Paisans across the Pond!!!


First of all I would like to apologise to those that follow my blog for the length of time I have taken to write again, there is a good reason for this, and, as is my life, one that will make for good reading and has a good moral……………..

The featured image is the logo for the National Crime Syndicate – The National Crime was established in 2013, and started off as a knowledge base consisting of a few articles… but in recent years the NCS has grown in presence. Now, the NCS has nearly 100,000 fans across social media from all over the world, and has been a resource for the likes of the New York TimesThe Washington PostForbesThe Chicago Tribune, and Lifehacker. Along with its rapid growth came the need for more admins to help with everything from blog posts, to research and development. With the sole aim to be the main information portal for Mafia related subjects; from quizzes, bio’s, videos, historical timelines, interviews and a host of other trivia and detailed topics. The NCS quickly expanded throughout 2015 and 2016 taking on admins in the UK and across Europe, as well as teaming up with influential writers who specialize in certain areas of mob history. In early 2018 the NCS also had the pleasure of taking over the running of another high-profile page, Classic Gangster Society, after its owners and friend of ours stepped into retirement. I am more than pleased to announce that I am now a regular contributor as an editor for the NCS, with two pieces already published. The first in a series that is titled “The Cradle of Cosa Nostra” and also The Top 10 Mob Boss Mansions.

Of course I didn’t just wake up one day and from nowhere bosh!! I’m writing for the NCS. So!, this is the story of how I ended up writing for them.

On Facebook I co run a few large groups, one of which I mainly run with my good friend Lesley Hughes, the group is called Global Mafia Social Club, which is where we discuss; mobsters, gangsters and the Mafia from around the globe and have some knowledgeable members that also share their experiences. I had decided that we needed to change our cover picture, so, I searched Google for free Mafia images and the picture below came up.


After a few days of using this pic, I had received a message from a guy in America by the name Rob Bailot Jr., he explained to me that he had been using the picture for a while, not only that, he received permission from the artist who sent Rob a version without a watermark on it, which is how it ended up on Google. The story was plausible and without a second thought I apologised and informed Rob that I will then change the cover pic straight away, we had a further brief conversation. The next day I received a message from Rob, offering me a picture due to it being unfortunate I chose the one above and because of the way I had dealt with things the previous day. Suffice to say that Rob and I have built up a good friendship, Rob asked me to assist with his group Omerta Social Club there are also plans for the future but that’s for the future. Rob is also a colleague of mine at the NCS. This is how Omerta’s cover pic looks.


Since becoming friends with Rob he has introduced me to others with whom I have also become friends with, one of whom, who is not only also a colleague at the NCS, but also an author in his own right, Alan Gunner Lindbloom. Alan had sent me a digital copy of a series he has been uploading to the NCS site, this series is called The Lindbloom Chronicles and charts Alan’s life as he makes his way through a life that included being a Mafia family enforcer and 13 years in the big house, before turning his life around and becoming the man he is now. It was reading The Lindbloom Chronicles that not only motivated me to change how I was writing my blog but also inspired me to send in a sample piece to the NCS and the rest, as they say, is history. Alan is fast becoming the next Mario Puzo, actually no, Alan is carving his own name out in the field of literature and it will be no surprise to me if Alan’s “TO BE A KING” series sees Alan carve his name out on the big screen as well. Don’t just take my word for it, look at the one of the latest reviews on Amazon about Alan and “TO BE A KING” 


I personally feel that the morals in this story, of this man only 11 and a half months out of prison, are plain to see. As usual it is not for me to tell you what to think. So once again I shall leave you to decide on whatever message you take from not only this story, but also Alan’s The Lindbloom Chronicles. Though you would be mad not to read Alan’s books.

In closing I would just like to say a massive thank you to all my colleagues at the NCS and love and respect to Rob and Alan for their continued support and motivation, I am fully aware that without these two guys I would not have this latest opportunity.

Thanks my Paisans from across the Pond!!!



Part 2 of Chapter four ish!!


