Joyous Journeys back to birth of Liverpool Jazz...

Extract from.... The Tank Room - Martin Craig-Downer

Sitting opposite him, the only other occupants of the carriage were a pasty, overweight, dull looking woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a preschool age boy who didn't want to stay put in his seat. The child had a halo of mousy, lustreless curls, a snotty running nose and a grimy face. Every time he fidgeted or whined, or did something else that annoyed her, the woman would scold the child coarsely.
'Stop that you little bugger.' Then she'd slap him on the leg. This only served to unleash more wailing and whining.

As the train pulled out of Chester, a gaunt, middle aged man in dark, crease-less trousers and a shabby black overcoat with a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders, peered in the carriage. He immediately went for the vacant seat next to Matt. He didn't so much smile, as leer at Matt as he sat down.

The snotty nosed kid stared at the new arrival in wonderment. 'Look at that funny man, mum.'
'Shut up you little sod.' Another slap. More howling and tears.

The man leaned close to Matt, who was fleetingly preoccupied considering whether or not the woman's behaviour amounted to child abuse. He sensed the new arrival was going to try and start up a conversation. 'What long fingers,' the man trilled, taking Matt by complete surprise. 'Musician? A violinist perhaps, or a pianist?'

His breath stank of damp rotting hay and Matt recoiled nearer to the window. He looked out at the passing landscape. It couldn't make up its mind if it was dull, featureless countryside or dreary monotonous suburbia.

The pasty woman looked alert for the first time. Her eyes followed Matt and the man. Inwardly, Matt squirmed with embarrassment. 'No. I'm not a musician.' He turned back to the window and wished he'd thought of some totally boring, unlikely or outrageous occupation he could have laid claim to: Funeral director's clerk? Goldfish sexer? Nude trapeze artist? But it would probably only have encouraged the inquisitor and sent him into a fit of the giggles.

Matt raised the newspaper and buried his head in it. 'I'm a musician.' The man went on sibilantly, 'I'm an organist at Chester Cathedral.'

God protect the choir boys Matt thought. He excused himself and went out into the corridor. Moving a little way down, he slid open the top of a window and lit a cigarette. Fortunately he'd not been followed although he realised belatedly that his move could have been misinterpreted.

He remained there smoking as the train rattled on, rickety tick, and approached the outer Merseyside urban sprawl. They were coming into Rock Ferry where he'd been told to change trains. As the brakes squealed, he went back to the carriage and retrieved his belongings. He was pleased to note the dandruff garnished overcoat was evidently not getting off. Once again though he gave Matt a sly smile.

The train jolted to a stop. Matt heaved his old leather case down the corridor, unhooked the strap to drop the carriage door window and reached out for the door handle. He stepped down and dumped his case on the platform for a moment. The locomotive started up again, hissing and chuffing, clouds of dark smoke billowing from its funnel and steam jetting forcefully out of the pistons. The warm, comfortable carriages started to recede from view towards the train's final destination in Birkenhead, taking the organist, the pasty woman and the snotty child with it.



Martin Craig-Downer. The Tank Room (Kindle Locations 157-196). mardibooks.

Medway Punk...Eat me... Nigel P

Extract from....The Loners ... a book about a band...

For a week in August, I was forced to spend several wretched days in a caravan on Dartmoor in Devon; rain, thunder and even sleet at one point, forcing my family to spend most of the time cooped up together playing Monopoly; gradually succumbing to cabin fever which resulted in us returning home two days early, much to everyone's relief. I spent most of the time freezing in a tiny bunk bed, reading Stephen King'' s The Shining, which sort of said it all, really. The tribal drums of rumour had been pounding their rhythms since the gig and Penny took much delight in adding to my ignominy by telling me about yet another friend of a friend who'd been there and witnessed the debacle; finding it hilarious to see a teacher manically storming onto the stage shouting "You can all stop this at once,"" whilst we vainly carried on playing until he eventually managed to pull the plug, leading to a thundering silence, during which the only thing which could be heard was Mr Bosworth's near hysterical "You, lad! Get the hell out of my school!" which he was shrieking back stage at Bass, who simply stared back at him, hazy and numbed by alcohol. In a split second of rage, Bosworth lashed out at the boy's head, slapping him firmly across the cheek. "How bloody dare you?" Bosworth spits, before descending from the stage into the school hall and attempting to resume his composure in front of Help the Aged's Smith and Melley, who had watched the evening's unfoldings with a mixture of disbelief and horror. Bass is dazed and out of it but, surprisingly, offers no attempt to retaliate to Bosworth's blow, and instead, picks up his bass and slowly makes his way towards the back exit, just another boy with a bass guitar. Len and Lesley are already frantically packing away the drum kit in order to make their own hasty departure from the scene of the crime; Sebastian has sloped off and I'm left standing alone on stage, staring at what remains of the audience, who are looking back at me like drivers passing the scene of a particularly savage car crash. A nervous and discernibly uncomfortable Bernie Beat then attempts to save the day. "Let's hear it for The Loners," he says lamely before bunging on another ELO record. "This one's called "Turn to Stone."" How fucking apposite. As we prepared to return to school, for what many of us hoped would be our final year, I once again returned to the idea of leaving on my birthday in December but by now, a little common sense had begun to sink in. Whilst The Loners had the potential to be a great band, in my opinion, reality had taught me that we were highly unlikely to make a living out of being musicians. I needed to stay on at school to do my O Levels because there really weren't many other options out there. I certainly couldn't see myself labouring down at the dockyard or working in some crappy office somewhere. It was even said that the mighty Woods had been spotted working in a baker's in Rochester High Street and his notorious pal Webley had been seen pouring drinks behind a bar in Gillingham. Rotten was right, in Britain in 1978 there certainly was "no future" for the likes of us. So we all returned to a Bass-free school in September and I paid my dues with the series of detentions meted out to me in the few days which followed the disco. It was hard rejoining 5B, to be honest. Goodman and Furio were really supportive, however. "Loved the gig, even if the bastards did cut you short," Furio tells me at lunchtime on the first day. "Yeah. Never let them grind you down. It was WRONG what they did to Bass, man. Real wrong," Goodman adds.

