I going to do.
I informed him that I would return to my office and give him an answer within the hour. He seemed satisfied. Took a seat and started to read the stack of legal papers he´d brought with him.
I knew that there was a formula for calculating when a sentenced prisoner should be released but I didn´t know what it was. Fortunately, I was walking through the Administration Department wondering what the hell I was going to do when I saw a young lady beavering away at a pile of prison records.
After I introduced myself I asked if she had any idea how to check if we were, in fact, holding a prisoner illegally. It turned out that, praise the Lord, she was one of the Administration staff who did the calculations when sentenced prisoners arrived at Birmingham Prison. She smiled when I admitted that I didn´t have a clue
She found the prisoners record and checked the calculation. She then checked it again. The solicitor was correct. Fortunately, she wasn´t the person who had done the original calculation. After thanking her profusely I sauntered over to the Gatelodge and informed the solicitor that his client would be released within the hour. He thanked me and, smiling, said that it was nice to meet a governor who actually knew what he was doing. I knew that he was being sarcastic but I shook his hand and arranged for the prisoner to be released.
Some six months later I was selected to attend a course at the Prison Service college Newbold Revel, near Rugby in Warwickshire. The course was sentence calculation and the person in charge was the lady who had been so helpful during my first day as duty governor. She was a great tutor but I came away from Newbold Revel none the wiser. Sentence calculation was definitely NOT my forte.
Next time I´ll tell how John Malpas and I came up with the Birmingham Road Show.
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
11 May 2017
I´ve just got back from Alicante Airport after watching Margaret leave for a weekend in the UK visiting her mum. Boo hoo.....
In this post I´ll be telling you about my early days as a junior governor in the UK Prison Service. The Blog page will be full of our adventures in San Francisco and other news, an update on the progress with Unlock These Hands, a new Poem and Pics, Short Story and some more Artwork and Curios to keep you entertained.
I´ve just got back from Alicante Airport after watching Margaret leave for a weekend in the UK visiting her mum. Boo hoo.....
In this post I´ll be telling you about my early days as a junior governor in the UK Prison Service. The Blog page will be full of our adventures in San Francisco and other news, an update on the progress with Unlock These Hands, a new Poem and Pics, Short Story and some more Artwork and Curios to keep you entertained.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
Promotion to Governor 5 in HM Prison Service was a massive career step for me. From being a principal officer in uniform to a junior governor in a suit was quite something. My posting was to HM Prison Birmingham, commonly known as Winson Green. I was the governor in charge of the healthcare centre. The prison is located in the Handsworth area of Birmingham City.
When I passed the selection board we had to decide if it was worth moving house from the beautiful village of Great Glen, on the outskirts of Leicester, to be near my new posting in the middle of Birmingham. It wasn´t, so I settled for the round journey of a 101mile drive each day. It didn´t seem like much of a drive until you factor in the M6 motorway.
To avoid the massive traffic jams which occurred near Junction 6 of the M6 (Spaghetti Junction), it meant leaving home by 06.00 at the latest each morning. Coming home had similar problems. If I wasn´t clear of Spaghetti junction by 17.00 in the afternoon then I could expect to be stuck in traffic for hours.
Apart from the promotion, the best aspect of being at Winson Green was that I would be working, again, with my friend John Malpas. We were previously together at Glen Parva Young Offenders Institution. John´s abilities as a prison office and his qualities as a man were second to none. John was one of the two principal officers in the healthcare centre.
Being pitched into a large, local prison is not the easiest of challenges but John certainly helped me in so many ways. More about John as this tale progresses. I also met the senior doctor, the Reverend Dr John Hall. Outspoken, and a rascal, we developed a respect and friendship which has lasted until the present day.
My first week as a junior governor was mostly spent on induction. Winson Green is a massive Victorian structure which takes some getting used to. I found the staff, by and large, to be a good bunch of people. There were some idiots and management haters, a situation in all prisons. Part of the induction programme was to learn about being ´duty governor`. This roll involved being in operational charge of the daily running of the prison for a 24 hour period about four times a month. It involves carrying a UHF radio with the call sign Victor One.
I´d worked as duty governor alongside one of the experienced guys during the induction week. Nothing much happened of any consequence. I took over as duty governor after the nine o´clock operation meeting in the morning. I carried the radio until I went off duty at nine o´clock in the evening after which I would was on call by telephone at home. I continued the duty from unlock at 07.45 the following morning until the meeting at 09.00 when I handed it over to the next person.
I flew solo as duty governor on the Tuesday of my second week.
The day progressed reasonably well. I responded to three alarm bells where prisoners were fighting and watched as they were located in the segregation unit. Everything went well until about 18.30 in the evening. I was walking around the prison talking to the staff when a message came over the radio asking for Victor One to go to the Gatelodge (main gate). I acknowledged the message and walked over to the gate. Waiting for me was a smartly dressed man with a stack of papers under his arm. He introduced himself and showed me identification to prove that he was a partner in a Birmingham law firm. He politely informed me that his client was being held unlawfully in Winson Green and that the man must be released immediately. What was I going to do...............
More next time.
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Promotion to Governor 5 in HM Prison Service was a massive career step for me. From being a principal officer in uniform to a junior governor in a suit was quite something. My posting was to HM Prison Birmingham, commonly known as Winson Green. I was the governor in charge of the healthcare centre. The prison is located in the Handsworth area of Birmingham City.
When I passed the selection board we had to decide if it was worth moving house from the beautiful village of Great Glen, on the outskirts of Leicester, to be near my new posting in the middle of Birmingham. It wasn´t, so I settled for the round journey of a 101mile drive each day. It didn´t seem like much of a drive until you factor in the M6 motorway.
To avoid the massive traffic jams which occurred near Junction 6 of the M6 (Spaghetti Junction), it meant leaving home by 06.00 at the latest each morning. Coming home had similar problems. If I wasn´t clear of Spaghetti junction by 17.00 in the afternoon then I could expect to be stuck in traffic for hours.
Apart from the promotion, the best aspect of being at Winson Green was that I would be working, again, with my friend John Malpas. We were previously together at Glen Parva Young Offenders Institution. John´s abilities as a prison office and his qualities as a man were second to none. John was one of the two principal officers in the healthcare centre.
Being pitched into a large, local prison is not the easiest of challenges but John certainly helped me in so many ways. More about John as this tale progresses. I also met the senior doctor, the Reverend Dr John Hall. Outspoken, and a rascal, we developed a respect and friendship which has lasted until the present day.
My first week as a junior governor was mostly spent on induction. Winson Green is a massive Victorian structure which takes some getting used to. I found the staff, by and large, to be a good bunch of people. There were some idiots and management haters, a situation in all prisons. Part of the induction programme was to learn about being ´duty governor`. This roll involved being in operational charge of the daily running of the prison for a 24 hour period about four times a month. It involves carrying a UHF radio with the call sign Victor One.
I´d worked as duty governor alongside one of the experienced guys during the induction week. Nothing much happened of any consequence. I took over as duty governor after the nine o´clock operation meeting in the morning. I carried the radio until I went off duty at nine o´clock in the evening after which I would was on call by telephone at home. I continued the duty from unlock at 07.45 the following morning until the meeting at 09.00 when I handed it over to the next person.
I flew solo as duty governor on the Tuesday of my second week.
The day progressed reasonably well. I responded to three alarm bells where prisoners were fighting and watched as they were located in the segregation unit. Everything went well until about 18.30 in the evening. I was walking around the prison talking to the staff when a message came over the radio asking for Victor One to go to the Gatelodge (main gate). I acknowledged the message and walked over to the gate. Waiting for me was a smartly dressed man with a stack of papers under his arm. He introduced himself and showed me identification to prove that he was a partner in a Birmingham law firm. He politely informed me that his client was being held unlawfully in Winson Green and that the man must be released immediately. What was I going to do...............
More next time.
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
26 March 2017
This is my first new post since January so there is much to tell. The picture on the left was taken following the terrorist attack in London on Wednesday 22 March. We were shocked and appalled at the callous disregard for life that afternoon. We were also humbled by the bravery and compassion shown by all who reacted to the incident. It would now be good if the finger pointers who always seem to emerge and want to apportion blame, crawl back under their stones.
As well as more about my time in HM Prison Service there is a busy new Blog, a progress report on my next novel Unlock These Hands, some Poetry & Pics, a new Short Story and a new page called Artwork.
This is my first new post since January so there is much to tell. The picture on the left was taken following the terrorist attack in London on Wednesday 22 March. We were shocked and appalled at the callous disregard for life that afternoon. We were also humbled by the bravery and compassion shown by all who reacted to the incident. It would now be good if the finger pointers who always seem to emerge and want to apportion blame, crawl back under their stones.
As well as more about my time in HM Prison Service there is a busy new Blog, a progress report on my next novel Unlock These Hands, some Poetry & Pics, a new Short Story and a new page called Artwork.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It´s 1990 and I´m the principal officer in charge of the healthcare centre at HM Prison Gartree in Leicestershire. Gartree has a checkered history, from riots to the infamous helicopter escape. For many years it was used as a dumping ground for prisoners who were causing significant problems in prisons across the country.
I had a senior healthcare officer and ten officers on my team. We provided 24 hour medical cover which included having prisoners as inpatients for a variety of problems. The members of my team ranged from the brilliant to the quirky but all deserved bravery awards because Gartree was a dangerous place on almost a daily basis.
When violence erupted it was vicious and, sometimes, deadly. Sugar mixed with boiling water was a regular weapon used against staff. Early one Sunday morning we were called to one of the wings where an officer was being comforted by staff. He had a plastic knife embedded in his neck. When asked why he had done it, the life sentence prisoner replied that he had nothing against the officer, he just wanted to see if the plastic knife would break. It didn´t. Fortunately, the officer recovered but was off work for a long time. They couldn´t do much to the lifer but, hopefully, the bastard dies in prison.
Humour was a great tension reliever and I was reminded, recently, of one such incident.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and we had the patients out on the fenced-in exercise yard. A couple of the patients and a member of staff, Phil, were kicking a football about. I´d been catching up on some paper work and decided that the afternoon was too nice to be inside so I decided to see what was happening on the yard. As I stepped out on to the yard I was struck squarely in the face by the football, kicked by a smiling Phil. After stumbling backwards and straightening my glasses, I turned and retreated back indoors. Revenge was all I could think about.
A couple of minutes later I returned to the yard. As a still smiling Phil was demonstrating some nifty footwork with the ball, I threw a cast iron mop bucket which hit him on the leg with a satisfying clunk. He fell to the ground and did a passable imitation of a dying swan. His ankle swelled with a nice egg-shaped lump to remind him not to fuck with the principal officer. He limped off duty at tea time and I thought no more about it.
The following morning, just before 07.30, I arrived in the healthcare centre as the main office phone was ringing. I picked up the receiver to hear Phil´s wife Hazel tell me that he was in Leicester Royal Infirmary with a broken leg as the result of my mop bucket throwing prowess.
After apologising profusely I put the phone down and thought ´now what the fuck do I do?` I was deep in thought when the office door flew open to reveal a smiling Phil and the rest of the morning crew. I´d been well and truly had. I´m sure that Phil will let me know if I´ve missed out any important bits!
Early in 1993 I moved to Birmingham Prison as a junior governor grade, with a whole set of new challenges to face.
More next time....................
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
It´s 1990 and I´m the principal officer in charge of the healthcare centre at HM Prison Gartree in Leicestershire. Gartree has a checkered history, from riots to the infamous helicopter escape. For many years it was used as a dumping ground for prisoners who were causing significant problems in prisons across the country.
I had a senior healthcare officer and ten officers on my team. We provided 24 hour medical cover which included having prisoners as inpatients for a variety of problems. The members of my team ranged from the brilliant to the quirky but all deserved bravery awards because Gartree was a dangerous place on almost a daily basis.
When violence erupted it was vicious and, sometimes, deadly. Sugar mixed with boiling water was a regular weapon used against staff. Early one Sunday morning we were called to one of the wings where an officer was being comforted by staff. He had a plastic knife embedded in his neck. When asked why he had done it, the life sentence prisoner replied that he had nothing against the officer, he just wanted to see if the plastic knife would break. It didn´t. Fortunately, the officer recovered but was off work for a long time. They couldn´t do much to the lifer but, hopefully, the bastard dies in prison.
Humour was a great tension reliever and I was reminded, recently, of one such incident.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and we had the patients out on the fenced-in exercise yard. A couple of the patients and a member of staff, Phil, were kicking a football about. I´d been catching up on some paper work and decided that the afternoon was too nice to be inside so I decided to see what was happening on the yard. As I stepped out on to the yard I was struck squarely in the face by the football, kicked by a smiling Phil. After stumbling backwards and straightening my glasses, I turned and retreated back indoors. Revenge was all I could think about.
A couple of minutes later I returned to the yard. As a still smiling Phil was demonstrating some nifty footwork with the ball, I threw a cast iron mop bucket which hit him on the leg with a satisfying clunk. He fell to the ground and did a passable imitation of a dying swan. His ankle swelled with a nice egg-shaped lump to remind him not to fuck with the principal officer. He limped off duty at tea time and I thought no more about it.
The following morning, just before 07.30, I arrived in the healthcare centre as the main office phone was ringing. I picked up the receiver to hear Phil´s wife Hazel tell me that he was in Leicester Royal Infirmary with a broken leg as the result of my mop bucket throwing prowess.
After apologising profusely I put the phone down and thought ´now what the fuck do I do?` I was deep in thought when the office door flew open to reveal a smiling Phil and the rest of the morning crew. I´d been well and truly had. I´m sure that Phil will let me know if I´ve missed out any important bits!
Early in 1993 I moved to Birmingham Prison as a junior governor grade, with a whole set of new challenges to face.
More next time....................
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
6 January 2017 (Thanks Dave)
In this post I hope to capture what a year of massive highs and lows 2016 has been for us. Also there will be the next installment of my time in HM Prison Service. The Blog page is devoted to a roundup of 2016 and up to where we are now. The Lock Down Blues page will bring you up to date on progress with the sequel ´Unlock These Hands`. The Poetry & Pics page will give you a bit of old and a bit of new. On the Short Story page I´m looking back 13 years to how the title Lock Down Blues came into being.
New Years Day saw me welcome in 2017 with my Lock Down Blues radio show on TotalFM 91.8. I played my usual eclectic mix of blues, rock, folk and jazz with one or two surprises thrown in.
My second show is on Sunday 8 January from 4-7 (Spanish time). My special guest will be Nicola Bates, who will talking about her passion for yoga and life. If you are not listening in Spain, find us by using the Tunein app. Happy to play your requests and greetings. Contact me by using the Contact page on this website or on Facebook. I´m looking forward to hearing from you. I´ll be posting my future show dates in the next couple of weeks. Finally, I´ll take this opportunity to wish you all a happy, peaceful and prosperous 2017.
In this post I hope to capture what a year of massive highs and lows 2016 has been for us. Also there will be the next installment of my time in HM Prison Service. The Blog page is devoted to a roundup of 2016 and up to where we are now. The Lock Down Blues page will bring you up to date on progress with the sequel ´Unlock These Hands`. The Poetry & Pics page will give you a bit of old and a bit of new. On the Short Story page I´m looking back 13 years to how the title Lock Down Blues came into being.
New Years Day saw me welcome in 2017 with my Lock Down Blues radio show on TotalFM 91.8. I played my usual eclectic mix of blues, rock, folk and jazz with one or two surprises thrown in.
My second show is on Sunday 8 January from 4-7 (Spanish time). My special guest will be Nicola Bates, who will talking about her passion for yoga and life. If you are not listening in Spain, find us by using the Tunein app. Happy to play your requests and greetings. Contact me by using the Contact page on this website or on Facebook. I´m looking forward to hearing from you. I´ll be posting my future show dates in the next couple of weeks. Finally, I´ll take this opportunity to wish you all a happy, peaceful and prosperous 2017.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It´s March 1989 and I´ve just been promoted to Hospital Principal Officer and posted to HM Young Offender Institute & Remand Centre Glen Parva, situated on the outskirts of Leicester. The journey from South Witham was at least an hour each way, too much after a 12 hour working day.
One early morning, I was driving through the picturesque village of Great Glen when I decided to spend a few minutes checking out the place. I drove along Stackley Road and saw a FOR SALE sign in the garden of a bungalow. The place looked interesting so I wrote down the number of the estate agents and carried on to work. A few days later we had a viewing and decided it was for us.
My work in Parva was to manage the day-to-day operation of the Hospital. The one major complication was that I was sharing the work with another Hospital principal Officer. I´d known him for many years and he was a kind and caring individual. Unfortunately, some of the staff took this as a weakness and treated him as a fool. Very soon, I was crossing swords with a number of these individuals. At this point my opposite number, I´ll call him Mal, seemed to retreat into our shared office to avoid the storm that was brewing. After about six months I´d managed to impose some semblance of order, one of the outcomes being that two members of staff reverted to become discipline officers. They were absolutely no loss, and the large staff seemed to settle down and do the jobs they were being paid for. The one event that I will always be grateful to Parva for was that it gave me the opportunity to meet Hospital Senior Officer John Malpas. John was a fine officer and one of the nicest people I´ve met. I´m proud to call John a friend and we are still in touch 27 years later.
By this time Mal was ´rested`and decided that he wanted to get involved again. Very soon it became apparent that his involvement consisted of trying to return the regime in the Hospital to one that suited the staff. The Medical Officers (doctors) were good at their profession but absolutely useless at managing people. The situation came to a head in 1990, just after the riots which were started at Strangeways prison in Manchester. Parva had experienced it´s own disturbance, involving one of the houseblocks. I had returned from one weeks annual leave to find that Mal had changed various aspects of the working practices, much to the delight of some of the more militant staff.
We had a frank exchange of views which included me threatening to rearrange his face. At the end of a tense week I decided that I was on a loser so I started to look around for a new challenge. As luck would have it, I received a call from a friend at HQ telling me that the Hospital Principal Officer at Gartree Prison was about to retire. Gartree was a dispersal prison situated on the outskirts of Market Harborough, a 40 minute drive from Great Glen.
Gartree had a reputation across the Service as the place to send prisoners who were becoming control problems elsewhere. The reputation was correct in every sense. I went for a look around and liked what I saw. The Hospital was a small unit with special facilities and a staff of 12. Without telling Mal, I applied for the post which was coming vacant in the August, and was accepted. A number of people I knew across the Service were of the opinion that I need my head testing.
When I told Mal what was happening he was upset, saying that if I changed my mind he would let me have a completely free hand with no interference. I told him to go fuck himself. That was that. I started at Gartree in the August and the place certainly lived up to its reputation.
More next time.......
It´s March 1989 and I´ve just been promoted to Hospital Principal Officer and posted to HM Young Offender Institute & Remand Centre Glen Parva, situated on the outskirts of Leicester. The journey from South Witham was at least an hour each way, too much after a 12 hour working day.
One early morning, I was driving through the picturesque village of Great Glen when I decided to spend a few minutes checking out the place. I drove along Stackley Road and saw a FOR SALE sign in the garden of a bungalow. The place looked interesting so I wrote down the number of the estate agents and carried on to work. A few days later we had a viewing and decided it was for us.
My work in Parva was to manage the day-to-day operation of the Hospital. The one major complication was that I was sharing the work with another Hospital principal Officer. I´d known him for many years and he was a kind and caring individual. Unfortunately, some of the staff took this as a weakness and treated him as a fool. Very soon, I was crossing swords with a number of these individuals. At this point my opposite number, I´ll call him Mal, seemed to retreat into our shared office to avoid the storm that was brewing. After about six months I´d managed to impose some semblance of order, one of the outcomes being that two members of staff reverted to become discipline officers. They were absolutely no loss, and the large staff seemed to settle down and do the jobs they were being paid for. The one event that I will always be grateful to Parva for was that it gave me the opportunity to meet Hospital Senior Officer John Malpas. John was a fine officer and one of the nicest people I´ve met. I´m proud to call John a friend and we are still in touch 27 years later.
By this time Mal was ´rested`and decided that he wanted to get involved again. Very soon it became apparent that his involvement consisted of trying to return the regime in the Hospital to one that suited the staff. The Medical Officers (doctors) were good at their profession but absolutely useless at managing people. The situation came to a head in 1990, just after the riots which were started at Strangeways prison in Manchester. Parva had experienced it´s own disturbance, involving one of the houseblocks. I had returned from one weeks annual leave to find that Mal had changed various aspects of the working practices, much to the delight of some of the more militant staff.
We had a frank exchange of views which included me threatening to rearrange his face. At the end of a tense week I decided that I was on a loser so I started to look around for a new challenge. As luck would have it, I received a call from a friend at HQ telling me that the Hospital Principal Officer at Gartree Prison was about to retire. Gartree was a dispersal prison situated on the outskirts of Market Harborough, a 40 minute drive from Great Glen.
Gartree had a reputation across the Service as the place to send prisoners who were becoming control problems elsewhere. The reputation was correct in every sense. I went for a look around and liked what I saw. The Hospital was a small unit with special facilities and a staff of 12. Without telling Mal, I applied for the post which was coming vacant in the August, and was accepted. A number of people I knew across the Service were of the opinion that I need my head testing.
When I told Mal what was happening he was upset, saying that if I changed my mind he would let me have a completely free hand with no interference. I told him to go fuck himself. That was that. I started at Gartree in the August and the place certainly lived up to its reputation.
More next time.......
11 November 2016
As I´m writing this post it´s time to reflect on the biggest upset in American political history. The similarities to Brexit are alarming. Our American friends are upset and overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation. I hope God helps the USA because he certainly passed the UK by.
Today you will read more about my escapades in HM Prison Service, a new Blog, Pics and Poems and an excerpt from Unlock These Hands as the Short Story.
Margaret and I are busy preparing for our trip to Japan. All the travel arrangements are in place plus our Japan travel passes which allow us unlimited use of the transport system for seven days. All we are waiting for, now, is our Yen. Our bank had one go at ordering the money but only achieved two out of ten for effort. I´m happy to report that Alexis gets a ten out of ten.
I mentioned, in my September post, that I was working on additional material for my new novel Unlock These Hands. I met the deadline of the end of October, by three days. I included a Glossary of Terms with the additional material, as a number of you said that it would be useful. Let´s hope that the publishers feel the same. More news as it happens.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It´s July 1985 and I´m Senior Officer in charge of the Hospital in HM Prison Stocken. After being told that the equipment was too good to be wasted on prisoners, we got on with the job and the prison was soon up to it´s operating capacity. Initially, all was well. There was always two of us on duty during the day (main shift) with one on evening duty. I´d agreed to respond to any overnight medical problems in the prison so all bases were covered.
When prisoners wanted to see a doctor they would report sick to one of the Wing staff, who would then pass the names on to us. This is called the sick parade. They would be escorted to the Hospital and wait to see the doctor. At first, the sick parades were big because they thought that Dr Margaret would be a soft touch, a pushover. Wrong.
Dr Margaret did have to get used to having one of us in with her when she saw a prisoner. This was obviously contrary to anything she was used to in her Practice. She constantly railed against it until, two weeks after we opened, a prisoner decided that he would have some fun and tried to kiss her. I knocked him off her and she never complained again. She was a great doctor, something I wasn´t always used to.