So after being released from Runwell I went back to Canvey, things weren’t the same though, I was out of work, still not feeling great, in a relationship I didn’t care about and started drinking again. It all come to head on Christmas day that year, her family were there, Mum, Dad, Sister, Brother in law, Nan, her three kids and her sisters two. I had cooked a lovely Christmas dinner, roast potatoes best I had ever made them. Her mum and dad were also staying at ours, her Nan at her sisters. Then out of nowhere, I was in the kitchen, she came up to me and said she don’t love me know more and wants me out, there had been no argument, I was getting on fine with everybody, but BOOM!!!!!. I was like, what the fuck am I supposed to do, It’s Christmas Day, my mate who I did a bit of work for lived opposite, so she said to go and ask him if I can stay there, I felt well embarrassed but also felt I had no option, he had people round, I couldn’t do it and instead said I had come round to wish them Happy Christmas, I stayed for about an hour, then went back saying he couldn’t put me up, I was allowed to stay in the converted garage for the night with the promise I’d be gone in the morning. In the morning I managed to find a bed sit for boxing day night. I was in my room drinking, getting more angry with each mouthful. My decision, to go to the local pub and start a fight with the biggest geezer in there and just take a kicking. I followed through with my plan, but this guy must have seen it through, coz we ended up outside talking and I just spilled my guts over a couple of beers and a few joint’s. Funny how life throws these situations up sometimes.

That night, I spoke to the boys mum and she agreed to let me stay there, it was great to be with my boys again, and Reece was only just over two months old, but Canvey left a feeling of unfinished business behind, I hated the feeling. Just before new year I started talking to the one in Canvey again, she said she was sorry and about trying again and build things up slowly. I honestly believe it was because of the feeling I had because I didn’t love this girl, out of her three daughters, only the eldest liked me, the other two made it as difficult as possible, so what was I going back to, especially being with my two boys. I’m afraid that curiosity always wins, or I think the grass is greener. I stayed on the sofa while I was there and got a job with Argos, on nights, on the reach trucks in the massive Basildon Warehouse, it didn’t work out, too many available scams, suspicion was enough. I then got a job back in the double glazing game, with a company in Benfleet, I then managed to get a cheap room in one of the biggest move mistakes ever in my life, and I have had a few moves. The house was run by this geezer in his late sixties, I did not like him at all, but it was cheap and I needed out. It would not surprise me if he’s still alive that he’s in jail for being a nonce. I really started to hit the drink bad, I was buying beer to its calorific value as I had convinced myself I was getting the nutrients I needed from the beer and didn’t need to waste my money buying too much food, I was in a terrible state, whilst trying to hold down a job. Also at the time I was still on community service, I was spending 7 hours up at a school in Benfleet, every Sunday. I had met this guy Peter on there, we got on well, told him about the place I was staying, he went on to tell me that he has got this caravan on a site but it don’t open till March, March till November can stay there. He proper bigged it up. so, come March I jog the old geezer on for rent and make my way to this amazing caravan with Peter. As we were getting close I should have taken the sight of an old Morris Car, with a black and white number plate, as a sign. I honestly thought I had gone back in time, this caravan, and the fucking state of it, would not have looked out-of-place on the set of ‘Heartbeat’. We had electric but only one thing at a time could be plugged in or it blew the fuse, it was a nightmare. On night three I got a call from the boys mum, I told her my situation and she told me she would come and pick me up the next morning, which she did. Things improved for a while for us. I had transferred my community service back to East London, I was working at the Beckton sports centre, in fact that’s where I watched England win the 2003 Rugby world cup, with the awesome drop goal from our Jonny Wilkinson, what a game!!. Later on that year, 2003, my mates wife was allegedly raped by the caretaker from the local school, he, if he did it, got away with it. It was summer 2004, I had recently copped a common assault charge for a fight I had outside the Funky Buddha Club up West, I got proper stung, two-year probation, Aggression Replacement Therapy and a 56 day tag. I was redecorating the bathroom and had to stop as I had a probation appointment in Stratford. I went to my appointment and bumped into a mate, we went for a quick drink, half nine that night I got off the bus pissed near mine, my curfew was ten. I had enough time to go to the offy and get the boys mum a bottle of wine as a half arsed attempt at an apology. As I cut through, lo and behold, there was this rapist and his uncle working on their car. They looked up at me, I just turned round and said “What you looking at you dirty rapist”, they both got in my face, then the uncle whacks me in the side with a brick, cracking a rib I later found out, with that the rapist has dived at and grabbed my legs, taking me to the floor. The uncle has then got his knee on my chest, the silly fucker then had his arm right near my mouth, I took about a two-inch chunk out of his arm, that’s what the paperwork and photos showed at the subsequent trial. He moved sharpish, then I felt the brick, grabbed it and started hitting the rapist whose still wrapped round my legs, I then managed to get up, a few more digs got thrown and I walked off, had to get back before my curfew, on the way home I noticed blood on my hands and wanted to get it off before getting home, I stopped at my mates, I was only there 5 minutes if that and the old bill turned up. I got nicked for two GBH Sec 18’s, possession of an offensive weapon and criminal damage. The outcome of which is a story for another time. I got remanded to HMP Pentonville for this one. The catalyst for 14 months being the longest amount of time I spent out of prison from then, July 2004 until my release June 09th 2017.

