JW - A Life of Surprises

A Sucker for Punishment

2013-07-26T14:11:00.002+00:00

The Suns heat had begun to diminish in strength and its glare coming off the beaches and roads lessened to a murky haze. The almost naked bodies took a few minutes longer to cook to a nice crisp brown, or in many cases a vicious violent red; and inevitably the pace of life began to slow down so Dave and I could take a little more time relaxing. Our own tans were now a lovely warm brown, the white bits starkly white in contrast and as we’d taken our time to develop the colour, it was all the more consistent and uniform; we actually looked liked ex-pats now. We’d transitioned through a year that so far had offered a number of delights, excitements and the occasional shock and sadness, but one that had been memorable if nothing else. Bar Confusion was still busy as September 1989 plopped into being with its offer of evening rain to counter the daytime warmth, a blessing to the locals and a misery to those who’d paid a hefty price for late summer heat. Dave and I were tiring of bar work by then and we took longer to rise each day, to stock up the bottomless fridges with bottles of Heineken and to open the doors to customers. September’s song was mainly one of games of seduction married with football on the beach, a heady mix of sex and sunshine all washed down with beer and tequila of an evening.

Natalie had arrived mid-summer with a gaggle of friends and we’d taken a good day to get into one another’s underwear. She had returned to the Island in September for another break, staying with me in town and we’d spent a nice week together; Natalie going out with Dave’s wife Rebecca and her friends as I worked, meeting up late on to satisfy ourselves of the built up sexual tension that sun combined with alcohol has a tendency to concoct. I was still happy to mix it up once she had returned to Norwich; she was from my hometown and a nice co-incidence as there might after all, be someone to go home to now, as well as my Mother! Once Natalie was home I’d returned to my Lothario role as if nothing special had happened and as if to prove his existence, the God of “What goes around, comes around,” decided on having his sport pretty soon after she’d left. Tony the Tennis Pro’ and Yachtsman was preparing to leave late September taking with him, a woman he’d met on the island who was from Liverpool.

She was in her late thirties, though more likely early forties but whose figure and looks belied her age hoodwinking the onlooker into believing she was far younger, although in truth there is nothing wrong with that. To bid farewell to them both I convinced her to extend to me the gift of a goodbye blowjob and she obliged rather too easily looking back. We’d managed to sneak off to my apartment after a late evening spent in Star Club where she’d not even let me undress before clamping herself onto my knob and sucking like a Dyson. In fact, such was her mouths vice like grip and power of suction that I swayed between pleasure and pain in equal measure. It was more “suck-job” than blowjob, as she breathed through her nose and never once looked up, down or sideways. If she had she would have seen my face alternating between fractured grimaces and eye-popping pleasure. Her powers of suction were starting to worry and funnily enough annoy me, as she went at it like a limpet sticking to a rock, burying her head into my groin deeper and deeper.

I tried my best to focus on the more pleasurable aspects but looking down at the top of her head I was suddenly distracted, as I could see the roots showing through her dyed jet-black hair at the crown. “Focus old son, focus now,” my brain shifted its attention this time to her tits, honing into view in brief snippets as she moved backwards and forwards at an ever increasing rate of knots. “Use the force young Skywalker,” said a voice in head and as I started wondering just how much force was needed to get her to relinquish her grip my orgasm ripped through me. Shouts of joy and relief were equally matched as she slowed and I tentatively moved backwards afraid of what might drop from her lips; “Would I recognise my lifelong friend after that terrible journey into the unknown?”

She raised her eyes to look at me; her smoky slightly saucy fairground looks those of a Gypsy girl, her lips a vivid red pout. In fact her pucker looked like a clowns it was that red, it was so very red because I was bleeding for fucks sake! I leapt backwards and smacked into my wardrobe, my limp Willy dropping from her mouth like a leech falling of an arm once gorged on the feast, only this time drained of blood. She was a bloody vampire. My head rang as it clipped the wardrobe a good one and I looked through stars and birds for a moment as she sat there looking at my waist covered in blood. “Oh…my…God!” her voice rose with each word as she sat back onto the bed, its springs arguing beneath her and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Her lipstick was long gone and her hand fell away revealing a line of blood merging with sweat. She had after all been going like the clappers.

“What, the fuck, have you done?” I said, tenderly cradling my cock in my hand; it resembled a skinned and legless mouse (could’ve written rabbit, don’t wish to brag!), all timid and afraid to raise its head again. “I don’t fucking know!” was her reply. “You’ve killed it,” I said, “its dead, it’ll never work again.” I ran to the bathroom and bathed myself in cold water and after sometime, with the skin cleaned of dried blood, he returned to a nice pink colour. The blood had actually come out of the end, from my japseye, not through any cuts I could see and I went back to my bedroom to find her disrobed and in bed. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I asked her. “Going to sleep, it’s the middle of the night.” Her assumption that she was ‘invited to stay’ was a step to far. “You’re not fucking staying! You could have bled me dry you mad twat. Get dressed and get the fuck out. You’re barred.”

I grabbed her dress and shoes and threw them at her. I went into the lounge and waited for her to get dressed and she walked out of the bedroom after five minutes or so, trying to hold her head high but failing, miserably. “Dave said you were bloody mad, he was right.” I said as she sulked past. “Well I’m going away with Tony tomorrow so you can get fucked.” She continued to mutter as she left, her lady-like tone echoing off the cobblestoned road and stuccoed houses as she went, her Liverpudlian accent ringing in my ears as she shouted, “Cunt.”

I went inside and collected loads of toilet paper and wound it around my knob, pulled on a pair of boxers and went to bed; an early doors appointment with “One-shot Vidal” was called for! Vidal the Doctor had a surgery on a side road leading up from the bay, not too far from the West End. I took a seat in his waiting room and sat reading unknown Spanish from a magazine until called for. I entered his surgery and Vidal sat behind his desk. He looked typical Ibicencan; he had dark hair, slightly chubby and definitely wasn’t tall. Gesturing for me to sit down he asked in good English what my problem was? He’d become known as “One-Shot Vidal,” back in 1984. Anyone and everyone had been going at it and inevitably, viruses and infections were passed around. Vidal had a massive store of Antibiotic’s, or quick access to them and as the main Hospital was across the Island, he’d quickly developed a loyal local customer base and an annual on-going trade from visitors, who’d collected something on holiday that they’d rather not take home, along with their miniature Raffia Donkey and Leather Pouch of Sangria.

I explained the basic facts, leaving plenty out, assuming he’d rather not know too much. Wrong! In a wonderful Spanish/English inflected accent he asked me questions that quickly ascertained exactly what had happened. “So, these a lady fellated you until you bleed, correct?” I nodded meekly, “I must a look at these a penis please,” he said and I dropped my shorts to reveal my old fella swathed in toilet roll. One-shot put on his gloves and peeled away the makeshift bandages until my knob dropped away and hung there. “Ok,” he said. A thorough examination followed and he finally stood back surveying the damage. “She sucked your blood from inside, there are arteries inside by your tubes and the blood come a through the walls and out of the end. Understand?” I nodded again. “Nothing to do but a wait.” I nodded again. “No infections here, I don’t a think so anyway. No pains or aches?” He asked. “Nope, none,” I replied and he gestured for me to dress. “Take these a bill to the desk and pay the girl, thank you,” and that was that. One-Shot had cleared up my worries and apart from a few days on the subs bench, I would be playing first team football in no time.

With September upon us custom dwindled away fast, only the bars in the West End turning over any trade. Long days and long nights started to reduce as we were closed earlier after a later opening, movies weren’t shown by now and we spent more time in the OK Corral and on the beach. One afternoon I went back to my rooms to find someone had broken in and had stolen my Leather Jacket. I was fucking livid and had an idea that Les the Chef had done it, only I hadn’t any evidence to go on of course. Blind with anger I marched into the bar on the other side of Confusion, where Les would drink beers when not cooking. “I know you've got my jacket, you thieving twat,” I accused him, waving the wrench around that I had collected from Confusion on the way past. “Fuck off dickhead,” he replied.

Despite “knowing” he’d done it, I had no evidence and after shouting a lot, I walked out, reminding those in the bar that if I caught the thief, I’d brain them with the wrench. But the Jacket was gone and along with it my desire to appear as George Michael. Perhaps George did it? Competition scared him? My time as a lookalike was done and I decided to never again dress up as George and prance about; I’d retired from that career for good. Whatever John Fashanu might or might not offer upon my return, I wasn’t going to do it. I wanted to join a band and sing my own lyrics and I would do so in the New Year. For now, we had to clear up the mess created over six months of madness and have our staff night out.

She Slips, He Scores

2013-04-16T19:23:00.001+00:00

August rolled into view and with it the stunning summer heat of the Balearic Islands. Tony, a tennis pro and sometime playboy had been frequenting Confusion for the past month. He owned a yacht and had sailed between the Islands and the Spanish mainland most of that summer. Tall, blond, late thirties and he was confident that he had what it took to attract women and invariably wandered into Confusion with a new girl on his arm most evenings. He liked me as I would take him along to Star and Es-Paradis nightclubs and gain free entry. In return and as I had a few days off as Confusion was shut due to another licence infraction, we took a couple of girls onto his yacht and sailed around the headland past Calla Bassa and Port des Torrent, the two main beaches served by water taxi’s from San Antonio and out into the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. As Tony guided the yacht around the headlands and smaller, uninhabited Islands near to Ibiza I lay on the deck and slept under the warm blanket of sunshine, a nubile body close to mine within stroking distance.

We anchored two hundred metres offshore, a small beach and Café at Cala Tarida serving lunch to the sun worshippers who were finding the heat too much during midday and the beach was as yet unspoilt by the developments of the future. I grabbed flippers, goggles and a snorkel and slipped over the side into the warm waters and dived some 3-4 metres or so to the bottom of the sea and silently glided along looking around at the small fish darting out of my way, the sunlight catching on the waves above and slicing down through the blue, illuminating the depths around me.

I dived again after taking in air and saw an old clay pipe about six inches in diameter and a metre long. I picked up one end and peered into it only to disturb a large Octopus that slid out the opposite end and propelled itself away in a cloud of sand and ink. I laid the pipe back down and looked up at the hull of the Yacht and swam up towards the stern and the ladder hanging down into the water. Climbing out I slipped of the flippers and headgear and grabbed a beer from the cooler.

Tony was lying on the deck with the girls and we sat talking and sharing ideas for the evening ahead. I spent much of the afternoon below decks whilst Tony sailed the yacht back to San Antonio in time for dinner at the Chinese restaurant by the harbour.

My partner that day and for the week had been an English girl who worked as a dancer at a bar/club called The Wigan Pier; a stunning brunette, she was tall, graceful and pretty. I’d thought I could attract beautiful women but I was frankly playing on the substitutes bench for a Premiership Team in terms of pulling power, given that I was 5’8’’ in my socks and walked with a slight limp by now. I was a good-looking Roger “Verbal” Kint if you will. He was Kevin Spaceys character in movie, The Usual Suspects, but I was definitely not any kind of “Keyser Soze”. That said I regularly made first team appearances and played way out of my league and often out of position on most occasions, if you’ll forgive the Footballing analogy. Needless to say I was very much apt to falling in lust with her and she was not shy in saying what she wanted me to do for her and to her. In fact her confidence in all bedroom affairs left me open-mouthed to an extent and I rapidly assumed that our relationship was one that could / would last the remainder of the summer. Wrong again! After a week of some seriously debauched bedroom gymnastics I was substituted for a taller, smoother sucker who probably believed that he was onto a summer long good thing but who was also dropped for the next guy on the bench not long after.

“The Vern” was a Londoner friend of Dave Bennetts. Easily 6’5” he had jet black hair slicked back Dracula style and a presence like a sleeping volcano. The Vern always wore a long overcoat, no matter the weather and he turned up in San Antonio to stay with Dave for a few weeks. The Vern was a character insofar as the meaning applies to someone who was definitely operating on the cusp of the law or appeared as if he did. But The Vern was fun, often very funny, had stories to amaze and enthral and was a genuinely likeable man.

I was booked for a George Michael appearance at The Playa Bella complex across San Antonio Bay and asked The Vern if he would accompany me and act as Body Guard. He thought this would be a blast and readily agreed, so on the night he and I climbed into a Mercedes belonging to the Playa Bella Hotel complex’ owner and were driven around the bay to the hotel. Most of the action was taking place by the pool area where there was a permanent stage and plenty of people crowded around to watch the band perform and more importantly watch very attractive young girls in their swimwear parade across it. I stayed out of the way, changing into my outfit in a closed office in the near dark to avoid being seen. I could hear shouts and cheers coming from the show and wondered how many people were there, such was the noise. The Vern knocked on the door and said it was time to go and we climbed back into the car for a very short drive down to the pool area. I climbed out and was greeted by a huge cheer from the massive crowd; there were easily two thousand people who had come from all over the bay to see the show and to see me as the band had been plugging my (Georges) appearance for some time and it helped that the real George was again on the Island staying at Pikes for a holiday.

Current Playa Bella

The Vern came around the car and led me through the crowd towards the stage. A pathway appeared in front of him as people moved back to allow us through and keeping my head down we walked briskly towards the stage where I found what looked like a moat in front of it. A plank was laid over it and I danced across as it wobbled beneath my feet. In front of me the bands singer who was acting as the evenings compere’ was stood alongside a row of stunning and some not so stunning women wearing swimsuits, (not bikini’s) and high heels. The girls looked at me and I could feel their excitement; it was if they believed that George Michael was there in person to present the winner with her sash, bouquet, prize money and crown. I stepped forward and the compere’ shook my hand and started interviewing me!

I had no idea this was going to happen and we had not rehearsed in any way as I had been told I simply needed to sing two songs and present the prizes. Asking me questions such as: - What is your next album called George? What about these girls George, do any take your fancy? was ok but I needed to think on my feet in order to carry off the deception and he wasn’t helping. To make matters worse they had forgotten my backing tape and we saved ourselves from a nightmare only due to the fact that I carried a copy in my leather jacket, but this had the original tracks on the reverse. The sound engineer or “knob head” put the tape in the wrong way around and pressed play, only for George to start singing “Faith”. The crowd went silent and I quickly said into my microphone, “You can hear the real thing when this guy shuts up!” to nervous laughter from the Band and I gave the engineer a look that could kill.

The tape was quickly changed around whilst I told the crowd that I’d be singing two songs, one either side of the prize giving. “Faiths” strumming guitar intro began and I performed well, dancing around the stage in between the women, the lyrics relevant in their references: - “If I could touch your body, I know not everybody has got a body like you” etc. and it went down well. Applause and cheers came as I finished the song and I stood next to the compere’ who said he now had the final decision from the Judges, who had been using the time it took me to sing the song to choose the winner. He announced the result in the time-honoured fashion; reverse order and I presented a sash and bouquet to the third and second place girls. The drummer started a drum-roll and with a smash of the cymbals the winners name was announced and she stepped forward only to wobble on her high heel and she slipped arse over tit straight into the moat. The moat was empty so she fell a few feet to the bottom but stood up almost immediately, hair slightly askew and a look on her face that dared anyone to laugh, just once.

The Vern leant over to lift her out and led her towards and across the plank to get back on stage. The compere’ asked the crowd not to laugh, (which was a bit impossible) but instead to cheer her back on stage as she walked awkwardly across the plank and took her place at my side. I leaned in and planted a nice big kiss on her cheek and as I placed the sash over her head said, “Well done, are you ok?” Despite glowing with embarrassment she said she was fine and this was her first ever win in a beauty contest. “This is a first for me as well,” I replied and gave her another kiss for good measure as I placed the crown on her head. In fact she did well not to cry as she’d taken quite a fall and then had to stand there whilst I sang “Father Figure” to her, the poor sod.

As soon as I finished I wished everyone goodnight and for them to, “Join me at Amnesia later and I’ll buy you a drink if you ask me nicely,” figuring that if they were going anywhere, they may as well go see the real George at his favourite club on the island and pester him to get the beers in. I walked off stage towards The Vern who led me through the crowd and by this time some had decided that I was not George, ‘a damned imposter!’ The Vern was having none of that, so anyone stepping forward to offer such an insult found one of The Vern’s large hands in their face for daring to suggest such an untruth and shoved back into the crowd.

Meanwhile at Bar Confusion Dave was up against it. He’d steadfastly refused to hire any cover during my absence and was becoming overwhelmed with customers. He could open a bottle and slosh a spirit and mixer into a glass perfectly well enough, but my forte’ was cocktails and slammers and he didn’t have the time nor the patience to mess about perfecting those skills and was telling punters, “Only got beer and spirits. Nothing special tonight, whaddya want”? In the main our customers stood for it as the music was the draw but even that required Dave to mess about loading cassettes and he was going from one end of the bar to the other and losing patience with customers who couldn’t decide what they wanted! He was quite annoyed when I wandered back into Confusion with The Vern, and it was near total confusion as I said, “Beer please Dave and one for The Vern,” as we reached the bar. “Fucking cheeky twat, get it yourself,” replied Dave. “You’ve got a fucking cheek you have, I give you the fucking night off to go do your singing and you drop in as if you own the place, fucking big time Charlie, fuck off.” Dave was obviously annoyed, but sod him, I could have been back in England on TV for all I knew and that opportunity was long gone. He probably wanted me to get to work behind the bar there and then, but I felt it was worthwhile to let him work alone and realise how lucky he was to have me. So I walked back out and wandered through town, still in all my George Michael finery towards the Star and Es-Paradis Clubs.

Es Paradis

Star and Es-Paradis were located in a side street a hundred metres from the road running around the bay and as I stood outside deciding which club to go into, the winner and faller from earlier in the evening came wandering up the side street, still wearing her sash, swimsuit and crown, carrying her flowers. She’d obviously shaken off her embarrassment and walked unsteadily towards the clubs no doubt having taken on a few shots of Dutch courage along the way. I walked towards her and as soon as her eyes focused in on me she shouted, “I saw the real George tonight, he gave me this (she tugged the Sash) these (and waved the Flowers under my nose) and a kiss,” as evidence of her meeting George. I smiled and said that was nice, “You look like him though,” she carried on, “he kissed me twice.” I asked whether she wanted to come to Es-Paradis or Star as I could get us in free. “I’ll get in free anyway, I won these,” she whooped and continued thrusting her winnings at me. I let my “bad” self get the better of me as I leant into her ear and said, “It was me tonight, not George and I can prove it, I said that this was the first time I had done this, as I gave you your sash, as you’d told me this was your first ever win.”

She stopped dead, looked at me and slowly the realisation dawned that it was me who'd crowned her. “It was you?” she asked. “Yea, me, sorry to let you down,” I said suddenly consumed by guilt, and afraid I’d ruined any chance of a shag, which had been my ulterior motive all the time. “Great,” she roared, “Great.” This threw me for a moment but only until she grabbed me and kissed me with far more enthusiasm than I had when I kissed her earlier. “Es-Paradis?” I asked slipping my arm around her waist, “Lead the way,” she said.

After a nights drinking and dancing we stopped by a bakers as the sun was rising and bought ham rolls, (Ah, the romance of it all). I let us into my room and we crashed for a few hours where upon we consummated our relationship and soon afterwards went our separate ways. I went to work and she went back to her hotel with a story to tell about a win, a loss, a fall and a fuck.

I failed to save Jesus (Hey Zeus!)

2013-04-12T13:15:00.001+00:00

The summer of 1989 on Ibiza quickly became notorious for the Ecstasy drug, with Acid House Music as its musical accompaniment. The Island was suddenly bulging with people; the bars and clubs were packed, the hotels full and the beaches hadn’t a foot of sand to drop a towel onto. What had been predicted as a weak summer for the island with business owners all preparing for a slow, torpid summer had morphed into probably the best summer of their lives in terms of numbers of people suddenly arriving and the profits to be made by those ingenious bar owners who could differentiate their offering from the mainstream. If the high-end bars and clubs in and on the road to Ibiza town were packed, by comparison the cheaper clubs in San Antonio were full to bursting.

Drug Pills Generic Image 450

The presumption that these revellers drank only water was dispelled, as the clubbers were getting hammered prior to going to the clubs. I believe the clubs themselves intentionally ran out of “Agua” in order to make more money selling alcohol. The street outside our bar had become a main drag from hotels on the outer-reaches of town to the bars in the “West End” of San Antonio and we were ideally placed to capture trade wandering into town and out to Café’ Del Mar.

One July evening around 11pm Dave and I were serving customers as normal. Groups of young guys and girls were heading past the bar toward Kings and Tropicana’s, two of the most popular bars on the main street and we were picking off the occasional reveller and diverting them into Bar Confusion. Football Club shirts, the mainstay of any working class holiday wardrobe, were highly visible as groups wearing the shirts of Leeds, Manchester United, QPR, Liverpool and various other clubs ambled by, bottles of beer in hand. We attempted to minimise the number of football-shirt wearing holidaymakers entering the bar through the strategic placement of posters by the front doors that read; No Football Shirts, No Football Shorts, No Disco Music! Written in bold black lettering, it was a warning, as we couldn’t be arsed constantly trying to break up fights and having to listen to football chants over the volume of the music we’d so lovingly organised.

I’d just knocked up a couple of “Twats and a Bastard” when I noticed that everyone had congregated at the door or just outside and no one was left to serve and even Dave was stood by the door. I walked over to see what the distraction was and saw a young guy under 20 years old, stretched out in the middle of the street. I asked what had happened and someone said he’d fallen off the back of a moped. No one was with him and nobody was going to see if he was ok. I told Dave, “Keep and eye on the till,” (as if he needed telling), “I’m going to see if he’s ok.” I walked over and knelt down beside him expecting him to come round or start moving as I presumed he was drunk and had knocked himself unconscious when he fell. My first aid knowledge was good as we had been taught how to deal with basic injuries and the 4 B’s (Breathing, Bleeding, Breaks and Burns) in the Army and I’d taken a First Aid course in Civvy Street.

This guy was out cold though and placing my head against his chest I couldn’t discern any breathing nor heart beat. I tried to find a pulse on his neck but failed and began to get really concerned as to his injuries. I pulled my t-shirt over my head and folded it into a pad, to place under his head. I tipped his head back to open his airway and saw blood all over my hand coming from the back of his head and it was starting to soak into the white t-shirt, a vivid deep red patch spreading as I watched. Fuck!

After checking his airway was clear and that he hadn’t swallowed his tongue I placed my mouth over his and began breathing for him, interchanging with compressions on his chest. I was not getting a response from anyone else; bystanders stood silently watching as I me performed CPR and not a sound was coming from any of them. After what must have been a few minutes of my performing CPR I was still not getting much back, in terms of a heartbeat except for faint pulses that appeared in his neck and disappeared as quickly as they arrived. I needed help and I shouted out, “Does anyone here know CPR? For fucks sake someone call an ambulance and somebody please help me; Christ!”

A woman pushed her way through the crowd, shouting at people to get out of her way. She knelt beside me and said in a Welsh accent, “I’m a nurse, what do you want me to do?” Fantastic! At last someone was helping and I told her to manage the chest compressions synchronising herself to my breaths and she fortunately knew the pace to go at. Performing CPR is not a nice thing to have to do; Ribs crack and pop as you do it, and modern thinking now recommends simply carrying out chest compressions at a rate of up to one hundred per minute. Not necessarily to restart the heart, moreover, it’s to move blood around the body to the brain thereby stalling brain death until trained Paramedics with drugs and equipment arrive and take over. As it was back in 1989, it was just she and I and we were trying like mad to get this kid breathing on his own and his heart working again.