As winter closed in it became apparent that my three Hospital Officers were not a team made in heaven. One started to develop paranoia which would eventually lead to him be sectioned under the Mental Health Act 1983. He never did return to work. The second, a lovely man but one who needed a drink to function, suffered a heart attack. He never returned to work.
By the Spring of 1986, there was just the two of us covering the shifts of four. For the next 12 months we were given some help from Headquarters, but not much. We were working 70 hour weeks and the overtime, initially good, became a problem.
That problem was resolved, but not to our satisfaction, in 1987 when Fresh Start was imposed on us. Basically, it meant that we would be paid to work an average of 39 hours a week with any extra time worked credited as Time Off In Lieu (TOIL). For the majority of staff in Stocken, although not welcome, it seemed to work. For the two of us in the Hospital it meant that we were still working excessive hours but now not getting paid for them. Early in 1988, we were given some relief when a Hospital Officer was drafted in on permanent transfer. Unfortunately, he was about as much use as a chocolate fireguard.
I was proud, and still am, of the Hospital I developed at Stocken. Although we bitched about the excessive hours we had to work, we got on with it and not one sick day was taken. Margaret was working as a Ward Sister at Grantham & Kesteven Hospital and, when time allowed, we managed to improve our lovely little cottage.
At the end of 1988 I attended a promotion board and, in March of 1989, was posted to HM Young Offender Institute Glen Parva as Hospital Principal Officer. I took four weeks off, using TOIL hours, before I started work at Glen Parva. I gave back hundreds of TOIL hours that I would never be able to use.
Glen Parva was situated on the edge of Leicester city and the journey was at least an hour each way.
We soon realized that we would have to sell our cottage and move closer to Leicester.
More next time...........
As I´m writing this post it´s time to reflect on the biggest upset in American political history. The similarities to Brexit are alarming. Our American friends are upset and overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation. I hope God helps the USA because he certainly passed the UK by.
Today you will read more about my escapades in HM Prison Service, a new Blog, Pics and Poems and an excerpt from Unlock These Hands as the Short Story.
Margaret and I are busy preparing for our trip to Japan. All the travel arrangements are in place plus our Japan travel passes which allow us unlimited use of the transport system for seven days. All we are waiting for, now, is our Yen. Our bank had one go at ordering the money but only achieved two out of ten for effort. I´m happy to report that Alexis gets a ten out of ten.
I mentioned, in my September post, that I was working on additional material for my new novel Unlock These Hands. I met the deadline of the end of October, by three days. I included a Glossary of Terms with the additional material, as a number of you said that it would be useful. Let´s hope that the publishers feel the same. More news as it happens.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It´s July 1985 and I´m Senior Officer in charge of the Hospital in HM Prison Stocken. After being told that the equipment was too good to be wasted on prisoners, we got on with the job and the prison was soon up to it´s operating capacity. Initially, all was well. There was always two of us on duty during the day (main shift) with one on evening duty. I´d agreed to respond to any overnight medical problems in the prison so all bases were covered.
When prisoners wanted to see a doctor they would report sick to one of the Wing staff, who would then pass the names on to us. This is called the sick parade. They would be escorted to the Hospital and wait to see the doctor. At first, the sick parades were big because they thought that Dr Margaret would be a soft touch, a pushover. Wrong.
Dr Margaret did have to get used to having one of us in with her when she saw a prisoner. This was obviously contrary to anything she was used to in her Practice. She constantly railed against it until, two weeks after we opened, a prisoner decided that he would have some fun and tried to kiss her. I knocked him off her and she never complained again. She was a great doctor, something I wasn´t always used to.
As winter closed in it became apparent that my three Hospital Officers were not a team made in heaven. One started to develop paranoia which would eventually lead to him be sectioned under the Mental Health Act 1983. He never did return to work. The second, a lovely man but one who needed a drink to function, suffered a heart attack. He never returned to work.
By the Spring of 1986, there was just the two of us covering the shifts of four. For the next 12 months we were given some help from Headquarters, but not much. We were working 70 hour weeks and the overtime, initially good, became a problem.
That problem was resolved, but not to our satisfaction, in 1987 when Fresh Start was imposed on us. Basically, it meant that we would be paid to work an average of 39 hours a week with any extra time worked credited as Time Off In Lieu (TOIL). For the majority of staff in Stocken, although not welcome, it seemed to work. For the two of us in the Hospital it meant that we were still working excessive hours but now not getting paid for them. Early in 1988, we were given some relief when a Hospital Officer was drafted in on permanent transfer. Unfortunately, he was about as much use as a chocolate fireguard.
I was proud, and still am, of the Hospital I developed at Stocken. Although we bitched about the excessive hours we had to work, we got on with it and not one sick day was taken. Margaret was working as a Ward Sister at Grantham & Kesteven Hospital and, when time allowed, we managed to improve our lovely little cottage.
At the end of 1988 I attended a promotion board and, in March of 1989, was posted to HM Young Offender Institute Glen Parva as Hospital Principal Officer. I took four weeks off, using TOIL hours, before I started work at Glen Parva. I gave back hundreds of TOIL hours that I would never be able to use.
Glen Parva was situated on the edge of Leicester city and the journey was at least an hour each way.
We soon realized that we would have to sell our cottage and move closer to Leicester.
More next time...........
5 September 2016
Today I´m only updating this Home Page. Lots of current news and a new poem. Next time I will be telling you more about my experiences in HM Prison Service, new Pics & Poems and a new Short Story.
So, todays news.
As I´m writing this piece, fires are burning in and around Javea, a beautiful coastal town not far from here. Apparently, the fires were started deliberately and are still out of control. Local radio stations and Facebook are keeping us abreast of what is happening and I believe that, so far, there have been no fatalities.
As some of you will know, I´ve completed the sequel to Lock-Down Blues and the manuscript has been accepted by the publishers. It´s called Unlock These Hands. I have accepted the contract but have asked for a small amendment. I will now be working on additional chapters and have promised to deliver the final work by the end of October. I will be concluding the goings on at Raymar Prison, for now, and hopefully it will be in print early next year, publishers permitting.
I intend to start work on a totally different project when we return from out trip to Japan in November. More news as it happens.
These past few weeks have been particularly busy, not helped by the relentless, sapping heat. Not that I´m complaining because siesta time has become a regular favorite pastime. Hopefully, this period has also seen one important friendship renewed and strengthened.
I´m going to end today´s piece with a poem I wrote a few days ago. The new project, in the coming months, will involve me digging deep down into my memory banks, as far back as my childhood in Peckham, South London. My early years didn´t seem really bad, at the time, because I had nothing to compare it with. In later years I really began to understand what had happened. Some of you know bits and pieces about my early years so this is really no surprise.
This poem didn´t need much thought as the words were ready and waiting. As I was writing I had the image of that sad little boy, covered in dust and too stunned to cry, sitting in the back of an ambulance in Syria, staring at me. My situation could never compare with that image but I can feel
his hopelessness and despair.
So, for your consideration, Lost In A Moment.
Lost In A Moment
Lost in a moment
Falling backwards
Into memories
So vivid
I can taste the tears from then
Lost in a moment
Digging deeper
Into melancholy feelings
I remember
Being lonely, being ten
Little boys
Don´t cry or scream
At nightmares
Stupid
Just a dream
That shadow didn´t really move
At all
Silly boy
Control that stutter
Join the others
In the gutter
Nowhere else to go
Not far to fall
Lost in a moment
When I open up
Those boxes
Full of nothing
Worth me visiting again.
...........................
Thanks
More next time....
.......................................................................................
Today I´m only updating this Home Page. Lots of current news and a new poem. Next time I will be telling you more about my experiences in HM Prison Service, new Pics & Poems and a new Short Story.
So, todays news.
As I´m writing this piece, fires are burning in and around Javea, a beautiful coastal town not far from here. Apparently, the fires were started deliberately and are still out of control. Local radio stations and Facebook are keeping us abreast of what is happening and I believe that, so far, there have been no fatalities.
As some of you will know, I´ve completed the sequel to Lock-Down Blues and the manuscript has been accepted by the publishers. It´s called Unlock These Hands. I have accepted the contract but have asked for a small amendment. I will now be working on additional chapters and have promised to deliver the final work by the end of October. I will be concluding the goings on at Raymar Prison, for now, and hopefully it will be in print early next year, publishers permitting.
I intend to start work on a totally different project when we return from out trip to Japan in November. More news as it happens.
These past few weeks have been particularly busy, not helped by the relentless, sapping heat. Not that I´m complaining because siesta time has become a regular favorite pastime. Hopefully, this period has also seen one important friendship renewed and strengthened.
I´m going to end today´s piece with a poem I wrote a few days ago. The new project, in the coming months, will involve me digging deep down into my memory banks, as far back as my childhood in Peckham, South London. My early years didn´t seem really bad, at the time, because I had nothing to compare it with. In later years I really began to understand what had happened. Some of you know bits and pieces about my early years so this is really no surprise.
This poem didn´t need much thought as the words were ready and waiting. As I was writing I had the image of that sad little boy, covered in dust and too stunned to cry, sitting in the back of an ambulance in Syria, staring at me. My situation could never compare with that image but I can feel
his hopelessness and despair.
So, for your consideration, Lost In A Moment.
Lost In A Moment
Lost in a moment
Falling backwards
Into memories
So vivid
I can taste the tears from then
Lost in a moment
Digging deeper
Into melancholy feelings
I remember
Being lonely, being ten
Little boys
Don´t cry or scream
At nightmares
Stupid
Just a dream
That shadow didn´t really move
At all
Silly boy
Control that stutter
Join the others
In the gutter
Nowhere else to go
Not far to fall
Lost in a moment
When I open up
Those boxes
Full of nothing
Worth me visiting again.
...........................
Thanks
More next time....
.......................................................................................
14 August 2016
This has been a really busy few weeks. (The picture on the left really tickled me so, animal lovers everywhere, please don't take offence.)
For your consideration, today, there is more about my life HM Prison Service and how life was so simple back then (?). Following this is short piece about the books I'm reading at the moment.
The sequel to 'Lock-Down Blues' is called 'Unlock These Hands'. My publishers have accepted the full manuscript and have offered me a contract which is presently under consideration.
There is my Blog, covering the past few weeks, which I hope you will find interesting. I have some new Poetry & Pics for you and a new Short Story which is TRUE. I hope you enjoy todays post. I'm always happy to receive your comments and learn new swear words.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
HM Prison Stocken is located midway between Grantham and Stamford, just under a mile from the A1. Originally, it had been designed as a secure Young Offender Institution but rising Adult prisoner numbers had forced Headquarters to re-designate it as a Category C prison.
We arrived on a Spring day in 1985 to receive the prison from the contractors who had built it. We, were the Governor, Deputy Governor, two Principal Officers and yours truly. Apart from the physical structure of the place, it was empty. My job was to set up the Hospital from scratch. Unfortunately, there was no manual to refer to, no A to Z to follow. So, after sorting out somewhere to stay, which was in a lovely village a few miles way, I sat down and designed my bespoke prison hospital. Fortunately, I wasn't constrained by financial issues. The only brief I had was to ensure that Stocken had a Hospital facility which was a centre of excellence.
My day would start at 7.30 although that wasn't necessary as we had no prisoners. Old habits are hard to break. I spent the first couple of days sitting on a wooden box scribbling notes trying to remember all the positive things I could remember from the prison hospitals I had worked in. After the first week I'd worked up a model for my Hospital. Headquarters were busy finalising their selection of three Hospital Officers to work for me. The first one wouldn't arrive until the first week in June. Oh, and I forgot to mention that we had been informed that we had to be ready to accept our first prisoners on Monday 22 July. No pressure then!
That first week was frantic for the five of us. Supplies were being delivered numerous times every day. Fortunately, by the Thursday we had a number of telephone lines installed including one for my office. So, by the Friday afternoon I had a completely empty Hospital apart from a wooden box and a telephone. My plan encompassed equipping a ward, side rooms, offices, treatment room, and x-ray, dental and opticians clinics. Also, HQ informed me that I would have to conduct interviews to take on a Medical Officer ( doctor), Dentist, Optician and Radiographer. Also, I would have to introduce myself to Her Majesty's Coroner for the area where Stocken was located.
I thought that I would get the Coroner's meeting done so I arranged to meet him in his office in Grantham. Margaret had spent the previous weekend with me so she waited for me in the Coroners waiting room before driving back to Warrington.The Coroner, a solicitor, was gracious and very accommodating and we agreed that he would visit the prison the following week. When I walked back into the waiting room Margaret waved a sheet of paper at me. It was an estate agents blurb describing a 200 year old cottage for sale in the village of South Witham, about five miles from the prison.
It looked really interesting so we rang the agents and arranged for a viewing. Margaret phoned her work and told them that she wouldn't be back for a few days. We viewed the cottage and fell in love with it. The original part consisted of a lounge and one bedroom. An extension had been added to include a kitchen, bathroom and another large bedroom. There was a tiny back yard with a wooden shed. Along from the cottage, which was the middle one of three, was a large rectangular plot of land with a big wooden shed on it which lead to a stream. The asking price was GBP 15, 995. The place was quirky but lovely and we instantly fell in love with it. The sale went through pretty quickly.
The village of South Witham seemed to exist in a land which time had passed by. Initially, our neighbours were distant but, one morning, we found a basket of fresh vegetables outside the front door. The cable supplying electricity to the cottages was strung across the road and, on one occasion when we had heavy snow, a lorry managed to hit the cable bringing them crashing down. Credit to the electricity company, power was restored by later that day.
After a couple of weeks, equipment and supplies started to arrive for the Hospital in the form of beds, lockers and cupboards etc. A lectern, destined for the Chapel, was delivered to me by mistake and I kept it.
Leicester Prison was where the Principal Pharmacist was based for the Leicestershire and Lincolnshire areas. She was extremely helpful and ensured that I hadn´t forgotten any essential supplies which included first-aid boxes. Dr Margaret Campbell, from a GP practice in one of the nearby villages, was interviewed and became the first Medical Officer at Stocken. She was a superb doctor and soon got the measure of handling prisoners, a new experience for her.
By the end of May I had all the essential equipment that I needed apart from anything to do with dentistry. A closed prison cannot operate without a fully functioning dental surgery. After repeatedly pestering Headquarters I was told to visit a dentists practice in Grantham or Stamford and find out what was needed to stock ours. This I duly did and came away with a list costing many thousands of pounds. I sent this off to Headquarters and not long after the equipment started to arrive. Dr Campbell recommended a dentist and he was duly employed to come twice a week.
Early in June my first member of staff arrived. Bob came with a reputation for being lazy but I found that if you gave him specific work to do, he got it done. By the first week in July my other two members of staff were in place. Gordon was cantankerous but hard working and Alan was amusing, a trained chiropodist and fond of the bottle.
On the weeks leading up to the big day I had played host to visitors from Headquarters and other prisons. The feedback had been good, and sometimes excellent. Stocken Prison Hospital was seen by some as a blueprint for future new prisons. I was obviously pleased and hoped, secretly, that a promotion might be not too far off.
On Friday 19 July, four days before we were due to receive our first batch of prisoners, I received a surprise visit from the Head of Prison Medical Services. He was polite, as usual, and asked to be shown everything in the Hospital, not the usual quick tour and tea routine. I did as asked and he finally revealed to me why he was there. Apparently, he had received a complaint from a member of parliament that the hospital was too well equipped and certainly too good to be used for prisoners.
I never did find out who had initiated the original complaint but we opened, as planned, on Monday 22 July 1985.
More next time.....
BOOKS
Everyone I know loves books. Hardback, paperback or Kindle, it really doesn't matter. I'm not trying to start a book club, far from it, these are just the titles I'm reading at the moment.
Rock Stars Stole My Life by Mark Ellen. This autobiography by the noted journalist and broadcaster is a superb read. Check it out.
22 Dead Little Bodies And Other Stories by Stuart MacBride. Crime drama in a and around the Scottish granite city of Aberdeen. Every one of his titles has been superb. One of his central characters, DCI Steel, reminds me of someone I knew.....
Cathedral Of The Sea by Ildefonso Falcones. This is a story of love, greed, war and revenge in medieval Barcelona.
What are you reading at the moment? Care to share?
.................................
This has been a really busy few weeks. (The picture on the left really tickled me so, animal lovers everywhere, please don't take offence.)
For your consideration, today, there is more about my life HM Prison Service and how life was so simple back then (?). Following this is short piece about the books I'm reading at the moment.
The sequel to 'Lock-Down Blues' is called 'Unlock These Hands'. My publishers have accepted the full manuscript and have offered me a contract which is presently under consideration.
There is my Blog, covering the past few weeks, which I hope you will find interesting. I have some new Poetry & Pics for you and a new Short Story which is TRUE. I hope you enjoy todays post. I'm always happy to receive your comments and learn new swear words.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
HM Prison Stocken is located midway between Grantham and Stamford, just under a mile from the A1. Originally, it had been designed as a secure Young Offender Institution but rising Adult prisoner numbers had forced Headquarters to re-designate it as a Category C prison.
We arrived on a Spring day in 1985 to receive the prison from the contractors who had built it. We, were the Governor, Deputy Governor, two Principal Officers and yours truly. Apart from the physical structure of the place, it was empty. My job was to set up the Hospital from scratch. Unfortunately, there was no manual to refer to, no A to Z to follow. So, after sorting out somewhere to stay, which was in a lovely village a few miles way, I sat down and designed my bespoke prison hospital. Fortunately, I wasn't constrained by financial issues. The only brief I had was to ensure that Stocken had a Hospital facility which was a centre of excellence.
My day would start at 7.30 although that wasn't necessary as we had no prisoners. Old habits are hard to break. I spent the first couple of days sitting on a wooden box scribbling notes trying to remember all the positive things I could remember from the prison hospitals I had worked in. After the first week I'd worked up a model for my Hospital. Headquarters were busy finalising their selection of three Hospital Officers to work for me. The first one wouldn't arrive until the first week in June. Oh, and I forgot to mention that we had been informed that we had to be ready to accept our first prisoners on Monday 22 July. No pressure then!
That first week was frantic for the five of us. Supplies were being delivered numerous times every day. Fortunately, by the Thursday we had a number of telephone lines installed including one for my office. So, by the Friday afternoon I had a completely empty Hospital apart from a wooden box and a telephone. My plan encompassed equipping a ward, side rooms, offices, treatment room, and x-ray, dental and opticians clinics. Also, HQ informed me that I would have to conduct interviews to take on a Medical Officer ( doctor), Dentist, Optician and Radiographer. Also, I would have to introduce myself to Her Majesty's Coroner for the area where Stocken was located.
I thought that I would get the Coroner's meeting done so I arranged to meet him in his office in Grantham. Margaret had spent the previous weekend with me so she waited for me in the Coroners waiting room before driving back to Warrington.The Coroner, a solicitor, was gracious and very accommodating and we agreed that he would visit the prison the following week. When I walked back into the waiting room Margaret waved a sheet of paper at me. It was an estate agents blurb describing a 200 year old cottage for sale in the village of South Witham, about five miles from the prison.
It looked really interesting so we rang the agents and arranged for a viewing. Margaret phoned her work and told them that she wouldn't be back for a few days. We viewed the cottage and fell in love with it. The original part consisted of a lounge and one bedroom. An extension had been added to include a kitchen, bathroom and another large bedroom. There was a tiny back yard with a wooden shed. Along from the cottage, which was the middle one of three, was a large rectangular plot of land with a big wooden shed on it which lead to a stream. The asking price was GBP 15, 995. The place was quirky but lovely and we instantly fell in love with it. The sale went through pretty quickly.
The village of South Witham seemed to exist in a land which time had passed by. Initially, our neighbours were distant but, one morning, we found a basket of fresh vegetables outside the front door. The cable supplying electricity to the cottages was strung across the road and, on one occasion when we had heavy snow, a lorry managed to hit the cable bringing them crashing down. Credit to the electricity company, power was restored by later that day.
After a couple of weeks, equipment and supplies started to arrive for the Hospital in the form of beds, lockers and cupboards etc. A lectern, destined for the Chapel, was delivered to me by mistake and I kept it.
Leicester Prison was where the Principal Pharmacist was based for the Leicestershire and Lincolnshire areas. She was extremely helpful and ensured that I hadn´t forgotten any essential supplies which included first-aid boxes. Dr Margaret Campbell, from a GP practice in one of the nearby villages, was interviewed and became the first Medical Officer at Stocken. She was a superb doctor and soon got the measure of handling prisoners, a new experience for her.
By the end of May I had all the essential equipment that I needed apart from anything to do with dentistry. A closed prison cannot operate without a fully functioning dental surgery. After repeatedly pestering Headquarters I was told to visit a dentists practice in Grantham or Stamford and find out what was needed to stock ours. This I duly did and came away with a list costing many thousands of pounds. I sent this off to Headquarters and not long after the equipment started to arrive. Dr Campbell recommended a dentist and he was duly employed to come twice a week.
Early in June my first member of staff arrived. Bob came with a reputation for being lazy but I found that if you gave him specific work to do, he got it done. By the first week in July my other two members of staff were in place. Gordon was cantankerous but hard working and Alan was amusing, a trained chiropodist and fond of the bottle.
On the weeks leading up to the big day I had played host to visitors from Headquarters and other prisons. The feedback had been good, and sometimes excellent. Stocken Prison Hospital was seen by some as a blueprint for future new prisons. I was obviously pleased and hoped, secretly, that a promotion might be not too far off.
On Friday 19 July, four days before we were due to receive our first batch of prisoners, I received a surprise visit from the Head of Prison Medical Services. He was polite, as usual, and asked to be shown everything in the Hospital, not the usual quick tour and tea routine. I did as asked and he finally revealed to me why he was there. Apparently, he had received a complaint from a member of parliament that the hospital was too well equipped and certainly too good to be used for prisoners.
I never did find out who had initiated the original complaint but we opened, as planned, on Monday 22 July 1985.
More next time.....
BOOKS
Everyone I know loves books. Hardback, paperback or Kindle, it really doesn't matter. I'm not trying to start a book club, far from it, these are just the titles I'm reading at the moment.
Rock Stars Stole My Life by Mark Ellen. This autobiography by the noted journalist and broadcaster is a superb read. Check it out.
22 Dead Little Bodies And Other Stories by Stuart MacBride. Crime drama in a and around the Scottish granite city of Aberdeen. Every one of his titles has been superb. One of his central characters, DCI Steel, reminds me of someone I knew.....
Cathedral Of The Sea by Ildefonso Falcones. This is a story of love, greed, war and revenge in medieval Barcelona.
What are you reading at the moment? Care to share?
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3 July 2016
This is my first website post since September last year. Margaret has been on my case, constantly, to get going again. The naughty step is a cold place, even here in Spain. I offer apologies, in equal measure, to those of you who enjoy reading my stuff and to those who think it´s a load of twaddle. Either way, keep on reading, it´s back to being current at least once a month.
For your consideration, today, there is more Living The Life – A Peckham Boy. I´m still at HMP Brixton and about to meet my future.
There is a Blog, in which I hope I´ve captured all the important stuff which has happened since last September.
The Lock-Down Blues page will now focus on my new novel, title to be revealed soon. Read on...
More Poetry & Pics, some new and some from way back.