Nigel P. The Loners (Kindle Locations 4224-4273). mardibooks.

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Prologue

Sauchiehall Street

- I s’pose in years tae come, it’ll be something to laugh aboot, o’er a few beers meybe…but at the time it was nae funny. It was nae funny at a’ and i’s still nae funny now…

Ewan’s face was contorted by the recent memory. He stood with his back to the desk looking through the window at the passing lives of Glasgow, trying both to remember it clearly and forget it forever.

Dr Swartz coughed. The dry air from the air conditioning unit was not good for his chest. It was the hottest summer in history and weariness had settled over the busy city as people tried to conserve energy.

- Tell me again aboot your father

The insinuation was clear and Ewan rounded on him

- Och aye, he was a bully a’ right…

His voice faded and his eyes glazed over.

- I idolised him. He wanted me to be a prize-fighter like him but in the ring like. No’ one o’they street fights they did fae money in the alleys o’ Glesca, but pucker like. Wi’ a manager an’ a’.

Ewan came back to the present. He slammed his fist into the filing cabinet; the drawers buckled slightly under the force. His father had walked out when he was three abandoning his mother and baby brother to a succession of fathers and subsequent siblings. There were seven of them now. Ranging from Sarah at 6 months to Ewan who was 23. They lived in a cramped council house on the south side of Glasgow, so many to a room and still two children would invariably end up staying down the road at their Grandad’s, overnight, for the shortage of beds at home.

-Ma Ma, she had such dreams, but each one was worse than the last. When I was 14 ma Da returned to teach me to fight. He stayed on the scene, livin’ nearby for a few years, but he could nae hol’ down a job and then there was the trouble wi’ the polis… I’ve nae seen him since I was 19. We had a big fight, it was aboot how he treated ma Ma. I’d had enough. He was nae bigger than me then and I took him on. He left in the ambulance wi’ a broken jaw an’ six cracked ribs. Tha’ was the last o’ it. I can nae stand domestic violence.

Ewan looked up, realising the import of his last words.

- I dinnae believe in a’ tha’ environment an’ genetics crap. It must be possible to break free. I’m educated. I’ve got brains. I read books!

He was angry now, and confused. Sweat was pouring down his face, despite the ambient temperature in the consulting room. Dr Swartz watched and remained silent. Waiting for the admission.

- I s’pose I must ha’ done it. I jus’ could nae believe I was capable o’ it.

The recent events came back with a flash. Her last words were burning into his skull. He thought his head would explode in the heat.

- You really have no idea what you’ve been doing have you? All these months and you aren’t even aware of it. You need help.

She hadn’t called the police. She hadn’t thrown him out. He’d wandered the streets of the little Hillfoots town for hours, dazed, coming to terms with what was happening. He was suddenly homeless, penniless, friendless and being accused of behaving like the worst kind of ogre. The sort of man he detested and he was unaware of how it had happened. He’d loved her. He’d idolised her. But somewhere it had all gone wrong. She made him angry. He felt week beside her, uncouth and ignorant.

He’d gone to Glasgow and holed up with his father’s sister for a while. She asked him no questions and she gave him privacy to think and work out what was happening.

She put him in touch with Dr Swartz at the hospital where she’d worked as a receptionist for the past 20 years. He was an elderly, fatherly man, forever trying to sort out the problems of Glasgow’s minds: Violence; drugs; alcohol. Abuse of all sorts, had entered his room to be filed and re-ordered into something more socially acceptable, or to be condemned to one of the few mental institutions, or in some cases prisons and mortuaries, within the boundaries of Glasgow’s metropolis.