I was aware of people around me and Dave said later that quite a crowd had gathered as we worked on the guy. I was not overly concerned with the wound to his head as I had my padded T-shirt against it and applied pressure as I held his head and breathed for him. After what seemed an age and was certainly long enough to get me very concerned indeed for the kid (for that was what he was and he looked more likely to be under than over 20 years old), I got a pulse! I told the Welsh Nurse to stop compressions and put my ear to his chest. I heard a faint heart beat and shallow warm breaths cooled against my lips as I held them over his; barely touching but close enough to feel the faint warm air blowing out of his mouth, evidence that these were his own attempts to breath for himself. I heard someone call out that an ambulance was on its way and relaxed a little knowing that a team of fully equipped paramedics were coming to help.

Bartolo came out of Bar Cantiti and gave me a blanket to cover the guy up and I spoke to the nurse to say that we should lay him on his side, in the recovery position and allowing me to take a look at his head wound. We rolled him over moving his legs into position and placing an arm under his head as he lay on his side, my shirt under his head was now stained a deep crimson. I parted his hair to reveal a deep slit in his scalp running across his head about 4cm long, with congealed blood at its edge and fresh blood, oozing out and onto my fingers. I looked up and I saw an Estate car had parked at the end of the paved street some 50 metres away, a Red Cross sticker slapped on the rear door and walking towards me was a chubby middle-aged guy wearing slacks and a shirt; looking for the entire world like he was popping out for a drink in town.

He walked towards us and when he was stood over the kid he looked down, obviously taking in the situation. Instead of leaping into action he turned around and walked back to the car, where he collected a stretcher from the rear of the vehicle. He wandered (seriously) back down the road to us, pulling the stretcher behind him. He did not speak any English but Bartolo translated as I said what I had done and what I felt the patient now needed, all the time he was nodding his head, saying, “Si.” I could not see anyone else with the driver so asked where his colleagues were. “Only him,” said Bartolo, “he is alone, no one else is coming.”

The driver did not have any medical equipment as far as I could see and he simply attempted to lift the guy up by the shoulders to put him on the stretcher. I was incensed and shouted for him to stop, which he eventually did and the nurse and I along with the driver lifted the poor kid onto the stretcher together. There was no neck brace or body board and even a brief examination was not done. “Bartolo,” said, “tell this guy I must go with him as the kid cannot breath for himself and will die if no one is looking after him.” Bartolo repeated my concerns in Spanish to the driver, who immediately raised his hands and started shaking his head and said “No, nadie va a venir con nosotros.” (“No, nobody is going to come with us”). Bartolo told me this and I was totally stunned and appealed with Bartolo and through him the driver, to let me tend to the kid in the car. The Hospital was in Ibiza Town which was over 13Km away and any idiot could see this kid was not going to last the journey unattended.

The driver hadn’t even examined the head wound let alone applied a dressing! He turned his back to me picked up the stretcher handle and ambled back towards the car, where he slid the stretcher into the rear and closed the rear door. I followed all the way to the car, pleading with him as he shook his head and I looked about me to see if I could spot anyone in authority, anyone who could help me convince this prick that I needed to go with the boy. By the time he was climbing into his drivers seat, I was screaming and swearing at the idiot, Bartolo trying to hold me back. It was all to no avail as the driver drove down the hill towards the harbour and away in the direction of Ibiza Town. I walked slowly back to the bar; Dave and everyone gathered there applauded as I walked past them into the bar. I poured myself a large bourbon and lit a smoke as Dave started serving again and the bar filled up with customers, some coming up to shake my hand, buy me drinks and console me as I explained what I was certain would be the outcome. I was gutted and knew in my heart that the kid would be dead on arrival at the hospital.

The following morning I walked down to the bar as usual to be met by Dave coming out of the door and locking up. He walked over and put his arm around my shoulders, “The kid was dead by the time he got to Ibiza Town Jonny and I’m sorry mate. You did your best.” What a pointless and futile exercise it had been. “That fucking ambulance driver,” I said. “This place is going to be swarming with press any minute so I’m going to the OK Corral for a brew and some breakfast, come with me,” said Dave. We ate in silence apart from the odd word from Reg or Souness as to the why’s and wherefores of Ibiza’s ambulance service, which received muted responses. Late morning and a guy walked in and asked for Dave Bennett, the ex-footballer? Reg looks at Dave through the corner of his eye and said, “I’ve not seen him today; does the guy want to leave a message?” “I’m a reporter with the Sun newspaper, my name is Nick Parker; Dave owns Bar Confusion doesn’t he?” Reg looked around at the faces in the bar and confirmed that Dave did own the bar. “Can I get you a drink?” asked Reg, always one to make a buck. “Coffee please,” said Parker. “Does Dave come in here a lot then?” Reg said he did and gave him his coffee. Parker continued to ask questions about Dave, the bar Confusion and eventually arrived at the main theme of his enquiries, “Did anyone see the hooligans who killed that Spanish kid last night?” The bar went dead and Dave stood up and walked over to Nick Parker.

“What do you mean hooligans killed him? He wasn’t fucking killed by hooligans, he just fell off a scooter you twat.” Parker turned to face Dave, “And you are?” Dave looked at Reg and said, “Just a regular here and you have no idea what happened last night, that kid fell off and hit his head.” I could see this going badly but they carried on talking. “There were loads of football fans around and one of them punched him, that’s what I heard,” said Parker. “You were there then? Do you know any different?” Dave sat on a stool and drew closer to the reporter. “The kid fell off the moped. The lad who works next door went to help and saved that boys life. He was already dead, lying in the street. When the ambulance turns up a single medic gets out and takes the kid to hospital. That’s you’re story. Crap Spanish ambulances and shit medics. But no one cares about that. Its not news. Football fans? They were holidaymakers in football shirts.”

The reporter continued to talk to Dave, unaware of whom Dave was. I went outside and opened the bar doors and stocked up, noticing an increasing number of faces pressing against the windows and looking in. Mid-afternoon and Sky and ITV News had turned up asking questions and searching for both Dave and I. After a day trying to avoid the press; basically they believed the guys responsible for the death had been in our bar and had run off afterwards and actually ran reports in the UK saying this; Dave owned up to Nick Parker and he ran an exclusive story in The Sun Newspaper, saying what the truth was as far as Dave knew the truth to be. The following day I was interviewed for Sky News and after that, local news reporters besieged my Mum’s home in Norwich. They eventually went away after she provided a picture of me to them (a decent one thank god) and some background information. Running alongside all of this was the fact that Bar Confusion was then closed by the local Police due to a Liquor Licence and Noise complaint (which was bollocks) and remained closed for 3 days! The press ran the story that the bar was closed out of respect for the lad who died but we knew otherwise.

Jesus Moreno was 19 years old and had been with a friend for a night out in San Antonio. He lived near Ibiza Town with his parents and older brother, Raoul. It transpired that the Moped driver and Jesus, neither wearing a helmet, were idling slowly behind a group of English tourists, (who were of course wearing a variety of English football shirts). The moped driver was revving the engine behind them, zipping forward to almost hit the tourists before backing off. The holidaymakers eventually responded by turning to face them and one feigned a punch. At which point the driver opened the throttle and popped a wheelie. Jesus fell backwards off the bike striking his head on the concrete. Rather than stop to help his friend the driver sped away down the street and never returned to the scene. I hope that over time, he came to reflect upon what had happened and his life changed for the positive because of it.

Raoul came to find me a few days later and thanked me for trying to save his brother’s life. I was particularly upset when meeting him and we sat together and cried; the brother for his loss and me? I cried for the shame I felt at not insisting that I ride with Jesus to Hospital and for the waste of such a young and a promising life. One would be right in questioning the quality of emergency services on the Island. How could they possibly provide such a poor service to their own countrymen, let alone tourists? The same year, 1989, had already seen several tourists die from drug overdoses and questions were being asked in the UK Parliament about these deaths. A few years later the son of a senior member of the Islands government fell from his Motorbike whilst riding between beaches on an isolated Island road. It was high summer and it took over 1½ hour’s for an ambulance to reach him, by which time he’d died from heat exposure and blood loss. The same year, after an investigation into all of Ibiza’s Emergency Service provision, new rules and response times were put in place, Medics properly trained and now the Islands services are among the best in the Mediterranean.

Meanwhile, I was back at work and the boys from the Live Band around the corner had been to see me, I was to award the prizes and sing (As George Michael), at the Miss Playa Bella Beauty Contest, across San Antonio bay at the Playa Bella hotel complex. Me? Surrounded by women? What could possibly go wrong there?

I coulda had class, I coulda been somebody!

2013-04-09T10:59:00.002+00:00

Neil and Jocelyn Riley came out to stay with Dave and Becky at the villa which was great for Becky as she’d most certainly been getting bored. Her devotion to Dave was stunning; she’d collect bottles and tidy up and when not needed, sat on a chair in the storeroom behind the bead curtain reading a magazine. Rebecca did spend quite a lot of that year back home in England leaving Dave and I to it, so to speak. It was great to have Neil and Jocelyn in town and we all hit the beach or walked down to Café’ del Mar. The summer heat coupled with long working hours, all night clubbing and the need to be “up” for it and continually “on” the job, started to take it’s toll and began to change my behaviour. Everyone who walked in through the doors of Bar Confusion had a right to expect not just great music, a great atmosphere, outstanding cocktails (!) and plenty of laughs, but for Dave and I to reflect the fact that the “Party Island lifestyle” was indeed one never-ending party for us both. In trying to live up to expectations, changes in my personality manifested themselves in a number of ways; my alcohol intake steadily increased to keep up not only with my peers but with the customers as well.

Either the pace of life either needed a break in the form of sleep, (and that was highly unlikely to take place and of course didn’t), or I would have to resort to chemical support to get me through the summer. There were very few days off or even lunch breaks let alone early nights once the season was in full swing. My staple diet was a grilled chicken Bocadillo, (a small bread baton cut lengthways and crammed with meat) eaten on the run between changing VHS tapes and serving drinks. What actually enabled me to dodge sleep and maintain the breakneck pace was easy access to drugs, and they allowed me to “cheat” both body and mind into performing way beyond normal limits. I’m not going to preach and whine about drug taking, how I was taking them for good reasons; there are no ‘good’ reasons. I don’t condone drug taking and after the 1989’s ‘Summer of Love’, I tried Cocaine once more and decided it was not for me. I am not apologising nor seeking to explain away my behaviour. I have never enjoyed smoking Marijuana or Hash/blow, it made me sick, dizzy, tired, very hungry and thirsty. More to the point, drugs are expensive and I didn’t have the money to buy them and wasn’t so into them that I need a fix to get me through the day. The drugs I took were more of a crutch to lean on during the long nights and days that summer. Honesty forces me to write about my drug taking and the months spent managing my life us drugs and alcohol, cigarettes and women all in abundance, all indulged if not too extremes, then certainly knocking on that door and to the point where I started to really dislike myself.

Cat (Mr Hash) and his acolytes were regularly popping into the bar and it was through this crowd that I gained knowledge of a new name in town. Billy, (Whizz, Speed, Amphetamine) presented himself one night as I went into the storeroom to grab bottles for the bar. On a shelf laid out in neat lines 2 inches long was a white powder. I knew it was ‘gear’ but did not know what type. I went back to the bar and asked Dave about it. He served the customer in front and we nipped back followed by one of Cats mates Danny. “Its Billy, Jonny Boy,” said Daniel, “Speed. It’ll keep you going all night, just don’t go mad as its not cheap.” Danny was obviously the provider and neither he nor Dave ever asked me to pay for any of these ‘performance enhancing’ drugs and to be fair I never offered as I was not exactly earning a mint.

Dave thought the opportunity to ‘live the island clubber lifestyle’ more than made up for anything resembling a decent wage and he was not about to ‘up’ my wages just because I was performing beyond expectations. I sniffed a line up my nose and was told to rub anything left on the shelf into my gums, which I did. I went back to work and I was soon more energetic, eager and active which was a positive I figured. I didn’t take Speed every night; it wasn’t available every night, more likely twice a week on average. It did have an effect though and alongside increasing my intake of water, I also increased my intake of Jack Daniels and Vodka. Beer was for afternoons only or following an in-frequent day on the beach. When Dave did fancy a day off we’d both have a day off and besides, you can’t keep nipping off to empty your bladder when running a bar and serving drinks all night, so shots of Jack and Tequila became the norm.

One of the more unsavoury characters to turn up was a big brute of a guy called Gary and his wife Caroline. She was cute, pretty and beaten almost to a pulp on a weekly sometimes, daily basis. He and Caroline had turned up looking for work in early May. Apparently he was a builder and did find work on the island and a couple running a small bar/club nearer the strip gave Caroline work clearing glasses and propping for them. Any money she earned went into his pockets and he disappeared into the night returning in the early morning to their small flat to give her a smack and then go to his job. Caroline became a regular in the bar and she and I became close but not too close, I was more an ear for her to talk to and besides, I think she feared that had she had an affair of any sort he’d kill her. She’d tell me how he’d come home still smelling of other women, stinking of vomit and drink and try to rape her, (there is no way a woman consents to sex in those circumstances), although more often than not failing to perform. He had no redeeming characteristics at all and after weeks of listening to this horror story I spoke to Dave and asked what could be done.

Eventually a group of the English Bar/Club owners got together and bought her a plane ticket off the island. I borrowed Dave’s car and dropped her at the airport one day whilst the beast was working. I parked up near my flat and walked down the small hill to the bar to go to work only to find him outside stamping up and down. “Where’s my wife?” he shouted as I approached. I told him I had no idea where she was and said “How would I know?” “She is always in there with you,” her said, pointing towards Confusion, “You little shit.” This was not going to end well unless I got some support and wondered where it was going to come from. This guy was at least 6’3” and I was 5’9” on my best day. I said something along the lines of “why do you give a shit, you’re fucking all the pigs running around the island anyway!” This elicited the not unexpected response of a push in my chest and his face so close that his spittle was hitting my face as he shouted. He moved me around so my back was against the doors of our Bar and my escape routes were restricted further, but I continued to smart mouth the ape. Was I mad? Probably. But fuck him, he was a bully and a sick-making bully at that, so I wanted to make sure he was engaged here in town and not patrolling the island looking for Caroline and hitting on the idea of going to the airport.

The yelling finally (thank god) alerted Kaz in the OK Corral, (who had contributed a large amount to the air-ticket) and she came outside and saw what was happening. She went back in and got Dave who was sat drinking a beer with Reg and Souness. Dave came out and immediately stepped in between fuck-face and I and walked towards him giving me room to edge away from the doors. From then on with Dave standing at 6’3” and eye-to-eye with him the bully barely said a word and simply moaned saying, as his meaty fists pointed in my direction, ”He’s always with my missus.” Dave told him to grow up, that we were friends but nothing more and besides, he was shagging everything left by everyone else, so why did he care? He slopped off, his knuckles dragging on the floor and wandered towards the main street of bars. I looked at Dave, “That’s the last time I save you from a kicking. Stay away from other blokes wives, especially the nutter’s! Now open up the bar and get Who Framed Roger Rabbit on the TV!”

I never saw or heard from Caroline again and the ‘Neanderthal’ left the island shortly afterwards, to where I do not know? That was an example of Dave coming to the rescue but Dave was also a selfish, self-centred bugger who sought loyalty and devotion in others to his cause, but more often than not he failed to reciprocate and I found that immensely frustrating. I trusted Dave and the shame of it was that his life, personality and opinion of others up to that point, had been greatly affected by people who had ripped him off, dropped him in it or had taken the piss. So for Dave to trust anyone else was going to require a great deal of faith on his part and despite my best efforts I’ve always been of the mind that he was watching me, constantly. As principled as I believe I am, and I live by a set of principles that are basic and simple tenets; (don’t steal from anyone, especially friends; be honest, try to be kind its easier than being an arse, and treat everyone as an equal), I could have been the risen Christ and still have been a suspect in Dave’s small world of intrigue and suspicion. And that was a bloody shame and shame on him for what followed as well.

My brief meeting with John Fashanu when in passed him my demo tape in Ricks Place in Norwich had long been forgotten, as I was hard at work serving tourists. “Fash” was so far from my mind that when Kaz came into Bar Confusion one early June afternoon from the OK Corral and said, “I’ve got John Fashanu on the phone,” Dave immediately assumed it was for him. The OK Corral had a phone in the kitchen and we’d provided the number to friends and family in case of emergencies. “He’s not ringing for you Dave, its for Jonathan,” said Kaz pointing towards me. Dave stopped in his tracks and I inwardly smiled as I walked around the bar to go with Kaz. In the OK Corral kitchen I picked up the gravy stained receiver and said “Hello?” “Jonny Boy,” said Fash, “Found you at last mate. Look, you know you handed me your George tape, well I’ve got something for you,” he said. My stomach flipped, “Great, what is it?” I asked, half expecting a wedding do or nightclub show at best. “It’s a Pilot for a TV show mate, using lookalikes to impersonate pop-stars and they get votes to see who is the best one,” said Fash. “Fucking yes please,” I said, but I knew Dave needed me here and was already worrying as to how he’d manage without me.

“I was hoping you’d say that mate. You need to get on a plane sharpish mate!” John Fashanus use of the word “mate” was a constant when he spoke; almost becoming a form of punctuation in each sentence. It later turned out that the show in question was the Pilot for “Stars In Their Eyes”, the show becoming a Prime time Saturday Evening staple that first aired in the UK the following year (July 1990) after being commissioned by ITV, with Leslie Crowther as host. “I’d better go and tell Dave then, back in a minute, hang on!” I shouted. I ran off to find Dave almost bumping into him as he stood at the door of the OK Corral. Confusion was empty and he was wondering what was going on. I told Dave all that Fash had said about the Pilot and that I had to go to the UK, and watched Dave’s face slowly change, as the realisation dawned on him that I was going away. “I can’t let you go, you won’t come back Jonny,” said Dave. “What? You have to let me go, it’s my chance! Fash has done what he said he’d do, I have to go and do this Dave.” I was pissed off at his attitude, but still certain that I was going. “Nah, you’ll get involved and then you’ll ring me and say you can’t come back as you have other stuff to do. So I can’t let you go.” Let me go? What the fuck? What right had he got to decide whether I went or not. I told him this and that I was really fucked off that he was being so stubborn.

“Look, you’ve got no money. How are you gonna pay for the flight back home, I’m not giving it to you.” I knew Fash was hanging on the phone waiting for me to come back and confirm the details. “I’ll call my mum, she’ll pay for the flight,” I said pathetically. I was more or less pleading with him to let me go, it was my dream break. “Look, I’ll go and talk to Fash and explain that you’re needed here and he’ll understand. There’ll be another chance anyway knowing Fash. This is not a one off, he’s always got things happening so don’t worry, it will still be there when you get back.” I didn’t believe that for a second and said, “I want to go Dave, its only fair”. And Dave? He turned to me and said, “Fair? You cheeky little fucker! You wouldn’t fucking know Fash if it weren’t for me! You ungrateful little shit, you’re here working for me working in a dream job and I gave you this chance. I could just say to Fash that you’re not worth it, that you’re a wanker and he’ll forget you, but I wont.” His voice calmed a little from its rising volume. “I’ll just tell him not now and after the summer you can fucking go and do what you want with my blessing, but not now.”

With that he went into the OK Corral and I was left in the street like a swinging dick, with fuck-all to do but slope off back into the bar. I’d capitulated and given up my chance of possibly being someone, of having ‘something’. It could have been the thing that changed my life from dead end job to dead end job. I don’t know where it might have led me but it might have been something better. In my darker moments before I learned to stop having regrets, (Regrets poison you slowly but surely, until you lose everything and have nothing but regret and sod all else), I used to look back at that episode and contemplate Marlon Brando’s character Terry in the movie ‘On The Waterfront’ and his speech to his brother Charley (Rod Steiger). He said and I quote, “You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum!"

Dave walked back into the bar some 5 minutes later and put and end to that chance with the words, “Fash said he understands. He said it’ll be there for you when you get home at the end of the season.” He no more believed that than I did and I sulked about for more than a week until Dave told me to cheer the fuck up! I did cheer up when Dave, perhaps feeling bad, pitched up with Billy and Charlie the twin brothers of delight and despair who corrupted body and soul. We worked like buggers and closed early and went to KU Club to celebrate nothing much in particular and so the circle continued to turn and the screws, (drugs, drink, women and exhaustion) tightened a little more. Did I have a failing? Was I wrong to decide to devote myself to the success of the bar that summer? I was loyal, honest, and committed to the business notwithstanding what had happened. I put it behind me after a while and got on with the work at hand. Dave meanwhile had simply chipped away at the pedestal I’d put him with a large chunk of masonry falling away and he’d started to wobble.

In recalling those events recently with Dave he apologised and said he could not remember that happening. It was erased from his memory but he continued to apologise and as I've written; there are no, (I have no) regrets.

Cocktail TIme!

2013-04-08T13:08:00.001+00:00

May was dead and any holidaymakers who ventured out didn’t go far beyond the West End and its street of bars, so the lack of tourists was a little disturbing. I was in a miserable mood as I’d left my RayBan Aviators on the bar when I nipped next door to the OK Corral, only to discover they had been stolen when I returned. I could barely afford new RayBans, but sought out a new pair in Ibiza Town and never put them down again. Dave set himself up in an apartment just outside San Antonio and I stayed there for the first month. A number of ‘characters’ were now turning up as the summer season started (Late May), amongst them a guy from LIverpool everyone called “Cat” (I think his real name was Paul). Cat must have been pushing fifty years old and he was the go to guy for marijuana. There was Les the Chef, (who surprisingly was a chef!) and a guy called Barnsley (he was from Barnsley!). Later that summer a tall skinny lad from Preston arrived with his chubby friend looking for work; Dave called him “The Preston Pencil”, (Long, thin, pointless). I ended up sharing a ground floor apartment with 3 bedrooms, with Les and Cat as it was close to the centre of town and the bar. Great for stumbling back to bed alone or with company, but bad if you wanted to keep your possessions as it was impossible to securely lock any doors.

Bar Confusion’s opening hours were the same everyday and we opened seven days a week from mid-May until the middle of October and the tasks were the same everyday. Stock up 11am, open at noon, show Pirated movies from noon until 6pm and then close until 7pm to shower and change. I would re-open the Bar at 7pm and we remained open until 2am sometimes later if still busy. Dave and I worked in the bar all summer long, no one else helped, except for Becky his wife if she was on the island, as Dave did not trust anyone else near the till. The Preston Pencil and his fat friend propped customers in the street for us for a few days and Dave let them sleep in the stock room, (the till was emptied every night), as they had no money nor anywhere to stay. They were evicted after Dave found out they had drunk two small bottles of chocolate milk in an attempt to ward off starvation. They left the empties in plain view whereas they could have dropped them through the barred rear window and no one would have been the wiser, the fools! After we closed for the night I’d go to a club until 6am, sleep until 11am and then start all over again.