I do not write to glorify my life merely it is and was my life.

You’re not very well!!! Chapter four ish.


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I was hoping to be able to create chapters as I moved though the years of my life, and to give my blog some uniformity, however, just like both my life and my mind, being conditioned to follow the regular isn’t really me, unless of course it’s jail. You see, my thought pattern has decided to jump forward a few decades and the circumstances surrounding being sectioned in the early hours of my 33rd birthday are strong in my mind.

Southend Hospital at 1:00 am on the 22nd September 2002, I was sectioned by a psychiatrist for my own safety, apparently, after being out of it for a while and them doing whatever, when being asked how you are feeling, to answer “I have been put on this earth to eradicate all known diseases then once I am successful I will eradicate myself” is not the most conducive answer to give if one wanted to go home, especially to a psychiatrist.

2002, was a year I would do anything to forget, other than one event that took place that year, the birth of my son Reece on the 9th October. The rest nah forget it, no thanks, keep it, don’t need it as a memory at all thank you very much. It started off shit with My boys mum and I splitting up at the beginning of January of that year and not long after the split finding out she was pregnant with Reece. To be honest I think it was inevitable it was going to happen and I have to say all my fault. No excuse, I was working long hours and away a lot as a senior foreman for a big commercial removal company based in East London, about a mile down the road from where I lived. That wasn’t the problem though, the problem was the drink and the cocaine, along with crack, weed and pills, it was a crazy period, I didn’t even know who I was or who I was becoming. It got to the point on jobs that were a distance away, it wasn’t how many miles, it was how many cans or how many joints, I remember working for a similar company in South London, we had loaded up at the yard, then driven out and stopped for breakfast, someone asked the driver if he was coming, he cracked open a can of super, started to cut up a line of coke, turned round and said “What you want food for”, proper funny.

Back to the story in hand, we had a proper nasty guts spill argument, me and the boys mum. I ended up walking out and going to my mates in Romford. I was proper pissed off and angry. We got on the coke and had a few drinks, there was my mate, his missus and a mate of his missus.. What I should have done that night was telephone the boys mum and sort it. We had two kids, a mortgage on a beautiful flat in the docklands and I honestly did love her, she is the mother of my two sons so there will always be love for that, but no I went back with this other bird and somehow I found myself in no time living with her and her three daughters. I had been too proud to speak to my boy’s mum and now here I was in a case of having made my bed scenario, I was seeing my eldest Taylor and he was staying with me sometimes, things wasn’t great between his mum and me, which again is my fault because once I had chosen that path I had to save face and make it look like I was happy. Then the shit really hit the fan. It was summertime and we had a few people round, there was myself and Taylor, the new missus and her three kids, plus my mate and his missus with there two kids. We were also looking after someone elses little girl, her parents were at court sorting out their divorce. It had been a day of fun and drinking, then when this girl’s parents came back, you could see they had been arguing. Anyway, they joined in as best as they could, I was in the kitchen, like you do, talking to this guy Andy. At the time I was also doing a bit of unofficial debt collecting and I was talking to Andy about it as he seemed to have a bit about him. Anyway a couple of hours have passed, Andy disappears for a bit, next thing I got me mate telling me that Andy’s upstairs upsetting all the kids. Turns out he was going and couldn’t find his car keys, he started threatening the kids, including my Taylor, I was not happy but still tried to get it sorted Andy came back downstairs, he’d had a few as well, so I told him to stop playing up and get a cab, we can look for his keys when he’s gone. He copped a proper attitude, opened another beer and said “I ain’t going nowhere cunt, until I get my keys”. I must have punched him twenty times as I sat on top of him, I went apoplectic, shocked myself. I got up and grabbed him up, then my mate, for stupid reasons which will become apparent, chased him down the road.