A very Short Story which I hope you will enjoy.
Let me have your feedback. I enjoy and value all your comments and I´ve learned some new swear words which may surprise some of you! Please share my website address, I´ve made some knew contacts and have been reunited with friends I haven´t heard from in years.
Thanks
Ray.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It was 1984 and HM Prison Brixton was the busiest place I ever worked during a 30 year career. Despite the problems of being constantly short of staff coupled with a medical team who were all for an easy life, Brixton was an incredible experience. We accepted prisoners from 120 magistrates courts and from crown courts as far away as Chelmsford and Southend. Every morning the Reception area was controlled chaos. One day, in 1983, our discharges and receptions totaled in excess of 650 prisoners. Incredible. They ranged from palace intruders, terrorists, celebrities, politicians and serial killers, to an individual who could have won ´Britain´s Got Talent`with his incredible range of impersonations. One infamous serial killer shared his philosophy with me. He said, ´I like to kill, you could say that it´s my hobby. After the first one, it´s like being on a rollercoaster, you don´t want to get off, you don´t want to stop.`
On the 22 November 1984, it was a Thursday, my life changed forever. It was midmorning and I was in the Hospital staff detailing office having a frank exchange of views with one of the senior doctors. If she had a caring personality it certainly never surfaced whilst I was around. We clashed constantly.
Anyway, I digress. The door opened and in walked this beautiful woman. She looked around, taking everything in. She was wearing a dark blue nurse uniform with badges on both collars, a silver buckle on her belt. Margaret Nelson, RMN, RGN.
Margaret was doing a Prison Service nurses induction program based at Wormwood Scrubs. Brixton was one of her placements. I instantly stopped my conversation and stared. Eventually, she saw me and our eyes met. It was, I believe, love at first sight. We´ve talked about it many times over the years and both agree.
Later that morning, I was working in the main prison in a place called Centre Surgery. It was next to Reception. We dispensed treatments and screened all receptions. Margaret was being shown around the prison and walked in. I was sitting on an oxygen bottle smoking a cigarette. She introduced herself and proceeded to give me a light hearted telling off about the dangers of smoking and oxygen bottles. I just smiled, nodded and ignored her.
Over the next couple of days I made sure that we could spend time chatting. I arranged to see her the following week. She was based at Risley Remand Centre in Warrington but we managed to see each other at least once a week. British Rail must have earned a small fortune from us. Our romance blossomed and we´ve been together 32 years this coming 22 November. Margaret has been a steadying influence and a font of wisdom which I dip into probably every day.
The following January, I was visiting Wormwood Scrubs to discuss staff training. Also visiting that day was the Chief Hospital Officer from Prison Service Headquarters. He was a great guy, well respected across the Service.
The conversation went something like,
´Hello Ray, are you enjoying life at Brixton?`
´Yes sir, when I´ve got time to breathe.`
´Ever thought about moving away, taking on a new challenge?`
This intrigued me because he wasn´t a man to waste time on idle chitchat. ´I´m always interested in new challenges.`I replied, wondering what was coming next.
´There is a new prison being built near the A1 on the Leicestershire/Lincolnshire border. It´s going to be called Stocken. Probably going to be a Category C male establishment.`
´Who would be in charge of the hospital if I accepted the move?`I asked.
´You would. We are expecting to be advertising for three basic grade hospital officers to make up the compliment there. Well?`
It didn´t take long for me to answer. ´ I need a day to think about it. Can I ring you tomorrow?`
´Yes, of course.
Later that day I phoned Margaret and we discussed it. I asked her if she fancied moving in with me. She didn´t hesitate and said yes. I phoned the Chief back the following morning and left Brixton in the April.
To say that Stocken was a challenge is a massive understatement. I had four months to set up the hospital from scratch.
More next time........
This is my first website post since September last year. Margaret has been on my case, constantly, to get going again. The naughty step is a cold place, even here in Spain. I offer apologies, in equal measure, to those of you who enjoy reading my stuff and to those who think it´s a load of twaddle. Either way, keep on reading, it´s back to being current at least once a month.
For your consideration, today, there is more Living The Life – A Peckham Boy. I´m still at HMP Brixton and about to meet my future.
There is a Blog, in which I hope I´ve captured all the important stuff which has happened since last September.
The Lock-Down Blues page will now focus on my new novel, title to be revealed soon. Read on...
More Poetry & Pics, some new and some from way back.
A very Short Story which I hope you will enjoy.
Let me have your feedback. I enjoy and value all your comments and I´ve learned some new swear words which may surprise some of you! Please share my website address, I´ve made some knew contacts and have been reunited with friends I haven´t heard from in years.
Thanks
Ray.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It was 1984 and HM Prison Brixton was the busiest place I ever worked during a 30 year career. Despite the problems of being constantly short of staff coupled with a medical team who were all for an easy life, Brixton was an incredible experience. We accepted prisoners from 120 magistrates courts and from crown courts as far away as Chelmsford and Southend. Every morning the Reception area was controlled chaos. One day, in 1983, our discharges and receptions totaled in excess of 650 prisoners. Incredible. They ranged from palace intruders, terrorists, celebrities, politicians and serial killers, to an individual who could have won ´Britain´s Got Talent`with his incredible range of impersonations. One infamous serial killer shared his philosophy with me. He said, ´I like to kill, you could say that it´s my hobby. After the first one, it´s like being on a rollercoaster, you don´t want to get off, you don´t want to stop.`
On the 22 November 1984, it was a Thursday, my life changed forever. It was midmorning and I was in the Hospital staff detailing office having a frank exchange of views with one of the senior doctors. If she had a caring personality it certainly never surfaced whilst I was around. We clashed constantly.
Anyway, I digress. The door opened and in walked this beautiful woman. She looked around, taking everything in. She was wearing a dark blue nurse uniform with badges on both collars, a silver buckle on her belt. Margaret Nelson, RMN, RGN.
Margaret was doing a Prison Service nurses induction program based at Wormwood Scrubs. Brixton was one of her placements. I instantly stopped my conversation and stared. Eventually, she saw me and our eyes met. It was, I believe, love at first sight. We´ve talked about it many times over the years and both agree.
Later that morning, I was working in the main prison in a place called Centre Surgery. It was next to Reception. We dispensed treatments and screened all receptions. Margaret was being shown around the prison and walked in. I was sitting on an oxygen bottle smoking a cigarette. She introduced herself and proceeded to give me a light hearted telling off about the dangers of smoking and oxygen bottles. I just smiled, nodded and ignored her.
Over the next couple of days I made sure that we could spend time chatting. I arranged to see her the following week. She was based at Risley Remand Centre in Warrington but we managed to see each other at least once a week. British Rail must have earned a small fortune from us. Our romance blossomed and we´ve been together 32 years this coming 22 November. Margaret has been a steadying influence and a font of wisdom which I dip into probably every day.
The following January, I was visiting Wormwood Scrubs to discuss staff training. Also visiting that day was the Chief Hospital Officer from Prison Service Headquarters. He was a great guy, well respected across the Service.
The conversation went something like,
´Hello Ray, are you enjoying life at Brixton?`
´Yes sir, when I´ve got time to breathe.`
´Ever thought about moving away, taking on a new challenge?`
This intrigued me because he wasn´t a man to waste time on idle chitchat. ´I´m always interested in new challenges.`I replied, wondering what was coming next.
´There is a new prison being built near the A1 on the Leicestershire/Lincolnshire border. It´s going to be called Stocken. Probably going to be a Category C male establishment.`
´Who would be in charge of the hospital if I accepted the move?`I asked.
´You would. We are expecting to be advertising for three basic grade hospital officers to make up the compliment there. Well?`
It didn´t take long for me to answer. ´ I need a day to think about it. Can I ring you tomorrow?`
´Yes, of course.
Later that day I phoned Margaret and we discussed it. I asked her if she fancied moving in with me. She didn´t hesitate and said yes. I phoned the Chief back the following morning and left Brixton in the April.
To say that Stocken was a challenge is a massive understatement. I had four months to set up the hospital from scratch.
More next time........
|
21 September 2015
If you're in Spain, the weather is cooling making living a lot more comfortable. If you'r not, wish you were here. For this web post I have, for your consideration, a short blog, book update, pics and poems and a short story wrapped around a poem I wrote a few days ago. For those of you following my early exploits in HM Prison Service, it's 1981 and I'm at HMP The Verne, on Portland in Dorset. Good to hear from David on Monte Solana. Glad you are making steady progress. Speak soon. A special mention for Trevor who will be following me to IVO in the next few weeks. Our thoughts are with you, stay strong. |
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
I was preparing to take the Senior Officers promotion exam. The exam was the same for all irrespective of whether you were a hospital or discipline officer.
The day of the exam arrived and about 20 of us sat in a classroom in the Education department at The Verne Prison. The exam was in two parts and lasted four hours. When we were told to turn the paper over and begin I almost panicked. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. After a couple of minutes studying the paper I knew that I would be OK. The paper turned out to far easier than the final exam I had taken to become a Hospital Officer. When the results were announced, three months later, I was successful and, apparently, third in the country.
Not bad for a waste of space, eh Mum?
Shortly after I received a call from Bryce, the Hospital Chief Officer at Brixton Prison. He reminded me of our conversation when I was trying to leave Grendon Prison. I said that I did. He asked me if I was still up for a transfer to Brixton as Hospital SeniorOfficer. I shouted that I was. He said that he would arrange everything and he did. My posting notice arrived three weeks later and the Governor said that I could leave but only after a replacement had been drafted in. I was kept waiting for almost six months because the Governor kept vetoing the choices that Hospital Principal Officer John was making. Bastard. Eventually, I had my leaving do at The Verne Officers Club. It was well attended and I was particularly pleased that the Royal Navy was well represented. I think I remember having a tad too much to drink.....
I had phoned my father to tell him the news of my promotion and he sounded genuinely pleased. My mothers only comment was that I must have been fucking mad to want to move back to London. A couple of weeks before I was due to start at Brixton I had phoned my father to ask him I could stay with them whilst I was looking for somewhere to live. He sounded embarrassed when he told me that I wasn't welcome. Apparently, my mother had put her foot down and he had toed the line. It was the last time that I would hear his voice as he died a few months later.
My induction program at Brixton was exciting because I was to learn stuff that I had never been involved in during my spells on detached duty. The Officers mess was always open and a number of short-term prisoners were employed as orderlies to cook and wait on the tables.
One amusing incident happened in the Mess during a very busy breakfast period. As well as Brixton staff, the Mess was open for members of the Metropolitan Police and some of them were armed. Everyone was getting stuck into their substantial breakfasts when one of the orderlies nervously tapped one of the police officers on the shoulder. The officer turned and told the orderly to piss off. The orderly ignored the reprimand and tapped him on the shoulder again. The officer jumped up and was about to grab the orderly when his attention was drawn to the fact that his gun was laying on the floor underneath the table. The orderly had been trying to tell him.
The officer went bright red and bent down to retrieve the gun. He stood up and went to leave. One of the Discipline Principal Officers, who also happened to be the Mess President, stopped him and told him to apologize and thank the orderly. He refused. He was asked again and, again, refused. The Mess President told him to take his gun, fuck off and never try to use the facilities again. The man left without a backward glance. A round of applause erupted, which included the prisoners.
The Hospital in Brixton Prison was massive. It was situated in two buildings. The main building housed a series of wards plus a number of rooms where we housed the high-security patients. The second building was F Wing, known across the Service as Fraggle Rock. We could hold over 200 seriously disturbed patients and were frequently at bursting point. The pressure on us was immense and unrelenting and violence was an everyday occurrence.
At that time the authorities were quite happy to see the mentally ill contained in prison where the conditions were far from ideal. We did our best and on one occasion I had to appear in front of a judge at the Central Criminal Court (Old Bailey) to explain why a number of our patients had turned up unshaven and scruffy. When I explained that , earlier that morning, six of us had to unlock 96 disturbed prisoners and try to get them ready for court. A disturbance had ensued resulting in one of my staff sustaining a broken arm. The judge asked me why there were so few staff to unlock so many prisoners. I could only inform him that it was what we did and what we were expected to do. He thanked me for my comments and I returned to work. I heard no more about it, but nothing changed.
More next time........
....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
I was preparing to take the Senior Officers promotion exam. The exam was the same for all irrespective of whether you were a hospital or discipline officer.
The day of the exam arrived and about 20 of us sat in a classroom in the Education department at The Verne Prison. The exam was in two parts and lasted four hours. When we were told to turn the paper over and begin I almost panicked. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. After a couple of minutes studying the paper I knew that I would be OK. The paper turned out to far easier than the final exam I had taken to become a Hospital Officer. When the results were announced, three months later, I was successful and, apparently, third in the country.
Not bad for a waste of space, eh Mum?
Shortly after I received a call from Bryce, the Hospital Chief Officer at Brixton Prison. He reminded me of our conversation when I was trying to leave Grendon Prison. I said that I did. He asked me if I was still up for a transfer to Brixton as Hospital SeniorOfficer. I shouted that I was. He said that he would arrange everything and he did. My posting notice arrived three weeks later and the Governor said that I could leave but only after a replacement had been drafted in. I was kept waiting for almost six months because the Governor kept vetoing the choices that Hospital Principal Officer John was making. Bastard. Eventually, I had my leaving do at The Verne Officers Club. It was well attended and I was particularly pleased that the Royal Navy was well represented. I think I remember having a tad too much to drink.....
I had phoned my father to tell him the news of my promotion and he sounded genuinely pleased. My mothers only comment was that I must have been fucking mad to want to move back to London. A couple of weeks before I was due to start at Brixton I had phoned my father to ask him I could stay with them whilst I was looking for somewhere to live. He sounded embarrassed when he told me that I wasn't welcome. Apparently, my mother had put her foot down and he had toed the line. It was the last time that I would hear his voice as he died a few months later.
My induction program at Brixton was exciting because I was to learn stuff that I had never been involved in during my spells on detached duty. The Officers mess was always open and a number of short-term prisoners were employed as orderlies to cook and wait on the tables.
One amusing incident happened in the Mess during a very busy breakfast period. As well as Brixton staff, the Mess was open for members of the Metropolitan Police and some of them were armed. Everyone was getting stuck into their substantial breakfasts when one of the orderlies nervously tapped one of the police officers on the shoulder. The officer turned and told the orderly to piss off. The orderly ignored the reprimand and tapped him on the shoulder again. The officer jumped up and was about to grab the orderly when his attention was drawn to the fact that his gun was laying on the floor underneath the table. The orderly had been trying to tell him.
The officer went bright red and bent down to retrieve the gun. He stood up and went to leave. One of the Discipline Principal Officers, who also happened to be the Mess President, stopped him and told him to apologize and thank the orderly. He refused. He was asked again and, again, refused. The Mess President told him to take his gun, fuck off and never try to use the facilities again. The man left without a backward glance. A round of applause erupted, which included the prisoners.
The Hospital in Brixton Prison was massive. It was situated in two buildings. The main building housed a series of wards plus a number of rooms where we housed the high-security patients. The second building was F Wing, known across the Service as Fraggle Rock. We could hold over 200 seriously disturbed patients and were frequently at bursting point. The pressure on us was immense and unrelenting and violence was an everyday occurrence.
At that time the authorities were quite happy to see the mentally ill contained in prison where the conditions were far from ideal. We did our best and on one occasion I had to appear in front of a judge at the Central Criminal Court (Old Bailey) to explain why a number of our patients had turned up unshaven and scruffy. When I explained that , earlier that morning, six of us had to unlock 96 disturbed prisoners and try to get them ready for court. A disturbance had ensued resulting in one of my staff sustaining a broken arm. The judge asked me why there were so few staff to unlock so many prisoners. I could only inform him that it was what we did and what we were expected to do. He thanked me for my comments and I returned to work. I heard no more about it, but nothing changed.
More next time........
....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
15 August 2015
As you will see, from my last web-post, it's nearly three months since I put pen to screen.
So much has happened since we moved into 2015. Many of you will have read the previous web-posts but I'll remind you anyway.
On 4 April we lost our dear friend Wilf Brown. When you have a moment, read back through this website and you will get a flavor of the man. He is never far from our thoughts. Sheila continues to be a tower of strength and the best of friends.
I brought my radio adventures on The Lock Down Blues Show to a close, for reasons I will explain further on in this piece. Chris and Wendy at Total FM have been hugely supportive and the door has been left open for me to return. Thank you.
Up to that point, our year had been a maelstrom of emotions and it focussed us on what is really important in life.
It had always been part of our future plans to sell the villa and take the opportunity to travel and bring new dimensions to the next part of our lives. So, we dipped our toes in the water and advertised the villa on Facebook. We were staggered when a lovely couple expressed a very strong interest in buying the place. The outcome has been that the sale was completed, six weeks from start to finish, and towards the end of July we moved to a lovely town house in a nearby village, for now. The picture is Giorgio resting after one of his many journey's up and down the stairs.
The only fly in the ointment was that, the day after we agreed to sell the villa, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I have a non-aggressive malignant tumor and 'doing nothing' is not an option.
I am presently attending the Instituto Valenciano de Oncologia (IVO) and expect to undergo surgery in September. I have complete faith in the specialists at IVO and know that they will do their best for me.
I will take this opportunity to thank Sheila, Victor and Bettina, Billy and Maureen and Robin for their support and encouragement during this busy time! We met up with Tim and Josie, this past week, on one of their stopovers from the far flung corners of the world. They were great.
My Margaret has been strong and focussed throughout these times and we hope for the best.
I will be making regular web-posts when I know what the immediate future holds, operation wise. There will be more stuff about my early days in HM Prison Service, blogs, book statistics, pic, poems and short stories. Sheila had brought my outstanding typing duties up to date and I am now about 50,000 words in to sequel to Lock-Down Blues. Apologies to Maureen but I won't be doing a video about my adventures at pelvic floor exercises!
Until next time...
..........................................................
As you will see, from my last web-post, it's nearly three months since I put pen to screen.
So much has happened since we moved into 2015. Many of you will have read the previous web-posts but I'll remind you anyway.
On 4 April we lost our dear friend Wilf Brown. When you have a moment, read back through this website and you will get a flavor of the man. He is never far from our thoughts. Sheila continues to be a tower of strength and the best of friends.
I brought my radio adventures on The Lock Down Blues Show to a close, for reasons I will explain further on in this piece. Chris and Wendy at Total FM have been hugely supportive and the door has been left open for me to return. Thank you.
Up to that point, our year had been a maelstrom of emotions and it focussed us on what is really important in life.
It had always been part of our future plans to sell the villa and take the opportunity to travel and bring new dimensions to the next part of our lives. So, we dipped our toes in the water and advertised the villa on Facebook. We were staggered when a lovely couple expressed a very strong interest in buying the place. The outcome has been that the sale was completed, six weeks from start to finish, and towards the end of July we moved to a lovely town house in a nearby village, for now. The picture is Giorgio resting after one of his many journey's up and down the stairs.
The only fly in the ointment was that, the day after we agreed to sell the villa, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I have a non-aggressive malignant tumor and 'doing nothing' is not an option.
I am presently attending the Instituto Valenciano de Oncologia (IVO) and expect to undergo surgery in September. I have complete faith in the specialists at IVO and know that they will do their best for me.
I will take this opportunity to thank Sheila, Victor and Bettina, Billy and Maureen and Robin for their support and encouragement during this busy time! We met up with Tim and Josie, this past week, on one of their stopovers from the far flung corners of the world. They were great.
My Margaret has been strong and focussed throughout these times and we hope for the best.
I will be making regular web-posts when I know what the immediate future holds, operation wise. There will be more stuff about my early days in HM Prison Service, blogs, book statistics, pic, poems and short stories. Sheila had brought my outstanding typing duties up to date and I am now about 50,000 words in to sequel to Lock-Down Blues. Apologies to Maureen but I won't be doing a video about my adventures at pelvic floor exercises!
Until next time...
..........................................................
23 May 2015
Today, I'm posting a new Blog, Lock-Down Blues news, Poetry & Pics and a new, special Short Story.
You will read more about my early years in HM Prison Service.
If you would like a request/dedication on my Lock Down Blues Show drop me a line on the Contact form or via ray@totalfm.es
Always good to hear from you.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It would be wrong of me to progress further without mentioning the other two Hospital Officers I worked with at The Verne prison, after being posted there early in 1979. Keith was very intelligent and probably the best Hospital Officer out of the three of us but, as a Prison Officer, he was crap. He was frequently taken advantage of by certain elements in the prisoner population and, on a number of occasions, we administered strong advice to the offending parties. When I say 'we' I mean Alex and I.
Alex and I attended the same Hospital Officer's course at Parkhurst prison during the hot summer of 1976. When I arrived at The Verne, Alex immediately made me welcome. He had a great personality and sense of humor. Alex was well respected across the prison and we got up to some pranks as well as working hard at our chosen specialism.
The Verne was a very unusual place and many of the rules governing prisons across the UK didn't seem to apply. During the week leading up to Christmas 1980, I was enjoying a cup of tea and a cigarette, in the Hospital office, when the phone rang. It was Barry, one of the Catering Officers. Barry proceeded to tell me that he's bought a tiny puppy for his daughter as a Christmas present and the little chap was unwell. I told him to take it a vet. He said that he couldn't because he was keeping the dog in the Kitchen office before taking it home on Christmas eve. Because The Verne was such a weird place I didn't think that this was at all strange so I told him to keep the little chap on water and, if in doubt, he really would have to visit a vet. Barry thanked me and I thought that was the end of it.
Two days later Barry was back on the phone. The puppy now had 'the runs' and the prisoners working in the Kitchen were starting to complain about the smell. He told me that he didn't have time to go to a vet and could I help. So, I made up a very weak solution of kaolin and sent it over to the Kitchen with my prisoner/orderly John. Barry phoned to thank me for the help and I responded by telling him to buy the kid a fucking Barbie doll, less hassle. He agreed and rang off.
Christmas eve duly arrived and I was clearing up after the usual rush, by the prisoners, to see the Medical Officer (doctor), when the phone rang. You've guessed it, Barry was on the line. Before I could tell him to piss off he told me that the puppy was now in a very bad way and the prisoners were becoming agitated with the constant whining and the smell. Could I please ring and ask a vet to come to the prison because Barry was rushed off his feet. Much against my better judgement I agreed. I phoned a vet in Weymouth who looked after my sheepdog Tara and, after explaining the problem, asked him to come to the prison. He reluctantly agreed.
I phoned Barry and told him what I'd arranged. He was profuse with his thanks and asked if he could bring the dog over to the Hospital. I agreed. Twenty minutes later Barry walked in through the double doors trailing a dog lead. He stopped and said some thing like 'don't be frightened, Ray will look after you'. He then tugged on the lead and a piece of wood with the word 'DOG' came into view. I stood, speechless. As I started towards Barry, the doors flew back and about 20 officers crowded in shouting 'you've been had, you've been had'. They were correct, I'd been well and truly had. Barry legged it and vanished on holiday that lunchtime. It soon became apparent that every one, including the Deputy Governor, was in on the ruse. Keith knew but Alex was on holiday. The vet never turned up because he'd been warned and was happy to play along. I took it in good part but swore revenge.