We gave up stocking barrels of San Miguel as the cooler was worse than useless and only stocked bottled beer; Heineken, San Miguel and Amstel. We served tequila slammers,

liquor shots, wine and eventually a small selection of in-house cocktails; the names of which I invented and retain the copyright to and will share a little further on. The spirits were all the local hooch, Ron Blanco (Bacardi), Ron Negro (Dark Rum), there was a cheap and nasty Vodka and a foul Whisky that had never seen Scotland in its short life; a dodgy brandy that doubled as drain cleaner and Larios Gin that wasn’t too bad, all things said. We also stocked all the brand name spirits as well, Jack Daniels, Smirnoff, Gordons Gin, Bacardi Rum, Courvoisier Brandy and a few blended scotch whisky’s such as Ballentine, which is popular in Spain. The trick was to top up branded bottles with the cheap rubbish unless we knew the customer, who then got the decent stuff which was kept under the bar. Most of those “in the know” asked for a Smirnoff and Coke rather than just Vodka and Coke or a Gordons Gin and tonic as opposed to simply a Gin and tonic, by way of example.

During May when we were quiet we’d call it a night early and go to a club with an English band around the corner. I got up one evening and sang a few George Michael songs and the guys in the band said they might have a gig for me in July at the Miss Playa Bella contest. As the Island started to fill with holidaymakers we eventually found ourselves getting busier especially after showing the films during the day. It stunned me how anyone could spend good money to go to a sun-kissed island and choose to sit in a bar and watch grainy pirated copies of films on a 19” Portable TV? But they did and we profited from it, bless ‘em.

As May ended and June began we noticed increasing numbers of people passing outside in the evenings so Dave and I took turns to try and divert people into the bar pointing out the merits such as the music we played, as opposed to the crap they would get bombarded with later on in the clubs. Whitsun Week was a turning point and we steadily increased patronage especially amongst the students who loved the music and my now famous (in their minds) cocktails. The aim was always to get women into the bar before groups of men. Women were far more likely to come in if they could see other women were already being served or were sat outside drinking, whereas they’d move quickly past if a group of sweaty lads, in football shirts and sombreros were singing along to U2 and trying, (but falling well short), to hit the notes Bono hit. Invariably we’d succeed in getting girls in first, through sheer persistence and charm…………………

The Managers of Es-Paradis, Star Club and Pacha came in and handed over 200 or so cards for their clubs entitling the bearer to free entry and/or a free drink once inside. We would write the name ‘Bar Confusion’ on the back of the tickets and when handed over at the club they’d be counted up, so the club concerned could see which bars their customers were coming from. This was good for us as we not only got free entry and access to the VIP bar/lounge inside, but also a free bottomless bottle of our choice of spirit behind the bar. We would have a bottle of Smirnoff Red, (The real stuff) behind the bar and free pour our own drinks, marking the bottle with a black pen ensuring no one else touched it. These freebies enabled me to invite scores of women to Es-Paradis or Star, showing off as I walked straight past the queues and into the VIP area. To be handed a bottle of Smirnoff to give the girls free drinks all night long loosened quite a few pairs of knickers.

June saw business picking up nicely with new groups of students coming into the bar saying that they’d been told to come to Bar Confusion by friends returning to University after their holidays. I was “seeing” plenty of women and Dave christened me, “The Snoggo Kid”, on account of my eagerness to slap my lips onto the next pretty face showing even the slightest interest. Rather than being frowned upon, fraternisation with customers was positively encouraged and I worked out a rotation system whereby I’d focus my attention on a girl who I knew was in the second week of a two week holiday, whilst simultaneously chatting up her replacement, who I’d ascertained was just starting the first week of her holiday.

It was easy to spot the new arrivals as bright red sunburnt arms, shoulders and faces were more than apparent. This juggling game was spiced up by my throwing in at least two or three one-night stands per week into the mix thereby risking the possibility of the girls all turning up to the bar at the same time, which happened once or twice much to Dave’s delight and to my initial embarrassment which soon turned to laughter. On one occasion this was fortunately resolved to my advantage after one girl had stormed out and the other two got chatting, which resulted in a Ménage à trois, impressing both Dave and the regulars. An un-written rule was that no one would denounce or embarrass another bloke whose wife, girlfriend or partner came out from the UK to see him. There were a couple of girls who came back out to the island to see me and stay at my place after their initial holiday was over; for either a week or a long weekend. During their stay no mention would be made of my antics in their absence or any comment made as to the girl’s motives or personality, an unwritten ‘club rule’ if you will.

With Dave’s “Bar Confusion Mix Tapes” attracting new and returning customers to the Bar we needed something else to ensure the student crowd chose Bar Confusion over the other numerous places in town for pre-rave drinks, so I invented my own brand of cocktails which proved to be the solution. Well the cocktails and my skill in delivering Tequila Slammers fast, and with minimal spillage. The cocktails had to be different; original, exotic, eye catching, intoxicating (very) and appealing by name. I decided against anything requiring the addition of a fruit garnish, (cherry’s, lemon slice, lime segment, raspberries, strawberries etc.) as it took time to add and mix. I was very mush against additional decorative flourishes such as Umbrella’s, whipped cream, stirring sticks etc. as they added to cost to serve and finally the cocktails wouldn’t require any special glassware such as a Martini Glass, again due to reduce cost.

I started out with a single cocktail containing spirits on the shelf behind the bar, Brandy, Vodka, Gin, Crème de Menthe? (For colour obviously!) Throw in Southern Comfort, Tequila and lemonade, although coke or OJ could be requested, (customers choice of mixer; I wasn’t bothered) and there was your basic Confusion Cocktail. Not a particularly flavoursome mix I grant you and after drinking the first one I’d mixed by way of a taste test, both Dave and my words were “Oooh, ya bastard!” So that one was named “The Bastard”. The name written in white paint on the mirror behind the bar for all to see and it went down a treat with the customers who loved saying, “Two Bastards over here mate”. My next trick was to swap out the Crème de Menthe for Blue Curacao along with adding another glug of Brandy and another of Vodka. This was called, “The Fucking Bastard”.

When asked why the extra expletive, I said that the additional shots would make that clear when drunk, which it blatantly did with, “That was a fucking bastard!” echoing around the bar. This new beverage proved just as popular as its illegitimate little brother and so I branched out and within days along came, The Twat” and “The Wanker.” Orders came thick and fast, shouts of “I’m a Bastard, she’s a Twat, he’s a Wanker and that guys a Fucking Bastard,” ensuring they got what they wanted and everyone knew where/who they were. The fun both women and men got when ordering these drinks cannot be underestimated and once we became known for our music and cocktails we became very busy indeed.

I had wanted to go to Pikes Hotel, the location for the Club Tropicana video by Wham! so Dave and I drove up one Sunday afternoon. In 1989 the car park in front was a dusty mix of sand and shingle lifting into the air like a swarm of mosquitos as our car skidded over the surface and came to a stop. Once the dust had settled we walked toward the low level buildings built into the hillside and up a row of stairs and onto a patio, a large cabana suite to our right and the infamous Club Tropicana pool in front.

We walked around the building to our left and toward the pool bar when a young guy in his early thirties approached and asked if he could help us. He was Anthony (Dale) Pike, the son of Tony Pike, hotel owner, raconteur, party organiser and friend to the stars. We told Dale who we were and that we were running Dave’s Confusion bar that summer and gained trust and friendship to a degree. Dale welcomed us and Dave regaled Dale with tales of football as we sat at the bar and had a drink. In return Dale recalled stories of the celebrities who had stayed there. We talked about the Wham! video and my attempts to be a George lookalike. Dale said that George would be staying at the hotel in June whilst performing at concerts in mainland Spain.

I decided there and then that I’d get back to the hotel and try and meet George and as I was still a budding if unsuccessful songwriter figured he might like to record a song of mine, (you have to have a dream in this life and a dream bonded to unbridled confidence also helps, so much so that I carried my lyrics books with me everywhere just in case). Back in town the tourist numbers were building and various friends of Dave’s began to show up at the bar including Keith Bertschin who had played alongside Dave at Norwich City Football Club. He was now playing at Walsall FC and had bought almost the entire first team over for an end of season holiday. Also in town were Rod, Ray and Danny Wallace, three brothers playing for Southampton FC,

along with a few others Southampton FC players. Dave decided to organise a game on the local pitch in San Antonio and most of the professionals agreed to have a game. I was having problems with my back so agreed to referee the game and to make up the numbers a few lads on holiday were asked if they wanted to play alongside professional footballers and they all agreed (who wouldn’t?).

I am pretty sure anyone who has played football at any level has played on a pitch that lacked a certain something; was missing a few features that made it not quite the surface one would hope for. In the case of San Antonio Town FC the missing features were; Grass, Lines marking the pitch, Nets in the goals and an absence of a flat surface. What it did have was sun-baked hard clay, covered in sand and small stones and pockmarked with holes and cracks. I wonder what the team managers would have said had they seen some of their million pound assets running around such an awful pitch? The stars were split evenly between the teams and Dave decided his best position, seeing that he couldn’t run, was to stand in the centre circle and ping passes out to the wings and into the goal areas.

I’d never seen Dave play before and watching him smack forty and fifty yard passes direct to feet was quite something. The lads making up the numbers however were making certain that the professionals knew they were in a game and were sliding into tackles that would have someone in hospital had I not stopped the game. Rod and Danny were enraged at the tackles and so I asked everyone to remember, especially those amateurs playing, that some people were putting their livelihoods at stake for what should have been a kick about. All agreed to tone it down a tad and we started off again and once that tackles had stopped scything people down we had great time. The heat was tremendous though and frequent stops for water were made with players simply walking off, grabbing a bottle and wandering back onto the pitch. I don’t remember the final score but know that we knocked it after an hour and all headed back to Confusion for beers and laughs, the professionals and amateurs getting along fine.

Confusion! Confusion!

2013-04-02T10:20:00.001+00:00

As House and Acid were predominant, the island was gearing itself up for what became known as the “Summer of Love - 1989!” All the major clubs, Ku (later re-named Privilege), Amnesia, Space, Pacha, Es-Paradis and Star Club, were preparing to deliver what the clubbers wanted; Bottled water at extortionate prices, celebrity DJ’s and House and Acid Music. The licensing laws on the island at that time stated that all clubs and bars had to close for at least two hours per day. Space, a club just outside Ibiza Town launched that year, was an ‘open-air’ club and fed on clubbers who wanted to continue partying into the late morning (Midday) its dance floor packed with people waving bottles of water above their heads (occasionally drinking it to stop themselves dehydrating from the Ecstasy Tablets and Speed they’d taken), and shouting their heads off at the Airliners that flew directly overhead, as they landed and departed from the islands airport just a few miles along the coast. As well as Space; Amnesia, Ku and Es-Paradis were also open air and were renowned for their late night (3am) foam parties and as they were going to be limited in the main to selling huge quantities of bottled water, not alcohol, they inflated the price of water to near £5 per 330ml bottle and doubled entry prices to compensate for lost revenue.

The bars in San Antonio (in what is called The West end) were all vying to attract clubbers for early drinks and dancing with a number of gimmicks; male and female ‘props’ in the street offering two-for-one drinks and free shots; live music, cocktail hours and happy hours. Bar Confusion was not on the main drag so we needed something dramatically different but equally as enticing, if not more so, to attract customers. We needed to differentiate our product from the mass-market offering available everywhere else (Is what a Marketing expert would say). The only customers in the first weeks of the season would be holidaymakers passing the Bar as they walked from their hotels into town or from town out towards the west coast and Café Del Mar. Café del Mar had become “The Place” for the ‘Chill out scene’; Ravers would flop down on the imported sand beach which covered the hard rocks beneath, (the sand would be washed away each winter requiring new sand every spring), crack open a litre bottle of finest water and watch as the sun slipped below the waves, listening to soon to be classic chill-out music played by the DJ’s who would then re-appear and at the top clubs later that night playing music at the other end of the musical spectrum.

The real brilliance of Dave’s plan, our “Differentiator” was the music we’d play and how we’d promote the bar. Prior to our departure to decorate the bar, Dave enlisted the help of Vic, who had a vast collection of music in all formats. Providing him with 50 or so blank tape cassettes, Vic was asked to copy onto them all music that fell within strict limits, which was either by the bands listed or fell strictly within the same genre, bands such as: U2, REM, The Alarm, The Cure, Killing Joke, Pixies, Sisters of Mercy, The Associates, Simple Minds, Water Boys, The Smiths, Joy Division and New Order, Talk Talk, The Fall, OMD, Morrissey, Tears For Fears, Art of Noise, The Adventures, B-52’s, Depeche Mode, A Flock of Seagulls, INXS, Gary Numan, Soft Cell, Talking Heads, Bowie, Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, Inspiral Carpets, James, The Charlatans, The Farm, Blur, Oasis, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Clash; I could go on and on. There was definitely no disco, no love songs and no soft rock. Although I was allowed the occasional Wham! or George Michael song by way of appeasement, I never heard them played. My input was very limited which was probably for the best. In between some of the songs, Vic inserted vocal clips from movies (Robin Williams shouting “Goooooooood Moooornnnnning Vietnammmmm!!” for example) and the chant “Confusion” from the New Order song of the same name and after which the bar was named, would jump out between numbers as well.

The outside of the bar was painted white and below the front window, Sid The Hippie, a resident English guy who’d been on the island for many years, reproduced the cover of the Joshua Tree Album by U2 in black paint and to the left of the door, a large silhouette of The Edge. Listed on this in chalk were the names of some of the bands and some of the pirated movies we’d play during the day. Dave hit upon the idea that many of the clubbers would be too frazzled to hit the beach and would be happy to sit in our bar watching movies, the pirate copies such as: - Who Framed Roger Rabbit (! Go figure), Midnight Run (De Niro), Licence to Kill (Bond), Batman (Michael Keaton), Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Star Trek – The Final Frontier, Good Morning Vietnam (very popular) and Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Obviously some of these were aimed at the younger generation as well, but you’d be surprised at what a drugged up Acid Head will watch. I being somewhat of a soft touch, would happily allow guys to sit there watching a film without ordering a drink, whereas Dave would be asking who needed a drink, “I’ll bring it over to you,” he’d say. If anyone declined he’d ask whether they thought this was a charity bar? “Buy a drink or fuck off,” was his last offer before he’d eject them into the street. Acidheads were notorious for making a 330ml bottle Mineral Water last all day, they’d sit in a trance-like state, staring at the TV screen rocking back and forth as if personal soundtrack to their life was playing over and over inside their head. Families who came to watch the kid’s films always coughed up with Dad’s drinking numerous bottles of beer, as Mum would be downing the Southern Comfort. Their kids would run around annoying the Acidheads, who’d moan and then be told to “Fuck off you cheap twat” by Dave as they’d spent hardly spent a peseta on beer.

Bar Confusion was next-door to The OK Corral, a typical English Pub abroad serving British beer, Sunday Roasts, Cottage Pie etc. owned and run by Liverpudlian husband and wife, Kaz and Reg and their friend Rick. Dave called Rick either, “Souness”, due to his likeness to Graeme Souness the Liverpool FC player, (the likeness being a large moustache’) or the “Horizontal Barman”, on account of his falling down drunk one evening after a late night session as he “disappeared”, moving from the vertical to the horizontal in a second. Next-door to The OK Corral was the Bar Quack Quack, owned by Ron and Bob, two Englishmen nearing retirement age and opposite was Bar Cantiti, an Ibicencian Café/Bar serving Tapas and drinks that attracted the locals run by a charming man called Bartolo.

Reg, at The OK Corral had an amazing claim to fame and Dave called him the 5^th Beatle, as he had been a school friend of Paul McCartney. Meeting the teenage Paul McCartney on the bus one day they got talking about music and Reg said he played guitar. Paul asked him if he wanted to join his new band? Reg said he’d, “Have to ask my Mum as I’m at College,” and his Mum said “No!” Thereby ending abruptly before it ever got started, the career he could have had as one of the Fab Four and hence becoming, the 5^th Beatle. The Iceman was perfectly named as he delivered all our Ice-cubes. His father had started a water purification plant on the island and began producing ice-cubes en-masse to cater to the bars and clubs. He was a real charmer, driving around the island in football shorts and a t-shirt in his refrigerated van. I’m pretty certain that he’d have a beer in every bar he stopped at. We closed up after the redecorations and caught a flight back to Luton, a quick trip back to collect anything we’d need for the summer and then we headed straight back to serve the masses.

1989 - The Summer of Confusion

2013-02-28T12:47:00.000+00:00

1989 was clouded by the effect Ibiza and the summer of love had on me. Blogs for the year (commencing below), are really one long story and flow into each another, so sometimes there may not be a "dramatic ending or denouement" you sometimes get or expect to read at the end, but you'll get used to that I'm sure - thank you for continuing to read this blog-spot. JW xx

Creating Confusion

Dave Bennetts football career was cut short in 1984 with a knee injury and whilst his ligament damage was considerable back then, it but would probably have been operable and treatable today. Fortunately Dave was insured and given his zest for life he bought a lease on a bar in the West End of San Antonio, Ibiza; the centre of the islands nightlife and party community. He managed it himself in 1984 and leased the bar out over the following four summers, but by 1989 he was itching to get back to he island because he knew there was a mint to be earned if you did the right thing and more importantly, he was almost broke. He had married Rebecca and they lived in a nice bungalow in Thorpe, Norwich. By late January 1989 Dave and I were becoming great friends, he had an infectious personality and one could not help but like the guy, even though anyone other than I would take his plans and schemes, points of view and dramatic affectations with a pinch of salt. I just saw a nice man who was great fun to be around and he had connections.

Dave approached me in the Hole in the Wall one evening and said he wanted a word. Given my ‘gift of the gab’ he thought I’d make an excellent barman in Ibiza and wondered whether I fancied running the Bar with him over the summer months? I was in a quandary here as my friend Rick Holmes, the musician and fledgling rock star, had also asked me whether I wanted to set up as a two piece outfit and to go to Ibiza and play the bars and clubs? I love Rick dearly but with only three months to go in which to build a set list large enough to match the quickly developing ‘Acid House Music’ and Ecstasy charged clubbers needs, find a regular gig, accommodation and income needed to live I decided, sadly for Rick, to choose the easier route to Mediterranean madness that year. Rick, whilst disappointed in my decision (he has forgiven me now) still had his band (The Law) to keep him occupied as well as his job and girlfriends. I on the other hand was finding it harder to get up in the mornings for work (wonder why) at the Double Glazing Factory, had slipped behind on payments for the Scirocco and Glenn moved out of the house as he was going to move into cheaper rooms with a group of friends. So suddenly in the space of a month I lost my job (restructuring – last in, meant first out), my car was going to be repossessed by the finance company and my brother Richard delicately asked me to move out giving me a months notice, as I had no money to pay the rent; so it was back to mums house again.

The Hole in the Wall and Ricks place were still my main hangouts of a weekend and some weekday evenings as well.

I started seeing a lot more of Dave and would pitch up at his house for tea, which usually came with a sauce of some kind as being a Manchester lad everything edible that was served for dinner involved gravy or if gravy was not the suitable sauce, it was replaced by some other form of liquid or semi-liquid substance poured over or around the main course. So through Dave I was introduced to Hummus, Taramasalata, Pesto and various other delicacies. Rebecca his wife was a slim, very attractive blonde who was quite shy and reserved but who also had a wicked laugh and was more than able to match Dave in a battle of wits. I liked her a great deal as she was easy to talk to and was always interested in my life and what was happening to me. Health wise, I was still seeing the Orthopaedic Consultant at the hospital and underwent a short period of physiotherapy to try to alleviate the pain and problems with my back and legs. I was also taking large amounts of anti-inflammatories and pain medication that, whilst masking the pain, did nothing to identify the cause. I was not overly concerned at comments such as “could be a prolapsed disc and even the spondylolisthesis” as no one seemed to be able to nail the genuine reason for my pain. Various x-rays were taken but all proved worthless as to providing a diagnosis.

Norwich City were playing Wimbledon at home in March 1989 and through Dave, the self anointed king of ‘The Blag,’ we always managed to gain seats in the River End Stand by a circuitous route that would lead us through the sponsors dining room and the fire escape in the corner, onto the stairs behind the terraces and out onto the seats at the top of the stand. John Fashanu was playing for Wimbledon and was a good friend of Dave’s and that Saturday night after the game we gathered at the Hole in the Wall. I was not planning on going to the clubs that night probably due to being broke and so turned out wearing jeans. It was early evening, probably around seven thirty when ‘Fash’ and Dave turned up and there were barely ten people in the bar at that time. Dave introduced me to John and his friend Glen Mace and Neil Riley joined us as we all had a beer and started chatting. I was talking to John when he asked me whether I would go to the toilets and check whether anyone was in there? A very strange request needed a very good reason, so I asked him what he was worried about. John explained that as he had played for Norwich before moving to Wimbledon there was still some resentment from fans of Norwich and as such he’d had run ins with a number of supporters over the years. “So basically, I need you to just go in and check there is no one in there before I take a piss, ok?” ‘Fine’, I thought and went over to the toilet and as there wasn’t anyone in there I came out and told John that the coast was clear. He went in and I stood outside as requested to stop anyone going in whilst he used the loo! John came out and we walked back to the group we were with. Dave started telling John about my George Michael lookalike career and John said he would be happy to listen to my demo. He asked me what I was doing later and that I should join them at Rick Place but I said I was off home as I was skint and could not afford to go clubbing. “That’s a shame,” said John, “there might be an opportunity coming up later this year that you might be suitable for but I need the tape.” I said I would pass it onto his friend “Mace” who was with him and lived in Norwich, he would get it to John and we left it there. The usual crowd started to fill the Hole in the Wall and around 10:30pm, I made my excuses and left to drive home.

Sitting at home watching Match of the Day the thought of missing out on an obvious chance to get some work started to niggle and by 11:30 I was changed and ready to go back out, armed with my Demo Cassette and £20 ‘borrowed’ from my overdraft. I parked at Hunters Squash club in the hope of bumping into John there, saving myself the entrance fee to Ricks if I couldn’t blag my way in. The group of footballers and hangers on had already crossed to Ricks Place so I walked over to the club and succeeded in blagging my way in courtesy of a doorman I knew. I walked upstairs but this time there were no cameras flashing, there were no crowds of screaming girls and instead, had to worm my way through the crowd to reach the bar, were I spotted John, Dave and a whole host of Norwich City footballers stood by the bar surrounded in the main by women. I weaved my way through the group and stood behind John. I tapped him on his shoulder and he turned and smiled a big grin as I passed him the cassette. “That’s what I like to see, someone who is eager to make a go of things, well done, superb effort, I’ll definitely listen to this and get back to you, do you want a beer?” he said. Later I found myself standing with Andy Townsend (now a well regarded football pundit on ITV) who was very much the worse for wear.