About ten minutes later there was a knock at the door, it was our neighbour, Andy’s car was slightly over his drive and could we move it, we still hadn’t found the keys, so I checked the door and it was open, I was just about to lean in and take of the hand brake, with my neighbour ready to push, next thing I’ve heard is “YOU, GET UP AGAINST THE CAR”, before I had a chance to move there was a hand on me, my first thought was it was mates of Andy’s so I just started fighting whoever was in front of me, it wasn’t until I was on the floor with a few of them on top of me that I realised it was old bill, not once had they said they were police, a fact my neighbour made clear in his statement. I kid you not I was charged with GBH Sec18 and six ABH’s against the police, two weeks after my arrest, my mate was charged with GBH Sec18 under joint enterprise, all because he chased him.

At the trial at Snaresbrook Crown Court, the prosecution put forward their case as usual, during which the judge asked “I can understand why Mr.Breakspear has been charged with a section 18 but considering it carries a maximum of a life sentence I cannot see why Mr.S has been charged with the same or at all, with this my mate dropped, he was white and his missus was crying, I called my barrister over and said it’s time to do a plea bargain, there was a bit of tooing and froing but the only way I would take any deal was if my mate walked, my barrister also felt that the judge was sympathetic towards me it what happened. In the end I pleaded guilty to a GBH Sec20 and three common assaults against the police. The compensation and fines came to £750 and by christ the judge was on my side, for the Section 20 he gave me 150 hours community service and for the common assaults he gave me 50 hours consecutive, all in all 300 hours community service. The worry and stress in the build up to that was intense, and do you know what I never heard from my mate again after that day, you’re welcome. In his sentencing the judge had said he felt that I was justified somewhat in my actions and it was apparent that the police never introduced themselves as such, however blah, blah, blah. This was August, and in the meantime we had moved from Collier Row to Canvey Island.

For some reason my looming birthday was becoming a hindrance, what’s so special about a 33rd but to me is was becoming a milestone to far. The day before my birthday, I hit the drink real hard, plus I had some coke on me, the day is a blur. Apparently I had left a suicide note on the kitchen side, I was picked up crashed out outside some restaurant, I only remember, like yesterday that conversation with the psychiatrist and asking what the time was, my next memory was waking up in the back of an Ambulance it was half two in the morning and they were transferring me to Runwell Hospital, we pulled into this drive that went on forever, and though the site is gone now I believe some of the buildings back then were boarded up, it was like driving into a horror movie.

I was taken to a little dormitory where there was about ten beds with lockers separated by a thick curtain either side, I was asleep again as soon as my head hit the pillow. When I woke up OMG, one flew over the cuckoo’s nest came straight to mind, what the fuck is this place. I swear to you I went to the main area and an old woman with her nightie tucked into soiled knickers was shouting at a radiator, I was like, am I still dreaming. Because of the time of my arrival I wasn’t booked in properly so had to sit in an office with the duty psychiatrist, it was her that said to me “You’re not very well, are you?”. “You’re the fucking psychiatrist love so psych”. Excuse the pun but you really would have to be mad to want to go to one of these places, and I know of a few that have tried to get out of a prison term by playing the game but I’d take prison any day. Having said that some landings are no different to a psychiatric hospital, apart from the fact staff are trained in hospitals to deal with it, prison officers are not.


Time for Change!! Chapter 3

For the life of me I cannot remember what month it was that I became incredibly ill, but it was 1980 and also the time that my one of my aunties said was when it all changed with my behaviour. It was also the year of my first arrest for criminal damage. I received a caution, you had to see the chief inspector in them days and he would rip you a new asshole and that was it off you went, promising to never do it again, had three of them before my 12th birthday. I used to put on the tears, my dad would usually be with me, up the wide old-fashioned staircase to the chief inspectors office and take my bollocking. That police station became a second home to me over the years, from being questioned about criminal damage up to being spoken to about a particular murder. That’s to come.