Four months later, revenge came in the form of a stroke of good luck and five strong laxative tablets. Barry was off work for three days. I sent him a piece of wood with 'get well soon' on it.
The night life on Portland, and in Weymouth, was not for the faint hearted. Night clubs were many and varied and I distinguished myself on New Years Eve by being banned from one of my regular haunts for fighting with a sailor named Bob, who was stationed at HMS Osprey on Portland. The ban was lifted after two weeks and Bob and I became the best of friends.........
More next time.
................................................................
Today, I'm posting a new Blog, Lock-Down Blues news, Poetry & Pics and a new, special Short Story.
You will read more about my early years in HM Prison Service.
If you would like a request/dedication on my Lock Down Blues Show drop me a line on the Contact form or via ray@totalfm.es
Always good to hear from you.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
It would be wrong of me to progress further without mentioning the other two Hospital Officers I worked with at The Verne prison, after being posted there early in 1979. Keith was very intelligent and probably the best Hospital Officer out of the three of us but, as a Prison Officer, he was crap. He was frequently taken advantage of by certain elements in the prisoner population and, on a number of occasions, we administered strong advice to the offending parties. When I say 'we' I mean Alex and I.
Alex and I attended the same Hospital Officer's course at Parkhurst prison during the hot summer of 1976. When I arrived at The Verne, Alex immediately made me welcome. He had a great personality and sense of humor. Alex was well respected across the prison and we got up to some pranks as well as working hard at our chosen specialism.
The Verne was a very unusual place and many of the rules governing prisons across the UK didn't seem to apply. During the week leading up to Christmas 1980, I was enjoying a cup of tea and a cigarette, in the Hospital office, when the phone rang. It was Barry, one of the Catering Officers. Barry proceeded to tell me that he's bought a tiny puppy for his daughter as a Christmas present and the little chap was unwell. I told him to take it a vet. He said that he couldn't because he was keeping the dog in the Kitchen office before taking it home on Christmas eve. Because The Verne was such a weird place I didn't think that this was at all strange so I told him to keep the little chap on water and, if in doubt, he really would have to visit a vet. Barry thanked me and I thought that was the end of it.
Two days later Barry was back on the phone. The puppy now had 'the runs' and the prisoners working in the Kitchen were starting to complain about the smell. He told me that he didn't have time to go to a vet and could I help. So, I made up a very weak solution of kaolin and sent it over to the Kitchen with my prisoner/orderly John. Barry phoned to thank me for the help and I responded by telling him to buy the kid a fucking Barbie doll, less hassle. He agreed and rang off.
Christmas eve duly arrived and I was clearing up after the usual rush, by the prisoners, to see the Medical Officer (doctor), when the phone rang. You've guessed it, Barry was on the line. Before I could tell him to piss off he told me that the puppy was now in a very bad way and the prisoners were becoming agitated with the constant whining and the smell. Could I please ring and ask a vet to come to the prison because Barry was rushed off his feet. Much against my better judgement I agreed. I phoned a vet in Weymouth who looked after my sheepdog Tara and, after explaining the problem, asked him to come to the prison. He reluctantly agreed.
I phoned Barry and told him what I'd arranged. He was profuse with his thanks and asked if he could bring the dog over to the Hospital. I agreed. Twenty minutes later Barry walked in through the double doors trailing a dog lead. He stopped and said some thing like 'don't be frightened, Ray will look after you'. He then tugged on the lead and a piece of wood with the word 'DOG' came into view. I stood, speechless. As I started towards Barry, the doors flew back and about 20 officers crowded in shouting 'you've been had, you've been had'. They were correct, I'd been well and truly had. Barry legged it and vanished on holiday that lunchtime. It soon became apparent that every one, including the Deputy Governor, was in on the ruse. Keith knew but Alex was on holiday. The vet never turned up because he'd been warned and was happy to play along. I took it in good part but swore revenge.
Four months later, revenge came in the form of a stroke of good luck and five strong laxative tablets. Barry was off work for three days. I sent him a piece of wood with 'get well soon' on it.
The night life on Portland, and in Weymouth, was not for the faint hearted. Night clubs were many and varied and I distinguished myself on New Years Eve by being banned from one of my regular haunts for fighting with a sailor named Bob, who was stationed at HMS Osprey on Portland. The ban was lifted after two weeks and Bob and I became the best of friends.........
More next time.
................................................................
6 April 2015
WILF
Some of you will have read my Facebook entry on Saturday 4 April, informing you that our dear, dear friend Wilf Brown had passed away earlier that day. We were devastated and still are. Our thoughts and love are with Sheila.
Since 8 February this year I've been presenting The Lock Down Blues Show on TotalFM 96.5, Sundays 1 - 4. The show is becoming popular due, in no small part, to Wilf. His knowledge of the blues genre, and enthusiasm for the show was tremendous. I had the easy job presenting it, he was the brains behind it. Fortunately, I listened to him over the many years that I've known him, so I will be carrying on with him looking over my shoulder.
We were also developing quite a partnership playing guitar and singing. He was developing a beautiful slide technique which I would often stop playing to listen to.
Next Sunday, 12 April, I will be presenting The Lock Down Blues Show as a tribute to Wilf. I want this to be memorable three hours so please contact me with your requests and dedications. I particularly want hear from people who knew Wilf. You can contact me at the following email addresses,
ray@totalfm.es
apeckhamboy@gmail.com
Those of you who know my telephone number, give me a call.
You can listen live on the TotalFM 96.5 Javea website or via the Tunein application.
Please help me to make this a memorable three hours. I will be recording the show in it's entirety.
Only this page has been updated but I will be posting the usual features in the coming days. Before I close I want to wish my darling Margaret a very Happy Birthday for tomorrow.
.............................................................................................................................................................
WILF
Some of you will have read my Facebook entry on Saturday 4 April, informing you that our dear, dear friend Wilf Brown had passed away earlier that day. We were devastated and still are. Our thoughts and love are with Sheila.
Since 8 February this year I've been presenting The Lock Down Blues Show on TotalFM 96.5, Sundays 1 - 4. The show is becoming popular due, in no small part, to Wilf. His knowledge of the blues genre, and enthusiasm for the show was tremendous. I had the easy job presenting it, he was the brains behind it. Fortunately, I listened to him over the many years that I've known him, so I will be carrying on with him looking over my shoulder.
We were also developing quite a partnership playing guitar and singing. He was developing a beautiful slide technique which I would often stop playing to listen to.
Next Sunday, 12 April, I will be presenting The Lock Down Blues Show as a tribute to Wilf. I want this to be memorable three hours so please contact me with your requests and dedications. I particularly want hear from people who knew Wilf. You can contact me at the following email addresses,
ray@totalfm.es
apeckhamboy@gmail.com
Those of you who know my telephone number, give me a call.
You can listen live on the TotalFM 96.5 Javea website or via the Tunein application.
Please help me to make this a memorable three hours. I will be recording the show in it's entirety.
Only this page has been updated but I will be posting the usual features in the coming days. Before I close I want to wish my darling Margaret a very Happy Birthday for tomorrow.
.............................................................................................................................................................
10 February 2015
This has been a busy time, as most are of late. Most importantly, a dear, dear friend is struggling with his health and we hope that things will start to improve in the coming weeks.
Today, as well as more about my life after joining the UK Prison Service, I'm posting a new Blog, Lock-Down Blues news, Pics and Poems and a new Short Story.
As some of you may have read on a recent email (I couldn't update the website because I needed a new browser!) I now have my own radio show on TotalFM 96.5, Sundays at one, called 'The Lock Down Blues Show'. My first show was last Sunday and, apart from a few gaffs, it went well. Thanks for the messages of support, much appreciated.
I'll be investigating the whole genre of blues music and playing a wide selection, old and new. There is so much good music to be discovered and I hope to actively involve listeners as the weeks progress. I will be inviting guests on to the show, the first being Jack Troughton, a local journalist and music lover, who will join me on 22 February.
If you are outside the reception range, or live abroad, you can listen live online on their website www.totalfm.es or via the 'App' 'tunein' radio TotalFM 96.5 Javea Costa Blanca North. You can also email me at ray@totalfm.es
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
When I arrived for my first day of detached duty at Brixton prison I was told to go and see the Hospital Chief Officer. He was a splendid gentleman called Bryce. He sat me down and said that he had received a call from the Hospital Principal Officer (John) at The Verne prison. My heart sank. He smiled and told me not to worry.
I confirmed that I would be paying my own transfer expenses and was looking forward to the challenge of working in a small team. He said that he was confident that I would do well. He asked me if I was prepared to work overtime to help pay for the transfer. I said that I was. He said that he was glad because he had arranged for me to work 12 hour days for the next two months. He also said that he would be allowing me to take a couple of days annual leave (holidays) in the middle so that I would adhere to the rules of detached duty. The rule was that you could not work for more than 28 days on detached duty without a break. He concluded by informing me that with my wages, overtime and subsistence I would be able to fund my move without putting myself into debt.
I was so moved that I almost burst into tears. I was really choked up. He actually made me a cup of tea until I got myself together. He asked me about my ambitions for promotion and I told him about the threat which the Chief Officer at Grendon had made. He laughed and said that, if I was successful in the 1982 promotion exams, he would gladly have me at Brixton as one of his Hospital Senior Officer's. What a nice man, no wonder he was so well respected across the Service.
The next two months literally flew by and, although I was physically knackered, I left Brixton with more than enough money to fund my transfer. Thanks Bryce. He died, some years later, when I was at Stocken and it is to my eternal regret that I couldn't make the funeral to show the immense respect I had for the man.
When I arrived back at Grendon a friend told me that he'd heard that the Chief had tried everything to block my transfer. The informed word was that I had a guardian angel somewhere high up. If I did have one, I didn't know and still don't. I left Grendon to travel to The Verne, a few days later, and was relieved that the Chief was on leave.
The island of Portland is a wonderfully wild place, just off the coast in Dorset. It is linked to the mainland by a causeway, a frightening stretch of road when the weather is bad. My first quarter was one of four 'flats' (apartments) in a converted administration block which dated back to WW11. The flats were sited in the prison grounds a few yards from the wall. My flat had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen and dining room. It's main feature was that it was freezing cold, even in the summer. I borrowed a camp bed from a member of staff and camped out in the smallest bedroom. I was comfortable at night in a sleeping bag and blankets. The flat had what was called 'background heating' which was piped up from the prison. It was so far in the background that I never noticed it. I showered every morning when I got into work. To use a bathroom would have led to a nasty case of hypothermia!
I quickly settled into my new working environment. It was a small hospital with a four-bed ward, four side rooms and a special cell. The live-in orderly (prisoner) was called John, a nice man who spoke like one of the aristocracy.
The Category C prison had a population of over 700 and most days we would see over 50 who were either on treatment or reporting sick. The Medical Officer (doctor) came in for one hour a day and never stayed a moment longer. I soon discovered that he expected us to have diagnosed and treated 90% of those reporting sick and only expected to examine the most difficult, challenging cases. I quickly got into the routine and my medical knowledge was increasing by the day. It would be fair to describe The Verne Hospital as a cross between a cottage hospital and an accident and emergency unit. I love it. I worked alongside John and fellow Hospital Officer's Alex and Keith. We worked alternate weekends and I was paired with Alex. We worked hard and had fun!
One lunchtime, I was in the Hospital office enjoying a cup of tea and a cigarette when the main doors flew open and a young officer rushed in with a very young child in his arms. His tearful wife was close behind. They had been sitting on Chesil beach, near the Portland village of Fortuneswell, when the small child picked up a small sea shell and proceeded to poke it up her nose. The child was becoming increasingly distressed and each breath produced a whistling sound. Mother wasn't much better, she just sat there with her nose dripping into a hanky. The officer, Roger, insisted that I remove the offending item before any permanent damage was done. I said that he joking, should see sense and take the whistling child to the accident and emergency department at Weymouth & District Hospital, a few miles away. Roger became upset, shouting that they didn't have a car and the time to wait for the infrequent bus service. He ended his rant by begging me to remove the offending item. The child, I can't remember her name, was giggling and whistling in her mother's arms.
I called for our orderly, John, to come to the office. I explained to John what I wanted and he rushed off. Ten minutes later he was back armed with a large bag of jelly babies. I didn't ask where he'd got them and he didn't volunteer the information. I moved the party into the treatment room and, after selecting a very fine pair of forceps, set about trying to remove the shell. Every couple of minutes John would administer the jelly baby that the child had selected. After about twenty minutes I managed to remove the rogue shell. After having a good look up the tiny nose I sat the child upright and she was promptly sick over the front of my white jacket.
More next time.......
..........................................................
This has been a busy time, as most are of late. Most importantly, a dear, dear friend is struggling with his health and we hope that things will start to improve in the coming weeks.
Today, as well as more about my life after joining the UK Prison Service, I'm posting a new Blog, Lock-Down Blues news, Pics and Poems and a new Short Story.
As some of you may have read on a recent email (I couldn't update the website because I needed a new browser!) I now have my own radio show on TotalFM 96.5, Sundays at one, called 'The Lock Down Blues Show'. My first show was last Sunday and, apart from a few gaffs, it went well. Thanks for the messages of support, much appreciated.
I'll be investigating the whole genre of blues music and playing a wide selection, old and new. There is so much good music to be discovered and I hope to actively involve listeners as the weeks progress. I will be inviting guests on to the show, the first being Jack Troughton, a local journalist and music lover, who will join me on 22 February.
If you are outside the reception range, or live abroad, you can listen live online on their website www.totalfm.es or via the 'App' 'tunein' radio TotalFM 96.5 Javea Costa Blanca North. You can also email me at ray@totalfm.es
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
When I arrived for my first day of detached duty at Brixton prison I was told to go and see the Hospital Chief Officer. He was a splendid gentleman called Bryce. He sat me down and said that he had received a call from the Hospital Principal Officer (John) at The Verne prison. My heart sank. He smiled and told me not to worry.
I confirmed that I would be paying my own transfer expenses and was looking forward to the challenge of working in a small team. He said that he was confident that I would do well. He asked me if I was prepared to work overtime to help pay for the transfer. I said that I was. He said that he was glad because he had arranged for me to work 12 hour days for the next two months. He also said that he would be allowing me to take a couple of days annual leave (holidays) in the middle so that I would adhere to the rules of detached duty. The rule was that you could not work for more than 28 days on detached duty without a break. He concluded by informing me that with my wages, overtime and subsistence I would be able to fund my move without putting myself into debt.
I was so moved that I almost burst into tears. I was really choked up. He actually made me a cup of tea until I got myself together. He asked me about my ambitions for promotion and I told him about the threat which the Chief Officer at Grendon had made. He laughed and said that, if I was successful in the 1982 promotion exams, he would gladly have me at Brixton as one of his Hospital Senior Officer's. What a nice man, no wonder he was so well respected across the Service.
The next two months literally flew by and, although I was physically knackered, I left Brixton with more than enough money to fund my transfer. Thanks Bryce. He died, some years later, when I was at Stocken and it is to my eternal regret that I couldn't make the funeral to show the immense respect I had for the man.
When I arrived back at Grendon a friend told me that he'd heard that the Chief had tried everything to block my transfer. The informed word was that I had a guardian angel somewhere high up. If I did have one, I didn't know and still don't. I left Grendon to travel to The Verne, a few days later, and was relieved that the Chief was on leave.
The island of Portland is a wonderfully wild place, just off the coast in Dorset. It is linked to the mainland by a causeway, a frightening stretch of road when the weather is bad. My first quarter was one of four 'flats' (apartments) in a converted administration block which dated back to WW11. The flats were sited in the prison grounds a few yards from the wall. My flat had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen and dining room. It's main feature was that it was freezing cold, even in the summer. I borrowed a camp bed from a member of staff and camped out in the smallest bedroom. I was comfortable at night in a sleeping bag and blankets. The flat had what was called 'background heating' which was piped up from the prison. It was so far in the background that I never noticed it. I showered every morning when I got into work. To use a bathroom would have led to a nasty case of hypothermia!
I quickly settled into my new working environment. It was a small hospital with a four-bed ward, four side rooms and a special cell. The live-in orderly (prisoner) was called John, a nice man who spoke like one of the aristocracy.
The Category C prison had a population of over 700 and most days we would see over 50 who were either on treatment or reporting sick. The Medical Officer (doctor) came in for one hour a day and never stayed a moment longer. I soon discovered that he expected us to have diagnosed and treated 90% of those reporting sick and only expected to examine the most difficult, challenging cases. I quickly got into the routine and my medical knowledge was increasing by the day. It would be fair to describe The Verne Hospital as a cross between a cottage hospital and an accident and emergency unit. I love it. I worked alongside John and fellow Hospital Officer's Alex and Keith. We worked alternate weekends and I was paired with Alex. We worked hard and had fun!
One lunchtime, I was in the Hospital office enjoying a cup of tea and a cigarette when the main doors flew open and a young officer rushed in with a very young child in his arms. His tearful wife was close behind. They had been sitting on Chesil beach, near the Portland village of Fortuneswell, when the small child picked up a small sea shell and proceeded to poke it up her nose. The child was becoming increasingly distressed and each breath produced a whistling sound. Mother wasn't much better, she just sat there with her nose dripping into a hanky. The officer, Roger, insisted that I remove the offending item before any permanent damage was done. I said that he joking, should see sense and take the whistling child to the accident and emergency department at Weymouth & District Hospital, a few miles away. Roger became upset, shouting that they didn't have a car and the time to wait for the infrequent bus service. He ended his rant by begging me to remove the offending item. The child, I can't remember her name, was giggling and whistling in her mother's arms.
I called for our orderly, John, to come to the office. I explained to John what I wanted and he rushed off. Ten minutes later he was back armed with a large bag of jelly babies. I didn't ask where he'd got them and he didn't volunteer the information. I moved the party into the treatment room and, after selecting a very fine pair of forceps, set about trying to remove the shell. Every couple of minutes John would administer the jelly baby that the child had selected. After about twenty minutes I managed to remove the rogue shell. After having a good look up the tiny nose I sat the child upright and she was promptly sick over the front of my white jacket.
More next time.......
..........................................................
1 January 2015
Giorgio preferred turkey to the book.
2014 has been a great year in so many ways. I won't bore you with the detail because it's there to be read on the back pages of the website. As well as brief updates on the Lock-Down Blues and Blog pages, there will be new Pics and Poems and, for the Short Story page, I'm offering you a brief excerpt from the next book.
On Sunday 1 February, next year, I've been invited to speak at a book club in the AlteArte bar/cafe in Altea Old Town. More details nearer the time.
This is a good time to thank Wilf & Sheila, Maureen & Robin, Victor & Bettina and Billy for their unswerving support over the past year. I must not forget David Stringer, who lives on the posh side of the mountain, for his kind remarks and support for the book. Also, seasons greetings to Eric Fuller in the US of A. It was great to hear from you. Nice guitars!
Our objectives for the coming year are,
For Margaret and I to be fit and well and continue to enjoy our beautiful cat Giorgio.
To finish the sequel to Lock-Down Blues and have it published.
To share a stage with Wilf, as WilfRaydo, and play some of the music we love.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
I struck up a close friendship with a Hospital Officer from Parkhurst ,called John, during my many periods of detached duty. We shared a similar sense of humour and didn't take ourselves too seriously. We would stay in a guest house at a place called Cockfosters in North London when we were working at Pentonville. Our digs were run by a middle aged couple called Charlie and Rene. They would argue over the slightest thing and were a fantastic comedy duo.
On at least one occasion during our frequent stays, Rene would invite her lady friends for a quiet drink with us. Charlie would go off to the British Legion with his mates and, sometimes, not get home until the following morning. Rene's idea of a quiet drink was unique. Each of us would be given a bottle of whatever was our tipple. The selection was restricted to gin, whisky, bacardi and vodka. Nothing as mundane as wine or beer ever found its way into Rene's emporium. A wide assortment of mixers was also available. So we got stuck in. Crisps and nuts were plentiful. If one of us managed to get through our bottle, another would appear as if by magic. One evening I stumbled into the drinks store when I was trying to navigate my way to the toilet. It was a veritable Aladdin cave and my gob was truly smacked! On these occasions we would stumble into work and, somehow, get through the day.
John was an avid gardener and was justifiably proud of his beautiful garden near Freshwater on the Isle of Wight. He was always on the lookout for flowers which would flourish in the mild island climate. We were standing on the Hospital exercise yard in Pentonville, one freezing
February morning, when we came came up with a brilliant idea. There was a circle of grass on the yard, probably four meters in diameter. It stood on the site where the executions took place. In the middle was a well-established rose bush. It was known as Crippen's rose because, apparently, the notorious murderer was buried beneath it. John's idea was that we would arrive early for work the following morning, take some cuttings and graft them on our own bush's when we got back home.
Mine was a total failure because gardening was not one of my strong points, a gift which has survived to this day. John's cutting did take and was doing well when I saw it a couple of years later. I wonder how it's doing now, 35 years later.
It was well known that I was becoming bored with the work and regime at Grendon. The detached duty did help but some kind of normality was needed so I applied for a transfer. I'd read, on one of the many circulars, that there was a vacancy for a Hospital Officer at The Verne, a category C prison on Portland in Dorset. I received a call from the Hospital Principal Officer in charge, a tall, imposing man called John, inviting me for interview. I arrived and the view was breathtaking. The prison was surrounded by a natural moat which, over hundreds of years, had become a wild life reserve. Fantastic.
I spent most of the day in the small Hospital and met the other two Hospital Officers, Alex and Keith. John said that the work would be totally different to what I'd been used to, mainly physical and not psychiatric problems. I was fascinated and said that I was definitely interested. To my utter amazement I was accepted two weeks later. I later found out that fifteen other Officers had applied for the post.
The good news was given to me by the Hospital Chief Officer, at Grendon, a right bastard called Ken. He happily informed me that I didn't deserve it because it was a plum posting and, even better, I would have to pay all my own transfer expenses. He also threatened that he would do everything in his power to prevent me gaining promotion to Hospital Senior Officer. I was up for promotion in two years.
As I was leaving his office he finished his tirade by telling me that I would spend the next month before my transfer to The Verne, on detached duty at Brixton prison. Brixton was a tough place and I would be expected to work long hours without a day off.
It probably never occurred to him that the overtime, and subsistence, which would be coming my way would fund my transfer.
More next time.........
.........................................................
Giorgio preferred turkey to the book.
2014 has been a great year in so many ways. I won't bore you with the detail because it's there to be read on the back pages of the website. As well as brief updates on the Lock-Down Blues and Blog pages, there will be new Pics and Poems and, for the Short Story page, I'm offering you a brief excerpt from the next book.
On Sunday 1 February, next year, I've been invited to speak at a book club in the AlteArte bar/cafe in Altea Old Town. More details nearer the time.
This is a good time to thank Wilf & Sheila, Maureen & Robin, Victor & Bettina and Billy for their unswerving support over the past year. I must not forget David Stringer, who lives on the posh side of the mountain, for his kind remarks and support for the book. Also, seasons greetings to Eric Fuller in the US of A. It was great to hear from you. Nice guitars!
Our objectives for the coming year are,
For Margaret and I to be fit and well and continue to enjoy our beautiful cat Giorgio.
To finish the sequel to Lock-Down Blues and have it published.