The DJ was playing a U2 song and Andy was singing at the top of his voice swaying around and bumping into people. I had spoken to him a few times in the past and put my arm around his shoulder and guided him to the bar. He put his hands in his pockets and fumbling around finally produced a ten-pound note and a set of car keys. “One more pint and I’m going home, I’ve had enough fun for one night.” He was staggering drunk and I looked at the car keys and the tenner and said, “I think you’ve had enough beer Andy, put your money in your pocket. Do you want me to drive you home, I’m happy to do that for you?” I could just see the headlines, Norwich City Footballer in Drink Driving Arrest! Or some such headline like that. “Nah mate, you’re legend, but nah, god bless ya, nah, I’ll be ok.” Like bollocks you’ll be all right I thought, I took his keys and led him away from the bar towards Dave and John. “I’m heading off now chaps, I’m putting Andy in a cab and then going home, won’t let me drive his car so I’m making sure he doesn’t drive it himself.” Whether they heard or not I don’t know, they just nodded. John shook my hand and we stumbled across the club and slid down the stairs towards the doors. In between hugs and shouts of “you’re great mate” and moments of lucidity wherein he appeared totally sober we found the Taxi rank. I opened the rear door of the first cab and Andy sat in the car. I shut the door and said the cabbie, “I don’t know where he lives but I’m not letting him drive, so you’ll have to get an address from him.” “Ok, he’ll be fine with me,” said the cabbie and I walked towards my car at Hunters and saw their taxi driving up Magdalen Street as I went. ‘Good deed done there’ I thought.

I moved out of the rented house and back to mums (Again!) and despite having no money other than Unemployment Benefit, I still managed to get around, thanks to friends with cars. Early April 1989 Dave came to see me and said we were flying out to Ibiza to decorate the bar so I packed a case and off we flew. Dave had arranged for us to stay in a small flat near the centre of San Antonio and after a late night arrival, the following morning we walked round to the bar. We stood in front of “Bar Confusion”, which Dave had named after a Happy Monday’s song and took stock. Looking at the front there was a set of Georgian double doors and to the right of these was a window that opened horizontally; the bottom pane resting on the windowsill, the upper pane held in place with a hook and eye. Inside on the right were concrete moulded seats built in booths and there were four of these along the wall toward the bar each with a marble table fixed to the floor on a single central pole. The floor was marble tiled floor and the wall to the left, wood panelling with mirrors from waist height up to the ceiling. The bar was on the right starting behind the last booth of seats and came out of the wall and doglegged towards the rear of the building and had a marble top. It was around 3 metres long with a couple of San Miguel beer pumps halfway along. Opposite the bar were the toilets; a small room holding two washbasins and two cubicles with a large mirror on the wall behind the sinks. On the wall behind the bar was a large mirror and where the bar ended there was a floor to ceiling beaded fly curtain and beyond that a store room. The bar smelt musty; of stale wine and beer and cigarettes, the tangible ghost of party nights long past, the walls were sound but needed a re-paint and the seat cushions were beyond help.

“Right Jonny Boy,” said Dave, “what do you think to this idea?” Dave went onto describe his plan for a refurbishment starting with painting the interior and exterior walls white. The concrete seats would be painted white and new cushions would be found, made of sponge covered in material, he’d then over paint the walls with a design similar to the cushions. He had a special idea for the design he’d have painted on the outside. We walked to the haberdashery and sorted through bolts of cloth until Dave found a white cotton that was covered in multi-coloured fluorescent daubs, as though a paint brush had been swept across the cloth in all directions, using blue, orange, red, black, green, pink and yellow paint. “We’ll do the same to the walls on the inside of the bar,” said Dave. I was not so sure but Dave was convinced and we walked into the Hardware store and found all the colours we needed to replicate the cloth on the walls. He bought Fluorescent Blue strip lights and new spotlights with Fluorescent bulbs and Dave rang his pal who was the resident ‘Ex-Pat Electrician’ to come and fit them. We organised the licences that had to be purchased, Music, Alcohol, Fire and Health and Safety, which was a joke in it-self as you will read further on. On a regular basis we had to pay kickbacks to police and council officers who would turn up unannounced, invent some infraction and state that a fine was due otherwise the bar would be closed until payment was made.

It appeared that rather than working with the clubs and bars to the benefit of the whole Island the rules and regulations were built to force adherence to such an extent that, how businesses managed to survive was sometimes beyond me. Patrols by plainclothes police or enforcement officers meant that we had to be aware not only of the music volume audible outside the bar but also where our customers stood outside with their drink in hand, the area our outside seating covered and whether anyone was smoking pot. The street the bar was on was paved and closed to all traffic unless on deliveries. Large concrete oblong planters (no plants in them, just dirt) marked the extent of the seating areas outwards from the bar and width ways was limited to the width of our bar. However, should a customer decide to move a chair beyond a planter to sit with friends and be spotted by the police, a fine was issued straight away, so we were forever going outside and checking where our customers were.

Is that George Etc (Part Four)

2013-01-25T16:18:00.000+00:00

Mark Brennan agreed to the following if I was to help promote his nightclub. Firstly, all expenses paid. Secondly, I’d need a Two Hundred (£200) fee. Thirdly, Hotel Accommodation overnight on the night of the opening. In return he wanted me to “be George Michael” as soon as I got to Reading, which was fine by me and obviously meant a decent hotel. My outfit for this little caper was black trousers, my trusty Cowboy Boots, white Tuxedo shirt and full length Black Silk Coat, the one that Paul had given me for Christmas 1987 in California. I wanted to take someone with me for company and asked Dave Bennett, but he was busy so I asked him whom he recommended? Glenn was his choice and to be fair he was great fun when almost drunk but a pain once he’d gone over his limit. Dave also said Glenn would make a great manager as he was a salesman and a great talker. Excellent credentials apparently! A continual problem of mine has been to seek affirmation and approval of my ideas from others, especially those I respected. The other problem at that time anyway was that I respected, and sought approval from, the wrong people!

Another objective from this trip was to get myself some National promotion and Dave said he could help as he had a good friend who was a reporter for a Sunday Tabloid Newspaper. The premise was that the reporter and his son (who took the pictures) would follow us to the club. I would chat up a girl who believing I was George might be convinced to come back to the hotel for a little after show party, so to speak. I would then, (subject to her agreement), convince her that we should “sell” our stories to the press along the lines of “George Michael Lookalike makes out!” or “Oo-er!…I thought he was George!” An obvious caveat was the need for the girl to be prepared to “sell” her story and I was unsure how I was going to be able to spot a girl amongst a whole nightclub full of women, who’d be prepared to do such a thing, the whole premise appeared poorly thought out to me.

With Glenn map reading we set off to Reading and looked forward to turning up at the plush hotel Mark would have booked for “George”. The directions led us to a Bed and Breakfast! Glenn went into reception and enquired as to whether there was a room booked under his name? George of course travelled incognito! There was so Glenn said he’d be back in a moment and coming outside to the car said to me, “Its nice mate but it’s not George Michael nice.” I agreed. Glenn went to a payphone and called Mark at the club and said why had he booked us into a B&B for god’s sake? Why didn’t he book us into the Hilton Hotel around the corner from the club?” As my manager he “would have thought that George would be staying in a 5 Star Hotel,” especially if we were to carry off the idea that George was in town. Mark agreed and said we could have dinner and drinks but asked us to watch our expenses. Glenn called Dave Bennett’s press guy and told him about the change of hotel and we drove off after cancelling the room at the B&B. I parked the Scirocco (seriously, George driving a second hand Volkswagen?) around the back of the hotel and we walked inside. I sat in the bar whilst Glenn checked us in and we took our bags upstairs. I checked myself over in the mirror and after making a few “cosmetic” adjustments we went downstairs to the bar and ordered drinks.

The Hotel Manager came over to greet us (good, good); he welcomed us to the Hotel (even better) and asked if we’d be dining there tonight (splendid!!). Glenn said we were and the Manager said he would inform the chef (very good indeed, blag underway!) So we sat in the bar for a couple of hours chatting and laughing away with Glenn enjoying the blag as much as I, with guests coming in and staring at us and girls giggling and waving. The time came to take our table and the Head Waiter led us to our seats, I scanned the room looking at the other guests and smiling as we made eye contact, many people were watching us. The hotel interior was an Atrium design; a high open plan room with steps leading from the Reception to the Bar and onwards to the Restaurant which was reached using two or three more steps down to the lowest level. So anyone sitting in an appropriate place in the Restaurant could see who was in the Bar. We sat side onto the room with the Bar to my right and a large glass window-wall to my left. The Sommelier came over and offered us the wine list at which Glenn said, “Which Champagnes do you have?” The Sommelier opened the list to the page detailing which Champagnes they carried, “The Dom Pom!” said Glenn. The Sommelier went off to fetch the Champagne and I looked at Glenn and said “Why not?” We were into our second bottle within half an hour and eating an Amuse Bouche the Chef had prepared especially, after the Manager told him that “George Michael is dining here tonight!”

The fact that the Chef had brought the dish out to me personally only served to emphasise to our fellow guests that it was George dining with them. I looked across to the Bar area and noticed a stocky man with grey hair dressed in a single breasted suit looking in my direction at first smiling at me, then waving his hand. Realising this was Dave’s journalist mate (confirmed when a younger guy stood up next to him with a Camera in his hand!), I walked over to them and we shook hands as he said in my ear, “Bloody hell mate, you had me fooled!” I offered them drinks and a bite to eat, Roast Beef sandwiches, I recall. Once our meal was finished we sat in the Bar and waited for Mark Brennan who arrived around 9pm to discuss the plan for the evening. He spotted what was our third bottle of ‘Dom’ and said, “You are watching the expenses aren’t you.” Glenn said we were and that he was not to worry, to which Mark said, “Ok, but only that one bottle.” Oooops!

A limousine would arrive at 11pm and take us from the Hotel to the Club where Mark and a large number of bodyguards would meet us. Was he serious? He most certainly was! I would be escorted into the Club and to the VIP area where a corner booth was laid out with champagne and glasses. Clubbers (women) would then queue to be let through to meet “George”; they’d share a glass of bubbles and then leave to allow the next guest through. All I (and Glenn) had to do was smile, chat and drink Champagne. Mark departed but not before glancing at our champagne on ice and said, “Just keep an eye on those expenses, ok?” “Of course we will” came the chorus of voices in reply. Just before 11pm the Hotel Concierge approached our table and said our car had arrived. The journalist and his son left for the club after taking a few pictures of us leaving the Hotel and we climbed into a very nice Mercedes Benz. The Chauffeur got in and looking in the mirror said, “Good evening Sir, I hope you are well this evening?” I was. Very well. “I’ll drive you to the Nightclub, then wait and bring you back to the Hotel unless you wish to something else afterwards. We do have a Casino in Reading,” he said. “Thank you, can I ask your name?” I asked, “Terry Sir” said Terry. Terry then asked, “Would you mind if I asked you a favour Sir? May I have your autograph for my daughter? When I told her I was driving for you this evening she was very excited and I must say that the wife and I do like your music as well,” said Terry. I said I would be delighted and asked his daughters name as he passed me an autograph book to sign, reversing the ‘a’ and ‘e’ in Michael, (turning it into ‘Micheal’). I was figuring I couldn’t be prosecuted for fraud if I spelt the name incorrectly! I signed the name like that every time.

Autograph completed I sat back and the car swept out of the Hotel forecourt and after two hundred metres………………swept into the slip road in front of the Club! I could have walked it! “Was it worth it for that?” I thought. Mark Brennan really wanted to put on a show here and after the change of hotel it looked as though he was leaving nothing to chance but he was being a tight arse about the drinks. Mark appeared at the entrance and Terry opened the door for me to get out. As I stepped out of the car three huge bouncers each of them way over six feet tall and built like bulldozers surrounded me. I was lost behind a wall of neck muscle and steroids. Glenn squeezed his way through to stand next to me and Mark walked forward and shook my hand all against a background noise of shrieks and wails of excitement from the queue of women to my right, with their camera flash bulbs popping. “Welcome George,” said Mark, “it’s a pleasure to have you open our new club here in Reading” Or some such bollocks. “Hurray” went the cheers to our right, as I smiled my corniest George smile and walked forward through the doors and into the club. The foyer was lined with people all eager to see and shout out, “Hi George!” as I walked past. Glenn looked like a startled rabbit and we all shuffled forward as the bouncers called out, “Make room, get out of the way and let us through.”

In fact but for the bouncers and their slow march I’d have been in my seat way before then as the scrum wasn’t that heavy. Once we were into the nightclub the lights flashed (along with the bulbs from our reporter’s camera) and music blasted our ears, I could barely hear anyone speak. I could see ahead between the bouncers and the carpet leading around the side of the dance floor and on towards the rear of the club. As we turned I could make out a corner booth with a rope linked to two poles in front of it, (VIP area my arse) and we headed straight for it. Once behind my safety rope (!), I turned around to face the club and hundreds of faces all straining their eyes towards me, so I smiled and waved my hand and shouted out “Hello”, against the background of the DJ’s voice welcoming me with a “George Michael’s in the room – HO!” to which the crowd replied with a “HO!” right back at him.

The largest of the bouncers, (their number had now increased to five, two to my left and two on my right), leant towards me and said “My name is Ali, I am your personal minder for the whole evening, these other guys will rotate around the club, but I will always be here, if you want anything George, I’m your man.” with a wink and a smile that revealed a number of gold teeth. He was huge, massively built; his suit appeared sprayed on it was so tight. I winked back to show I got the “I’m your man!” joke, thanked him and looked at Glenn. He looked like he was in heaven; surrounded by women, with a bottle of Moet in a bucket and he was free to sample everything. If I weren’t me; then I would have wanted to be him! Mark Brennan appeared and re-iterated the plan that was now becoming as brilliant a plan as I’d ever heard. Meet loads of women, give them Champagne, talk to them, give them a kiss if requested and then meet more women and do exactly the same. I sat down and Mark poured three glasses of Champagne and picked up his and offered a toast. An orderly queue of women had lined up along the back wall of the club to my right in the middle of the walkway between chairs and tables and the dance floor. “Bring them on,” said Glenn, which got a sideways look from Mark but who then invited the first girls through the gap made by the bouncers, and for them to sit down between Glenn and I.

“I love you George!” was to be the phrase of the night flowed closely by “Can I get a kiss?” and “Can I get your autograph?” I had tissues provided to wipe of the layers of lipstick and make-up from my face from all the hugs and kisses and the evening was passing off quite nicely. Once bored of a particular line of questioning, or if the lady in question was not exactly a beauty, (face like; A Bull Dog chewing a wasp; a bag of lamb chops; it had been sat on; it was on inside out; a mother couldn’t love it; etc.), Ali would note a wink or a tap to his heel and he’d escort the lady away, “got to make room for the next girl my lovely, sorry.” Having said that there weren’t very many of those and there were some exceptionally beautiful women sitting beside me that night. One in particular queued up three times. She was tall, blonde, very pretty and very slim, her name was Vicky and she made no bones about the fact that she was “free” if that was what I wanted her to be. “Where are you staying tonight then George? Are you going home or staying in town?” she asked. “Over the road at the Hilton,” I replied, “You’re welcome to join us afterwards for a drink in the bar, if you’d like. Glenn, this is Glenn, will be there as will Mark, Ali and a few other girls and boys?” “Oooo, Oh, Awwwwwwlright” She said it so slowly I thought she’d been having a stroke, of sorts. I also wondered whether she would be up for the story and pictures in the press, but put that to one side as she got up and the next girl sat down.

Sometime towards the later half of the evening a girl who had been through to meet me a number of times tried it again at which her boyfriend took exception and started pacing up and down. I was unaware of this until Glenn told me to look in his direction saying, “That twat is going to get himself hurt if he carries on.” I looked past Ali and could see this wiry little shit all haircut and nonsense, bouncing around what was obviously his girlfriend and gesticulating in my direction, raising his voice calling me a “wanker”, a “twat” and various other choice names. Ali stood in front of me and opening his hand wide apart raised it in front of his chest, arm outstretched. Ali saying, “Calm down mate,” resulted in the idiot charging at me………………I’d never seen a man folded in half before. He was then folded in half again and then again. Any spare arms or legs popping out of the bundle were poked back in and the bundle was then lifted up and carried outside, followed closely by the girlfriend screaming, “Put him down, you’ll hurt him!” Ali had allowed his associates to complete the removal of the disgruntled clubber but turned and said, “Are you happy to stay George?” It was after one in the morning but I wasn’t ready to knock the night on the head just yet.

“That’s not George, look at him, he’s not George Michael,” said a voice to my left. I turned and looked up at a sneering face plastered across a wide head, much like a drunken Prop Forward, her face was mashed up. I ignored the “Orc” to my left and her friend and turned to the latest girl to sit down, Glenn poured the drinks and we chatted away. “Wanker,” said the voice to my left. I looked at Glenn who stood up and spoke into Ali’s ear. Ali turned around and looked at the girls to my left, leant into his colleague on his left and with no noise or fuss the two “ladies” were lifted away and out of the club. The latest two girls had stood up and left during this and I stood up as well and stretched my legs. “I’m going to dance,” I said to Ali. “Ok,” he said, no questions, he just stepped to one side and I was out from behind the wall of muscle. Ali stood to the side of the dance floor as Glenn joined me; glass in hand and Vicky shot across the room and to my side as soon as I made it onto the hardwood. The photographer took a few shots of Vicky and I dancing; deciding that three chats, three glasses of champers and a dance were the pre-requisites for a good shag story!

After we’d danced to a number of songs and wandered back to the seats Mark Brennan walked towards us. I told him that I felt the blag had run its course and we should call it a night here, but that I was interested in having him come back to the hotel for a nightcap along with a few others; he said he’d organise that. With our conversation going on I did not spot the second lunatic who decided to have a go at George Michael. The second tit was quickly squeezed into dust by Ali who then shouted to Mark that he was going to, “Get George the fuck out of here,” to which Mark said, “Out the back way,” pointing towards the corner of the club. It was all very SAS hostage rescue material as I was escorted through a side door and down the side of the building towards the Mercedes. I noticed that Vicky was holding my hand, excellent…………..

In the car Terry looked in the mirror and said, “Where too sir?” I said, “The casino I think.” The engine started, we fastened our seatbelts, and Terry put the car into gear and rolled it forward around ten metres and stopped outside the Casino. Brilliant! An even shorter drive than the one from the hotel and that was pathetic; but this? This was hilarious! “Are you serious?” I said, “Yes this is the Casino,” said Terry. Glenn was crying with laughter and I was losing the plot, “Right, lets get out!” Ali appeared at the door and opened it for me, having walked from the Club to the Casino before Terry could get around to that side of the car, “Thank you!” said Terry stepping in front of Ali and taking the door from him. “I give up,” came a cry from Glenn beside me, “I’ve spilt my fucking champers!” I walked into the Casino only to be told it was members only. “We only want a late drink?” said Glenn who had just stumbled in grasping a now empty, Champagne glass in his hand. “Fuck it! I’m going to the hotel.” I said and I turned and went back to the car just as Terry was getting into his seat. Ali opened the door, this time just as Terry was getting out of the car and was caught in two minds whether to complete the whole, ‘getting out of the car move’ or to stay put, which turned out to be his eventual decision. “Up and down eh Terry?” said Glenn cracking up again and sliding into the foot well.

By the time that Glenn, Vicky and I drove to the Hotel it was near two in the morning as we ambled into the lounge bar after bidding farewell to Terry. Glenn told me he had invited loads of women back to the hotel which received a ‘tut’ from me worried that we’d be mobbed. The Duty Manager wandered over to ask us if we wanted anything? I asked if there was some food available just as the reporter and his son came in and taking seats, ordered food as well. “Champers for me,” said Glenn. “What vintage would you like?” asked the Manager. “The Dom Pom I think, three bottles.” I looked at Glenn and smiled, ‘sod it’ I thought, we may as well get hammered, and it’s not my dollar. The Manager strode off and another five or six girls along with Ali and another bouncer then joined us. “Mark sent me over to keep an eye out for you George,” said Ali. “Good man,” said Glenn who was by now getting very boisterous with a couple of ladies who were giggling and squirming out of his reach. The Duty Manager turned up and said, “We only have two bottles of the Dom Perignon left sir. You drank the rest earlier today.” I looked around at what had become at least twelve people and said, “We’ll have those two and three Moet then please.” I was George Michael to these people (well most of them) and I was pretty sure George wouldn’t flinch in the face of adversity and go for the wine spritzers!

The wine and Club sandwiches arrived and we all dived in with Vicky sitting on my lap apparently determined to get her man. A few more stragglers wandered in followed by Mark Brennan who looked at the table strewn with plates and glasses and rolled his eyes skyward. He poured a glass for himself and sat down next to me. “That was fun and eventful and a little expensive,” he whispered in my ear. “You wanted George you got him you can’t do it half hearted Mark,” I replied. Vicky was nuzzling my neck and making purring sounds in my ear, which were distracting me from my conversation and having the desired affect. The reporter said he was off home and everyone started to drift away. I said to Vicky, “Are you staying?” more out of politeness than anything else and we stood up and wandered towards the lift. I bid goodnight to Ali and his pal and the girls who left with them. Mark signed the bill and left without saying a word and Glenn wandered up and very drunkenly tried pressing the call button. After three failed attempts to even hit the wall, I pressed it and we rode up to our floor.

Our rooms we adjoining so we went into Glenn’s room left him slumped on the bed and walked through the interior door into my room locking it behind us. I went into the bathroom and washed off the make-up and lipstick and cleaned myself up before walking back into the room. Vicky was already in bed as I slid in beside her and she said, “I know you’re not him, you know.” I smiled and said how did you work that out, I was not denying it; it would be futile and rude. “I heard you and Mark talking downstairs and I think George would have a better room than this,” she said smiling. I looked at her and asked her if she was bothered by the lies and subterfuge. “They’re not lies and anyway, it’s been fun. There’s no way I could afford that much Champagne and I like the way you look, you’re cute.” We disappeared into the quilt.

I broached the idea of the story to her and she was happy to go along with the ruse, so I called the reporter in the morning to ask him if we were going for it. “You don’t want to do that do you?” he said. “Why not?” “Because its too late really we needed to run the story today and you’re going home.” All this was bollocks to me and I asked him why he was backing out? He said that there really wasn’t a story there, which was more bollocks. “You got a free night out anyway,” I said as I put the phone down. My initial thoughts of a poorly thought out plan had been proved right.

I saw Mark the following day and asked about the two hundred pounds appearance fee. He looked at me as if I was talking Dutch. “Do you know how much last night cost?” he asked. I said that “no, I did not, but I bet it was a lot.” “Too bloody right it was a lot. I have to account for that to the owners and I can’t afford another two hundred on top.” Glenn piped up and said, “The agreement did not say there was a limit on the expenses that you were paying for?” “And you can just about fuck off Glenn.” said Mark. We eventually agreed to split the fee down the middle and I walked away with £100. Vicky had my number and she came up to Norwich a couple of times but it fizzled out because of the distances involved and because I had an offer from Dave Bennett for the summer of 1989 that I could not refuse, an offer that could never have involved having a steady girlfriend.

Little JW has left the building!