I remember coming over all funny one day whilst out with a mate, me on my Grifter, my mate his BMX. We used to go everywhere together, best mates for years, shared girlfriends and everything lol, but they’re stories for another time. We was messing about just up the road, on the promenade, from King George V park, in fact we were riding our bikes into a metal door, contained within a large rock platform. The rest is a blur to be honest I remember getting home but the next, however long I have nothing except what has been told to me.

One of my sisters was pregnant at the time and a different doctor from who examined me came to our house to check on her for some reason. I had been unwell for a few days and was really bad. So my mum asked the doctor to have a look at me, he was with me seconds, went to my mum, “we need to call an ambulance immediately, it’s meningitis. You could imagine the shock for everyone. I remember, funny enough, being put into the ambulance. You see there were workmen laying cables along the path up our road and were directly outside my house and had to stop so we could get through, they would always ask after me during my time in hospital and if I remember rightly sent a gift. As i write this I have more recollection coming back to me, I remember the ambulance men being gowned up and wearing masks, that was a scary sight, I can feel it all over again as I remember.

I was put into an isolation room when I arrived at Canterbury hospital, next to my bed was a window that looked out onto the corridor, unless you was an adult and not pregnant you wasn’t allowed in my room, so some people, I had to talk to through the window once I had started to feel better. I wasn’t sure how long I was out of it but I was in for two weeks. They had to give me what’s know as a lumbar punch, where they drain fluid from your spine, the needle was HUUUUUUUUUGE!!, it took them about four attempts to take the fluid, I remember being asked if I wanted a glass of water and me being worried it would come out of the holes. OMG it’s also just come to me that I would not eat the hospital food and I would only eat peanut butter sandwiches and weetabix, which my mum used to bring, bless her. One thing I do remember, though not her name which angers me sometimes, is this 12-year-old girl, I was ten, so I’m thinking it happened not long after the summer holidays finished. Well, she used to come and talk to me in the evenings through my window, developed quite a crush on her if I’m honest, this one night we were talking for ages and we were getting told off by the nurses, the next morning she never woke up. So sad.

I sort of agree with my aunt but I then I was a little shit at infant school. I recall that I had to eat my school dinners in the headmistress’ office because I used to nick food off of other kids plates when they weren’t looking. So! who knows if I would turn out the way I did even without the illness I suffered. I believe myself that my life’s path was chosen for me, to set me up for this part of my life where I am now treading, my own, new path. I’ll start writing about my school years next time, some funny stories to come.

WTF!!!! Chapter two

The year it started, but I can never remember how, not that these days I try to remember too much of this period of my life. In a way, outside of therapy, I have not gone into so much detail as I will now.

This used to be a toy shop and where it took place.

It was just after my eighth birthday, I had a liking for airfix models, been using the toy shop for a while as it was literally just down the road, not even 100 yards away. The owner’s name was Richard as was his son, though the son had grown up and left home. I used to get the odd freebie as did my mate PD. Obviously that was when the grooming had begun, his son must have been in his thirties, and yet his old room looked set up for a ten-year old, he used to say about the room and would I like to see it, well what eight year old in them days would say no, imagine also the adventure of going upstairs above a toy-shop. At my Nan Dando’s house we always went in the basement which is where my nan and pops spent most of their time, there was this door that led upstairs, it also had a thick curtain on it, don’t think I ever went exploring upstairs there. So, this was a bit special for me to be able to do, but that’s when the rubbing and the touching started, then once, he had left me in the room by myself and had gone in to the main room, which is the two windows above the shop. If I could draw I could do an exact replica of that room, in fact the whole shop as well, and the smell, that will also never leave me. Richard called me in to the main room, the door opened inward and behind the door was a sofa, he was sat on the sofa right behind the door with his dick in his hand slowly masturbating, then told me to do it to myself, I didn’t know what to do, before I knew it he had taken mine out and started fucking about with me, then grabbed my hand and held it round his dick, with his hand over mine so I couldn’t move it away. That was the pattern mostly, down stairs in the shop at the back was two doors, one leading to cellar to the left and in front one to a store-room, occasionally something would happen in there too. Now!!, you’re probably wondering why did I keep going back?imagesA question I still haven’t answered myself some 40 years later. It gets worse in a way I suppose. I don’t know how we knew about it happening to each other but we did because we came up with a plan. This was late 77 so the shop was old-fashioned and it had a bell over the door that rang whenever it opened. Where the door to the cellar was, there was a slight recess. Richard was hardly in the shop if there were no customers, the bell would ring and he would come from upstairs. So my mate, PD and I would walk into the shop together but one of us would hide in the recess before he came from upstairs, the other one would be looking around as usual then no doubt be invited upstairs, the one who was down stairs would then nick a few bits, wait for a bit, then walk out the door thereby ringing the bell, he would have to come down, so did whoever was up there and able to leave before anything happened. This plan obviously didn’t last for long and he knew what we was up to, caught us and took us both upstairs, that was the last time we ever went back. We then drifted apart. I made new friends, so did he. I never told a soul the full story until 2008, a counsellor called Rose, Canadian lady, over 13 one hour sessions while I was in HMP Norwich, second time was a clinical psychologist, Darren Spooner, in 2010, the third time, just now!!.