To share a stage with Wilf, as WilfRaydo, and play some of the music we love.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
I struck up a close friendship with a Hospital Officer from Parkhurst ,called John, during my many periods of detached duty. We shared a similar sense of humour and didn't take ourselves too seriously. We would stay in a guest house at a place called Cockfosters in North London when we were working at Pentonville. Our digs were run by a middle aged couple called Charlie and Rene. They would argue over the slightest thing and were a fantastic comedy duo.
On at least one occasion during our frequent stays, Rene would invite her lady friends for a quiet drink with us. Charlie would go off to the British Legion with his mates and, sometimes, not get home until the following morning. Rene's idea of a quiet drink was unique. Each of us would be given a bottle of whatever was our tipple. The selection was restricted to gin, whisky, bacardi and vodka. Nothing as mundane as wine or beer ever found its way into Rene's emporium. A wide assortment of mixers was also available. So we got stuck in. Crisps and nuts were plentiful. If one of us managed to get through our bottle, another would appear as if by magic. One evening I stumbled into the drinks store when I was trying to navigate my way to the toilet. It was a veritable Aladdin cave and my gob was truly smacked! On these occasions we would stumble into work and, somehow, get through the day.
John was an avid gardener and was justifiably proud of his beautiful garden near Freshwater on the Isle of Wight. He was always on the lookout for flowers which would flourish in the mild island climate. We were standing on the Hospital exercise yard in Pentonville, one freezing
February morning, when we came came up with a brilliant idea. There was a circle of grass on the yard, probably four meters in diameter. It stood on the site where the executions took place. In the middle was a well-established rose bush. It was known as Crippen's rose because, apparently, the notorious murderer was buried beneath it. John's idea was that we would arrive early for work the following morning, take some cuttings and graft them on our own bush's when we got back home.
Mine was a total failure because gardening was not one of my strong points, a gift which has survived to this day. John's cutting did take and was doing well when I saw it a couple of years later. I wonder how it's doing now, 35 years later.
It was well known that I was becoming bored with the work and regime at Grendon. The detached duty did help but some kind of normality was needed so I applied for a transfer. I'd read, on one of the many circulars, that there was a vacancy for a Hospital Officer at The Verne, a category C prison on Portland in Dorset. I received a call from the Hospital Principal Officer in charge, a tall, imposing man called John, inviting me for interview. I arrived and the view was breathtaking. The prison was surrounded by a natural moat which, over hundreds of years, had become a wild life reserve. Fantastic.
I spent most of the day in the small Hospital and met the other two Hospital Officers, Alex and Keith. John said that the work would be totally different to what I'd been used to, mainly physical and not psychiatric problems. I was fascinated and said that I was definitely interested. To my utter amazement I was accepted two weeks later. I later found out that fifteen other Officers had applied for the post.
The good news was given to me by the Hospital Chief Officer, at Grendon, a right bastard called Ken. He happily informed me that I didn't deserve it because it was a plum posting and, even better, I would have to pay all my own transfer expenses. He also threatened that he would do everything in his power to prevent me gaining promotion to Hospital Senior Officer. I was up for promotion in two years.
As I was leaving his office he finished his tirade by telling me that I would spend the next month before my transfer to The Verne, on detached duty at Brixton prison. Brixton was a tough place and I would be expected to work long hours without a day off.
It probably never occurred to him that the overtime, and subsistence, which would be coming my way would fund my transfer.
More next time.........
.........................................................
3 December 2014
The good news is that the front half of WilfRaydo is well on the road to recovery after surgery.
On the left is our extended family. The little chap in blue needs feeding up and a damned good tuning. Over the past few months I've really got into playing the guitar and Margaret is now happy to comment on something that's in tune and sounds reasonable.
November has been a very busy and interesting month. Today you'll read more about my time at Grendon prison, a new Blog, more news about how 'Lock-Down Blues' is doing, Pics and Poems and a different type of Short Story about some of the people I was lucky enough to meet during my book signing events.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
Although I settled into the Grendon way of doing things, certainly unique in the Prison Service of the 1970s, I soon realised that I wanted more.
Early in 1976 I was asked if I wanted to undergo training to become a Hospital Officer. The memory of Principal Officer Tommy's remarks to me on my last day at the training school was still fresh, so I said that I did. Hospital Officer's performed duties similar to nurses as well as managing the hospital wings in prisons.
The training focused on mental health issues, recognition of physical ailments and advanced first aid. I attended an initial three month course at Parkhurst prison on the Isle of Wight. There were twelve of us on the course and we were affectionately known by the Gate staff as 'SLUTS'. When I asked what it meant I was informed that we were Scab Lifters Under Training. I thoroughly enjoyed the months at Parkhurst particularly as it was during the incredible summer of 1976. We would start our class work at eight in the morning and finish by two in the afternoon because the heat was becoming oppressive. I would return to the guest house in Newport, change into shorts and a tee shirt and head for the beach. The course instilled in me an interest in medicine which has survived to this day. Although we had no formal qualifications we were expected to perform the duties of a doctor and a nurse on many occasions!
I returned to Grendon as a Hospital Officer with an additional £1000 a year responsibility allowance. I had hoped that a transfer to Parkhurst was also part of the deal but, alas, it was not to be. I was immediately moved from G&H Wings to the Hospital. The Hospital was the envy of the Service because it had a large inpatient facility as well as a state-of-the-art operating theatre. Most of the inpatient area was for the seriously mentally ill and we accepted referrals from all over the country. A percentage of the referrals were control problems and should not have been sent to us. It says a lot for the Medical Superintendent that prisoners were never refused or turned away. I always found it to be slightly incongruous that, in a prison which was group-therapy orientated, we were also acting as a control unit. The perception of Grendon, from those who had never worked there, was one of a cushy life for both staff and prisoners. Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth.
I really got into the job of being a Hospital Officer. I learned valuable lessons in the management of mentally ill and violent prisoners. During my first year I was asked if I wanted to train to be a Theatre Technician and work in the operating theatre as well as my normal duties. I jumped at the opportunity and studied hard. The Nursing Sister in charge of the theatre was great and immensely helpful. After 12 months of study, and being allowed to attend many of the operations, I was told that it was time to apply to sit an exam for the qualification. I was also informed that, if successful, I would work solely in the theatre, no longer doing my normal duties. Also, I would work Monday to Friday and miss out on any chance of evening and weekend overtime. Our basic pay, in 1977, was poor so without overtime it would be impossible to have any kind of social life. So, reluctantly, I informed the Chief Officer that I was withdrawing from the exam. He told me that I couldn't. I asked him why I hadn't been told about the five-day week arrangements before I started my studies. He couldn't, or wouldn't, answer me but ordered that I would take the exam and work as a Theatre Technician. I asked what would happen if I failed the exam. He assured me that I wouldn't and told me to get out of his office.
Reluctantly, I went to see the secretary of the local branch of the Prison Officers Association (POA) and told him what was going on. A couple of days later the POA man told me that he'd sorted it and I was back on normal duties. He also warned me that I should watch my back because the Chief Officer was one to bear a grudge.
From then onwards I spent most of the rest of my time at Grendon away on detached duty. Pentonville and Brixton prisons were the favourites, usually for a month at a time. The subsistence money, on top of the huge amounts of overtime was great but it was also a lonely existence. The plus was that I was learning every facet of working in prison hospitals. Early in 1979 I'd had enough of Grendon and applied for a transfer to The Verne prison, on Portland in Dorset.
I was desperate to get away so I paid my own transfer costs, but more about that next time......
The good news is that the front half of WilfRaydo is well on the road to recovery after surgery.
On the left is our extended family. The little chap in blue needs feeding up and a damned good tuning. Over the past few months I've really got into playing the guitar and Margaret is now happy to comment on something that's in tune and sounds reasonable.
November has been a very busy and interesting month. Today you'll read more about my time at Grendon prison, a new Blog, more news about how 'Lock-Down Blues' is doing, Pics and Poems and a different type of Short Story about some of the people I was lucky enough to meet during my book signing events.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
Although I settled into the Grendon way of doing things, certainly unique in the Prison Service of the 1970s, I soon realised that I wanted more.
Early in 1976 I was asked if I wanted to undergo training to become a Hospital Officer. The memory of Principal Officer Tommy's remarks to me on my last day at the training school was still fresh, so I said that I did. Hospital Officer's performed duties similar to nurses as well as managing the hospital wings in prisons.
The training focused on mental health issues, recognition of physical ailments and advanced first aid. I attended an initial three month course at Parkhurst prison on the Isle of Wight. There were twelve of us on the course and we were affectionately known by the Gate staff as 'SLUTS'. When I asked what it meant I was informed that we were Scab Lifters Under Training. I thoroughly enjoyed the months at Parkhurst particularly as it was during the incredible summer of 1976. We would start our class work at eight in the morning and finish by two in the afternoon because the heat was becoming oppressive. I would return to the guest house in Newport, change into shorts and a tee shirt and head for the beach. The course instilled in me an interest in medicine which has survived to this day. Although we had no formal qualifications we were expected to perform the duties of a doctor and a nurse on many occasions!
I returned to Grendon as a Hospital Officer with an additional £1000 a year responsibility allowance. I had hoped that a transfer to Parkhurst was also part of the deal but, alas, it was not to be. I was immediately moved from G&H Wings to the Hospital. The Hospital was the envy of the Service because it had a large inpatient facility as well as a state-of-the-art operating theatre. Most of the inpatient area was for the seriously mentally ill and we accepted referrals from all over the country. A percentage of the referrals were control problems and should not have been sent to us. It says a lot for the Medical Superintendent that prisoners were never refused or turned away. I always found it to be slightly incongruous that, in a prison which was group-therapy orientated, we were also acting as a control unit. The perception of Grendon, from those who had never worked there, was one of a cushy life for both staff and prisoners. Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth.
I really got into the job of being a Hospital Officer. I learned valuable lessons in the management of mentally ill and violent prisoners. During my first year I was asked if I wanted to train to be a Theatre Technician and work in the operating theatre as well as my normal duties. I jumped at the opportunity and studied hard. The Nursing Sister in charge of the theatre was great and immensely helpful. After 12 months of study, and being allowed to attend many of the operations, I was told that it was time to apply to sit an exam for the qualification. I was also informed that, if successful, I would work solely in the theatre, no longer doing my normal duties. Also, I would work Monday to Friday and miss out on any chance of evening and weekend overtime. Our basic pay, in 1977, was poor so without overtime it would be impossible to have any kind of social life. So, reluctantly, I informed the Chief Officer that I was withdrawing from the exam. He told me that I couldn't. I asked him why I hadn't been told about the five-day week arrangements before I started my studies. He couldn't, or wouldn't, answer me but ordered that I would take the exam and work as a Theatre Technician. I asked what would happen if I failed the exam. He assured me that I wouldn't and told me to get out of his office.
Reluctantly, I went to see the secretary of the local branch of the Prison Officers Association (POA) and told him what was going on. A couple of days later the POA man told me that he'd sorted it and I was back on normal duties. He also warned me that I should watch my back because the Chief Officer was one to bear a grudge.
From then onwards I spent most of the rest of my time at Grendon away on detached duty. Pentonville and Brixton prisons were the favourites, usually for a month at a time. The subsistence money, on top of the huge amounts of overtime was great but it was also a lonely existence. The plus was that I was learning every facet of working in prison hospitals. Early in 1979 I'd had enough of Grendon and applied for a transfer to The Verne prison, on Portland in Dorset.
I was desperate to get away so I paid my own transfer costs, but more about that next time......
23 November 2014
This is a short post today.
I will be a guest of T.L.S Books & Cards at the Hotel Denia Marriott Christmas Fair this weekend
29 & 30 November. The fair will be open from 11 - 6. As well as the opportunity to get a signed copy of Lock-Down Blues you will see a great selection of books, cards and party accessories.
I was recently interviewed by Hannah Murray of Talk Radio Europe about Lock-Down Blues. The interview is being broadcast on Thursday 27 November from 7pm CET, and repeated on
Sunday 30 November from 9am.
My next full post will be during the first week of December.
This is a short post today.
I will be a guest of T.L.S Books & Cards at the Hotel Denia Marriott Christmas Fair this weekend
29 & 30 November. The fair will be open from 11 - 6. As well as the opportunity to get a signed copy of Lock-Down Blues you will see a great selection of books, cards and party accessories.
I was recently interviewed by Hannah Murray of Talk Radio Europe about Lock-Down Blues. The interview is being broadcast on Thursday 27 November from 7pm CET, and repeated on
Sunday 30 November from 9am.
My next full post will be during the first week of December.
2 November 2014
The image on the left is now, sadly, no more. Cadbury have descended into the depths of bad taste by doing away with their milk chocolate Christmas 'Coins'. My grandfather used to 'buy' the coins for me, probably to get me used to the real wonga. Fortunately, Margaret has continued the tradition but, I'm sad to say, she will be buying the beautiful discs from Lidl this year. Are there other 'Coiners' who feel the same as I do? Letters of disgust to me please.
Happy to report that we've had a happy and very busy period since the last post. Today you'll be reading abour my introduction to HM Prison Service, a full Blog, News about Lock-Down Blues, new Pics & Poems and a new Short Story. Christmas is now clearly on the horizen so Honest Arfur will be contacting those lucky pilgrims who may want to be 'El Gordo'd'.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
I was one amongst 120 new arrivals at the Prison Service Training School sited in a beautiful country house a few miles outside Bristol. Directly next door was an open prison. Most of my intake had recently left the armed forces so, when it came to matters of discipline, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. I joined F section and the Principal Officer in charge was a bullish man called Tommy. He had a wicked sense of humor mixed with a goodly helping of sarcasm. His first task was to turn us into a properly functioning unit. This required him teaching us to march because some of us were destined to be posted to prisons where marching was part of the regime. As I had no previous experience, Tommy exercised his sense of humor by instructing two of the other recruits to teach me. Tony had just left the Royal Marines and Bill had been in the Parachute Regiment. I quickly learned that they both marched differently and could not agree a common approach to teach me. They almost came to blows on a number of occasions and, despite their best efforts, I never did learn to march, much to the delight of Tommy. In one of his reports he described me as looking like a refugee from Monty Pythons Flying Circus.
We were taught man management, restraint techniques and the endless orders and instructions which governed the running of the Service. I quickly realized that I would have to knuckle down and master everything that was thrown at me if I was to make a success of my new career.
On the evening before the last day of the course a few of us met in the officers club in the open prison. As was my want I had far too much to drink and, after starting a fight with my friend Graham, we were both ejected from the place and staggered back to the college and bed. First thing the following morning we were both rousted from our dormitories and escorted to the Governors office. Principal Officer Tommy was there and went through, in detail, what we had been up to the night before. Both Graham and I thought it was funny until we were told that the Governor was considering awarding a failure mark for the course which would have resulted in us being sacked. That immediately sobered us up but, to our credit as we were told later, we admitted everything and didn't try to grovel or plead for leniency.
After keeping us waiting outside his office for nearly an hour, we were called back in and informed that our overall performance had been enough to tip the scales in our favor. Tommy delighted in telling me that he respected me for not groveling like a sniveling weed and that, as I would be a failure as a discipline officer, I should apply for training as a hospital officer at the first opportunity.
I was posted to Grendon prison, near Aylesbury, in the July and applied to be a hospital officer some months later. It was the making of me. As Grendon was a psychiatric prison I knew that I would fit right in.
When I got around to telling my parents that I had joined the Service my father said that it would be good for me, calm me down. My mother said that I was a fucking idiot and wouldn't last a year. As usual, she was wrong.
The regime at Grendon was like nothing I'd heard about. It was very relaxed and prisoners were encouraged to address staff by their christian names, and vice versa. I started on G & H wings which housed young offenders who were serving life and HMP (Her Majesty's Pleasure) and sentences of ten years and above. Group therapy was the order of the day. I did a weeks induction course and sat in on my first group therapy session. Towards the end of the hour, one the prisoners became extremely agitated, picked up a chair and threw it in my direction. I reacted instinctively, picked the chair up and threw it back, striking the prisoner on the arm. The room became silent apart from the prisoner who was moaning about his damaged arm. As I started to speak, the door opened and the wing principal officer called me out of the room and bollocked me for retaliating. Despite my protestations, he insisted that I was in the wrong and that I was to go back in the room and apologise for my behavior. I told him that he was joking but, no, he insisted that I apologise. He said that all I had to do was say that I was sorry.
I walked back into the room followed by the principal officer. The prisoner was staring at me, eyes filled with hate. My exact apology was as follows, "I've been instructed to say that I'm sorry for throwing the chair which hit you on the arm. I didn't mean to hit your arm, I meant for it to smash you in the face. Shame I missed." With that I left the room, closely followed by the principal officer.
I know that the wording of my 'apology' is correct because it was part of a “Please Explain” I had to answer from the Medical Superintendent (Governor) the following day. It would be months before I was invited to attend another group therapy session.
More next time...
..............................................................................................................
The image on the left is now, sadly, no more. Cadbury have descended into the depths of bad taste by doing away with their milk chocolate Christmas 'Coins'. My grandfather used to 'buy' the coins for me, probably to get me used to the real wonga. Fortunately, Margaret has continued the tradition but, I'm sad to say, she will be buying the beautiful discs from Lidl this year. Are there other 'Coiners' who feel the same as I do? Letters of disgust to me please.
Happy to report that we've had a happy and very busy period since the last post. Today you'll be reading abour my introduction to HM Prison Service, a full Blog, News about Lock-Down Blues, new Pics & Poems and a new Short Story. Christmas is now clearly on the horizen so Honest Arfur will be contacting those lucky pilgrims who may want to be 'El Gordo'd'.
Living The Life - A Peckham Boy
I was one amongst 120 new arrivals at the Prison Service Training School sited in a beautiful country house a few miles outside Bristol. Directly next door was an open prison. Most of my intake had recently left the armed forces so, when it came to matters of discipline, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. I joined F section and the Principal Officer in charge was a bullish man called Tommy. He had a wicked sense of humor mixed with a goodly helping of sarcasm. His first task was to turn us into a properly functioning unit. This required him teaching us to march because some of us were destined to be posted to prisons where marching was part of the regime. As I had no previous experience, Tommy exercised his sense of humor by instructing two of the other recruits to teach me. Tony had just left the Royal Marines and Bill had been in the Parachute Regiment. I quickly learned that they both marched differently and could not agree a common approach to teach me. They almost came to blows on a number of occasions and, despite their best efforts, I never did learn to march, much to the delight of Tommy. In one of his reports he described me as looking like a refugee from Monty Pythons Flying Circus.
We were taught man management, restraint techniques and the endless orders and instructions which governed the running of the Service. I quickly realized that I would have to knuckle down and master everything that was thrown at me if I was to make a success of my new career.
On the evening before the last day of the course a few of us met in the officers club in the open prison. As was my want I had far too much to drink and, after starting a fight with my friend Graham, we were both ejected from the place and staggered back to the college and bed. First thing the following morning we were both rousted from our dormitories and escorted to the Governors office. Principal Officer Tommy was there and went through, in detail, what we had been up to the night before. Both Graham and I thought it was funny until we were told that the Governor was considering awarding a failure mark for the course which would have resulted in us being sacked. That immediately sobered us up but, to our credit as we were told later, we admitted everything and didn't try to grovel or plead for leniency.
After keeping us waiting outside his office for nearly an hour, we were called back in and informed that our overall performance had been enough to tip the scales in our favor. Tommy delighted in telling me that he respected me for not groveling like a sniveling weed and that, as I would be a failure as a discipline officer, I should apply for training as a hospital officer at the first opportunity.
I was posted to Grendon prison, near Aylesbury, in the July and applied to be a hospital officer some months later. It was the making of me. As Grendon was a psychiatric prison I knew that I would fit right in.
When I got around to telling my parents that I had joined the Service my father said that it would be good for me, calm me down. My mother said that I was a fucking idiot and wouldn't last a year. As usual, she was wrong.
The regime at Grendon was like nothing I'd heard about. It was very relaxed and prisoners were encouraged to address staff by their christian names, and vice versa. I started on G & H wings which housed young offenders who were serving life and HMP (Her Majesty's Pleasure) and sentences of ten years and above. Group therapy was the order of the day. I did a weeks induction course and sat in on my first group therapy session. Towards the end of the hour, one the prisoners became extremely agitated, picked up a chair and threw it in my direction. I reacted instinctively, picked the chair up and threw it back, striking the prisoner on the arm. The room became silent apart from the prisoner who was moaning about his damaged arm. As I started to speak, the door opened and the wing principal officer called me out of the room and bollocked me for retaliating. Despite my protestations, he insisted that I was in the wrong and that I was to go back in the room and apologise for my behavior. I told him that he was joking but, no, he insisted that I apologise. He said that all I had to do was say that I was sorry.
I walked back into the room followed by the principal officer. The prisoner was staring at me, eyes filled with hate. My exact apology was as follows, "I've been instructed to say that I'm sorry for throwing the chair which hit you on the arm. I didn't mean to hit your arm, I meant for it to smash you in the face. Shame I missed." With that I left the room, closely followed by the principal officer.
I know that the wording of my 'apology' is correct because it was part of a “Please Explain” I had to answer from the Medical Superintendent (Governor) the following day. It would be months before I was invited to attend another group therapy session.
More next time...
..............................................................................................................
4 October 2014
This has been a very enjoyable month. As well as lots of stuff with the book, we've had some lovely lunches and evenings out and I've enjoyed some great 'noodles' with Wilf. So, in this post you will get a very busy Blog, Lock-Down Blues info, Pics and Poems and one of those Short, Short Stories.
Next Sunday is the S.C.A.N. 'Society for the Care of Animals in Need' BBQ where I will be signing copies of the book. Come along, it will be a great day. On Sunday 19 October I will be signing copies of the book at the 2nd Annual Books & Blues Festival at Bar Mediterraneo in Teulada from 11 - 1.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
For quite some time afterwards Lou would take great delight in describing my facial expression, at that moment, to our friends and relatives and even total strangers. He said that I looked like a bright red rabbit who was staring into a set of headlights. He was right on the money.
I had tried to speak but nothing came out. I'd tried again and managed to produce a small yodel. Brian London started to laugh and I finally found my voice and managed to apologise about twenty time in five seconds. London was laughing fit to burst. After a minute so he asked us if we'd enjoyed our drinks. I yodelled that I had and Lou squeaked that he agreed. London smiled and then told us to fuck off because we were starting to bore him. We vanished into the night.
In 1973 left the Daily Mirror and joined Charles Barker advertising agency. The reason I decided to move on was because I was bored. This was a trait that would resurface regularly down the years. Barkers was a great place to work. Most importantly, the talent was grade A. One of the major accounts administered by Barkers was the Civil Service Commission (CSC). A few months after joining I was made account administrator for the CSC. I used to enjoy the monthly visit to the CSC building in Basingstoke. The civil servants were a great bunch and lunch time was always something to look forward to. Part of the CSC account was HM Prison Service.
I was introduced to a serving prison officer and I found him to be a fascinating individual. He was my height and build and seemed to project authority. He said that you didn't have to be big and heavy to command respect, you had to earn it. He also gave me another piece of advice which stayed with me over the coming thirty years, 'The best weapon that a prison officer has is his mouth. How he speaks to people, both prisoners and staff, will decide how good he is at his job'. A couple of days later, I decided that it was time for a change in direction in my life. I was in a 'difficult' relationship and thought that a move would solve a multitude of sins. I decided to apply to become a prison officer.