2012-12-24T14:58:00.000+00:00

Jackie was going out with Robbo, (Colin Robson). I was not seeing anyone in particular but I definitely had a ‘thing’ for Jackie and I was starting to believe she felt something for me. Her parents had a pub just outside Norwich where Colin, friends and I would meet on Sundays for a free roast dinner and to laze around watching movies generally recovering from hangovers. Colin and I had become great friends and my Mum liked Colin a lot as he’d often come to collect me (when I lived at home) for nights out and was always polite, well dressed and funny. After my return from America Robbo and I fell back into our friendship and we’d regularly crash at each other’s homes; Colin having a flat a mile or so away from my rented house. We shared much of the same interests especially music and at Ricks Place would always be dancing, in between the girls, our trademark swaying moves mirroring one another with the ladies bobbing around and in-between us. Alexander O’Neal, Luther Vandross, Soul and R&B songs never failed to get us dancing and we’d pull unsuspecting girls onto the floor and dance almost all night long.

Robbo had gone out with a few of my ex’s and I with a few of his. In fact along with Tim, Paul and his girlfriend Lisa, the two Gary’s, Nigel and Sarah-Jane, Ian, Elisha and Emma (twins), Helen, Jackie, Michelle, plus a host of other women and men; these girls and boys interchanged with one another over a number years and nobody ever took a slight when after a few weeks of splitting, their ex started seeing another of their friends. So behind this setting of nightclubs and football, music and friendship, my little world was blossoming nicely. Through Dave Bennett, who was always out in town with Neil Riley, Robert Rosario and Malcolm Allen, I was introduced to Andy Townsend (Norwich City) and a host of other first team footballers and easily settled into separate circles of friends, whilst (hopefully and successfully?) managing these friendships and acting as introducer when the circles bumped into each other when out on the town.

I couldn’t decide whether Robbo and Jackie were seriously ‘into’ one another or not and did not want to damage my friendship with Robbo at all, but slow dances at the end of the evening started to become a problem, as I’d invariably stand to the side watching them together and feeling a tinge of jealousy, could not bring myself to dance with anyone else. Michelle, a tall elegantly strikingly pretty girl, with a shock of tight curly black hair had finally asked me to dance one night and a one night stand came out of that, a relationship which would have lasted longer had Jackie not been around. Things started to progress when I would snatch a slow dance with Jackie and with her head nestled into my shoulder, I would take in her scent and feel the soft curls of her hair against my cheek. I wanted more of that scent and the sensation of butterflies I experienced as we’d hold hands walking to and from the dance floor and so finally one night in the middle of the dance floor I plucked up courage and told her how wonderful she was, how marvellous she made me feel, how tempted I’d become and how difficult these feeling were to manage. Jackie looked at me; she had fantastic eyes full of sparkle and life and said she felt the same way. My stomach flipped. The music ended and we walked back towards our crowd of friends hand in hand, but my holding her hand meant something far more to me and her than the simple gesture of friendship seen by the others.

Over the following weeks when in town, we’d snatch moments together to kiss frantically, passionately and quickly lest we be spotted. We’d hold hands or hug when meeting in company trying to restrain ourselves, but that hug or kiss to the cheek would linger just a little longer than normal, the parting of lips or hands slowing down to stretch, for just a moment longer, that brief magical touch. Our subterfuge would include little tricks such as one of us making excuses to leave the room/current company, with the other following some minutes later to steal a kiss around a corner. I’d see Jackie walk away from our group towards the back of a club and I’d take a circuitous route that somehow always led to our colliding out of sight of the others. We grasp hands and find a nook or corner and kiss as if our lives depended on it.

My problems really started one Sunday at Jackie’s Pub after another massive lunch with everyone groaning from overeating and slumped on her chairs and couches. I was helping Jackie clear the plates away with Robbo sat in the room and all I could think about were her lips, her hair, her touch, her scent. We walked down the corridor to the kitchen in the living quarters of the pub put the dishes down and dived at each other with abandon. Hearing the door to the lounge closing behind someone we leapt apart just as Robbo entered the kitchen; although he must have either suspected or seen something he never spoke of it but he did take hold of Jackie and kiss her in front of me. Asserting his position in the pack (an anthropologist might say); pissing me off more likely!

So this game played out on a weekly basis and whilst this was happening I was being overcome by a real feeling of guilt about my treatment of Robbo. On one hand I desperately wanted Jackie to leave him but she felt that she could not as she did not want to hurt him. On the other hand I was experiencing such guilt about how I was misleading the guy that I was becoming physically affected by it, unable to hold a conversation with him, avoiding him and her so as to selfishly make me feel slightly better about myself. All sorts of pathetic excuses were used to carry out this deceit, a deceit not only of friendship but also of loyalty and honesty. I was becoming everything I hated to see in another, a liar and a coward, disloyal and dishonest. But I was still experiencing tremendous feelings for Jackie and the whole nasty business needed lancing quickly. I couldn’t know that two scalpels would be used to cut into my despairing heart.

Glenn had moved into my house rented from my brother Richard, to share costs and we got on fine as housemates. I was working at the Double Glazing factory and he was in sales and he was out most days and evenings. My infatuation with Jackie reached breaking point and we agreed that we had best do something about it. She would come to the house one afternoon when I would take the day off and we’d go to bed. We met up nearby and drove to the house in my car leaving hers in a pub car park. Once inside we headed straight upstairs and into each other’s arms only to hear the sound of the front door opening. Glenn was home! I shot downstairs and he was as surprised to see me, as I was to see him. “I’ve got the afternoon off,” he said. I didn’t know how far I could take him into my confidence so told him I was trying to get some sleep upstairs. He looked at me and said “Who is she then?” “Robbo’s girlfriend Jackie,” I blurted it out without thinking but rather than question me he collected his car keys and said “I’ll go out then” and he left.

I shot back upstairs to find Jackie under the quilt and after stripping off I climbed in beside her. We began to make out but the thought of Robbo and deceiving him crept into my thoughts and try as I might I could get the bugger from my mind. I was also tremendously attracted to Jackie and ‘first night nerves’ were getting the better of me. I rolled over onto my back and looked at Jackie and said I was unable to perform simply because of Robbo and our friendship. Jackie was gentle and caring, trying various ways to help me along but to no avail, I was not going to be able to consummate our relationship so to speak. Little JW had retired for the afternoon as well. Jackie totally understood and made no comment other than we should try again another day, which we did and low and behold, Little JW declined again. I told Jackie it wasn’t her it was me; I mean how could it be her? She was gorgeous, with a beautiful body; those wonderful eyes, that perfume. I just could not get over the idea of cheating on Robbo and that was that. Scalpel number one had made the first cut.

Scalpel number two was even harder to deal with. My failed libido was bad enough for my ego but a few weeks later I found out that Jackie’s parents had decided to sell up and they were moving south to Kent. Along with everything else in my life at that time I was seriously upset at her moving away and although I have never told her this, on the day she was moving I jumped in my car and drove to the village to speak to her before she left. I was going to tell her how much she meant to me, how deeply I felt for her and how much I wanted her to stay. I reached the pub and ran inside to find the barman cleaning glasses behind the bar. “Where is Jackie?” I asked him. “They left an hour ago son,” he replied, “You missed her.” I was gutted! I walked out to my car, got in it and sat there for an age. A thought sprang into my mind and I dashed back inside, “Do you have a forwarding address or phone number?” “No, I’m sorry I don’t,” he said, “They didn’t leave one.” Unlike today and the ubiquitous Mobile Phone this was 1989 and no such thing existed.

Scalpel Number two sliced through the last thread and cut me down. I have not seen Jackie since and throughout the first few years after she left, I often wondered where she ended up, what her life was like, whom she had married and whether she ever thought of me. There I go again! Self-indulgent to the end, why would she wonder about a guy who couldn’t get it up when it mattered and who had simply disappeared when she left town, who had made no attempt to contact her as far as she knew? What became of Robbo and Jackie? They finished their relationship not long before Jackie was due to leave and I was way too late in deciding that it was worth my while in going after her.

Is that George I see before me, Part Three

2012-12-13T16:08:00.001+00:00

Every now and then I say or do something that when viewed from the outside looks a ridiculous thing to have done, stupid even. Examples range from; influencing the Mormon girl in Canada to change from a bible basher who’d never smoked, never drank alcohol nor (and even worse) even had sex; into a nymphomaniac, beer swilling, 20 a day Marlboro smoker, much to the horror of her mother. To smart mouthing senior NCO’s and colleagues in the Army and for my cheek, receiving fines (over £400), ROP’s and the occasional punch or pinch just because I thought I was funny! It took a long time before I realised that I was the only one being punished for what I thought was entertaining them. Only just recently at Sapperfest2012 I met up with Garry Judd who was my dormitory Apprentice L/Cpl at Chepstow. Sitting with John Moss (Wingnut), Garry and I were joined by two other Sappers who I’d never met and over a few beers we all recalled days gone by. One of the others mentioned something that was obviously worthy of a smart mouth retort and I unconsciously made remarks that whilst hilarious to Garry, John and the rest, could have been taken in quite the opposite way, resulting in a slap at the very least. Having recovered his composure Garry said that that was my problem in the Army; I was too quick a wit and a smart mouth and those in authority did not know how to deal with me hence my deplorable record of fines and ROP’s.

So sitting in the dressing room in Ricks Place with hoards of the Fifth Estate milling around outside all at my behest so to speak I was in quite a privileged position. But whilst sipping Champagne and laughing with my friends at how events had unfolded so far, a small niggling thought started pecking its way into my mind, a “Woodpecker of a thought”, if you will. Barely noticeable at first its constant peck, peck, pecking eventually made its self noticed and formulated into the dreaded “Fathers Political Influence Thought”, wherein anyone under its guidance makes decisions based upon a wholly idiotic basis that their fathers political leanings meant more than any rationale as to their future prospects in life! I’m a Labour (Socialist) boy blindly following my Dad’s influence, who was a Union man. He was a Labour Party member until he died in 1979 aged 53 and I felt, (still feel to some extent), it my birth-right to follow his lead, to vote Labour and resist the influences of Capital C Conservatism on my life. I’m not anti-capitalist; my father worked for a multi-national company and I have too; its simply that I have been influenced by my Father and never having had the chance to debate with him I am stuck frozen in time and following his left leaning legacy by default.

Thus events played out as follows, when one of my friends knocked on the door and came in to say that the press wanted to interview me. (Peck, peck, peck). I asked him, “What newspapers are out there?” My friends all quietened down and looked intrigued as he answered, “The Sun, The Express, The Mail, The Star plus the Evening News, EDP (Eastern Daily Press) and The Advertiser (Norwich free newspaper)”. Impressed by such a great turnout with four national and 3 local papers plus their photographers, additional hangers on and a large crowd as well (Peck, peck, peck); “Anyone from the Daily Mirror?” I replied. “No, just those I said mate,” came the response.

In 1988, all four of the national newspapers in attendance that night leaned toward, (in fact were horizontally on favour of) Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative Government and The Daily Mirror, (who weren’t there), was and has been a continual supporter of the “Left” or Labour Party and I felt it only right and proper that any interview should be given to the newspaper that gave its allegiance to the Labour Party. Dad would be proud!! (Peck, peck, peck) “Go and find the Daily Mirror guy,” I said, “There has to be someone here from the Mirror if the others have come”. He turned and headed off to search the club for the Mirror Journalist but without any luck. “Nah, there’s no one here from the Mirror George” he said returning with a full pint of lager in his fist. I knew he’d only gone to the bar, ordered a beer and asked the barman if anyone from the Mirror was in and then returned. It was then that the Woodpecker thought named “Fathers Political influence” finally pecked its way into my consciousness and dredging up those long held beliefs from the Amygdala region (memory retention centre) of my brain prompted me to say, “Fuck’em, I am not talking to the Tory rags, I’ll only speak to the Mirror” and that was that. I refused to allow anyone from the press to have an interview.

How stupid was that!

After all the hard work we’d all put in to that night, the deepest latent memories and emotions had pecked their way into the present to screw it up. My friends and the management team at Rick’s Place must have thought I was mad but I just couldn’t bring myself to speak to them and it was all down to the subtle indoctrination in my youth. So the press stayed firmly outside the door and I stuck to my beliefs, moreover my father’s beliefs. I think he would have been livid with me had he been alive at the time and would have said something along the lines of. “it’s not selling yourself out, you’re using them to improve your chances of success. How often will you convince the major papers of the day to turn up to a gig and report on it and on the fact you have tricked them into it? Stop being an idiot and talk to them, you need them, they don’t need you!” But he wasn’t there and I didn’t talk to them and I remained a legend in my own lunchtime……………………………

This shot was taken in Ibiza in 1989 - but you get the general idea

There was however a gig to do so I asked the boys to move out so the dancers and I could have a final chat and set ourselves for the stage. The DJ came backstage and asked us if we were ready saying that the press were still out there and the photographers had set themselves up in front of the stage. This last comment warmed my heart, pleased that we at least had an audience to perform to as the DJ went out and introduced me as the night’s special guest and we walked onto stage. The guitar intro to ‘Faith’ rang loud across the room as we started dancing around each other, my voice hit the notes and I sang my heart out. For “I’m Your Man’, we performed as if I was after one of the girls and intently focused on following her around the stage then becoming distracted as the other dancer crossed my path, diverting my attention again and again. For ‘Father Figure’, I acted as though I was devoted to one of the dancers with the other acting out a cupid role bringing us together. The song closed with me giving one dancer a long lingering kiss and the other was draped at my feet.

The applause was long and loud and throughout the set the flash bulbs had been going off constantly. As we moved off stage one of the photographers approached us and took close ups and we posed together the rest of the photographers joining in. Instead of going to the dressing room I stood outside with the dancers and reporters came over and asked questions; who was I? And why I had decided to do the gig? I was so wrapped up in the event that I forgot my previous motives for not talking to them and answered their questions. We moved towards the bar and my friends and the audience in general came over many back slapping me and congratulating the girls on their dancing, it felt good! We stood at the bar and continued answering questions and it was only after a few drinks that I realised that the reporters we were actually talking to who’d shown any interest were the local press as the Nationals had left as soon as the gig finished! The photographers were all working for the local papers and not connected to the National press; I suppose they could try and sell the pictures to them if they felt there was a story in them but I had dropped the ball (or a bollock if you want to out it that way), there was no National publicity coming my way!

The night carried on with the club playing R&B tracks and I danced with the girls and my friends between stops at the bar for refreshments. I also sang ‘Kissing a Fool’ at the end of the night to a quickly emptying club. The photographer who’d approached us as soon as we got off stage came over again and asked whether I wanted to give him a one to one interview to which I agreed figuring there was something to rescue from the night. We moved towards the rear of the club away from the dance floor and sat in a corner by a corridor that led to the toilets! I gave the guy a full interview going over my motivation, background and inspirations, plans for the future etc. All the detail I should have been giving to the National Papers. He then told me he was working for the Norwich Advertiser newspaper, a freebie that came through front doors on a Thursday. It consisted of a few pages of local news from that week and columns of free-ads selling everything from car parts through to kitchen white goods and pets! I had hit the big time at last…………..

Once the interview was over Mark Brennan came to speak to me and said that he was due to launch a new club in Reading in January and did I want to help on the opening night. Rather than sing he said that he wanted to me to be “George on a night out, opening a friends club”, I would sit in the VIP area and meet clubbers throughout the night. I said I would do it and we agreed to meet later in the week to discuss the detail. A few days later the Advertiser fell through the letterbox and I was on the front page, a picture of me singing on stage alongside the interview I had given to the reporter/photographer. It had been a success of sorts, if only my Dad had not gotten in the way, it would have been even better……………

Is that George I see before me? Part Two.

2012-11-20T16:42:00.002+00:00

As Christmas 1988 approached I met two women at Ricks Place who were trying to start up a Model Agency. They had assembled a handful of wannabe models and their agency had been commissioned to produce a Ski Wear show at a club just outside of Norwich, where my brother Richard had met his wife Tracey many moons ago. Fifteen or so "models" paraded across the dance floor wearing various padded ski suits and jackets, gloves and hats and the evening went down well, but more importantly two of the models were also dancers! We agreed to meet up after I had told them about my plan to put on a gig launching myself as a George Michael look-a-like.

I needed a couple of dancers to join me on stage and deliver as professional a show as possible and after an initial meeting we put together a rehearsal plan to develop and then tighten up a routine to go with the songs. I then approached the manageress of Ricks Place and her assistant manager Mark Brennan to ask whether I could use the club one night for the launch party. As Tuesday evenings were quiet they agreed I could hold the launch on that night in the run up to Christmas, they’d get the bar takings but there would be no charge on the door, it was then that I started my ultra sneaky marketing campaign.

Firstly, I contacted the local press and asked whether it was true that George Michael was appearing at Ricks Place in December? "No, we've heard nothing; probably a hoax" was their response. I then went on a Fly Poster campaign, putting up A4 posters around Norwich with the Sony Music record Label on the bottom with “You need Faith? Who is coming to Ricks Place in Norwich?” written above. I then contacted all the major National Newspapers, focusing on the Music & Entertainment desks such as the "Bizarre" column at ‘The Sun’ and asked the journalists whether they had heard that George was to appear in a clandestine gig in Norwich to promote his new single? "Nope, not heard anything" they said but they would look into it. Then back to the local press to say that I had called the nightclub and they were being very non-committal about forthcoming events at the club, especially the Tuesday in question. I told them that I had seen posters around town referring to an event at Ricks Place, (they admitted to having seen these as well) and that I had called the National Papers to ask what they knew and that they were being very cagey. This involved not just myself but also the manageress of the club, Mark Brennan and my dancers so was coming at them daily and from different people. Sure enough within days the phones at Ricks Place started to ring with Local and National papers asking what was happening, to which the stock answer was, “Sorry, we cannot comment on any events other than those already advertised”.

This continued in the lead up to the gig, rehearsals were completed with a couple of dress rehearsals at the club during the day's before and we were pretty sure we had a great show, albeit for only three songs, "Faith, I'm Your Man and Father Figure" On the Tuesday morning, the day of the gig, we called both the local and National press and said that a very large truck was unloading speakers, lights, instruments etc. at Ricks Place, and did they know who was playing there tonight? Every single one of them said that they had heard through the grapevine that George Michael might be appearing and that they had received calls asking whether George was playing in Norwich. I said in reply that “Well if he is, I’m going and would they be coming as well?” The answer was a little non-committal; such as saying they’d send a local journalist if they were free.

I had organised for my friends, all over six foot and well built, to act as my bodyguards and a pal who had a very nice Mercedes, was to be my chauffeur. My costume for the night was unfortunately still based around the Faith Album look; Levi 501’s, my cowboy boots, which helped raise me up from my 5’9” inches closer to 6 feet tall, a white singlet and a very nice Tassel Sleeved Leather Motorbike Jacket, with Rock and Roll Classic embossed across the back and of course, the obligatory RayBan Aviator Sunglasses. The Dancers wore black leggings and tight t-shirts with red sashes around their waists and I applied the usual make-up to my face to complete the look. My beard being more red than black, I’d brush in black mascara to deep the colour and cover over patches where the beard stubbornly failed to grow. It actually worked well and I don’t think my Mum ever noticed I was using her make-up!

I got ready at the Hole in The Wall and at 10pm, there were five of us crammed into the Mercedes and heading for Ricks Place. I say crammed, as it was a squeeze with my bodyguard’s slotted either side of me in the back of the car. The dancers got into a second car and followed us down. From the car to the door of the club it was thirty metres, as the club was just inside a shopping precinct. Mark Brennan walked over to the car and opened the rear door letting out the first minder and then he sat in the car and said, “That’s fucking unbelievable, you’re him mate, that’s fantastic”. I thanked him and he said, “You need to know that the club is absolutely packed full of press, I mean all the press, the major tabloids from London and the local guys as well. The plan definitely worked, they have been driving us mad trying to get a lead on the story, asking us all sorts of questions, they really think George Michael is coming here tonight!” I was really happy and all I needed now was to get inside the club and make it to the dressing room, that was to the right of the stage, which in fact was a little storage room/office.

We agreed on a plan whereby I would walk in surrounded by people so as not to give a clear view of me to anyone. I had to keep the illusion going until I walked on stage. Mark stood back from the car and I climbed out. A few people were queuing at the door, they turned around and couple of girls started shouting my (George’s) name, followed by the men shouting out my name as well with the odd “wanker” thrown in for good measure! We walked passed the people queuing outside and went in through the doors and started up the stairs to the club that was on the first floor. As soon as we were inside the club the cameras started going off; their flash’s illuminating the open plan stairs. There was a turn a third of the way up, so my back was away from the journalists overlooking the stairs as I climbed the first flight but as I turned and walked directly toward the cameras I was greeted by non-stop camera flash’s. My friends surrounding me included Nigel Bradley, Paul Waterfield (I think) and Ian Pearce were really playing their part, moving people aside as we finally entered the nightclub itself. Cries of “George, George, over here mate, George, smile George, Hey George” came from the cameramen and reporters.

Inside all this frantic activity I was in a bubble; the cacophony of noise, shouts and screams, pushing and shoving, swearing reporters and clubbers alike was amazing. I looked across towards the bar and saw groups of people standing with drinks in their hands straining their necks to get a look at who was inside this throng of bodies, moving like a swarm of bees, across the dance floor heading for the stage. Looking ahead, past the backs of my friends and Mark Brennan I could see the door to the dressing room getting closer, my feet barely touching the ground as we surged over the wooden dance floor, across the carpet edging and into the room, the door slamming closed behind us. “Fucking hell” came as a chorus! Voices as one as we took in what we had just been through. A knock at the door and the manageress appeared with a bottle of champagne in a bucket and we shared a glass as we all cracked up over the scam we’d just pulled on the National Press. The gig had yet to start but I thought I had them. Wrong!!!

The transformation begins

2012-11-19T16:48:00.002+00:00

By late autumn 1988, I started to go to the Hole in the Wall club in Norwich City Centre, a small members only club/pub that actually allowed anyone in at weekends if they had money. It really was a ‘Hole in the wall’, in that you entered through a steel barred gate, walked down an alleyway past a bouncer on the door and into a long room. A bar ran the length of the room down on one side, there were booths opposite the bar and pillars mid-room. There was a snooker table upstairs that saw more girls’ backsides than snooker balls. I had met up again with the girls I knew before I went Stateside and I was bumping into footballers who played for Norwich City football Club. Two in particular, Malcolm Allen and Robert Rosario became friends and Malcolm looked not unlike Andrew Ridgeley, the other member of WHAM! with George Michael. They loved the fact I resembled George and would invite me to join them for drinks and to go clubbing to Ricks Place; the club of choice for the discerning man about town in Norwich in 1988. Across the road was Hunters Squash Club and to monopolies on the drinkers heading towards Rick’s Place, Hunters started operating as a late drinks club with many a young couple enjoying the seclusion of the locker rooms and the courts for a squeaky, bum on varnished wood, pre-Rick’s screw.