As I mentioned in chapter one a couple of years later I contracted meningoencephalitis, I wasn’t aware at the time that I had probably caught it from my older brother Kevin who had mumps, in fact it was only recently from my Aunty Lorraine I knew what happened. As a ten-year old boy I blamed my illness on allowing myself to be abused.

In the next chapter I’ll go further into that. Sorry if anything I have written has upset anyone.


It starts here!!! Chapter 1

It was suggested to me yesterday, by a close friend, that my blog contained a lot of negative stuff, to which I had to agree. I started thinking about something positive that I could write about, there was quite a few I came up with, however, they all needed further explanation. I then read ‘The Lindbloom Chronicles‘ written by a friend of mine Alan Gunner Lindbloom, rather than explain about Alan, may I suggest you read the Chronicles yourself, the link is there, anyway, it was reading Alan’s story that has inspired me to write mine. If I start at the beginning and work my way through my life in words then I can leave it for you to decide on the positives. So!! I hope you enjoy the ride. Debs, Laura, Grace, Donna, Sara, Kerryann and not forgetting Lesley, plus my children and grandchildren, thank you all for being in my life and getting me to this point. One more year left of my licence. Smashing it!!!!!!!!!
Where it all began. 22nd September 1969.
My family home, not much has changed.

I was born into a fairly large family. I was the youngest of six. I have three sisters and two brothers. The order actually went girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, boy. My parents were both in their forties by the time I turned up. Not so significant now but will become so later in life. To be honest I don’t really recall much from my younger years and there are hardly any pictures of me back then, so I don’t have much to evoke my memory bank. I have glimpses of a few things, like eating ice cream from a saucer at my Nan and granddads’ guest house they ran in Nelson Crescent, Ramsgate or riding in the butlers lift between floors, I also remember watching the carnival, across from the guest house, and chucking half pennies and pennies onto the floats as they made their way down the coastal road. One of my favourite views in Ramsgate is looking back from the beach at night, and across the harbour, at the curvy drop that accompanies the road.


Love that view, where all the blue lights are in the arches is where I sheltered one day in the summer of 1976, that summer it hit 32.2°C somewhere in Britain every day for 15 consecutive days. Dubbed the best summer ever. In 1976, the average price of a house was £12,704. The average wage was £72 a week. A pint of beer cost 32p. A loaf of bread was 19p. Half the population owned a telephone, landline of course. The year also my memories start. One funny moment from that year that will always stick in my mind for lots of reasons. Our local park, Ellington Park, had every year, over the August Bank Holiday, a fair called the Phoenix Fair. Some of the local kids, once a year, got to help out, the older I got the more responsibility I got. I’m proud to say that one year I even ran the coconut shy. Anyway, back to the incident. On the last day of the fair they would have a huge fireworks display, it was always an incredible show. So! the next day was therefore the final clear up day, a friend, I’ll just call him DC which are his actual initials, and me were clearing up the empty firework cartridges, we noticed that there was still gunpowder left over in some of them. We started to empty the contents into a hole in the ground, can you see where this is going, we couldn’t haha!!. So, we had quite a bit of gunpowder but no fuse to light it, I honestly do not remember whose great idea it was to throw a match down the hole while watching. The ambulance arrived just after our mums and they accompanied us to the hospital. I ended up the fortunate one because it was DC that lit and dropped the match. I didn’t get as much as the blast as DC, but then I suppose we were both fortunate as there was no long-term damage. I had lost my fringe, my eyelashes and my eyebrows with some minor superficial burns, DC virtually lost all the hair on his head and face plus some burns which weren’t disfiguring. A lesson learnt one should think and rightly so, but there is another firework incident later on in my life, just as stupid ergo just as funny.

