Monday, 8 September 2014

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin, 1971.

Wednesday, 28 May 2014

A Promise

to everyone i've lost.

On this hill top
I buried you
As a younger man,
We gathered 'round
Your empty husk
And spoke of how you were so loved

And as the sun died
I promised that I'd seek you out
Well now the years have weathered me
And soon I'll claim you for my arms again

And if our hearts all disappear
And if our bones, they crumble to the soil
Well all our love will rise again

And if our hearts all disappear
And if our bones, they crumble to the soil
And all our love will rise again
And we'll float to the sea

And if our hearts all disappear
And if our bones, they crumble to the soil
And all our love will rise again
And we'll float to the sea

by Broken Records

Sunday, 30 March 2014

My mum

My mum is 68 this year. You wouldn't know to look at her, but a conversation gives it away. The casual, unthinking racism, the 'make do and mend' attitude inherited from the war that ended a year before she was born, the lack of sympathy for anyone with a plight less hard than hers. Two near-death experiences, the breech birth of her eight pound twelve ounce eldest son, his suicide 37 years later. You don't forget that, and neither will she. How could you?

My mum's childhood was dominated by dolls and two older sisters, and a father who smashed his fists on the dinner table if his steak wasn't ready when he came home from the harbour, where those same calloused hands rigged sails for the big yachts. While he twisted ropes, Gran twisted mum's hair into plaits, and all three girls would stand pristine in billowing white dresses next to a man who looked more like a pirate than a father for any daddy's girl. When mum's first marriage broke down and she went back to live at the family bungalow, he told her "you've been a nuisance all your life and you're being a nuisance now."

My mum always wanted a daughter; a real, living doll. For a long time, she thought it would never be. Her first two children were boys, named Paul and Jason, aged five and three when her first husband walked out. Paul was held back from starting school in the wake of the divorce, but within months of joining he was reading stories to the class. She says this with such pride, her first born son, who looked up at her with such big, beautiful brown eyes after that first traumatic birth. And with the same pride she tells how she attended night school to gain O-levels in accounting and economics, in order to give her little sons a better chance in life.

A single mother for five years, she married my dad in 1979. He was the "tall, dark and handsome" man who crossed the floor of The Academy ballroom to ask for a dance and who, apparently, never looked back. Paul and Jason wore paige boy suits with flared trousers at their wedding, Dad sported a thick black moustache that he didn't shave off for another fifteen years. (Around that same time he started going grey and Mum bought him a box of "Just for Men" for his 40th birthday. Tact has never been her strong point.)

This was Mum's new start. A new husband, a new house, a new set of children. Jonathan came first - another traumatic birth that comes up in conversation more than you wish it would, the explanation for the scar that runs under her child-bearing midriff. And then, at last, her longed-for daughter, me. Born on the 23rd March 1985 at ten past nine, a time which I'm reminded of every year with a phone call on the dot. When Jason rang the hospital that morning and found out I was girl, him and Paul danced around the living room. (By contrast, Dad had nearly fainted.)

When I was old enough Mum would put me in pretty pink dresses and brush my golden hair with ribbons and bows but I'd scowl if anyone ever said I looked nice. Not quite the living doll then, but a little girl who wanted to be more like her brothers than the angelic haired princess she appeared to be. Children don't see how much they hurt their parents. I do now.

A month before she turned 41, Mum had my youngest brother, Alexander. She tells us all the only reason she had him was because she wanted another girl. Like I said, tact has never been her strong point.

Jason and Paul left home for university, and five became a trio. Jonathan, Louise and Alexander. Three mouths to feed, three children to love, three children who were lucky enough to have a mum who was there for them every sick day, every day of the school holidays, every meal time. She'd worked damn hard in her twenties and when she met a man who could support the whole big family, she chose to stay at home. Born a generation or two later and she might have been a business woman, an entrepreneur. She says she was born to be a mother.

Life has a way of being cruel and taking away from you what you cherish the most. Mum lost her womb due to a fibroid when I was around 11, finally taking away the chance of one more child, which she dearly longed for despite her age and her brood of five. Fibroids are tumours described as benign. This was anything but. The hysterectomy required to remove it went wrong and as she woke up from the operation, she began haemorrhaging internally from inadequate sutures. The surgeons who cut her open needed to operate again, and the nurses were instructed that visitors were banned. White as a ghost but still bloody minded, she demanded that Dad bring me in to see her before she went under. Just me, not the boys. It's the first memory I have of her saying the words "I love you." Afterwards, she said she thought she was going to die.

My mum seems undefeatable. She is one of the strongest people I know (yet, at five feet nothing and seven stone three, one of the smallest). She goes to the gym five days a week, she runs for miles, swims, cleans the house, cooks the dinner, wakes up, goes to aerobics, runs for miles, swims, cleans the house, cooks the dinner... she's also pretty compulsive. When we lived at home, she would cook the same meal every day each week: chips, beans and sausages Monday (my favourite), roast dinner on a Thursday and Sunday, salad and jacket potato on Saturday (not my favourite). Her apple crumbles are legendary amongst my family and friends. She wins the pub quiz more often than not and when she doesn't she beats herself up until she wins it again.

When my brother died her adrenal glands stopped working and she spent two weeks in bed with increasingly worsening muscle cramps until she was admitted to hospital and hooked up to diamorphine. Diamorphine is what doctors call heroin. She was hours from dying before they worked out what was wrong. I don't know how she lived through the pain of losing her eldest son and I don't know how she didn't give up when her organs started to fail but she did. I don't know how she does what she does every day, or how she found the energy to go to night school and raise two boys while doing a job at an age younger than I am now and I can't do just one of those things without complaining how tired I am.

But more than I don't know, I won't forget how strong she has been for the sake of her family. Happy Mothering Sunday, Mum.

Sunday, 26 January 2014

The Postcard

From the helicopter
That still nips the psyche
And makes the apes look up,
The shutter clicked
And caught the time
That was to become
The view to be sent
Around the world;
The small town's sum.
An exposure
In more ways than one.
Amidst the pretty
Hanging baskets
More grief
Than might be imagined,
But that's life.
The weather is here,
Wish you were beautiful -
Why come to this town?

Paul Maddocks (26 January 1969 - 19 April 2007)

Monday, 7 October 2013

To Love At All

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

C.S. Lewis (1898-1963), The Four Loves

Wednesday, 25 September 2013

Marijuana transformations

"Said Michael Rossman, a veteran of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement, "When a young person took his first puff of psychoactive smoke, he also drew in the psychoactive culture as a whole, the entire matrix of law and association surrounding the drug, its induction and transaction. One inhaled a certain way of dressing, talking, acting, certain attitudes. One became a youth criminal against the State."

Martin Lee and Bruce Shlain, Acid Dreams: The Complete Social History of LSD: The CIA, the Sixties, and Beyond (2007).

Sunday, 22 September 2013


"Drug use, and drug abuse, are a reflection of society, its tensions, its values, and its needs. To punish drug-takers is like a drunk striking the bleary face which he sees in the mirror. Drugs will not be brought under control until society itself changes, enabling men to use them with discrimination, and perhaps in time to dispense with them."

Brian Inglis, The Forbidden Game, 1975.