Deciding that I would try and become a “proper” George Michael ‘Look-a-like’, (proper meaning I’d actually impersonate his voice and sing live, as opposed to mime along to his songs as some of the other look-a-likes did), I needed to record backing tracks to sing over at all the Gigs I was sure would land in my lap! Fortunately George Michael would put instrumental versions of some of his songs on the ‘B’ sides of his hits and I used these. But with only CD instrumentals of “Father Figure” and “Faith” in my collection I needed another couple of songs or so to build a short set list. Back at the Hole in the Wall, Robert and Malcolm had introduced me to Dave Bennett who had been a winger with Manchester City and Norwich City Football Clubs. Dave attracted a coterie of friends and hangers-on who would listen and laugh along to his stories and tales about the players and celebrities he had met. To give Dave his due, he was a very funny, likeable man and was always up for whatever was happening and if nothing were happening, he’d create something. Among Dave’s entourage’ were Neil Riley and Glenn Neave, Neil was also an ex-professional footballer and in a steady relationship with Jocelyn, and Glenn? Glenn was an out and out "chancer", an accomplished drinker and was slightly affected in his mannerisms, (e.g. shaking hands with the left hand only for some unknown reason).

Having decided upon another three George Michael songs to use in my set list (Kissing a Fool, A Different Corner and I’m Your Man), I found a recording studio in Norwich and they agreed to record the music from the records onto 8-track tape. The engineer would take the tracks, clean up any distortion, remove the original vocals and I'd sing over them to produce a demo tape. They studio engineer would also produce a “blank” backing tape for me to use at gigs. Neil Riley fancied coming along to the studio for the experience and to save costs the studio and I agreed to an after-hours recording session. In the meantime I'd found a marvelous singing instructor who worked from her home in Judges Walk, just off Newmarket Road in Norwich. She had a grand piano in her bay fronted living room and with her sitting at the Piano giving instruction, I would sing “A Different Corner”, it was the only sheet music song I could find of George Michaels. The singing lessons were worth every penny as she taught me to sing using my diaphragm, to breath correctly and to project my voice. She was very pleased as I had some vibrato appearing as if from nowhere in my singing voice, which she said was a “very good thing to have”.

On the evening of the recording session, Neil and I pitched up at the studio which was located in a cellar below the main studios, consisting of the mixing desk, a single microphone in a small sectioned of area behind Perspex and sound proofing (egg boxes to the untrained eye) stuck on the walls and ceiling. The sound engineer played back all the tracks he had recorded and once I was happy with the quality, I went into the booth to sing the first song, 'A Different Corner', the song I was most familiar with. I had a few run-throughs and then we recorded all five one after another. After recording the songs, whilst completing the mix, the engineer said he was pleasantly surprised at my voice given that he had been doing this for sometime and had heard quite a few horror vocals from people who thought they could sing, but quite simply couldn’t. Neil said that he was blown away! Recording complete, I took a copy away and played it to anyone who would listen. But what I really needed was a gig where I could attract some media interest in my act and so I decided that what I needed was to trick the National press!

Coming up the Down Side

2012-11-13T10:55:00.002+00:00

Mum and I flew back to England before the coppers knew I had left and so I dodged my day in court. My sister Helen met us at Heathrow and drove us home to Norwich but only after many hugs and kisses for Mum and I. Once home Mum began opening her mail and walked around her home and garden making sure everything was as she left it. I unpacked my case in my old bedroom at the back of the house and looked out of the window surveying the territory that was so familiar, certain that I did not want to be here and pissed off. Over the coming days I joined both a Doctors and a Dental surgery and re-acquainted myself with Rick and Patrick Holmes and the guys down at the Community centre. One more Adrian Murphy, that reliable and great family friend, offered me work painting for him with his crew of toothless and hairless wonders and oddballs. I was not happy to be industrial decorating again but got on with it as I was not prepared to sit around on the dole and Mum needed money from me to pay my way. Mum settled back into life remarkably quickly and was soon out and about, going to her singles club, meeting friends in town at the Castle Hotel and generally getting on with her life as she had left it over two months ago. I was bumbling along head down, until quite unexpectedly I bumped into Gary Pye, an old friend of my brother Richard. It’s odd how friendships re-emerge after years and carry on as though we’ve seen each other only last week and not years ago. Gary was the late 1970"s disco king when we were at school and he and Richard introduced me to their friends at the Roman Catholic Cathedral Disco. Not a religious occasion of any sorts only that the disco was held at the next-door Hall. It was here in the late 1970’s that Richard perfected his northern Soul dance that would have graced Wigan Casino and Gary became our hero for his ability to perform summersaults and the splits, mid-routine.

One afternoon I showed up at Gary’s parents house where he was working on a Volkswagen Beetle in the driveway. He stopped work and led me into the sitting room where perched on the edge of the couch was Liz, a petite, pretty, busty brunette with a great laugh and great eyes. Not that I noticed of course, being nonchalant I’d like to think, but more likely totally blind to the fact that she as later told to me by Gary, was immediately very interested in getting to know me. We sat drinking tea and chatting away until Gary disappeared outside to carry on working on her (the Beetle) car and Liz and I continued our conversation. Gary called me later that day wanting to know whether I liked Liz and would I like to take her out? Of course I said and that evening Liz collected me in her Beetle and out we went; out being as far as her flat a mile away where we drank a bottle of wine and then explored one another for the next eight hours. And there I stayed apart from odd nights spent at home with Liz and I getting to know one another in the Biblical sense.

I did not want a serious relationship and that was despite my brother Mark, who having met Liz one Saturday morning at Mum’s house saying, “Who is that Jonathan? She’s bloody knock out mate!” I told him I was not interested in a relationship and he said, “You're bloody mental pal”. And do you know what? I probably was. But not because I did not want to get serious with Liz, moreover because I was starting to get depressed, seriously depressed. I started playing hard to find and I am sorry about that but my head was full of crap thoughts about my life, as on the outside was this ‘dude’, always up for a laugh, a friendly open person; never had any problems did Jonathan. But hidden away on the inside my head felt like it was starting to fall apart. My head was 'literally' falling apart as well, starting with an itchy scalp that eventually erupted into sores under my hair that I’d scratch as they'd drive me mad with pain and soreness and then they would bleed. I was forever washing my hair and wondering what was wrong. “You’ve got Shingles,” said Mum when I showed her my head. “What is shingles?” I asked. “It’s the same as chicken pox in a way, it can be very painful though” she said. Not exactly plenty of tea and sympathy from Mum!

I had not worked it out; I had still not got my head around why I was becoming more and more angry, more frustrated with my life and feeling as though the world was closing in on me. I started picking up on stuff that Mum did and starting arguments with her over crappy little things. I would mope around the house moaning and whinging about life and how shit it was until eventually one afternoon when I was in the garden and Mum came out to tend her flowers and she started to nag at me for being miserable. My head was driving me mad with the pain and I was getting terrible headaches and pain in my shoulders and neck. She told me to "stop moaning and do something about it". “There is nothing to do about it, because it is about nothing, I have nothing” I shouted at her. “You’re being stupid, bloody ridiculous,” she shouted back. “I had a life in America, I had an apartment, earned great money, had my friends, my girlfriend” my voice trailing off. Then she said something that I will remember forever.

“That apartment? It wasn’t anything special, your so called friends haven’t called to speak to since you left and you had nothing of any value there and as for your girlfriend, you were sleeping with any girl you could get your hands on. You had nothing there!” Her voice had steadily risen to a shout and she looked at me with real anger in her eyes. “But it was my life! Can’t you see that it was my life and its gone, I can’t go back because I’ll get arrested as soon as I set foot in California and its all because I was getting your medicine!” I shouted at her with tears streaming down my face. In truth I was afraid to leave her side in case she died in my absence. “So its my fault is it? Perhaps I should have died there and you would still have your life, is that it?” she shouted back. For all that I loved her, Mum could say the most incredibly cruel things and whilst you may consider that she was being honest, I did not need honesty right then. “No! You don’t understand, you just don’t get it!” How do you explain when it sounds so selfish, so self-centred?

I took myself off to the doctor’s surgery and broke down in his consulting room. He inspected my head and said I definitely had Shingles caused by stress, that my scalp would be scarred and I needed to stop using perfumed shampoos and had to use medicated ones instead or some such advice. He prescribed anti-depressants and we moved on to discussing my backache. He examined my neck and shoulders and said that the stress was the cause of the pain in there but he would organise an appointment with the Orthopaedic Consultants at the hospital about the lower back pain and sciatica that was starting to flair up. At home I found Mum in her chair watching daytime TV; her legs curled underneath her, a cup of coffee on the arm of the chair, the Daily Mirror at her side. Pretty much how anyone who knew her would expect to find her, either that or sat at the kitchen table completing the Bingo in the newspaper. “What are you doing here?” she said. “I live here?” I replied. “I didn’t think this house was good enough for you” she sneered. I walked upstairs to my room and stayed there for the remainder for that day. I think that Mum couldn’t stand weakness in men. My father had been a strong person and managed everything for her when he was alive except for the kids and the shopping. Over the next few weeks as I recovered I resolved to get on with things as there was no way back. I presumed by now I’d be a wanted criminal in American!

I was still searching for a “proper” job trawling the press for one that was at least interesting and that paid well. An vacancy for a “Stained Glass Overlay Technician” caught my eye. This consisted of placing a paper pattern behind a sheet of glass pre-cut to fit in a door or window frame and then laying over lead to re-produce the pattern. Roses, Swallows and Butterfly designs were popular as were Georgian diamond shapes. What’s more the money was great and I sailed the interview into a job where my fellow employees did not resemble rejects from Zombie casting central! My brother Richard had a house to let a few miles from the factory and said I could lease that, so I now had a nice 2-bedroom home, a good job and splashed out on a white Volkswagen Sirocco as well, on higher purchase of course. The rent was well within my means as were the payments on the car; my clubbing and clothes budget were not too high and so I was at last functioning as a member of society, paying my taxes. What of my mental health you ask? It's amazing what a little self belief, support from friends and some anti-depressants can do. Once I had moved out from under Mum’s roof and had begun earning money and settling into a steady lifestyle, my shingles cleared up, I reduced and soon stopped taking the meds. Life was slowly on the up..............

You're Nicked Me Old Beauty!

2012-11-12T14:41:00.003+00:00

A few more days of relaxation in the sunshine finally led to my collecting a letter from Dr Alton for CO-OP Travel Insurance. It was posted to my brother Mark for the insurers approval and Mum and I prepared to fly back to the Bay Area. Our time together in Santa Barbara had been a strange mixture of emotions and behaviour. Stress, sadness, happiness, deceit, angst, fear and elation all mixed in to contribute to an unforgettable period in our lives. We checked out of the Motel and drove to the Airport, returned the car to the rental desk and waited for our flight. Santa Barbara airport could not at that time handle large bodied aircraft and so we speculated as to the type of plane we’d be flying in. A Pilot walked towards us and sat next to Mum and I. “Mrs Weaver?” he asked, “Yes,” said Mum, “I’m your Pilot, if you’d care to follow me we will walk out the aircraft together as you are the only passengers”. At last I had my own private jet! We passed through the departure gate and walked to a small jet parked on the apron. Climbing aboard there was a short row of seats each side of the aisle and we sat down and fastened our seat belts. The Pilot climbed into his seat not more than touching distance from us and started the engine. We taxied out towards the runway and with a thrust from the jet; we took off climbing up above the Californian coastline as we sped northwards towards San Francisco and home.

The jet hugged the coastline and mum commented as we flew over the sights of Big Sur, Carmel, Monterey Bay, Santa Cruz and the numerous small towns and forests below. The pilot enquired and received clearance from air traffic control to fly north of San Francisco and so with the City laid out below Mum’s side of the aircraft, the skyscrapers appeared as fingers clawing up from the earth trying to drag the odd cloud spoiling the view down, into the streets. The sight of the Golden Gate Bridge drew gasps from my mother and a tear or two, as she considered its elegance and majesty as it leapt across the Gateway into the harbour. The plane banked around over Sausalito and descended as it flew over the Bay Bridge with Fishermen’s Wharf and the tourist haven of Pier 39 off to our right. This added extra to our journey courtesy of a prevailing wind and an indulgent pilot. The jet glided into SFO and parked on an apron near to the octopus like arms of the terminal. The pilot released the door and the stairs down appeared from the below and Mum and I exited the plane onto the tarmac. Collecting our bags from under the jet, we walked with the pilot to the terminal and thanked him for a wonderful trip that, if we’d paid for as a holiday treat, would have cost a great deal of money.

We caught a Taxi from SFO to my apartment and let ourselves in. Mark and Dave were at work and I settled Mum back into my bedroom again. The last time I had been here I was screwing Tammy in the shower when I got a call from her Dad. It seemed so long ago now. Marks cousin Trevor had arrived whilst I was away and had started working with Paul and Victor so I half expected that the boys would have been managing in my absence. I rang Shirley, (Marks aunt and Paul's Mum), to say we were home and she said they’d come over after work. Mum took a nap and I padded around the apartment trying to decide what I would do when eventually the time came to take Mum back to the UK. Later that day everyone turned up to see us including Tammy; my god Tammy! The girlfriend who I had never thought about whilst I was in Santa Barbara and the girlfriend who had waited for me, waited and expected me to return as she left me, whole and unbroken by my journey. As per usual, I simply slipped back into boyfriend mode, a deceit had been played out behind her back and none the wiser was she and I felt no guilt. I considered Monique a perk of the job so to speak, but I had also learned a small lesson in what it felt like to be on the receiving end so to speak.

I told Paul that I stilled wanted time off work with mum as I wanted to show her San Francisco before she and I went to the UK. My recollection of the next few days is hazy; I do know that Trevor’s Mum Vera flew in from England and stayed with her sister Shirley. Paul turned up and he and I had a discussion as to my return to work as he was struggling now with more work than people to do it, he said. He also raised the issue of his tax return. Apparently, whilst he had been paying me he had not been figuring how much tax he would need to pay, as my income was included in his. He had decided that in order to rectify this situation he needed $2000.00 back from me to pay my (his) tax bill. I told him there was no way I could find that and besides, his inability to manage simple math in terms of how much to pay me was not my fault. Shirley obviously took his side, but I explained that he should have worked out what the tax was on our combined salaries and if that meant he had to pay me less to cover his tax, he should not have increased my salary to $500 a week. We were never going to agree and I finally said that I would not be returning to work for him, a sour note to end that relationship on, although it never got hostile.

Unexpectedly, the two entrepreneurs who Paul sub-contracted his work from, called me and asked me to visit Cherry, whose daughter I had defiled in the bathroom when I was supposed to be lacquering her cabinets. I took Mum with me and Cherry and her husband asked me whether I’d be prepared to complete the lacquering, as Paul was not coming back? My main problem at this time was a fear of leaving Mum alone, of coming home to find her dead in bed, or worse in the street, having gone for a walk, (improbable given her recent success on the treadmill). But I refused none the less. They accepted this decision without question and then he offered me a G&T. I declined as I was driving. We walked around the house, Cherry showing Mum our work and once again I was offered a drink and again I politely refused. Back downstairs to the living room and he asked me again. This time I said “Look, I am driving so cannot drink, if you really want to get it on and get a session going, I can come back one night and we can get pissed together”. I don’t know where that came from and felt immediate regret, but not as much as when Mum turned on me and said “Jonathan, how dare you speak to these people like that, now apologise!” Told off by Mummy! I said sorry, but ended that apology still annoyed that he kept offering me a drink. But was that really it? Was I really annoyed about the drink offers, or was something else lying deep in my head, starting to grow and consume my happy little life? I look back now and see that I was starting to get very stressed. It was a combination of factors including, but not limited to Mums illness, my work, my music, Tammy, Mark Cameron settling down again this time with Andrea his girlfriend, where I was in life, where I was going, what would happen? I had also developed a deep fear of finding my Mum dead, of walking in and finding her lifeless body, of it being my fault. Totally irrational based on what I knew from Dr Alton, but there in my head anyway.

I had driven up to Daly City (just south of San Francisco), to see my chiropractor a number of times over my time in California and he had taken x-rays and had been working on my back, off and on, depending upon the pain I was experiencing. I had been suffering again whilst we were in Santa Barbara and he worked on my back a final time and as I was heading back to England, he gave me the X-rays to take home. The last two weeks were spent taking Shirley, Mum and Vera out and about to the City, Sausalito; to the Golden Gate Bridge and Park and of course to Alcatraz, all the good stuff that Mum and I should have been doing instead of using the American Health Care system. I told Mark that I was flying home with Mum and would be back once I was sure she was settled.

I had to go to the Pharmacy to collect Mum's medication;Nitro Glycerine tablets, some pain meds and Aspirin and so five days before we were due to fly out, I drove to the Pharmacy four or five blocks north of the apartment. The speed limit was thirty miles per hour and each block had stop signs, (requiring the car to come to a full stop, wait for any traffic to pass in turn and then carry on). My head was somewhere else as I drove and looking behind me I saw a Police Motorbike, lights flashing, the Officer waving me to the side of the road. My guts turned to water as I realised I did not have insurance, a licence (other than my UK paper licence) nor registration. I parked up and got out of the car as the Officer walked over. He told me I had failed to stop at a stop sign, that my speed was higher than thirty miles per hour and he asked for the documents. I admitted to having no insurance and opened my wallet to take out my paper licence. This is what followed…

“You're British?” he asked, “Yes I am” I replied. “Been in California long?” “No, just a few weeks. I am here with my Mum, but she has had a heart attack whilst we’ve been here, I am on my way to get her meds” I offered back. “Hmmm, I'm sorry to hear that about your mother” said the copper looking at my wallet as I am closing it, "I can see a Californian ID card in there?” “Shit” I thought, “I am fucked”. I opened the wallet again and took out my Californian ID card, the one I had bought within two weeks of arriving here over a sixteen months ago, which we only got as a keep sake and to save having to carry our Passports around as ID when going to Bars and Clubs. The Officer looked at my ID and ran the document through whatever search he had access to at the time. “Says here you’ve been here since May ‘87,” he said. “Well, yea, it may say that but I got that as a memento last year and only stayed a while, then I came back recently with my mum”.

“I don’t believe you, I think you have been here since May 1987 and you are working illegally,” he said. I was definitely fucked. “I am writing you a ticket, you’ll have to appear in court just down the road there” he said pointing back in the direction of our apartment and the courthouse on the same road, “You will need to bring this ID, your Passport and any other documentation with you.” I looked at the car, “What about the car, can I drive it home?” “No, it stays here until someone with the correct papers and insurance can collect it”. I traipsed off to the Pharmacy and then walked back home knowing that the game was up. I expected that when I went to court I would be fined, possibly jailed and more likely, deported. Shit!

Back at the apartment I told Mum what had happened. Quite incredibly Mum was totally indifferent to my dilemma. Totally unsympathetic, “Well, you should have had insurance” she said. I explained that the car was a simple run around we rarely used and I only used it this time to get her medicine. “Oh, so its my fault” was her stock answer. I told Mark when he got home and he walked to the car and collected it despite not having any documentation. He just checked no one was watching, got in and drove home. We didn’t use the bloody thing usually anyway, as Mark had a car with Andrea his girlfriend and Paul always collected me for work, plus Tammy drove a car as well. In the weeks since Santa Barbara, Mum and I had hired a car to get around the Bay Area and had returned it after two weeks use. I resolved the following day to walk to court and plead ignorance; it was my only chance. I walked into the building and went to the reception desk. All around me where the usual dropouts and the dregs of society you’ll find in a court building anywhere in the world. I explained my situation to the woman at the desk who whilst sympathetic, said there was nothing to be done, I needed to get a lawyer or one would be appointed for me and had to appear before the court as ordered. The court date was the day after our flight back to England, so I wouldn’t be going.

I packed as much of my stuff as possible, gave my TV and anything of any value to Mark. I said a very emotional goodbye to Tammy who was terribly upset and said she did not think I would be coming back. Although I did my best to reassure her, in her heart she knew. I bid farewell to Dave, Andrea, Paul and Shirley and Victor. It was strange as I was in a little world of my own without any deep disappointment, no regrets, and no sadness at all or so I thought. I was walking away from a life I had made for myself. I was successful and I had earned a lot of money; I had great friends, I had met some amazing people, I had made love to some really beautiful women, (a preoccupation of mine apparently!) and was heading back to a life doing what?

A life on the dole queue, a life of no money and finding old friends who had probably moved on and I would be living at home with Mum. I seemed to not care, but was to find out shortly that I cared deeply.

Walking to a Standstill

2012-11-07T15:24:00.003+00:00

Later that day I had to take Mum to see her Cardiologists, one of either Dr Alton or Dr Braniff, at their private consulting rooms for her treadmill test. Apart from determining the damage to her heart and to see how Mum had recovered since her Heart Attack, we also needed approval for Mum to fly, firstly to the Bay Area and my home; after further recuperation she’d then fly back to England. We drove to their offices and a very nervous Cynthia Weaver got out of the car and we walked into the reception. I announced our arrival to the Receptionist and we took seats and waited, Mum was fidgeting about with her bag, then her hair, then her nails, not talking very much and I knew she was worried, as neither of us knew what a treadmill test involved. Dr Alton appeared with a nurse at his side and introduced the nurse and himself again to Mum and I. We walked through the offices to a room that had a curtain down the middle, a desk, an examination couch and three chairs. Dr Alton asked Mum to go behind the curtain and to gown up and then he took her pulse, blood pressure and a small amount of blood that he passed to the nurse, who disappeared with it.

He explained that he wanted to test her blood for enzymes that indicate heart damage and whether her levels had returned to normal or nearer to a normal reading as could be expected. He then addressed the treadmill test and pulled apart the curtains to reveal a large treadmill of the kind found in most gymnasiums those days. Mum was to start on the treadmill at walking pace and after a short while once she was comfortable, Dr Alton would incrementally increase the speed of the belt to the point where Mum would be walking fast, (which actually turned out to be the understatement of the week). She could ask him to stop at any time and he would be in control of the machine making sure she could manage and was not in any pain. She would need to be linked up to monitors and he commenced by placing sticky pads on her skin around her chest and back. He then linked cables to these pads that led to the monitors. Mum looked across to me and I tried my best to be positive and smiled back, saying things such as “You’ll be fine Mum,” and “I went on one of those once, they’re great fun!” Twat that I am!

Mum manoeuvred around the treadmill and gingerly stepped onto it, placing her hands on the side rails and walked to the very front of the pathway wearing a gown, her own purple tracksuit bottoms and a pair of trainers. Dr Alton asked that I remain seated during the test, so I nodded my head and then once happy with Mums positioning, he turned on the treadmill and the recording began. Mum began walking forward quite at ease with herself, Dr Alton checked a number of the dials and referred to numbers being printed off as her progress continued. After a few minutes he informed Mum that he was going to increase the rate of speed slightly, that she should step up her pace to match and that she should tell him whether she felt any discomfort. Mum said that was fine and continued walking, my perception being that she had only increased her speed slightly. Once again, after a few more minutes he said the same words, he’d be increasing the speed and she’d need to match her pace to the treadmill, but this time there was a noticeable speed increase at which Mum said “oo-er!” but she carried on, her breathing becoming slightly more exaggerated but still not too concerning. After a few more minutes the pattern repeated itself and the speed increased again, Mum now progressing at a good rate and starting to show the effects slightly as she gripped the handrails more tightly. I looked across at Dr Alton who catching my stare shook his head as if to say, ‘don’t worry’. This speed remained in place for around five minutes and then increased again; the notice given by the Doctor and the change made. By now Mum was really striding purposefully along; her breathing clearly audible and her face flushing as she chased along on top of the treadmill. Every now and then she would make a noise similar to her earlier “oo-er”, I would look at Dr Alton and he’d shake his head.