I took the opportunity to speak with Roddy Braithwaite, one of the directors at Barkers. I expected him to try and talk me out of the idea of becoming a prison officer, but he didn't. He was one of the few men I've met that I truly respected and I insisted on calling him sir. He thought it was amusing and put up with it. He advised me to follow my instincts which were, and still are, pretty sharp. He said that I would make a good officer as long as I kept my temper in check. My job at Barkers would be there for me for one year after I started in the Service. I couldn't ask for more. You will see Roddy mentioned in the acknowledgements page of 'Lock-Down Blues'.
I applied and attended Wandsworth prison for a very intensive day of tests, interviews and medical examinations. Of the nine men who attended Wandsworth that day, I was the only one accepted. My career started on 5 May 1975 at HM Prison Pentonville. Some place!
Principal Officer Smith was in charge of training and he took me under his wing. He was a quiet, knowledgeable man and we hit off from day one. I listened to him, followed his instructions and thoroughly enjoyed the two weeks there. At that time prisoners were not allowed to speak unless spoken to. The place was full of history. One abiding memory is of me standing, early one misty morning, by a round patch of grass on one of the exercise yards. Buried under the grass was Dr Crippen. The spot was marked by a beautiful rose bush. Crippen's rose. More of that later. After Pentonville, I spent two months at Officer training school in a converted country house not for from Bristol.
More next time....
......................................................................
This has been a very enjoyable month. As well as lots of stuff with the book, we've had some lovely lunches and evenings out and I've enjoyed some great 'noodles' with Wilf. So, in this post you will get a very busy Blog, Lock-Down Blues info, Pics and Poems and one of those Short, Short Stories.
Next Sunday is the S.C.A.N. 'Society for the Care of Animals in Need' BBQ where I will be signing copies of the book. Come along, it will be a great day. On Sunday 19 October I will be signing copies of the book at the 2nd Annual Books & Blues Festival at Bar Mediterraneo in Teulada from 11 - 1.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
For quite some time afterwards Lou would take great delight in describing my facial expression, at that moment, to our friends and relatives and even total strangers. He said that I looked like a bright red rabbit who was staring into a set of headlights. He was right on the money.
I had tried to speak but nothing came out. I'd tried again and managed to produce a small yodel. Brian London started to laugh and I finally found my voice and managed to apologise about twenty time in five seconds. London was laughing fit to burst. After a minute so he asked us if we'd enjoyed our drinks. I yodelled that I had and Lou squeaked that he agreed. London smiled and then told us to fuck off because we were starting to bore him. We vanished into the night.
In 1973 left the Daily Mirror and joined Charles Barker advertising agency. The reason I decided to move on was because I was bored. This was a trait that would resurface regularly down the years. Barkers was a great place to work. Most importantly, the talent was grade A. One of the major accounts administered by Barkers was the Civil Service Commission (CSC). A few months after joining I was made account administrator for the CSC. I used to enjoy the monthly visit to the CSC building in Basingstoke. The civil servants were a great bunch and lunch time was always something to look forward to. Part of the CSC account was HM Prison Service.
I was introduced to a serving prison officer and I found him to be a fascinating individual. He was my height and build and seemed to project authority. He said that you didn't have to be big and heavy to command respect, you had to earn it. He also gave me another piece of advice which stayed with me over the coming thirty years, 'The best weapon that a prison officer has is his mouth. How he speaks to people, both prisoners and staff, will decide how good he is at his job'. A couple of days later, I decided that it was time for a change in direction in my life. I was in a 'difficult' relationship and thought that a move would solve a multitude of sins. I decided to apply to become a prison officer.
I took the opportunity to speak with Roddy Braithwaite, one of the directors at Barkers. I expected him to try and talk me out of the idea of becoming a prison officer, but he didn't. He was one of the few men I've met that I truly respected and I insisted on calling him sir. He thought it was amusing and put up with it. He advised me to follow my instincts which were, and still are, pretty sharp. He said that I would make a good officer as long as I kept my temper in check. My job at Barkers would be there for me for one year after I started in the Service. I couldn't ask for more. You will see Roddy mentioned in the acknowledgements page of 'Lock-Down Blues'.
I applied and attended Wandsworth prison for a very intensive day of tests, interviews and medical examinations. Of the nine men who attended Wandsworth that day, I was the only one accepted. My career started on 5 May 1975 at HM Prison Pentonville. Some place!
Principal Officer Smith was in charge of training and he took me under his wing. He was a quiet, knowledgeable man and we hit off from day one. I listened to him, followed his instructions and thoroughly enjoyed the two weeks there. At that time prisoners were not allowed to speak unless spoken to. The place was full of history. One abiding memory is of me standing, early one misty morning, by a round patch of grass on one of the exercise yards. Buried under the grass was Dr Crippen. The spot was marked by a beautiful rose bush. Crippen's rose. More of that later. After Pentonville, I spent two months at Officer training school in a converted country house not for from Bristol.
More next time....
......................................................................
2 September 2014
Life continues to be exciting and full of surprises. In this post I've changed the title of ''Growing Up In London' to 'Living The Life – A Peckham Boy'. I hope you continue to enjoy my reminiscences.
There is a new Blog, lots of news about how 'Lock-Down Blues' is doing and a couple of poems I wrote some time back and dedicated them to a friend who became one of the characters in the book. I've left 'Magic' as the latest short story in case some of you missed it. I hope to be writing a story about the short, magical history of S.C.A.N.,Society for the Care of Animals in Need, to celebrate their two-year anniversary next month.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
The other great love of my life was, and still is, music. After growing up to the sounds of the Beatles, Stones and The Who, my tastes had moved to the West Coast of America. My particular favourites were , Crosby Stills and Nash, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors and The Grateful Dead.
Anyway, I saw an article advertising the Isle of Wight festival which was planned to take place over the last weekend of August on East Afton Farm. 1970 was shaping up nicely. Everybody who was anybody was on the bill. England was represented by The Who, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Free and many other great acts. America gave us such legends as Hendrix, The Doors, Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen. It was an amazing weekend of sun, drink, dope and fantastic music. Lou never came along and I can't remember why. How silly is that.
There were downsides such as the idiots who broke down the perimeter fences to get in for free. Also, to my shame, I remember getting to the festival but I have absolutely no recollection of how I got back to London. The skin infection which I contracted, gratis, cleared up after a visit to the docs.
Shortly after that momentous weekend, Lou and I embarked on our two week tour of the west side of England and Wales. The plan was to head up to Blackpool and, hopefully, end up in Tenby. Lou's Corsair 2000E was ready so we headed for the M1 motorway. After a long, long drive, which we shared, Blackpool Tower was there in front of us in all its glory, We'd arrived.
We found a B & B, unpacked and set out to promenade along the promenade. Frankly. I found it boring and couldn't wait for the pubs to open. The talent looked fair but you really had to concentrate to understand what was being said. It was a shame that the locals didn't have the same mastery of the English language as what we had. Anyway, by closing time the world was once again right and we were in control.
We decided that the night was ours, so we went on the hunt for a night club. Eventually, we arrived at a club called 'The 007'. It was obviously very popular because the queue waiting to get in stretched along the pavement and around the corner. I think that the main reason for its popularity was the fact that it was the only place open. The big hand was now creeping towards midnight so serious decisions had to be arrived at. Did we join the queue and stand a chance of being too late or did we speed up the process and renew our friendship with the local ale (whatever that was)? Easy choice, go for it.
So, I walked up the long flight of stairs past thirty or so punters who looked suitably pissed off, but said nothing because I must have looked as though I knew what I was doing. Lou followed, smiling in his embarrassed way and, as we reached the top, I walked into a solid mass of flesh clothed in an OK suit. As I glared at this apparition, I felt a tugging at my shirt sleeve. I turned to see Lou trying to speak to me. His face had gone a ghostly white and his mouth was emitting a kind of humorous squeak. . I decided that he must be thirsty so I decided to push on through. As I stepped forward, the man mountain asked me what I was doing. I said that it was quite obvious that I wasn't waiting for a bus and that I'd travelled all the way from London, I was dying of thirst and I wasn't going to wait in line with the rest of the clowns. I thought this was amusing and turned to Lou to get his reaction.
He was maintaining his impression of a ghost and started to practice his funny voice again. I gave up on him and turned to face the suit in front of me. He smiled at me and said ' I like your cheek, go and get a drink but fucking behave yourself.'
I nodded, muttered 'Cheers, my son', and pulled Lou with me to the bar. The man behind the bar said 'The boss is buying this round, what do you want?' I ordered two pints, we took them and sat down on a long, shiny, banquet-type thing.
All of a sudden Lou found his voice. 'Do you know who you were speaking to, you prat?' I answered that I didn't give a toss because he was only the bouncer. Lou was now in full flow and his colour had returned. 'You really don't know, do you?' I replied that I preferred him as a ghost because at least he wasn't whining.
Lou took a deep breath and said 'That man is Brian London, the boxer.' As I was telling him that he was daft, he started to adopt the aforementioned ghost impression and stared, open mouthed, at something over my left shoulder.
I turned and looked up into the face of Brian London...................
More next time.
................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Life continues to be exciting and full of surprises. In this post I've changed the title of ''Growing Up In London' to 'Living The Life – A Peckham Boy'. I hope you continue to enjoy my reminiscences.
There is a new Blog, lots of news about how 'Lock-Down Blues' is doing and a couple of poems I wrote some time back and dedicated them to a friend who became one of the characters in the book. I've left 'Magic' as the latest short story in case some of you missed it. I hope to be writing a story about the short, magical history of S.C.A.N.,Society for the Care of Animals in Need, to celebrate their two-year anniversary next month.
Living The Life – A Peckham Boy
The other great love of my life was, and still is, music. After growing up to the sounds of the Beatles, Stones and The Who, my tastes had moved to the West Coast of America. My particular favourites were , Crosby Stills and Nash, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors and The Grateful Dead.
Anyway, I saw an article advertising the Isle of Wight festival which was planned to take place over the last weekend of August on East Afton Farm. 1970 was shaping up nicely. Everybody who was anybody was on the bill. England was represented by The Who, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Free and many other great acts. America gave us such legends as Hendrix, The Doors, Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen. It was an amazing weekend of sun, drink, dope and fantastic music. Lou never came along and I can't remember why. How silly is that.
There were downsides such as the idiots who broke down the perimeter fences to get in for free. Also, to my shame, I remember getting to the festival but I have absolutely no recollection of how I got back to London. The skin infection which I contracted, gratis, cleared up after a visit to the docs.
Shortly after that momentous weekend, Lou and I embarked on our two week tour of the west side of England and Wales. The plan was to head up to Blackpool and, hopefully, end up in Tenby. Lou's Corsair 2000E was ready so we headed for the M1 motorway. After a long, long drive, which we shared, Blackpool Tower was there in front of us in all its glory, We'd arrived.
We found a B & B, unpacked and set out to promenade along the promenade. Frankly. I found it boring and couldn't wait for the pubs to open. The talent looked fair but you really had to concentrate to understand what was being said. It was a shame that the locals didn't have the same mastery of the English language as what we had. Anyway, by closing time the world was once again right and we were in control.
We decided that the night was ours, so we went on the hunt for a night club. Eventually, we arrived at a club called 'The 007'. It was obviously very popular because the queue waiting to get in stretched along the pavement and around the corner. I think that the main reason for its popularity was the fact that it was the only place open. The big hand was now creeping towards midnight so serious decisions had to be arrived at. Did we join the queue and stand a chance of being too late or did we speed up the process and renew our friendship with the local ale (whatever that was)? Easy choice, go for it.
So, I walked up the long flight of stairs past thirty or so punters who looked suitably pissed off, but said nothing because I must have looked as though I knew what I was doing. Lou followed, smiling in his embarrassed way and, as we reached the top, I walked into a solid mass of flesh clothed in an OK suit. As I glared at this apparition, I felt a tugging at my shirt sleeve. I turned to see Lou trying to speak to me. His face had gone a ghostly white and his mouth was emitting a kind of humorous squeak. . I decided that he must be thirsty so I decided to push on through. As I stepped forward, the man mountain asked me what I was doing. I said that it was quite obvious that I wasn't waiting for a bus and that I'd travelled all the way from London, I was dying of thirst and I wasn't going to wait in line with the rest of the clowns. I thought this was amusing and turned to Lou to get his reaction.
He was maintaining his impression of a ghost and started to practice his funny voice again. I gave up on him and turned to face the suit in front of me. He smiled at me and said ' I like your cheek, go and get a drink but fucking behave yourself.'
I nodded, muttered 'Cheers, my son', and pulled Lou with me to the bar. The man behind the bar said 'The boss is buying this round, what do you want?' I ordered two pints, we took them and sat down on a long, shiny, banquet-type thing.
All of a sudden Lou found his voice. 'Do you know who you were speaking to, you prat?' I answered that I didn't give a toss because he was only the bouncer. Lou was now in full flow and his colour had returned. 'You really don't know, do you?' I replied that I preferred him as a ghost because at least he wasn't whining.
Lou took a deep breath and said 'That man is Brian London, the boxer.' As I was telling him that he was daft, he started to adopt the aforementioned ghost impression and stared, open mouthed, at something over my left shoulder.
I turned and looked up into the face of Brian London...................
More next time.
................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
10 August 2014
Much of our time has been taken up with issues surrounding publication of the book. Updates on the Lock-Down Blues page. Also, as you can see, we attended a superb concert by American musician Andrew Duhon. More about that on the Blog page. Also, there are new Poems and Pics. Last, but not least, a Short Story called MAGIC. For now,
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
Lou and I became close friends. We both had steady girlfriends, which it must be said, was never allowed to get in the way of fun. We became the past masters of setting alibis. Ours were well constructed and believable. Superb.
Every year, during the late sixties, the Daily Mirror used to sponsor and present an annual 'Hot Pants Ball.' The event was staged at The Savoy dance hall in the Strand near Trafalgar Square. Some place. This was on our calender as a 'must do'. It would, of course, demand an alibi that would ensure that we could be away overnight. Job done. Bring on the contestants.
At one particular event we were getting scant return from a lot of positive attention and superb one liners. We eventually found out where the contestants were staying and decided to follow the best young lovelies back and see where events took us. Anyway, it was a long evening and we indulged our amazing capacity to imbibe pints of light and bitter. At one point we were approached by a famous Radio One DJ and his boyfriend but we moved on after they invited us back to their hotel for a more intimate party. It was probably my offer to shove his turntable up where he would find it impossible to spin a 45 that ended that portion of the evening.
Heading for a coastal resort after a night on the booze in the pubs of South London was usually the activity of choice. It didn't matter what night of the week it was. Fun was fun. One of our favourite destinations was Brighton. One particular evening we had exceeded our capacity for booze and, arriving in Brighton, we headed for the seafront and parked up for the night. We both fell instantly asleep. I woke to the sound of gentle tapping on the window. I decided to ignore it but it wouldn't stop. I managed to prise one eye open and saw the face of a young policeman staring at me. I elbowed Lou in the ribs and wound the window down. The officer apologised for disturbing us but insisted that we had to move because we were parked across the start line of the annual Milk Race. I looked over my shoulder to see what appeared to be thousands of cyclists staring at us! Needless to say we promptly moved and the race got under way. Why we were not arrested and breathalysed still puzzles me to this day.
The years rolled by and early in 1970 I became the Classified Make-Up Manager. This was despite late nights, a fiancee, other girlfriends and cash flow problems. My manager at that time, Peter, had endless faith in me which I constantly seemed to need to undermine.
Anyway, I was now a manager and I tried to become respectable. Some hope. Earlier that year, Lou and I were back in Brighton doing what we did best which was drinking and pulling the ladies. All of a sudden, Wendy became a part of my life. She could drink like a man and dance like an angel. Some combination. Needless to say, I forgot that I was engaged and also, for a time, forgot that I had a mate named Lou. Wendy and I were inseparable and I must have clocked up a few thousand miles driving from Forest Hill to the wilds of Essex and back.
!970 also included a visit to Blackpool, a meeting with the boxer Brian London and the Isle of Wight Pop Festival.
More next time...
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Much of our time has been taken up with issues surrounding publication of the book. Updates on the Lock-Down Blues page. Also, as you can see, we attended a superb concert by American musician Andrew Duhon. More about that on the Blog page. Also, there are new Poems and Pics. Last, but not least, a Short Story called MAGIC. For now,
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
Lou and I became close friends. We both had steady girlfriends, which it must be said, was never allowed to get in the way of fun. We became the past masters of setting alibis. Ours were well constructed and believable. Superb.
Every year, during the late sixties, the Daily Mirror used to sponsor and present an annual 'Hot Pants Ball.' The event was staged at The Savoy dance hall in the Strand near Trafalgar Square. Some place. This was on our calender as a 'must do'. It would, of course, demand an alibi that would ensure that we could be away overnight. Job done. Bring on the contestants.
At one particular event we were getting scant return from a lot of positive attention and superb one liners. We eventually found out where the contestants were staying and decided to follow the best young lovelies back and see where events took us. Anyway, it was a long evening and we indulged our amazing capacity to imbibe pints of light and bitter. At one point we were approached by a famous Radio One DJ and his boyfriend but we moved on after they invited us back to their hotel for a more intimate party. It was probably my offer to shove his turntable up where he would find it impossible to spin a 45 that ended that portion of the evening.
Heading for a coastal resort after a night on the booze in the pubs of South London was usually the activity of choice. It didn't matter what night of the week it was. Fun was fun. One of our favourite destinations was Brighton. One particular evening we had exceeded our capacity for booze and, arriving in Brighton, we headed for the seafront and parked up for the night. We both fell instantly asleep. I woke to the sound of gentle tapping on the window. I decided to ignore it but it wouldn't stop. I managed to prise one eye open and saw the face of a young policeman staring at me. I elbowed Lou in the ribs and wound the window down. The officer apologised for disturbing us but insisted that we had to move because we were parked across the start line of the annual Milk Race. I looked over my shoulder to see what appeared to be thousands of cyclists staring at us! Needless to say we promptly moved and the race got under way. Why we were not arrested and breathalysed still puzzles me to this day.
The years rolled by and early in 1970 I became the Classified Make-Up Manager. This was despite late nights, a fiancee, other girlfriends and cash flow problems. My manager at that time, Peter, had endless faith in me which I constantly seemed to need to undermine.
Anyway, I was now a manager and I tried to become respectable. Some hope. Earlier that year, Lou and I were back in Brighton doing what we did best which was drinking and pulling the ladies. All of a sudden, Wendy became a part of my life. She could drink like a man and dance like an angel. Some combination. Needless to say, I forgot that I was engaged and also, for a time, forgot that I had a mate named Lou. Wendy and I were inseparable and I must have clocked up a few thousand miles driving from Forest Hill to the wilds of Essex and back.
!970 also included a visit to Blackpool, a meeting with the boxer Brian London and the Isle of Wight Pop Festival.
More next time...
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
1 August 2014
Yesterday it finally happened. My dream of seeing 'Lock-Down Blues' published became a reality. Our copies arrived by courier on Wednesday evening and it was everything I could have hoped for. I'll be telling you more about what happened leading up to publication day on the
'Lock-Down Blues' page. So, please, read on.
My next post, in a few days, will have more 'Growing Up In London', further news about 'Lock-Down Blues', a fresh Blog, Poetry & Pics and a new Short Story.
Yesterday it finally happened. My dream of seeing 'Lock-Down Blues' published became a reality. Our copies arrived by courier on Wednesday evening and it was everything I could have hoped for. I'll be telling you more about what happened leading up to publication day on the
'Lock-Down Blues' page. So, please, read on.
My next post, in a few days, will have more 'Growing Up In London', further news about 'Lock-Down Blues', a fresh Blog, Poetry & Pics and a new Short Story.
21 July 2014
This is a really exciting time and thanks for your interest with the book publication date 10 days away. I've had some calls and emails raising the point that Lock-Down Blues cannot be pre-ordered as an ebook/Kindle. I've just spoken to the publishers and the book will be available in ebook/Kindle format on publication day, 31 July.
My Blog page will give you an idea of the other stuff we've been up to. There are some new Pics and Poems. One, in particular, is a few words I've put together after having my senses bombarded by the goings on across our planet during the past few days.
I've not included any new Short Stories recently, but there will be more in the near future. I also intend to give you an early idea about the follow up to Lock-Down Blues.
For those of you who enjoy hearing about my exploits as a young shaver in London, read on.
This is a really exciting time and thanks for your interest with the book publication date 10 days away. I've had some calls and emails raising the point that Lock-Down Blues cannot be pre-ordered as an ebook/Kindle. I've just spoken to the publishers and the book will be available in ebook/Kindle format on publication day, 31 July.
My Blog page will give you an idea of the other stuff we've been up to. There are some new Pics and Poems. One, in particular, is a few words I've put together after having my senses bombarded by the goings on across our planet during the past few days.
I've not included any new Short Stories recently, but there will be more in the near future. I also intend to give you an early idea about the follow up to Lock-Down Blues.
For those of you who enjoy hearing about my exploits as a young shaver in London, read on.
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
My first day at The Daily Mirror was awesome, but I must backtrack slightly. When my mother found out that Rita had got me the job, she started effing and blinding about people thinking that she couldn't bring up her own son. As if!! My father was going through a particularly tough time and he asked me if I would come and live back at home if he kept mother off my back. Like a fool I believed him and agreed. I soon found out that my part of the agreement (?) included stumping up some of my wages. Because I realized that my preferred sleeping and living arrangements would make it difficult to get clean clothes, and not forgetting a clean me, I agreed. Silly boy.
As I had started to say, my first day at work was awesome. No other word for it. I was taken to the messengers room in the advertising department on the sixth floor. The view from there was a sweep of Gamages, Hatton Garden and High Holborn.
I met, and joined, a group of boys and men who were as diverse a bunch as I would ever work with. Bob, who was tall and could grow a beard in two days, became a friend and mentor. Terry, who could lie like a cheap watch, play the guitar and pull the ladies, became another friend. There was Alan, who smelled of old sweat, was into pornography and could get tickets for any football match in London, tried to become a friend but I didn't take to him. Also, I mustn't forget Jeff, because I pulled his girlfriend Linda and lived to tell the tale. I repaid the debt, some years later, when I intervened to stop him receiving a severe beating in a pub called the White Hart. A broken pint glass and a bag of crisps are great levelers.
My days were spent taking advertising proofs to the many agencies scattered across Central London. Very soon I was let into the secret of being a good messenger. This amounted to cadging as many lifts as possible and knowing the streets of London inside out. There was money to be made on top of the allowance and I made it. My working day was normally nine to five but frequently I was lucky to make it home by midnight. The reason being, the aformentioned White Hart.
Situated in Fetter Lane, which ran along the side of the Mirror building, the White Hart was also known as 'The Stab In The Back'. A cartoon of Andy Capp had pride of place behind the bar. Andy was leaving the pub with a knife in his back. It was meant to portray the Macheavellian goings on often initiated by the Mirror editorial and advertising staff who frequented the place. I loved it. The head barman in The Stab was Reg, who knew everything but kept his council unless he took a liking to you. Reg served the best potato salad that I had ever tasted. In fact, it was the only potato salad I had ever tasted. I was a regular in The Stab and met some famous, and infamous, characters in my time at the Mirror.