Ewan returned his thoughts to that night, as he described the events to Dr. Swartz. His mind reeling as he re-lived the nightmarish events of that night and the weeks preceding.

All the while, he became more agitated, banging his fists again and again, anger flashing in his eyes. He’d felt sub-ordinated.

Dr. Swartz continued to sit, listening, watching, not moving, not indicating approval, disapproval, or indeed any emotion. He just listened as Ewan continued his outpouring of wrath. This was what the Doctor excelled at. Listening, and through listening, assessing, without giving anything away, and hopefully over time, healing. When he was young and idealistic, he felt he could help. He had not expected his chosen specialism to bear such a ferocious brunt of Society’s problems, without being able to provide any real answers. The cracks ran too deep. Too fundamental in the belly of society and he was left to pick up the pieces of those who found him. An arbitrary result, for an arbitrary and limited population. He lost his naivety, but kept his idealism, mixed with a strong dose of bitter irony and social realism and did what he could for his patients.

Ewan was staring wildly at the doctor, shouting and bearing down over the desk, knuckles on the edge, bare forearms showing his well-toned muscles. 

His mouth had curled to a sneer and beads of sweat were running down his forehead. His friendly Grecian looks had adopted the air of a savage. Anger and disbelief overflowing, he collapsed into a chair, hiding his face in his hands, overcome with the horror of what he’d become over the past months.

Outside in Sauchiehall Street the sounds of the Orangemen on yet another march could be heard. Their Protestant songs telling tales of years of pride and fighting, beating into the hearts and minds, of Catholics and Protestants alike. 

Ewan momentarily glanced at the Parade, the booing Catholics, the proud Protestants, the Police escort trying, somewhat in vain, to stem the scuffles and periodic outbreaks of violence. Ewan felt removed from all this. He had grown up with it, but had determined to use his intellect to escape it.

Ewan’s body crumpled under the weight of the recent reality. His noble aims struggling against this weight of oppression, borne through his veins over 100’s of years… What had he reduced her to? Anger, confusion, shame reared their heads in turn…

He continued his story…

- I didnae ken how it had happened… I didnae ken wha’ a dae. Where was the fighting girl I’d met? What had I done tae her? What had she done tae me? What had we done to oursel’s? I had tae gae…

……………………………….

She hadn’t told anyone. Slowly creeping in on herself, relying on her own resources, she continued the daily routine of getting up, writing her studies, attending lectures and trying to please him, trying to avoid failing again…

She crept around the flat. Her gregarious, vivacious manner, reduced to timidity and conserving energy…

Seasonal Reads - A Place Called F

As domestic tragedy mirrors global violence, the ghosts of Abby’s near and ancient past will help her track down the missing girl and find a way forward....."Diamond gives us a gem of a story."


"Beautifully crafted, Diamond's first novel addresses some of the problems of what it really feels like to be in a mixed marriage from a variety of standpoints...."



A Placed Called F - Extract - Chapter 1

This is a story about a place named F, a ghost from the Ukraine,my grandfather’s wives and Queen Elizabeth ll. 

My son Jacob’s correspondence with Queen Elizabeth began in the summer of 2002.   Alex, after it was all over, suggested that it could be more reasonably described as a lobbying exercise than a correspondence.  Technically, Jacob’s letters always received a reply, but as these replies were sent by Jane Petherington, a Lady in Waiting, rather than by the true object of Jacob’s attentions, and as they always consisted of the same two sentences, only the most optimistic of eight year olds could call it a correspondence.  However, as Jacob was, indeed, an optimistic eight year old, this is always how he referred to his relationship with his Sovereign.

The royal replies were indistinguishable from one another, and all read as follows:

Dear Jacob

Her Majesty was pleased to receive your letter and enjoyed hearing from you.  Unfortunately, she has a very busy diary and is unable to make any arrangements to see you at this point.

Yours sincerely

Jane Petherington

Lady in Waiting.

I married Jacob’s father, Dan Browning, early in 1992 and Jacob was born in the spring of 1993.  Dan and I separated before he was three, so Jacob has been a broken home statistic for as long as he can remember.   I didn’t turn out to be very good at marriage but, unlike Judith, Natalie and many others of my friends, I have an excuse.  I was doomed from the start by my genetic heritage.  My grandfather had the same predilection but over-compensated and was married twice, though not in the conventional, sequential pattern.  His direct appearances in my history are limited, since he was blown up into very small and unrecovered pieces before I was born.  There turned out, however, to be an unexpectedly large number of relatives to pass on their memories of him.  My grandfather was a bigamist.  He was a very good bigamist – not in the moral sense (always assuming there are such things as deserving bigamists), but in the effective sense, since no one found out how many families he had until he died and his widows bumped into one another at a petrol station and started the process of understanding why they had the same, rather unusual, surname.

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