Eventually Dr Alton said he was going to apply a final speed increase and did just that. Mum gave a little 'shriek' but stayed upright and her pace was a very fast walk indeed. She had started to perspire; her hands gripped the rails for support, not just for the purpose of reassurance and comfort and she started to say that she did not think she could carry on much longer. I looked at Dr Alton with some alarm but again he shook his head (Mum being unaware of our quiet communication) and he gave her words of encouragement whilst hastily making notes and marks on print outs. The nurse standing to the other side of Mum was offering her own words of support but I was sure that at any moment Mum would give in and I had vision of her being flung across the room backwards, straight into Dr Alton and his machines and monitors. Her little feet were a blur as she walked faster than she’d walked for many a year, left after right after left after right, on and on and on. I saw her pretty face flushed and sweaty, the gown billowing as she surged along, her breathing getting heavier and harder. I wanted to shout out “C’mon man, stop the thing, stop her walking now, that’s enough”. I was really worried, but was caught between jumping up and staying put as ordered.

Just as Mum was almost at the point of collapse Dr Alton began to reduce the speed, I wanted to get up and help Mum but as hard as it was, I remained seated. In slow stages the speed of the treadmill reduced to a slow walk and then stopped. Mum hung onto the rails to stop herself from sliding to the floor. “Well done” said Dr Alton, “Really, very well done Cynthia, you did better than I expected”. I said much the same thing as Mum with the aid of the nurse, clambered off of the apparatus and stumbling over, took a seat next to me. Looking at her, I could see tears forming in her eyes, but she was a tough customer and would not cry even when pushed to the limit physically or mentally.

I held her hand and once more felt the tough skin between the thumb and index finger on her left hand, where she’d scalded herself many years ago. The skins natural stretch lines had hardened into stiff ridges that no amount of moisturiser was going to soften but I found that with continuous massage, it would become more pliable and tender. Her face was bright red, her freckles more pronounced and her eyes, whilst full and watery with the stress, only projected her spirit and inner strength as she smiled as though delighted by the fun of it all. The kind of strength that comes from being mother to five children, two who had grown up with serious illnesses, whose husband had worked so hard he’d died of a cardiac arrest at 53! Looking back I wonder whether the fear I saw in her during those weeks, had been amplified by the memories of her husbands loss when he was so young and it was so unexpected.

Dr Alton sat down in his swivel chair and spun himself around to face us both. “Cynthia, that was excellent! You walked far faster and further than I would have thought possible given your recent heart attack and can tell you that it is very unlikely that you will ever exert yourself to the extent of the test in future”. I smiled at Mum and said that that was great news. “Your heart is almost as strong now as it has ever been Cynthia, you are at very little risk of another heart attack. However you must make some changes to diet and exercise if you are to ensure you remain fit and healthy, the nurse has some pamphlets for you to take away, Nurse?” To which the nurse then handed me a large A4 sized envelope stuffed with information. Mum had by now caught her breath and was able to speak up. She asked Dr Alton when she could return to England and he advised that she would be able to fly back to San Francisco within a week, as the flight would travel at a lower altitude than a large inter-continental airliner and that after another few weeks in San Francisco recuperating, she would be well enough to fly home. “Mum cannot fly home on her own”, I said “but the Insurance Company will not meet the cost of my flight unless specifically told by her surgeon that she cannot fly home unaccompanied”. “Ridiculous isn’t it” said Dr Alton, “I’ll write you a letter, you can collect it anytime after tomorrow”.

Mum went behind the curtain and emerged looking like she had never taken the test. Her hair was combed, her make-up re-done and her face shone with a bright smile. Mum turned to Dr Alton and taking his hand had thanked him for care and asked him to pass on her regards to Dr Braniff. In the future, whenever we spoke of those days in Santa Barbara, Mum would speak of the two Cardiac Surgeons as though they were saints. I suppose they were to her and we certainly owe them and the entire medical services team at the St Francis Hospital, along with the Paramedics in the Ambulance the same level of respect and thanks.

We drove back to our Motel and rested for the remainder of that day. A visit to Rodeo Drive just in case she might see Joan Collins was the order of the following day and another trip out to Solvang and Lake Cachuma rounded off our time in Santa Barbara quite nicely. Mum sent cards to both her Cardiologists and Dr Alton wrote to Mum on a number of occasions over the years, as she would write to him and send cards at Christmas each year.

Not so cocky now are you?

2012-11-01T16:17:00.002+00:00

Suited, Booted and Big-Haired -

only without Tuxedo Shirt!

I awoke next to Monique, her breathing steady and quiet. I looked over the balcony and could see the Pacific Ocean in the distance through the large picture window. There wasn’t a sound to be heard apart from Monique’s breathing and I lay back down looking up at the ceiling, noticing the concave lines between the sheet-rock where the Spackle (plaster) had not quite covered the joints. If I'd of lived down there I may well have been the decorator who painted that place, such was my work in the Bay Area. Painting new build condo's and apartments. Monique stirred beside me and I looked at her profile lying as she was on her back. Little twitches behind her eyelids were apparent as was the slight flaring of her nostrils as she breathed in. Stunningly beautiful even when asleep, I reached over and drew traces with my fingertips softly around her face and watched her nose wriggle and her lips purse as my fingers moved over them. Smiling as I considered the events of the night before, I lifted the sheet slightly to look at her body, her breasts were smooth mounds, each topped with a raspberry coloured nipple, her stomach flat and taught, the slight mound raising up between her hips covered with soft hair. My fingertips moved across her skin tentatively, unwitting to disturb her slumber and I could feel myself getting aroused as my touch moved ever lower, silkily, delicately stroking her skin and the hair between her legs which were beginning to spread again, Whether unconsciously or not, she was enjoying my touch and I was getting ready to start the second round.

My attention was momentarily distracted by a phone ringing somewhere, probably next door, I then remembered Mum and looked at my watch. It was still early, only just after seven and I wondered whether I should continue my gentle foreplay or whether I could fall back to sleep if I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes, postponing the seduction for a while longer. Whilst I could have carried on with the seduction as it was, there was no chance of anymore sleep! I was wide awake now and needed to decide whether to continue my amorous manoeuvres or not, when Monique rolled over and away from me. I sat up searching the room for my boxer shorts, jeans, cigarettes and lighter, and finding them, picked them up and made my way downstairs as quietly as possible to the kitchen. I filled the kettle turned it on, pulled on my clothes and searched the cupboards for cups, instant coffee and sugar. I found everything I needed and having made a brew walked across the ground floor and out through the patio doors onto the balcony, closing the doors behind me.

The clean bite and snap of the salty sea air hit my throat and I breathed in deeply which in-turn inspired a deep throaty cough, smoking! I sat on a patio chair and recovered my coffee from the table, where I placed it during my coughing fit, and drank as much as I could, despite the heat of the liquid. I lit a Marlboro and stared out to sea, the cars on Highway 1, between myself and the Ocean; zipping past, their shapes disappearing and reappearing, as they passed behind the tall pines along the roadside and on the hills. The Ocean was a deep blue, almost green in colour and here and there, white-capped waves formed and pursued one after the other in a race to shore. Seagulls, their wings spread wide soared up and away as the waves grew in size as if trying to reach up and pull down the birds, the Gulls calling but the noise barely reaching me where I sat. I smoked and sipped in turn, savouring the taste of both coffee and tobacco; a true flavour partnership if ever there was one.

Walking back inside I found Monique coming out of the bathroom, naked. She smiled and said “Good morning George”. “Hi, how are you?” I asked, “Feeling great, do you want more coffee?” she said looking at the cup in my hand. “Yes please” I replied and walked over to where she stood by the entry to the kitchen where I took her in my arms and kissed her lightly on the lips. She wriggled free and made fresh filter coffee, still naked; and it was all I could do to stop myself from bending her over the sink and taking her again. “I told you I wanted to take you to my friends house, remember?” she asked. “Of course I do” I said, “well they work and we have to get going if we’re going to catch them” she said, darting past me and upstairs to get dressed. “Oh” I thought to myself, no chance of a quickie to start the day off right then? I followed her upstairs to find her pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, Nike’s and a cardigan. I picked up my creased white shirt and dressed, aware that I was going to look very out of place in my evening finery. “Are you sure we have to meet these guys?” I asked, “My clothes look a bit over the top”. “You’ll be fine they won’t care,” she said and dashed downstairs to the bathroom again emerging a few minutes later, after I had followed her down, freshly made up, her hair tied back and she was bouncing around excitedly. I collected my keys and wallet and we walked out to her car and she drove back down the hill towards the Ocean, turning onto a road leading through an estate. We parked outside a block of apartments and she was out of the car in a shot with me following after her. She knocked on the door of the first apartment we came to and I heard a squeal come from within and seconds later the door flew open and three women stood in front of me, staring and laughing, saying simultaneously, “Oh…my………god”.

“This is George Michael,” said Monique. More squeals and shrieks, the women were all aged around their late teens, early twenties and were bouncing up and down as though on springs, “Come in, come in” said one and Monique and I walked in, as they all stood to one side. As I passed by they scrutinised me closely, staring and looking at one another and then closed the door behind us. I sat next to Monique, who grasped my hand and held it tightly on her thigh as the others circled around and then sat on a low couch opposite. Monique looked like she was fit to burst and started telling them all about the meal and the kissing, the jazz bar, more kissing and eventually got to the part where we arrived at her apartment. Her audience were captivated, sitting tightly together and issuing forth, “oohs” and “ahs” and more “oh…my…gods”. Meanwhile, I was looking at them, two blondes and a brunette, all built for fun and not a ‘Goppa’ amongst them; Mark Cameron would be kicking himself! My mind went into overdrive, a “5-some” might be on the cards I thought, but where would I start? Monique spared most of the gory details from our late night session in her apartment, but said enough to ensure that the women went from looking at her in envy, to looking at me in lust. Excellent!

But………there is always a ‘but’. They all had to get to work the clock was ticking and with no more than a quick peck on each cheek from each, we were gone. We got into her car and Monique said “Right, I’ll drive you to the Motel”. I was pleased that she didn’t say, “I’ll drive you back to your Mum” as it would have been weird. “They know I am not George Michael, right?” I said, “Those girls, your friends, they know I’m not him?” Monique had a mischievous smile running across her lips and said stared ahead at the road. I suppose she wanted them to think she’d slept with a star, or, she had told them the truth and had wanted to show me off, to get them to appreciate just how easily she had assumed I was him and all the more after my Mum had confirmed as much; I’ll never know. Monique drove me back to the Motel pulled into the car parking space next to my car and did not turn off the engine. I looked at her, she looked at me and I knew that this was it, over. Nothing else, no follow up’s, no repeats, no relationship. Simply sex, well actually superb sex, if I do say so myself. A one-night stand, and were there no complaints from either of us.

Well, I was actually a little put out that the tables had not only been turned, in so far as she was the one walking out so to speak, before anything like a repeat could be bought up. But also, I really did like her. I leant across and made to kiss her cheek but she turn her face towards me and kissed me softly on the lips. “I loved last night, it was great,” she said. “Same here,” I replied. “Take care,” she offered and I turned, opened the door and stepped out of the car. I closed the door and she reversed the car back and turned to face the road. She opened her window and said, “I’ll always remember last night.” I started to walk forward, to get to her window and say we could do it again but she was already driving to the exit and pulled out almost straight away. Gone.

My thoughts turned to my winking at myself in bathroom her mirror last night, after the sex and thinking how cocky I was, how so self assured. In fact, I now wonder whether, as Monique drove off, had she looked in her rear view mirror and smiled to herself, cocky as ever, so self-assured? Tables turned and feeling more deflated than elated I walked back to our Motel door turned the key and walked in, finding Mum sitting on her bed reading. I said hello and noticed that a large picture that had been hanging on the wall above my bed was laid on top of the bedding. “Those nice men from next door knocked on our door last night, they wanted to see if you wanted to go out with them,” she said. "He still couldn't take no for an answer, the stubborn sod," I thought. I picked up the painting and held it in my hands. “That picture came off the wall in the middle of the night, there was lots of banging and noise going on,’ said Mum. “I bet there was!” I thought, not telling her that it was the gay bloke who’d offered me a freebie nosh off and his partner. They were probably shagging so forcibly that they caused the painting to fall off its hook! I hung it back up and stood back, "Did you have a nice time?" asked Mum. "Wonderful", I replied, "But I don't think I'll see Monique again." Mum didn't respond, probably noting the tone of my voice as I spoke and sensing that all had not gone as well as I had planned or expected. With the painting back on the wall I looked at it again, thinking about how lucky I was to have avoided it landing on my head and noting to myself that last night had been a hit and a miss.

I Want Your Sex

2012-10-30T17:11:00.002+00:00

Monique took my hand and led me upstairs. The balcony bedroom overlooked the sitting area and the high gable wall above the patio doors held a large picture window offering a view out towards the Pacific Ocean in the distance, but not that one we could see at night. She sat me on the bed and stood back as if gauging what action to take next before undoing the button and zip at the side of her dress, letting it fall to the ground and standing in front of me, naked save for a minute G-string, her full breasts defied gravity in such a way as one may have suspected that a thin wire fixed to the ceiling was attached to the nipples, holding them up. Monique stepped toward me and pushed me onto my back straddling me as she leant down and kissed me. My hands touched the skin on her back softly stroking and moving from where her ribs began then drifting around her sides and under her breasts. The skin reacting to my touch tensing and relaxing in turn as my fingertips passed across it, goose pimples rising and the soft downy hair popping to attention. She moaned as I did this and squirmed, forcing herself down against my waist eliciting further moans from her and inspiring a large erection on my part. She began to undo the buttons of my shirt, her hands pushed their way inside and she squeezed my nipples erect as her fingers ran through the hair on my chest and down toward my waist, where she found my belt buckle and after some seconds worth of struggle, gave up trying to undo it and pausing, sat up, smiled at me said, “undo it”. I immediately complied.

The buttons on my 501’s popped through their holes in rapid succession, as having undone the top button she pulled the two sides apart much like ripping apart a present, eager to see and get her hands on the prize inside. Jumping back off the bed she grasped at the heels of my boots and ripped them off casting them aside behind her and doing the same with my socks, before taking hold of my jeans by the ends of the leg and ripping them off, tossing them after the boots. Monique stood before me letting her hair free from the confines of the band holding it in place. I sat up and reaching out pulled her towards me and down onto the bed flipping her over onto her back and took in her beauty once more. I sat astride her this time, leaning down kissing her softly on the lips, then her cheek and by her ears before sliding my tongue down her neck, pausing at the point her collar bones met to form a small indent below her throat, kissing and nuzzling her there. My hands manoeuvred under the small of her back as I continued my journey south. Pausing again at her breasts I kissed around her nipples and noticed the skin tighten and small bumps and depressions on her dark nipples appear, either in anticipation of my contact or immediately afterward. Soft moans and sighs of pleasure came from her as I continued kissing my way around her body, holding her in place with my hands at her waist, the thumbs stroking the sides of her stomach, my fingers gently stretching the skin across the small of her back and sliding under the elastic of her G-string.

Arriving at the top of her G-string I ran my tongue along its width, hip-to-hip, occasionally under the elastic and material; a move that forced out a louder moan and a thrust of the hips from Monique. By now my feet were on the floor and in one fluid motion, I picked her up and moved her further onto the bed before settling back down and resuming my kisses and strokes. Her legs were slowly opening as I kissed around her waist and despite the urge to simply rip down her underwear and dive right in, I stalled; knowing that to move to fast would not deliver what we both wanted and moreover, after all the espionage so far, the move would not do justice to what had gone before. Using my tongue like a finger I forced down the front of her G-string and felt the well-trimmed soft hairs parting at its touch. I eased my thumbs under the elastic at her hips and pulled downwards. The front of the G-string eased lower and her legs opened further to assist me, and I paused watching as the material slowly rolled down until it reached her folds of skin between her legs where it held stubbornly in place, her wetness sticking the cloth to her skin. A subtle smell, the musky sweetness of sex and seduction arose from her as I drew the elastic and material down; the sweet smelling wetness finally releasing the damp silky cloth which sprang back in place to keep up with the rest of her G-string, as it was eased down her thighs over her knees and finally off her legs. Monique opened her legs wide, signalling her request for further attention and I moved to her thighs kissing and caressing as I journeyed back the other way. I had slipped off my boxer shorts as I had taken her underwear off, the odd tug and twist moving them downwards as I went about my work. The urge started again. The urge to simply slide inside her, pushing all the way in until out hips met. I cancelled the thought but my uncircumcised erection throbbed and waved about as I moved and each time it caught the skin on her legs I tensed, as a spasm of pleasure shot through my groin and up my body. My tongue slid along the inside of her left thigh and then upward, flicking across her wet labia and then her clitoris, across the short hair above and down the other side in a heart shape. I continued this pattern for a time, each pass across her clitoris forcing a deep pant from her chest and a smile inside me, as I was where I wanted to be since the moment Monique had made her presence known in the Jazz bar. The extent of the heart shape began to close in after a time, as I focused more closely around her inner thighs and clitoris, eventually changing the pattern altogether into a straight line from her clitoris down to the base of her pussy; with my nose, lips, tongue and chin all coming to bear as they touched her pleasure points.

Monique was getting wetter and wetter and her panting becoming evermore urgent as with each sweep up and down I increased the speed, settling eventually into a steady continuous rhythm. Her breaths started to come in small gulps as her body tensed and relaxed with one of my hands stroking her stomach and the other holding open her legs , keeping her in place. Monique’s body tensed and relaxed in waves; her voice urging me to “keep, doing, th..that”, each word panted out a breath at a time. Her lips had opened now, given the continuous pushing, licking and the incessant up and down strokes. I lapped at her, tasting and smelling her as she got wetter and hotter, the rhythm, the pressure, the speed, repeating; the urging, exploring, brushing, licking and tasting continuing. I reached for and found her hands and taking her by her wrists pushed her arms down by her sides holding her there, her body pined to the bed. This drew even louder panting for air as she bucked and forced her groin down and against my face, grinding herself against my nose, tongue and chin in turn as my head moved up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and…………. then she came; shouting at me to “keep, going, keep, doing, that…that…that…oh…oh…yes…that…yes…yes!” her body arcing off the bed, the noises were animal and throaty as the orgasm ripped through her. I released one arm and she grabbed at the back of my head pushing my face into her as I continued the rhythm and she shuddered again and again. I got even more turned on by the very act of her orgasm as she continued to moan and buck herself against my face.

As the force of her orgasm subsided I kissed my way back up her body. She reached up and pulled my head down towards hers and we kissed hard once again, all lips, tongues and teeth, before she eased back and licked the taste of herself from my face, small darting flicks of her tongue tracing around my lips, chin and nose. We kissed again and she reached down and took my hard cock in her hand, it’s pulsating throb evident as she squeezed it tightly and moved her hand up and down it’s length. I pulled myself up onto my knees and she followed to a sitting position her hands now working my cock and balls as she smiled up at me and I could have died in those eyes.

Taking me in her mouth Monique applied herself with gusto as I lay back and let her work on me this time. This was enormously pleasurable, her tongue flicking around as her head moved up and down, a hand joining in; to squeeze and touch. It started to get away from me and she knew this. I wanted it stopped after realising that I was about to come, but she would not stop. Her head plunging up and down and up and down until………..I could no longer hold on and she stayed there, swallowing and sucking until I moved her head away, she masturbated me way past the point of orgasm, which made me laugh and shout as spasms of pleasure shot through my stomach. Monique lay beside me and we kissed and stroked one another with our need to fuck growing ever more urgent until she asked, “screw me now”. I picked her up turned her over and she rose onto her knees and manoeuvred her body back towards me. I shuffled forward and placed the head of my penis against her lips and with no more than an almost imperceptible push she parted and I slid all the way inside her, the heat coming from her sending me into raptures. With long slow strokes I proceed to fuck her, sliding almost all of the way out, pausing, before plunging back in again and we carried on like this for quite a while, her hand between her legs heightening her sensations and occasionally cupping my balls in a friendly squeeze. We moved into a variety of positions eventually settling into the tried and tested cowgirl and she moved into another gear. I was quite happy to come whenever she wanted me to and as she climaxed again I joined in, physically lifting her body up and down as we climaxed together.

We fell apart breathing heavily and lay still for a while taking in air and what had happened. Monique went to the bathroom downstairs and returned with a tray holding re-filled wine glasses, the cigarettes and an ashtray. I took a long glug of wine rinsing it around my teeth and swallowing it down. It was icy cold and the tang pulled my head back into focus from the relaxed state I was now in. I took a cigarette and lit it. Monique sat on her knees with her legs curled underneath her; her hair was a tangled mess and her make up no longer perfect, but she looked stunning. A soft glow radiating from her, the dewy like perspiration shimmering on her shoulders, throat and between her breasts. I drew on the cigarette and passed it to Monique who took a deep pull and handed it back to me. Neither of us spoke for a while happy to sit, smoke and drink. I went to the bathroom and cleaned up, washing my face and hands and looked at myself in the mirror. I smiled broadly at my reflection, proud of my performance and I gave myself a wink, still as cock sure as ever!

Back in the bedroom, Monique had slid under the sheets and lay there; robbed in white cotton, her bare arms by her side pulling the sheet taught across her body, the light accentuating her curves as she patted the bed next to herself. “You ok?” she asked. “Great yeah, thanks” I said, as I lay beside her on top of the bed and lit another cigarette. “I want you to meet some of my friends in the morning, I told them all about you” she said. “Ok, but I do need to get back to Mum fairly early, as I do not want her being alone for too long”. Christ! I must have sounded like a little kid on his first night out alone! But I guessed that as she was aware of the situation with Mum, she was quite prepared to drop me back at the motel and understood my pre-occupation. “Cool” she replied and with that took a drink from her glass and placed it on the floor by the bed. “Now fuck me again”. I did as ordered and we varied our efforts to make sure we took advantage of all we had to offer each other. I would have quite happily spent the whole night with my face between her legs, such was the effect I was having; that coupled with the enjoyment it gave me, would have kept me so turned on, there would have been no need to do anything else, but Monique was obliging by return and so the evening drifted into early morning, and we didn’t noticed the sun coming up.

Keeping the Mystery Alive

2012-10-12T09:09:00.000+00:00

We took a taxi to the Restaurant and walked in just after 7pm to find Monique sat in the bar, sipping wine and looking like, well, she looked stunning! Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a pony tail, her skin glowed and she wore a deep red silk dress off the shoulders that hugged her figure and emphasised the body beneath and all of its curves, wow! I looked non too shabby if I do say so myself dressed as I was in a classic pair of Levi 501’s replete with tears and worn patches. A white Tuxedo shirt that had tight sharp pleats down the front which I’d bought from International Male on Melrose Ave, LA, when I met Brooke Victoria for a weekend of sex and shopping and nothing more. A black belt with the word Triumph in chrome forming the buckle and my black Crocodile Skin cowboy boots polished to a brilliant shine with silver toecaps. All in all I was George Michael circa the release of his Faith album. Mum dressed elegantly in a neat skirt and blouse, with her Turquoise jewellery and her hair curled and set in place with mousse and fixing spray. She discovered mousse when I started using it to fix my hair back, which I succeeded in doing by laying on my back on the bed, head over the edge so my hair fell away with gravity, the hairdryer going full blast as I pulled my fingers through the hair starting at the front and working back. I’d then sit up in front of the mirror and with a ball of mousse work through again, teasing each strand into place. What a tart!