During my first few months I met Lou, who was to become my closest friend, fellow drinker and womaniser. His best assets were his looks and his car. He looked like George Harrison and drove a Ford Corsair 2000E. With his assets and my passable looks and front, we were a winning combination. We were known in many of the pubs across South London and, of course, the clubs in Soho.
Lou worked, briefly, in the advertising department before moving to the main switchboard room. I was sat with him one evening, waiting for his shift to finish, when one of the good and great phoned down from the third, editorial, floor and asked him to put a call through to a Miss Bridget Bardot who was staying at a hotel in one of the southern states of America. He got through, after a stupendous effort, snd she actually answered the phone. We couldn't believe it. He asked her to repeat her name so that I could hear her voice. Wow! We dined out on that story for months.
More next time...
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
My first day at The Daily Mirror was awesome, but I must backtrack slightly. When my mother found out that Rita had got me the job, she started effing and blinding about people thinking that she couldn't bring up her own son. As if!! My father was going through a particularly tough time and he asked me if I would come and live back at home if he kept mother off my back. Like a fool I believed him and agreed. I soon found out that my part of the agreement (?) included stumping up some of my wages. Because I realized that my preferred sleeping and living arrangements would make it difficult to get clean clothes, and not forgetting a clean me, I agreed. Silly boy.
As I had started to say, my first day at work was awesome. No other word for it. I was taken to the messengers room in the advertising department on the sixth floor. The view from there was a sweep of Gamages, Hatton Garden and High Holborn.
I met, and joined, a group of boys and men who were as diverse a bunch as I would ever work with. Bob, who was tall and could grow a beard in two days, became a friend and mentor. Terry, who could lie like a cheap watch, play the guitar and pull the ladies, became another friend. There was Alan, who smelled of old sweat, was into pornography and could get tickets for any football match in London, tried to become a friend but I didn't take to him. Also, I mustn't forget Jeff, because I pulled his girlfriend Linda and lived to tell the tale. I repaid the debt, some years later, when I intervened to stop him receiving a severe beating in a pub called the White Hart. A broken pint glass and a bag of crisps are great levelers.
My days were spent taking advertising proofs to the many agencies scattered across Central London. Very soon I was let into the secret of being a good messenger. This amounted to cadging as many lifts as possible and knowing the streets of London inside out. There was money to be made on top of the allowance and I made it. My working day was normally nine to five but frequently I was lucky to make it home by midnight. The reason being, the aformentioned White Hart.
Situated in Fetter Lane, which ran along the side of the Mirror building, the White Hart was also known as 'The Stab In The Back'. A cartoon of Andy Capp had pride of place behind the bar. Andy was leaving the pub with a knife in his back. It was meant to portray the Macheavellian goings on often initiated by the Mirror editorial and advertising staff who frequented the place. I loved it. The head barman in The Stab was Reg, who knew everything but kept his council unless he took a liking to you. Reg served the best potato salad that I had ever tasted. In fact, it was the only potato salad I had ever tasted. I was a regular in The Stab and met some famous, and infamous, characters in my time at the Mirror.
During my first few months I met Lou, who was to become my closest friend, fellow drinker and womaniser. His best assets were his looks and his car. He looked like George Harrison and drove a Ford Corsair 2000E. With his assets and my passable looks and front, we were a winning combination. We were known in many of the pubs across South London and, of course, the clubs in Soho.
Lou worked, briefly, in the advertising department before moving to the main switchboard room. I was sat with him one evening, waiting for his shift to finish, when one of the good and great phoned down from the third, editorial, floor and asked him to put a call through to a Miss Bridget Bardot who was staying at a hotel in one of the southern states of America. He got through, after a stupendous effort, snd she actually answered the phone. We couldn't believe it. He asked her to repeat her name so that I could hear her voice. Wow! We dined out on that story for months.
More next time...
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
13 July 2014
An old pic of the author writing 'Lock-Down Blues'.
As you will imagine, there's lots happening at the moment. This post will show you the cover of the book, on the LOCK-DOWN BLUES page.
There will be more 'Growing Up In London' in a few days. There is new stuff on the POETRY & PICS page with more short stories to come in the furure. Once again, thanks for you continuing support.
1 July 2014.
The big news has been that 'Lock-Down Blues' will be published on 31 July. There is more 'Growing Up In London' stuff, new blog, poems and pics and a different kind of short story. I'm always pleased to hear from you and, as always, thanks for your support.
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
1962 had a profound effect on me. I was 13 and leading two quite separate lives. The one in Peckham was where I would go home to and where I, occasionally, went to school from. In those days the authorities didn't seem to care much whether I attended school or not. At that time I was at the Beaufoy school, near Lambeth Walk. My end-of-year reports were hilarious, at least I thought so. I wish I'd kept some of them. I remember that one said something along the lines of 'Raymond is a nice boy, it is such a shame that we don't see more of him.'
I was drifting along, supplementing the occasional handout from my grandfather with a Saturday job at Jones & Higgins, a department store in Peckham. The pay was good but, I must admit, most of it was spent during the Saturday evening in the 'Bunch Of Grapes' pub, just around the corner from the store. My drink of choice was a pint of light and bitter. Very grown up,me. The next three years seemed to fly by in a flash. I've dug back into my memory but I come up with the same stuff. Nothing memorable at school but great times north of the River Thames! Most nights my sleeping arrangements were the same although some were spent in a small number of clubs that would let me in.
I'd already fallen in love with the music of the Beatles but they were distant, a lifetime away. Mid-sixties Soho was a hot bed of new music. The sounds were sharp and urgent, so different to the Beatles and the other great acts that were descending on London. My favorite club was the Marquee in Wardour Street. I already knew the doormen and a lot of the punters. Tuesday evening would see me in the queue waiting to see The Who. The entrance was seven shillings and sixpence, although I did sometimes manage to blag my way in for nothing. The drummer, Keith Moon, could always be relied upon to see that we had 'fun' whilst we waited to go in. Their music was hard and urgent and they dressed to kill. Other regular acts were The Yardbirds, Spencer Davis and Jimmy James and the Vagabonds.
On Friday evenings there was a television show called Ready Steady Go. Frequently, the acts would turn up at the Marquee and mime to the hits of the day. We didn't mind the miming because it gave us the opportunity to see and talk to great American acts such as Little Steve Wonder. In 1965 it was decided that I should leave school and get a job. The school authorities agreed. It's fair to say that any chance I may have had of pursuing a career at Oxford or Cambridge was dashed the moment I sat down in a classroom to take my GCE's. I remember wondering if I would get some marks for spelling my name correctly. I realise that I wasted the opportunity of a good education but, somehow, I got by.
A neighbor in Peckham Grove, Rita, told my mother that the Daily Mirror were looking for messenger boys. Mother said that if Rita was that concerned with my future, she should either mind her fucking business or go and get me a job. Rita, bless her, was as hard as nails and Mother's insult had no effect on her. What she did do was arrange for me to see a person at The Daily Mirror. She came with me on a number 63 bus which took us to Holborn Circus where the Mirror building was.
Rita told the man behind the reception desk that we had an appointment and that I had an uncle who worked in the machine room. She added that we wouldn't be leaving until I had a job. A big, florid man named Ray Sizeland interviewed me. He asked me the name of my uncle who worked in the machine room. I looked at Rita and she smiled when I replied that I didn't have one. Mr Sizeland burst out laughing and said that because I'd been honest I was in. Wow.
Rita put my foot on the first rung of the ladder at the Daily Mirror. I wonder how my life might have changed if Rita had been my mum.........
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
The big news has been that 'Lock-Down Blues' will be published on 31 July. There is more 'Growing Up In London' stuff, new blog, poems and pics and a different kind of short story. I'm always pleased to hear from you and, as always, thanks for your support.
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
1962 had a profound effect on me. I was 13 and leading two quite separate lives. The one in Peckham was where I would go home to and where I, occasionally, went to school from. In those days the authorities didn't seem to care much whether I attended school or not. At that time I was at the Beaufoy school, near Lambeth Walk. My end-of-year reports were hilarious, at least I thought so. I wish I'd kept some of them. I remember that one said something along the lines of 'Raymond is a nice boy, it is such a shame that we don't see more of him.'
I was drifting along, supplementing the occasional handout from my grandfather with a Saturday job at Jones & Higgins, a department store in Peckham. The pay was good but, I must admit, most of it was spent during the Saturday evening in the 'Bunch Of Grapes' pub, just around the corner from the store. My drink of choice was a pint of light and bitter. Very grown up,me. The next three years seemed to fly by in a flash. I've dug back into my memory but I come up with the same stuff. Nothing memorable at school but great times north of the River Thames! Most nights my sleeping arrangements were the same although some were spent in a small number of clubs that would let me in.
I'd already fallen in love with the music of the Beatles but they were distant, a lifetime away. Mid-sixties Soho was a hot bed of new music. The sounds were sharp and urgent, so different to the Beatles and the other great acts that were descending on London. My favorite club was the Marquee in Wardour Street. I already knew the doormen and a lot of the punters. Tuesday evening would see me in the queue waiting to see The Who. The entrance was seven shillings and sixpence, although I did sometimes manage to blag my way in for nothing. The drummer, Keith Moon, could always be relied upon to see that we had 'fun' whilst we waited to go in. Their music was hard and urgent and they dressed to kill. Other regular acts were The Yardbirds, Spencer Davis and Jimmy James and the Vagabonds.
On Friday evenings there was a television show called Ready Steady Go. Frequently, the acts would turn up at the Marquee and mime to the hits of the day. We didn't mind the miming because it gave us the opportunity to see and talk to great American acts such as Little Steve Wonder. In 1965 it was decided that I should leave school and get a job. The school authorities agreed. It's fair to say that any chance I may have had of pursuing a career at Oxford or Cambridge was dashed the moment I sat down in a classroom to take my GCE's. I remember wondering if I would get some marks for spelling my name correctly. I realise that I wasted the opportunity of a good education but, somehow, I got by.
A neighbor in Peckham Grove, Rita, told my mother that the Daily Mirror were looking for messenger boys. Mother said that if Rita was that concerned with my future, she should either mind her fucking business or go and get me a job. Rita, bless her, was as hard as nails and Mother's insult had no effect on her. What she did do was arrange for me to see a person at The Daily Mirror. She came with me on a number 63 bus which took us to Holborn Circus where the Mirror building was.
Rita told the man behind the reception desk that we had an appointment and that I had an uncle who worked in the machine room. She added that we wouldn't be leaving until I had a job. A big, florid man named Ray Sizeland interviewed me. He asked me the name of my uncle who worked in the machine room. I looked at Rita and she smiled when I replied that I didn't have one. Mr Sizeland burst out laughing and said that because I'd been honest I was in. Wow.
Rita put my foot on the first rung of the ladder at the Daily Mirror. I wonder how my life might have changed if Rita had been my mum.........
.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
22 May 2014
This has been another busy period for yours truly and the weather has certainly helped. Apparently, this has been the driest April in Spain for many a long year. I'm not complaining but it has meant keeping the garden well watered. I'm busy scribbling away at the second novel and I've run some of the new work past The Corrections. Your expertise and wisdom has been greatly appreciated.
Thanks for your comments about my experience's growing up in London. Penelope Pepper said that she found it particularly interesting because of her limited knowledge of London. So, in this post I've included the bus ride which would take me from Peckham to Soho. Most importantly, get well Penelope, we look forward to seeing you over here before too long.
Growing Up In London - A Peckham Boy
It would take about twenty minutes to walk from Peckham Grove to the Number 12 bus stop. I would pass the Samuel Jones paper factory which was at the end of the Grove. Just in front of the factory was a stone trough which was still used by the rag and bone man to water his horse. From there it was straight along Southampton Way until it met Peckham Road. The bus stop was in front of a school for the blind. The place always looked locked and deserted but I know that it wasn't.
When the bus arrived I always made my way upstairs so that I could smoke. Weights or Bachelor Filter Tips were my fags of choice. I had once tried to smoke a mixture of loose tea and sugar but only succeeded in burning my lower lip. The foibles of youth.
The bus then passed Camberwell Art College, the Town Hall, St Giles Church and stopped outside Wilsons Grammar School. This is worth a mention because I must add it to the long list of disappointments that mother had accrued about me. She would have crowed like a witch if I had been intelligent enough to be accepted through the hallowed portals but, alas, another failure on my part.
Another half mile and we would arrive at Camberwell Green. Back in the sixties this place had aspirations way above its pay scale. Camberwell Grove, a few hundred yards fro the Green, was becoming THE place to have a property. Terraced houses with small front gardens were all the rage and Camberwell Grove was filled with them. I tended to gravitate more to the Green where I used to be a frequent visitor before Soho appeared as is by magic. Although it was littered with cigarette ends and empty beer and spirit bottles it did have a certain charm. Well I thought so!
After the Green the bus turned right and went along Camberwell Road where new blocks of flats had been built. Just before Albany Road, on the right, was my dentist's surgery. The dentist was a fat man who smelled of moth balls and seemed to take particular pleasure when the rubber mask was placed over my face to put me to sleep.
We then passed Westmorland Road and stopped outside The Temple Bar public house, which was just over the road from East Street Market. A few years later The Temple Bar was one of my regular haunts. It was always good for a laugh and the women were half reasonable. Sorry, I'm digressing.
East Street, or Lane as it was known, was South London's equivalent of East London's Petticoat Lane market. You could get anything down The Lane if you knew where to look and the right person to ask. Although Carter Street Police Station was nearby I don't ever remember seeing a copper on his beat amongst the stalls. A few minutes later we would arrive at The Elephant & Castle. When I was very young I can remember seeing horses in a stable where a shopping centre would eventually be built. They called it progress.
From the Elephant we would travel along roads which were definitely an improvement to those that I had been used to. The Imperial War Museum, on the left, is a place that I will tell you about another time. From there we would pass Lambeth North, Lower Marsh and eventually start the slow drive across Westminster Bridge with the Palaces of Westminster on the left. Crossing the bridge always had a profound effect on me. It was like entering a different world. Everything always looked clean, sparkling.
From there it was around Parliament Square and along Whitehall. I would sometimes get off by Downing Street and go and have a look at Number 10. In those days there were no gates at either end of the street so I would stand in front of the black door and wonder what was going on inside. If I didn't take a moment to sniff at the seat of power then it was on to Trafalgar Square. I would jump off the bus as it was going around the Square, there were no passenger doors on the London buses in those days. The fare from Peckham would have cost about one shilling and sixpence.
I would cross the Square, wary of the pigeons who were always on the lookout for new targets, through a couple of small side streets and on to Leicester Square. The cinemas always looked glamorous, as if they had landed from another world. A couple of minutes more and I was at Piccadily Circus. I never really liked the Circus because, even in those days, it seemed to attract the 'nasty people' as I used to call them.
So, nearly there. I would always take in Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue because that was where the guitar shops were. Buddy Holly and The Shadows had made the Fender Stratocaster the must-have guitar. I used to gaze at the sunburst and red Strats, knowing that I would never be able to afford one. Years later Margaret made my dream come true.
My regular stomping ground was Old Compton Street, Wardour Street and Berwick Street Market. The area was home to some real characters, and one such individual was Jimmy. He was a big, black American who was known for his crazy dress sense. He also owned a music club near the market.
Late one particularly cold evening I'd been looking for a suitable place to bed down for the night when I tripped over a man who was crawling on his hands and knees. I don't remember why I hadn't noticed him. I apologised and walked on. Suddenly, I felt a hand pull on my shoulder. I was spun round and received a slap around the face and a weak knee in my stomach. I didn't go down, just stumbled back against a wall. I looked up to see Mr Crawler and another man coming at me. I knew what was coming but, being tired, cold and a bit drunk, I decided to have a go. Mistake. As we were exchanging blows I was starting to get the worst of it, no matter what I did. I remember that I was crying out of frustration. I don't remember being frightened, maybe there wasn't enough time. I was on my hands and knees when, suddenly, the attack stopped. I looked up to see Jimmy giving Mr Crawler a few slaps and a kick. The other man was running away. Jimmy let go and Mr Crawler got to his feet, swore and limped away.
Jimmy picked me up, seemed to shake me and placed me back against the wall. I tried to speak but couldn't because I had a mouthful of sobs. After a minute or so he told me to go home. I told him that I didn't have a place that I called home apart from Soho. He laughed and told me to go with him. I did. After a short walk we arrived at his club. He took me into a back room, sat me down and told me to relax. He went out and, a few minutes later, one of his staff came in with a sandwich and a glass of milk (honest). Jimmy came back a couple of hours later and took me to another back room where there was an old, tatty settee. He told me to bed down for the night. I did.
He woke me just after seven, gave me a handful of change and told me to fuck off and stop being a nuisance. I left. I never spoke to him again but I did see him around. I was 13 years old.
More next time....
This has been another busy period for yours truly and the weather has certainly helped. Apparently, this has been the driest April in Spain for many a long year. I'm not complaining but it has meant keeping the garden well watered. I'm busy scribbling away at the second novel and I've run some of the new work past The Corrections. Your expertise and wisdom has been greatly appreciated.
Thanks for your comments about my experience's growing up in London. Penelope Pepper said that she found it particularly interesting because of her limited knowledge of London. So, in this post I've included the bus ride which would take me from Peckham to Soho. Most importantly, get well Penelope, we look forward to seeing you over here before too long.
Growing Up In London - A Peckham Boy
It would take about twenty minutes to walk from Peckham Grove to the Number 12 bus stop. I would pass the Samuel Jones paper factory which was at the end of the Grove. Just in front of the factory was a stone trough which was still used by the rag and bone man to water his horse. From there it was straight along Southampton Way until it met Peckham Road. The bus stop was in front of a school for the blind. The place always looked locked and deserted but I know that it wasn't.
When the bus arrived I always made my way upstairs so that I could smoke. Weights or Bachelor Filter Tips were my fags of choice. I had once tried to smoke a mixture of loose tea and sugar but only succeeded in burning my lower lip. The foibles of youth.
The bus then passed Camberwell Art College, the Town Hall, St Giles Church and stopped outside Wilsons Grammar School. This is worth a mention because I must add it to the long list of disappointments that mother had accrued about me. She would have crowed like a witch if I had been intelligent enough to be accepted through the hallowed portals but, alas, another failure on my part.
Another half mile and we would arrive at Camberwell Green. Back in the sixties this place had aspirations way above its pay scale. Camberwell Grove, a few hundred yards fro the Green, was becoming THE place to have a property. Terraced houses with small front gardens were all the rage and Camberwell Grove was filled with them. I tended to gravitate more to the Green where I used to be a frequent visitor before Soho appeared as is by magic. Although it was littered with cigarette ends and empty beer and spirit bottles it did have a certain charm. Well I thought so!
After the Green the bus turned right and went along Camberwell Road where new blocks of flats had been built. Just before Albany Road, on the right, was my dentist's surgery. The dentist was a fat man who smelled of moth balls and seemed to take particular pleasure when the rubber mask was placed over my face to put me to sleep.
We then passed Westmorland Road and stopped outside The Temple Bar public house, which was just over the road from East Street Market. A few years later The Temple Bar was one of my regular haunts. It was always good for a laugh and the women were half reasonable. Sorry, I'm digressing.
East Street, or Lane as it was known, was South London's equivalent of East London's Petticoat Lane market. You could get anything down The Lane if you knew where to look and the right person to ask. Although Carter Street Police Station was nearby I don't ever remember seeing a copper on his beat amongst the stalls. A few minutes later we would arrive at The Elephant & Castle. When I was very young I can remember seeing horses in a stable where a shopping centre would eventually be built. They called it progress.
From the Elephant we would travel along roads which were definitely an improvement to those that I had been used to. The Imperial War Museum, on the left, is a place that I will tell you about another time. From there we would pass Lambeth North, Lower Marsh and eventually start the slow drive across Westminster Bridge with the Palaces of Westminster on the left. Crossing the bridge always had a profound effect on me. It was like entering a different world. Everything always looked clean, sparkling.
From there it was around Parliament Square and along Whitehall. I would sometimes get off by Downing Street and go and have a look at Number 10. In those days there were no gates at either end of the street so I would stand in front of the black door and wonder what was going on inside. If I didn't take a moment to sniff at the seat of power then it was on to Trafalgar Square. I would jump off the bus as it was going around the Square, there were no passenger doors on the London buses in those days. The fare from Peckham would have cost about one shilling and sixpence.
I would cross the Square, wary of the pigeons who were always on the lookout for new targets, through a couple of small side streets and on to Leicester Square. The cinemas always looked glamorous, as if they had landed from another world. A couple of minutes more and I was at Piccadily Circus. I never really liked the Circus because, even in those days, it seemed to attract the 'nasty people' as I used to call them.
So, nearly there. I would always take in Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue because that was where the guitar shops were. Buddy Holly and The Shadows had made the Fender Stratocaster the must-have guitar. I used to gaze at the sunburst and red Strats, knowing that I would never be able to afford one. Years later Margaret made my dream come true.
My regular stomping ground was Old Compton Street, Wardour Street and Berwick Street Market. The area was home to some real characters, and one such individual was Jimmy. He was a big, black American who was known for his crazy dress sense. He also owned a music club near the market.
Late one particularly cold evening I'd been looking for a suitable place to bed down for the night when I tripped over a man who was crawling on his hands and knees. I don't remember why I hadn't noticed him. I apologised and walked on. Suddenly, I felt a hand pull on my shoulder. I was spun round and received a slap around the face and a weak knee in my stomach. I didn't go down, just stumbled back against a wall. I looked up to see Mr Crawler and another man coming at me. I knew what was coming but, being tired, cold and a bit drunk, I decided to have a go. Mistake. As we were exchanging blows I was starting to get the worst of it, no matter what I did. I remember that I was crying out of frustration. I don't remember being frightened, maybe there wasn't enough time. I was on my hands and knees when, suddenly, the attack stopped. I looked up to see Jimmy giving Mr Crawler a few slaps and a kick. The other man was running away. Jimmy let go and Mr Crawler got to his feet, swore and limped away.
Jimmy picked me up, seemed to shake me and placed me back against the wall. I tried to speak but couldn't because I had a mouthful of sobs. After a minute or so he told me to go home. I told him that I didn't have a place that I called home apart from Soho. He laughed and told me to go with him. I did. After a short walk we arrived at his club. He took me into a back room, sat me down and told me to relax. He went out and, a few minutes later, one of his staff came in with a sandwich and a glass of milk (honest). Jimmy came back a couple of hours later and took me to another back room where there was an old, tatty settee. He told me to bed down for the night. I did.
He woke me just after seven, gave me a handful of change and told me to fuck off and stop being a nuisance. I left. I never spoke to him again but I did see him around. I was 13 years old.
More next time....
7 April 2014
Hi,
Spring has sprung, finally. Yesterday, we had dinner on our terrace, for the first time this year. Excellent. A very Happy Birthday to my Margaret. After our gym session and a swim it will be home and then off to a beach bar/restaurant for a quiet lunch. Also, it's one year to the day, that our friend Bob Mather passed away. We were fortunate to have known him. RIP.