There was another thing about that summer of 1976, it was the end of my innocent childhood years and the beginning of the rest of my life. That year also saw the start of a few harsh consecutive winters, and a few harsh years for myself culminating in contracting Meningoencephalitis in 1980 which I apparently got from my brother who had mumps.

1976 also saw the year a family moved in down the road from my house, and they had a son my age with whom I became good mates with, PD, I’ll just leave it at his initials as well, for reasons that will become apparent in the next installment. I hope you enjoyed the opening chapter and are eager to come back for more. You can always click on the follow button and receive an email each time I upload a blog. Until the next time. Laters.


Not so good!!

What is it with mental health?. Just when I thought I had turned a corner, it comes along and kicks me straight in the nuts. This is why, sometimes, I hate improving because of the fall again. I convince myself that this time will be different, I can feel it’s different, in fact only yesterday I was telling someone how happy I was feeling, the sun was shining, a beautiful day, it was great. Yet here I am one day later wishing I wasn’t here at all, again feeling the pain of being alive. I have some amazing things that are coming up and potentially some incredible things, he writes with no emotional attachment, and that’s the problem it’s always been what’s coming up, I seem to be forever saying, “you wait, you watch this space”, my patience is running so thin I am in danger of just fucking it all off. Of course I know that wouldn’t be the right thing to do, just as it wouldn’t be the right thing to do in taking my own life but it’s not as easy to put it into practice.

It’s hard to talk to people as well, they tell you they are there to listen, yet you start to talk and you get told how to feel, or they try to guess why you are feeling the way you do, I feel the way I do because I live with the constant battle of mental health, does there have to be a reason. It would seem that with no information or very little information people are able to tell your biography and are experts in your life, listening is listening, listening isn’t telling the other person what to do, it isn’t an opportunity for them to tell you their problems or to offer solutions, it’s to listen. For me in those situations I switch off and say no more as there is no point. Maybe this is why, many months ago, I started writing this blog so I can get my words out without being told what to do, well apart from the occasional red squiggly line that taunts me when I spell something wrong or in fact the grey shadowy one that mocks my grammar as I write.

Am I wrong in trying to fight this battle without medication? Am I wrong in feeling the way I do? Because a lot of the time, even from those with the best intentions in the world, I feel I have to apologise for how I feel. Have to continually be put under the microscope, people talking behind my back about Dave having another episode, no I shouldn’t think like that and how dare I consider my friends do that behind my back. I sometimes question also, peoples, even the closest of friends, intentions, are they genuinely concerned about me or more to do with the fact how they would feel if I had done something ‘stupid’? You know what’s stupid to one person can be the ultimate of perfection to another, just because the definition in the dictionary says one thing, in a lot of cases there is more than one definition, that’s the same as me, lot’s of definitions, today stupid means one thing tomorrow it will mean something else, and for a multitude of reasons. I like my screen, again apart from the lines as discussed, it feels safe to tell it what I want, no fear of judgement, no advice given.

As I write this a sense of selfishness engulfs me, telling me to shut up whining and to think of others, tears are rolling down my cheeks as I battle to off load my inner self onto my non judgmental screen. I know it’s me and I’m sorry for feeling like this, I’m sorry my mental health in some way inconveniences others lives. I have been trying to return it for many years but don’t seem able to find the receipt, or even the place where I got it from, in fact I don’t even remember where I got it from or even asking for it.

This has got to be the best therapy ever writing like this, at 48 years old I now finally understand the concept of having a diary.