I've posted new pictures, two poems, a short story and two paintings for your consideration. Also, more about growing up in London, a quick update on progress with Lock-Down Blues, and my blog, should keep you occupied for a few minutes! Enjoy.
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
Cold really does get inside you. It makes you feel tired. The urge to curl up into a ball, and sleep, can be overpowering. For me, it was essential to find a place where it was safe to sleep without attracting unwanted attention. Behind dustbins was usually OK. To combat the cold I would find a place that was next to a late-night club because it was generally safe and the building would give off some low-level heat.
I met some really nice people and, it must be said, some right bastards. But life is like that, and some times you have no say in what hands you are dealt. In my case, mother was the main reason for me 'opting out' from what should have been a normal family life. My father was a good, kind man who was brow-beaten by his wife. He always seemed to seek the least line of resistance because mother was aggressive and a bully. Mother took after grandmother who, frequently, threw kitchen knives at me when I was small. I must have been really cheeky to have deserved that.
Anyway, I digress. Soho was a magical place. I was accepted in the places that I frequented because I posed no risk. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. I learned, very quickly, to talk my way out of troublesome situations. I was handy with my fists but I was also very good at running away.
I wasn't adverse to shedding the odd tear, and one particular 'event' has stayed with me down the years. I was sitting with my back against a wall, near the Café Royal in Regent Street. It was raining and I was cold and hungry. For some reason, and I still can't remember why, I burst out crying. Big sobs, tears and a runny nose.I felt a light tapping on my shoulder, so I looked up. It was one of the working girls, I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember her name. She called me by my nickname 'Peckham', cuffed me around the head and told me to stand up. I did as I was told. She wiped away my tears with one of her lace gloves and stared at me. I started to speak but she put her finger to my lips. I shut up. After a few moments she dug into her shoulder bag and produced a screwed-up pound note and some silver change. She pressed the money into my hand, turned and was gone.
I didn't get the chance to thank her because I never saw her again.
More next time..
Hi,
Spring has sprung, finally. Yesterday, we had dinner on our terrace, for the first time this year. Excellent. A very Happy Birthday to my Margaret. After our gym session and a swim it will be home and then off to a beach bar/restaurant for a quiet lunch. Also, it's one year to the day, that our friend Bob Mather passed away. We were fortunate to have known him. RIP.
I've posted new pictures, two poems, a short story and two paintings for your consideration. Also, more about growing up in London, a quick update on progress with Lock-Down Blues, and my blog, should keep you occupied for a few minutes! Enjoy.
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
Cold really does get inside you. It makes you feel tired. The urge to curl up into a ball, and sleep, can be overpowering. For me, it was essential to find a place where it was safe to sleep without attracting unwanted attention. Behind dustbins was usually OK. To combat the cold I would find a place that was next to a late-night club because it was generally safe and the building would give off some low-level heat.
I met some really nice people and, it must be said, some right bastards. But life is like that, and some times you have no say in what hands you are dealt. In my case, mother was the main reason for me 'opting out' from what should have been a normal family life. My father was a good, kind man who was brow-beaten by his wife. He always seemed to seek the least line of resistance because mother was aggressive and a bully. Mother took after grandmother who, frequently, threw kitchen knives at me when I was small. I must have been really cheeky to have deserved that.
Anyway, I digress. Soho was a magical place. I was accepted in the places that I frequented because I posed no risk. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. I learned, very quickly, to talk my way out of troublesome situations. I was handy with my fists but I was also very good at running away.
I wasn't adverse to shedding the odd tear, and one particular 'event' has stayed with me down the years. I was sitting with my back against a wall, near the Café Royal in Regent Street. It was raining and I was cold and hungry. For some reason, and I still can't remember why, I burst out crying. Big sobs, tears and a runny nose.I felt a light tapping on my shoulder, so I looked up. It was one of the working girls, I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember her name. She called me by my nickname 'Peckham', cuffed me around the head and told me to stand up. I did as I was told. She wiped away my tears with one of her lace gloves and stared at me. I started to speak but she put her finger to my lips. I shut up. After a few moments she dug into her shoulder bag and produced a screwed-up pound note and some silver change. She pressed the money into my hand, turned and was gone.
I didn't get the chance to thank her because I never saw her again.
More next time..
2 March 2014
Hi,
February has been a very busy month, I started writing this post a couple of evenings ago to a backdrop of the most beautiful sunset, not the norm for this time of the year. This has been a topsy turvy winter but let's hope that we are moving towards the same old 50 degrees-plus summer.
I intend to develop this website in the coming months mostly, it must be said, driven by the publication of
'Lock-Down Blues'. I have other projects on the go, the main one being to write the sequel to 'Lock-Down Blues'. I've given it the working title of 'Bad Back', because it has absolutely nothing to do with the book and I've had a dodgy back over the past few days. A dear friend (?) asked me what the main story line was. I said that it was about prison and that I was working on a character who was violent, corrupt and flash. He asked me if it was autobiographical!. On a serious note, a couple of close friends have given their opinions on the draft Prologue, most being very positive. I only use these people because I value their opinions and know that if I've written rubbish they will tell me so (and they have!).
Some of you found my recollections of childhood in Peckham, South London, to be worth a read so I'll inflict some more on you,
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
The small amount of cash to be had on the paper round plus grandfather's handouts were OK, but I was bored with getting up at five o'clock every morning, slogging round the grimy Peckham streets and, on more than one occasion, using my trusty house brick! Around this time I embarrassed my doting parents by getting royally drunk, for the first time, at a family get-together held at Gladys's house, in Dulwich. I seem to remember that I went their do under sufferance because my father was trying to present us as a Peckham version of the Waltons. My misdemeanour's involved drinking the slops from the glasses which were left all over the house. Gladys, the eldest of my father's sisters, was disgusted with my behaviour and took time to tell everyone who would listen that I would amount to nothing.
This event, combined with some low-grade physical abuse from mummy bear, made up my mind for me. I'd been used to travelling around on my own so a ride to the West End on a number 12 bus was easy. Also around this time, I was eleven, I travelled to Liverpool to see Tottenham Hotspur (Spurs) play Everton. My parents didn't know that I'd gone because I didn't tell them. From as far back as I can remember 'NO' was generally the answer to most requests. So, the least line of resistance was to avoid situations which involved 'No'.
I'd paid for the ticket myself, including the train, so off I went. At the start of the match the home crowd made us welcome by throwing penny coins. I was hit on the head and spent the entire match being looked after by some Red Cross people. Spurs lost. I had the last laugh because the supporters whom I'd travelled with got us on the same train back to London as the Spurs team. I met the players and they signed my match programme. When I finally got back home, late that Saturday night, my mother laid into me because I hadn't done my job of collecting the outstanding newspaper money, although I had told the shop owner that I would do double the following Saturday. As usual, she wouldn't listen. When I tried to explain why I had a bandage on my head she just laughed and ripped up my programme. That was added to the list of stuff I never forgave her for.
I digress. The bus ride to Soho, in the West End, was the start of a love affair with the place which is still with me to this day. Most days I wouldn't bother going to school and head for Soho. At that time it had a reputation for being a seedy, dangerous place where nice people didn't go. That was probably why I seemed to fit in. I wasn't big for my age but, as one girl said, I had more front than Selfridges. At first, my mother used to get angry because I wasn't where I should have been most of the time but, after a while, she seemed to finally lose any interest in me. That was fine by me.
I used to hang around the cafe's in Wardour and Old Compton streets and, after a while, people started to talk to me. Some times I got ask why I was on my own and I would reply with one of a catalogue of lies which I used at the time. The working girls, who were regulars on the Soho streets, started to be kind to me, always obliging with cigarettes and directions to a cafe where I could get something to eat and drink for very little money. Around this time, it was late summer, I decided that there was no reason to go home so I slept behind some dustbins in a small alleyway near Berwick Street Market. It was OK.
More next time..
Hi,
February has been a very busy month, I started writing this post a couple of evenings ago to a backdrop of the most beautiful sunset, not the norm for this time of the year. This has been a topsy turvy winter but let's hope that we are moving towards the same old 50 degrees-plus summer.
I intend to develop this website in the coming months mostly, it must be said, driven by the publication of
'Lock-Down Blues'. I have other projects on the go, the main one being to write the sequel to 'Lock-Down Blues'. I've given it the working title of 'Bad Back', because it has absolutely nothing to do with the book and I've had a dodgy back over the past few days. A dear friend (?) asked me what the main story line was. I said that it was about prison and that I was working on a character who was violent, corrupt and flash. He asked me if it was autobiographical!. On a serious note, a couple of close friends have given their opinions on the draft Prologue, most being very positive. I only use these people because I value their opinions and know that if I've written rubbish they will tell me so (and they have!).
Some of you found my recollections of childhood in Peckham, South London, to be worth a read so I'll inflict some more on you,
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
The small amount of cash to be had on the paper round plus grandfather's handouts were OK, but I was bored with getting up at five o'clock every morning, slogging round the grimy Peckham streets and, on more than one occasion, using my trusty house brick! Around this time I embarrassed my doting parents by getting royally drunk, for the first time, at a family get-together held at Gladys's house, in Dulwich. I seem to remember that I went their do under sufferance because my father was trying to present us as a Peckham version of the Waltons. My misdemeanour's involved drinking the slops from the glasses which were left all over the house. Gladys, the eldest of my father's sisters, was disgusted with my behaviour and took time to tell everyone who would listen that I would amount to nothing.
This event, combined with some low-grade physical abuse from mummy bear, made up my mind for me. I'd been used to travelling around on my own so a ride to the West End on a number 12 bus was easy. Also around this time, I was eleven, I travelled to Liverpool to see Tottenham Hotspur (Spurs) play Everton. My parents didn't know that I'd gone because I didn't tell them. From as far back as I can remember 'NO' was generally the answer to most requests. So, the least line of resistance was to avoid situations which involved 'No'.
I'd paid for the ticket myself, including the train, so off I went. At the start of the match the home crowd made us welcome by throwing penny coins. I was hit on the head and spent the entire match being looked after by some Red Cross people. Spurs lost. I had the last laugh because the supporters whom I'd travelled with got us on the same train back to London as the Spurs team. I met the players and they signed my match programme. When I finally got back home, late that Saturday night, my mother laid into me because I hadn't done my job of collecting the outstanding newspaper money, although I had told the shop owner that I would do double the following Saturday. As usual, she wouldn't listen. When I tried to explain why I had a bandage on my head she just laughed and ripped up my programme. That was added to the list of stuff I never forgave her for.
I digress. The bus ride to Soho, in the West End, was the start of a love affair with the place which is still with me to this day. Most days I wouldn't bother going to school and head for Soho. At that time it had a reputation for being a seedy, dangerous place where nice people didn't go. That was probably why I seemed to fit in. I wasn't big for my age but, as one girl said, I had more front than Selfridges. At first, my mother used to get angry because I wasn't where I should have been most of the time but, after a while, she seemed to finally lose any interest in me. That was fine by me.
I used to hang around the cafe's in Wardour and Old Compton streets and, after a while, people started to talk to me. Some times I got ask why I was on my own and I would reply with one of a catalogue of lies which I used at the time. The working girls, who were regulars on the Soho streets, started to be kind to me, always obliging with cigarettes and directions to a cafe where I could get something to eat and drink for very little money. Around this time, it was late summer, I decided that there was no reason to go home so I slept behind some dustbins in a small alleyway near Berwick Street Market. It was OK.
More next time..
9 January 2014
Hi,
I'm looking forward to a very busy and interesting 2014. Waiting for 'Lock-Down Blues' to be published is the big one but that will happen in good time. I've added a Poetry & Pics page to my website, which I hope you enjoy. There's a new short story and blog for your consideration and more to come in the future.
In my November post I mentioned that I would be writing about my life, warts and all. A little bit at a time shouldn't be too hard to digest so, for I'll start with,
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
Many of you know something of my background. I've already written about my invisible home life, sleeping rough and all that went with it so I won't dwell on that too much. I thought that you might be interested on my slant of what it was like growing up in South London, Peckham in particular, in the 1950s and early 60s. If any of you were around at that time let me have your memories.
I was born at number 20 Peckham Grove. We lived in the top flat of a three story terraced house which was owned by my grandfather. Grandfather Tom and grandmother Ginger occupied the rest of the place. We had a huge back garden which was quite common for houses like ours in Peckham. Grandfather had made a few bob as a carpenter, or that was what he lead us to believe.
Peckham Grove lined was with trees, I can't remember the makes, and the road surface had been upgraded to tarmac from tar blocks. The blocks could be burnt if money got tight. At one end of the Grove was the Samuel Jones paper factory. The building was famous for the huge butterfly which was picked out in tiles on the front of the building. Apparently, the Luftwaffe had the hots for it during the second world war but it was never hit.
At the other end was the Peckham Grove Tavern. The Tavern has been a rich source of inspiration for my writing and will always have a special place in my head. Grandmother Ginger really did have her own bar stool in the the saloon bar and was known to use her fists to evict any interlopers, male and female, who may have strayed on to it.
The Tavern was situated where the Grove ran into Gloucester Grove and, it must be said, that visitors were not welcomed. The misinformed called us cockneys, which was wrong because that title was owned by folk who were born (lived) within the sound of Bow Bells in East London. When I was four I went to Gloucester Grove Infant & Primary School. The experience instilled a hatred of school which stayed with me until I was asked to leave my last seat of learning in my early teens. My mother was a dinner lady at the school but if there were perks to be had then I must have been looking the other way.
Grandfather could be a rascal but we seemed to rub along OK. I think he must have realised, quite early on, that we were never going to win awards for being family of the year so his way of helping was to make sure that I always had a few shillings in my pocket. He looked after me on the understanding that my mother never found out. I was more than happy with that arrangement.
I was eight when grandmother Ginger died in 1957. I came home from school, one afternoon, and she wasn't around. I seem to remember that the conversation went something like;
Me – 'Where's Gran?'
Mother – 'She's dead.'
Me – 'What does that mean?'
Mother – It means that she's dead so don't be obstreperous.'
That was it. She was dead and I was in danger of being obstreperous. When I found out what the word meant I quite liked the definition and adopted it. Grandfather surfaced from his pit of grief-stricken isolation, after four months, and married our next door neighbour. Her name was Esther and she reminded me of Lenny the Lion. Ugly, hairy sort. I remember that the aunts and uncles, of which there were quite a few, all seemed to think that grandfather was a selfish, uncaring bastard, but not me. I had no time for Lenny but the old man kept to our financial arrangement so he was alright in my eyes. As has become obvious, money held a very special place in my pocket when I was a kid because it cured things like being hungry. Early on I'd added 'hunger' to my portfolio of horrible feelings. It sat quite nicely next to 'school' in the folder.
As I mentioned earlier, visitors were not welcome. Most of our neighbours were selfish, back stabbers who believed that they were owed a cushy life. Maybe we were the same, bears thinking about. The first 'newcomer' to move into the Grove was a black man who was a doctor. He moved into number four which was next to Mrs Gummer, who's stare could melt ice. I distinctly remembering her shouting to anyone who would listen that she'd shaken the doctor's hand and the brown die hadn't rubbed off.
When I reached the mature age of ten, two things happened. I had my first cigarette and I took on a paper round. I took the round off a lad who didn't want to give it up. He took some persuading but I got there in the end. The money I earned plus my stipend from grandfather was good because I quickly developed a liking for cigarettes. Senior Service and Capstan were my favourites. I used to earn extra money at weekends by visiting people who were slow in paying their paper bills. Obviously, a ten year old had limited resources when trying to persued people to part with their paper money but I quickly learned some tricks of the trade and became quite good at it.
Delivering papers at five thirty in the morning was not without its dangers so I kept half a house brick in my bag to repel the many tramps who frequented the bomb sites which littered my round. Sleeping rough was quite a big problem in South London at that time.
More next time.
Hi,
I'm looking forward to a very busy and interesting 2014. Waiting for 'Lock-Down Blues' to be published is the big one but that will happen in good time. I've added a Poetry & Pics page to my website, which I hope you enjoy. There's a new short story and blog for your consideration and more to come in the future.
In my November post I mentioned that I would be writing about my life, warts and all. A little bit at a time shouldn't be too hard to digest so, for I'll start with,
Growing Up In London – A Peckham Boy
Many of you know something of my background. I've already written about my invisible home life, sleeping rough and all that went with it so I won't dwell on that too much. I thought that you might be interested on my slant of what it was like growing up in South London, Peckham in particular, in the 1950s and early 60s. If any of you were around at that time let me have your memories.
I was born at number 20 Peckham Grove. We lived in the top flat of a three story terraced house which was owned by my grandfather. Grandfather Tom and grandmother Ginger occupied the rest of the place. We had a huge back garden which was quite common for houses like ours in Peckham. Grandfather had made a few bob as a carpenter, or that was what he lead us to believe.
Peckham Grove lined was with trees, I can't remember the makes, and the road surface had been upgraded to tarmac from tar blocks. The blocks could be burnt if money got tight. At one end of the Grove was the Samuel Jones paper factory. The building was famous for the huge butterfly which was picked out in tiles on the front of the building. Apparently, the Luftwaffe had the hots for it during the second world war but it was never hit.
At the other end was the Peckham Grove Tavern. The Tavern has been a rich source of inspiration for my writing and will always have a special place in my head. Grandmother Ginger really did have her own bar stool in the the saloon bar and was known to use her fists to evict any interlopers, male and female, who may have strayed on to it.
The Tavern was situated where the Grove ran into Gloucester Grove and, it must be said, that visitors were not welcomed. The misinformed called us cockneys, which was wrong because that title was owned by folk who were born (lived) within the sound of Bow Bells in East London. When I was four I went to Gloucester Grove Infant & Primary School. The experience instilled a hatred of school which stayed with me until I was asked to leave my last seat of learning in my early teens. My mother was a dinner lady at the school but if there were perks to be had then I must have been looking the other way.
Grandfather could be a rascal but we seemed to rub along OK. I think he must have realised, quite early on, that we were never going to win awards for being family of the year so his way of helping was to make sure that I always had a few shillings in my pocket. He looked after me on the understanding that my mother never found out. I was more than happy with that arrangement.
I was eight when grandmother Ginger died in 1957. I came home from school, one afternoon, and she wasn't around. I seem to remember that the conversation went something like;
Me – 'Where's Gran?'
Mother – 'She's dead.'
Me – 'What does that mean?'
Mother – It means that she's dead so don't be obstreperous.'
That was it. She was dead and I was in danger of being obstreperous. When I found out what the word meant I quite liked the definition and adopted it. Grandfather surfaced from his pit of grief-stricken isolation, after four months, and married our next door neighbour. Her name was Esther and she reminded me of Lenny the Lion. Ugly, hairy sort. I remember that the aunts and uncles, of which there were quite a few, all seemed to think that grandfather was a selfish, uncaring bastard, but not me. I had no time for Lenny but the old man kept to our financial arrangement so he was alright in my eyes. As has become obvious, money held a very special place in my pocket when I was a kid because it cured things like being hungry. Early on I'd added 'hunger' to my portfolio of horrible feelings. It sat quite nicely next to 'school' in the folder.
As I mentioned earlier, visitors were not welcome. Most of our neighbours were selfish, back stabbers who believed that they were owed a cushy life. Maybe we were the same, bears thinking about. The first 'newcomer' to move into the Grove was a black man who was a doctor. He moved into number four which was next to Mrs Gummer, who's stare could melt ice. I distinctly remembering her shouting to anyone who would listen that she'd shaken the doctor's hand and the brown die hadn't rubbed off.
When I reached the mature age of ten, two things happened. I had my first cigarette and I took on a paper round. I took the round off a lad who didn't want to give it up. He took some persuading but I got there in the end. The money I earned plus my stipend from grandfather was good because I quickly developed a liking for cigarettes. Senior Service and Capstan were my favourites. I used to earn extra money at weekends by visiting people who were slow in paying their paper bills. Obviously, a ten year old had limited resources when trying to persued people to part with their paper money but I quickly learned some tricks of the trade and became quite good at it.
Delivering papers at five thirty in the morning was not without its dangers so I kept half a house brick in my bag to repel the many tramps who frequented the bomb sites which littered my round. Sleeping rough was quite a big problem in South London at that time.
More next time.
Welcome to my website. This is a brand new direction for me so all advice offered will be gratefully received. I would like to thank Robin for getting me started. The man has an easy way about him and didn't make me feel like a total novice. His electric guitar isn't bad either..
The main reason for venturing into website land is to help in promoting my first novel 'Lock-Down Blues', which will be published in the New Year. But, first, some info about me.
I was born in Peckham, South London, England in 1949. I had a pretty lousy childhood and was a dismal failure at school. The old saying, 'started with low standards, and managed to maintain them', pretty much describes my school years. I did, however, fall in love with music. The early American rockers grabbed my imagination and the arrival of
The Beatles pretty much sealed it for me. I used to frequent the West End music clubs, in particular The Marquee, and my second favorite band was The Who. In 1965 I began work as a messenger boy at the Daily Mirror. One of my aunty's took pity on me and managed to get me the job. I found that I enjoyed working there and eventually rose to the dizzy heights of advertising make-up manager in 1971. In 1975 I made the decision to move my working life in a totally different direction, and joined HM Prison Service. Over the next 30-plus years I worked in many different prisons, and headquarters, as both officer and governor.
In 1984, whilst working in the grade of Hospital Senior Officer at Brixton Prison, I met the love of my life, Margaret. We married in 1986. I retired in 2005 and we moved, lock stock and siamese cats, to our beautiful new villa on the outskirts of a village on the Costa Blanca in Spain. I'll tell more in the coming weeks and months.
23 NOVEMBER 2013.
I hope you enjoy my new blog entry and the first short story, which I offer for your consideration.
I intend to make at least two updates to this website each month so please let me have your comments.
The main reason for venturing into website land is to help in promoting my first novel 'Lock-Down Blues', which will be published in the New Year. But, first, some info about me.
I was born in Peckham, South London, England in 1949. I had a pretty lousy childhood and was a dismal failure at school. The old saying, 'started with low standards, and managed to maintain them', pretty much describes my school years. I did, however, fall in love with music. The early American rockers grabbed my imagination and the arrival of
The Beatles pretty much sealed it for me. I used to frequent the West End music clubs, in particular The Marquee, and my second favorite band was The Who. In 1965 I began work as a messenger boy at the Daily Mirror. One of my aunty's took pity on me and managed to get me the job. I found that I enjoyed working there and eventually rose to the dizzy heights of advertising make-up manager in 1971. In 1975 I made the decision to move my working life in a totally different direction, and joined HM Prison Service. Over the next 30-plus years I worked in many different prisons, and headquarters, as both officer and governor.
In 1984, whilst working in the grade of Hospital Senior Officer at Brixton Prison, I met the love of my life, Margaret. We married in 1986. I retired in 2005 and we moved, lock stock and siamese cats, to our beautiful new villa on the outskirts of a village on the Costa Blanca in Spain. I'll tell more in the coming weeks and months.
23 NOVEMBER 2013.
I hope you enjoy my new blog entry and the first short story, which I offer for your consideration.
I intend to make at least two updates to this website each month so please let me have your comments.