Monique literally jumped off of her bar stool and walked toward us stopping Mum in her tracks, as she grasped her hands and kissed her cheek. Mum responded in kind and Monique giggled as Mum said “What a wonderful greeting Monique”. I stood beside Mum marvelling at this beautiful woman as she released mum and turned towards me. She held out her hand which I took in mine and she lent forward to kiss me full on the mouth, again I responded in kind as a sting of arousal chased down my stomach into my groin and set off fluttering butterflies in my midriff. I slowly pulled away from her lips, so slowly that a small section of our bottom lips stayed together until the movement apart finally released us from one another with a soft “puck” sound. I noticed I had stopped breathing and sucked in air realising that Monique was doing the same as we locked eyes and smiled together. The cat had got the cream but the question was, just who was the cat and who was the cream? I half expected Mum to interrupt this with a discreet “Ahem!” but Mum was much too ladylike and waited whilst we both recovered from a kiss that probably appeared to anyone watching as a greeting between long lost lovers. The night had barely begun and already my thoughts were charging ahead setting off various synapses, which in turn fired nerve endings, inspiring hormones to flood through my body, which resulted in heightened blood flow to bodily parts eager to grow and fill any space available.

We took seats at the bar and I ordered drinks; Mum wanted only Slimline tonic water a sure sign that she was once again watching her weight, and a refill of wine for Monique, and I had a ‘Dos Equis’ Mexican dark beer. Monique held my hand in hers as Mum told her of our exciting day at the beach with Monique nodding approvingly upon hearing that I had gone for a long jog on the beach and then playfully scowling and furrowing her brow as Mum told of her worry, as she sat alone and surrounded by the mob. A waiter arrived at my side saying our table on the patio was available whenever we wanted and after some more chatter about our adventure, we walked through to the garden and I held out her chairs as Mum, then Monique took their seats. That I should hold their chairs as they sat down may appear as my being ‘Mr Smooth’ but in fact, I was brought up by my parents to do such things as; hold a chair whilst a woman took her seat, offer my seat up on a bus to others less able to stand, hold open doors for others, answer the telephone politely, sit up at the table, mind my P’s and Q’s and generally behave well in company. It has done me no harm and I instil these behaviours in my children and expect nothing less of them.

The menu was not overloaded with options and I would bet that Mum ordered Fish, (her usual favourite of Breaded Scampi, very likely not on the menu!). Over dinner with Monique and Mum on either side of me, we laughed and joked about various topics. Surprisingly, Monique was not too interested in my (George’s) current musical activities beyond that already known and we talked of family, travel all the usual banter at table. As the night drew on my marvellous mother made motions towards tiredness and we asked if we could take coffee in the bar, along with brandy for Monique and whisky for myself. Mum paid the bill despite protestations from Monique and I wasn’t arguing as the CO-OP Insurance was picking up the tab anyway! The evening drew on and Monique asked whether we’d like to move on to the Jazz Bar where we’d first met the night before? Mum looked at me and said with a mischievous glint in her eye that “Thank you, but I am tired and need a good nights sleep after all the sun and excitement I had today”, (Monique of course unaware of Mum’s recent heart attack and need for rest), but happy to hear that I was all for a further extension to the evening.

It was at that point that I realised that to pursue with the ‘George” scenario playing out since we met, either Mum would have to check in to the Biltmore Hotel (not going to happen) or I’d have to think on my feet for a plan by which I could safely deliver mum to the Motel and continue onward with Monique. All without Monique discovering the deception. Bugger! With all thoughts now focused on devising a plan I excused myself and went to the restroom to think. Try as I might, every idea ended with either discovery or was such an entangled web that failure would be the only outcome. With Monique driving, why would she not drop Mum at the Biltmore or why would Mum and I get a cab, then another for me to get to the Jazz Bar? “Bollocks to this” I thought, the game is up! I washed my hands, checked my appearance in the mirror and walked back to where they were sat in the bar. Mum was smiling at me and Monique was staring at me, a playful look said something was up. I sat down and Mum said, “Monique knows you are not George Michael, Jonathan”. I looked across at Monique who was laughing now and so was Mum.

I did not know where to look other than dumbfounded. Monique stopped laughing took my hand and said that she half expected that I was not George and had been happy to play out the ruse until it became incompatible to carry on. That point had now been reached as mum had realised the difficulty in continuing and had asked whether she could be honest with Monique in my absence? Monique had said of course so Mum has said, “He’s not really George Michael you know?” to which Monique had replied, “Yes, I know.” They had then discussed how Monique had rumbled us and MTV had been my undoing, or rather MTV News to be precise. It had run a segment on George’s current tour of the East Coast and had told how he was currently in Miami where he was playing dates before moving on, or some such thing. I looked at Monique who smiled as if to say “its ok” and I smiled back. I suggested we move on then and asked if Monique would mind dropping mum back at the Motel Bilt-more or less? She laughed and said “of course” so we stood and walked out Monique taking my hand as we walked a few paces behind Mum. I softly squeezed her hand and we arrived at her car, Mum taking the front seat next to Monique and I got in the back.

At the Motel, Monique waited in the car whilst I let Mum in the room, made her a cup of Tea, put her glass of water by the bed and asked whether there was anything else she wanted? “No Jonathan, you go now and have a nice time” she said. I walked to the door and looked back to see her sitting on her bed, taking her tablets. A pang of guilt shot through me as she looked up and smiled. I was leaving her alone for the first time since her release from hospital, was it wrong, should I be doing that? “Go on then” she said, with some emphasis to her voice and I turned and closed the door, locking it behind me. I sat in Monique’s car and said “Lets go then” false bravado apparent in my voice, as I was worried for Mum and not for what lay ahead for me that night; that I could deal with. I looked at Monique and she lent into me and kissed me passionately. We settled into a long searching kiss, exploring with tongues and clashing teeth as our heads turned to get closer to each other. Neither of us wanted to stop the kiss but breathing became difficult and we parted, took a breath and dived back in. My worries for Mum started to dissipate as we kissed and I opened my eyes as we were still locked together and looked at her. I looked at her eyes; closed and relaxed, little nerves twitching on her eyelids. I closed my eyes again, only to open them seconds later to find her looking at me, we broke apart laughing and said, “wow” simultaneously.

“To the jazz bar then” I said. “OK”, she replied laughing again and drove out of the car park and down State Street toward the beachside road, turning left and heading out towards Summerland. Arriving at the bar she parked and we entered to a heady mix of music, smoke, loud voices searching to be heard and the smell of beer. We looked at each other and turned as one and walked out of the bar, “my place?” she asked. “Yea, why not” I said, “lead the way”. Back in her car we kissed again and turning inland drove up hill past groups of townhouses and low level apartment blocks until about half way up, where she turned into a parking space in front of a group of two storey townhouses running parallel to the coast. She parked and we walked towards the door of one of the apartments my hand in hers until we reached the door. She let us in, closing and locking the door behind as I stepped into the house and along a corridor past a doorway to a bathroom and into a large open plan room with large patio doors leading to a wooden deck.

The living room was sparsely furnished; a couch, some art on the walls, a TV in the corner. It was open plan as the breakfast bar gave way to the kitchen area and against the wall were stairs fixed with a balustrade leading to a large balcony overlooking the living room. Monique flicked a light switch and walked past me to the kitchen where she pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge, collected two glasses from a cupboard and came back into the living area and gestured to the couch. I sat down, propping my back in the corner against large soft cushions and took a glass of wine.

She told me about how she’d been sure I was George Michael the first night we’d met but that she could work out who the older lady was. So when she came across to where we sat and the lady (mum) had confirmed that I was George, she had believed her, why would a little old lady lie? Finding out that I was not who I purported to be, (I corrected that and said in fact Mum had said who I was not me), it was then a game to see when and if the ruse would break down.

“Were you angry” I asked, “yea a little at first, but then I liked your mum, if that’s who she was and thought what would be wrong in meeting up again, but I like you and want to fuck you. Who cares whether you’re George or not” she replied and my heart started kicking the shit out of my chest wall.

A sandy preface to A Little Night Music

2012-10-11T13:29:00.000+00:00

Mum loved espionage as was fast becoming apparent! As we drove back to our Motel I asked why she felt it necessary to confirm to Monique that I was George Michael. “Well, you look like him and you can sing” was her reply. “She is very attractive Jonathan, you could do well there”. Now answer me this, what on earth was a sixty year old woman doing using the phrase, “you could do well there?” I asked her the same thing. “Well, she is very beautiful, obviously well educated, has her own place and this is a lovely place to live”. So she marrying me off to a woman we had met only three hours previously and basing her choice on none other than the little known facts to hand. No, she wasn’t a Jewish Mamma but the inference could be drawn.

For my part, one who was ‘heavily’ Sex driven and relationship ‘lite’, my immediate intention, far different from my mothers of course, was to get inside Monique’s knickers as quickly as possible. Given that she believed (did she really?) I was George; I expected that to happen with the minimum of fuss and nonsense. Far from possible marriage, children, settling down in Southern California (I could almost hear Mum’s mind building a tic list of objectives that would result in her having a Granny Annex at her son and daughter-in-laws beachfront home in the sun) and a life envied by many, I was deciding how early the following evening I could drop Mum back at the Motel after dinner. Would there be a need for coffee post meal? Would Mum suggest a nightcap at another bar? Was Mum likely to create a blocker on my amorous pursuit’s saying her health demanded that I bid Monique good evening and take her back to the Motel, tucking her in and lying there dreaming of what if scenarios? Far too much thinking going on for our own good with both our heads filled with plans. One with plans for the rest of their lifetime, the other, with plans limited to the next night. With Mum tucked up in bed in one of her Hospital gowns now her ‘go to’ nightwear, I took a chair outside our Motel room and sat on the walkway, glass of Jack Daniels to hand and wondered about the day and night to come. Eventually I retired as well, far later than normal, with pleasant images flooding my head as I mentally removed Monique’s dress she’d been wearing early that evening.

I awoke the following morning a happy man, our plan for the day ahead was to travel out to Goleta Beach State Park beyond the airport; by the University of California at Santa Barbara (UCSB) campus. The beach forms a spit of sand between the mouth of a river running behind it and to the south and the Pacific Ocean on the other side. There is space for parking, a café and bar where students would pull up in cars with loud music coming from ghetto blasters and pile onto the beach, playing volley ball or generally fooling around. Across the estuary the beach resumed but was now backed by cliffs that led towards Santa Barbara. Most days we’d breakfast on the road, with Mum taking coffee in bed, which I’d make before she rose and showered. Finding Goleta by accident, we had planned to return and so by eleven am we were parking up and walking towards the sand. A group of youths, both boys and girls, had parked up by our car and were sat on their car hoods and were fooling around, smoking and shouting, music blaring out. Mum and I decided we’d wander away down the beach a little and settled on a plot of sand that was interspersed with knots of grass. Towels positioned, we lay back, Walkman on in my case, Marlboro on the go, National Enquirer and a paper cup of coffee in Mum’s hands.

Whilst always conscious of my weight, in fact I did very little to manage it and surprisingly maintained a neat and trim thirty inch waist. Wearing Black Speedo swimming trunks and the Marlboro cigarette stubbed out in an empty cup, I told Mum I was going for a jog and set off towards the end of the spit. The beach was not busy at all so I was not out to pose for once, and tracked along the waters edge until I reached the mouth of the river. It was shallow the middle reaching no deeper than my waist, so I waded in crossing swiftly and carried on jogging past the cliffs.

As I ran I could feel the burn of the sun on the top of my shoulders and enjoyed its warmth. I have always been more of a summer than winter man and the climate of California was all right by me. I had developed anyway, through fair means (sunlight) and foul (sunbed) a deep tan by that point and it felt good to be jogging over the sand, the odd piece of wood, some seaweed and a few plastic bottles the only hazards I needed to dodge as I ran along the seas edge. After a while I stopped and looked back to see that I had travelled further than I'd intended, in fact I had turned along the coast and around the headland losing sight of Goleta Beach altogether. I tracked back around the headland and back past the cliffs straining my eyes to try and identify Mum against the sand, but failed to pick her out. She had moved, probably to get some shade. As I crossed the river and rose up the sand bank I again looked ahead and noted that whilst she was still sat where I had left her, she was sat amongst a large group of people.

I picked up speed and eventually flopped down on my towel quite exhausted to find her looking slightly alarmed. “Where did this lot come from then” I said, gesturing towards the large group of people now easily identified as the group we’d seen at the car park, plus assorted others. “They came over soon after you’d jogged away, I’ve been quite worried Jonathan” she said. Looking at the group more closely it was primarily made up of Hispanic people, who were talking animatedly, smoking dope and drinking beer. There were maybe a handful of white American’s amongst them but as a group, their ages ranged from late teens into their thirties so I guessed that they were not necessarily from the University. Occasionally, one of them would get up and walk back to the cars and return with more beer and I guessed that the afternoon was only going to get louder and more raucous as it progressed, so I said that we’d better pack up, either moving further down the beach towards the university or leaving altogether.

As we packed up, a few shouts came our way along the lines of “Hey, why are you leaving patron” or “Go get me a beer el jefe” the accents and insults were much like the characters in Carlito’s Way, starring Al Pacino! Ignoring their requests we packed up and wandered, as nonchalantly as possible away from them and up the beach towards the café and the car park. As we neared the café where we had decided to sit and have a cold drink, a number of other cars swung into the car park, music blaring, beer swilling youths and adults clambering out as soon as they parked up. I decided that we should hang around for a while to see what would happen and told mum, whereas she was of another mind and would be happy to leave. It made no difference anyway as no sooner had we swapped ideas, than two Police Cars drove into the car park and four Policemen emerged from them. Mum wanted to stay now.

The Police Officers wandered around the cars parked near ours looking in the windows and looking across at the group of people they belonged to. A number of the group, mostly men but one or two women as well, came from the beach waving their arms, around shouting at the Officers, asking what they wanted, what they were doing, they'd "done nothing!"

The Officers remained calm and spoke quietly out of ear shot, but whatever they were saying seemed to have the desired affect as the shouting subsided and the women stopped dancing frantically around the men which had been happening during the commotion. The Officers looked in our direction mainly because the man who appeared to be the main speaker for the group had been pointing at the Café, gesticulating with his arms, which in turn had prompted the others to jump around in what appeared to be a war dance. Once again the Officers spoke and the crowd stopped dancing. Mum was really interested and kept wondering out loud as to what the problem might be? One of the Police officers walked across to the Café, said “Good afternoon” to those gathered around and asked for the owner. A woman stepped forward and walked back towards the group someway, before stopping about thirty metres from them.

They spoke to one another, and then walked across to the main party and wild gesticulations began again, with whoops and screech’s coming from the women. One of the Officers who had obviously had enough of that, grabbed two women, each by an arm and frogmarched them to the beach, the women appearing as rags dolls being dragged across the car park and sand, where he placed them down on the ground, said something and walked back. Not one of the men appeared fazed by this and did nothing to stop the Officer or to protest.

Still more conversation and then the leader said something to one of the other men, who wandered down to the beach, picked up a bag and walked back again. He opened the bag; a Police Officer looked into it and took out bottles of beer and potato chips, showed them to the lady from the Café, who nodded her head. The items were placed back into the bag and the bag passed to the lady. She turned and walked back to the Café muttering to herself as she passed by what was now a substantial crowd gathered under the awning. The guy who produced the bag turned around and was handcuffed by one of the Police Officers, whilst the others wandered back to the beach except the leader who stood watching his compadre getting arrested. The Police Officers placed him in the back of a car got in as well and drove around the car park and out onto the road leading to the Airport.

The crowd at the Café dispersed leaving Mum and I along with a few others still sat at the tables. The owner came out and was asked by someone she obviously knew what had gone on. It transpired that this group had consistently raided her fridges for beer every time they came down to the beach and she had finally had enough. The Police had threatened to search everyone on the beach for drugs, which had set off the shouting and protestations of innocence. The lead Police Officer had said that if they produced the items and the thief owned up and came with them, nothing further would happen, which is what took place. The owner said that the crowd were not necessarily a bad bunch, just that she was sick and tired of losing money on them and that she felt it time to call a halt to their stealing from her.

Mum spoke up then saying it was disgusting behaviour and that they should be ashamed of themselves. Where were their parents she wanted to know? Mum calmed down with more coffee; milky coffee or Café Latte as we came to know it ten years later. Mum said she had been surrounded by them at one point and was preparing to give them a piece of her mind when I came back and extricated her from her predicament. Lucky for them I thought! After such an eventful day we packed up, heading back to the Motel and a rest.

I needed to trim my stubble anyway, as I did not want to scratch Monique’s inner thighs and Mum needed to sleep before dinner.

Fancy meeting you here!

2012-09-25T11:43:00.003+00:00

The landscape in and around Santa Barbara varies, from hillside trails for walking and riding that give way to beaches of soft golden sand and the often dramatic waves of the Pacific Ocean. The beachfront area is neatly landscaped with flowering borders and well kept lawns, stark tall Palms offering minimal shade from the sun and intertwined throughout with cycle paths usually patrolled by skateboarders and roller skate enthusiasts, all dodging the cyclists and walkers. The diversions from daily routine on offer for the local population included back in 1988, numerous bars and restaurants, cafe’s, and sports facilities, cinemas and shops. Highway 101 winds its way through town and then southerly along the coast towards LA, until turning inland at Ventura (North Los Angeles). The Four Seasons Biltmore Hotel, beyond the Zoological Gardens sits amongst private gardens and beachfront. Further south sits the small town of Summerland. A small number of bars line the roads running alongside Highway 101 and it was here that Mum and I found ourselves, in the evening following the “Blow-Job” declination.

We’d driven through Summerland earlier that week on one our “journeys of discovery” and Mum had remarked on how nice everything looked along the coast road. We’d eaten in town and had driven around until we saw a bar offering live music – “jazz”. We walked in through a heavy oak door and the bar was laid out left to right in front of us. A fug of cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air, as a four piece played acoustic guitar, drums, saxophone and double bass away to our left in the corner by the front wall. The bar itself was low lit and dark, Mahogany tones, both in wood and leather offering comfort to the eye and the behind, as we perched on well padded tall stools at the bar. To our right and against the front wall, were sofa’s and tables and chairs, a range to seating, only now coming into fashion as customers seek more of a “Lounge” experience. A well stocked bar offered a large array of liquors and wines, bottled beers and draught American lagers. A large mirror behind the bottles reflected the bar and the clientele seated at its wide wooden expanse.

The bar was not overly packed; in fact it was easy to move from door to seats at the bar. To my left beyond Cynthia my Mum, were five or six more customers occupying bar stools, and a few more customers were seated as the bar turned towards the rear wall. I ordered glasses of wine for us and as this was still 1988, lit up a Marlboro and surveyed my surroundings, chatted with Cynthia and generally relaxed after a curious day. Once we were some way through our drinks, I continued my survey of the bar and I noticed a rather striking blonde haired woman sat with her back against the rear wall on the last barstool. I did not look at her beyond the usual “letch” and returned to chatting with Cynthia who was enjoying the Jazz music, which was far from noisy and we talked of all things American. Cynthia was really becoming a fan of American (California to be precise), the food, the weather, the people, the coast and especially the doctors and hospital. The only real thing playing on her mind was the need to attended Dr Braniff’s Consultancy to take a treadmill test, whatever that might be?

After maybe an hour, we were interrupted by the Blonde, who at closer inspection (an inspection that was to increase dramatically over the next few days) was strikingly attractive. Unnoticed by me, which is something in and of its self; a beautiful woman had moved around the bar and had sat next to mum. She must have been there sometime when she broke into our conversation by way of “I love listening to your accent”. I glanced up and past mum and took in her beauty, high defined cheekbones, full lips, deep blue eyes and neatly styled blonde hair that sat on her shoulders and framed her face, the light from the bar glancing off her cheeks and creating shadows on necks and against the side of her nose, under her eyebrows. Her voice was velvety smooth, her accent Californian. She wore a short thigh high dress, loose fitting from the bust down, and as far as I could ascertain, no bra, her breasts holding their own magnificently against all of gravities exertions; they were a Newtonian delight!

Mum looked to her left and would have said something along the lines of “thank you, how are you” etc. The blonde looked across at me and said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you George Michael?” I started to speak, I had to correct her misguided assumption, but mum shot back with, “Well, yes he is actually”. I don’t know where mum plucked up the courage to tell such a blatant lie, but that was nothing considering the backup story she and subsequently I concocted to cement that belief not only in our new friend, but almost anyone else who would ask whether indeed “I was George Michael?” in the days and weeks to come.

“I knew it was you, I saw you from my seat over there” she said pointing to the spot where I’d noticed her sitting when mum and I had first sat down. “Hello” I said and reached across to shake her hand. Her fingers held my hand for slightly longer than a normal handshake would require; her eyes held mine throughout until she let go of my hand. “Can I get you a drink, we were about to order another” I said. She said yes, so I decided on a bottle of probably Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc, knowing that I had to buy a pricier bottle, in order to not ‘give up the jig’, before the preliminaries were out of the way!

“I’m Monique” she said, Ah! Monique, her name fitted her perfectly. Within seconds, she had gotten off her bar stool, lifted it around Mum and placed it between Mum and two feet or so from the bar. I had to shuffle my seat backwards, away from Mum to allow Monique to reach her glass, which by now had moved between mums glass and mine. This girl was keen I thought, make no mistake, don’t bugger it up! As she was manoeuvring her seat, Mum cast a glance towards me and cracked a sly smile and patted my leg, as if to say, “over to you son”. I was still stunned at the audacity shown by mum, where she’d gotten the nerve from and frankly why she would say such a thing? Later, much later, when regaling friends with the story, she said I was George Michael to see what the girls or indeed waiters, hotel managers and others would say and that it was fun. Mum was to commit the sin of lying about her son’s true identity again, in a truly audacious way in a few weeks time.

The conversation between Monique, mum and I focused mainly on why Monique should find George Michael sitting in a small bar in Summerland, California, with his Mum? I proceeded to build upon Mum’s lie, saying that I (George) was touring (as she undoubtedly knew, being a fan!), the East Coast at the time, (George was on the Faith tour). Moreover, that I, (George) had a few days between shows and had decided to fly my (his) Mum out for some R&R in Santa Barbara. The Q&A continued and despite obviously not wanting the world to know where George (me) was staying, confirmed that yes, indeed, we (they) were staying at the 5 Star Biltmore Hotel, just around the corner, on the beach. Definitely not at a 3 Star Motel (due to the pool it was 3 Star) on State Street, in downtown Santa Barbara! So, a back story was created, Mum began interjecting with snippets of information, such as “He is a lovely man, treating his Mum to such a nice holiday” and “He hasn’t got a girlfriend at the moment you know, all those girls in the videos are models!” At which Monique shot me a glance that meant unequivocally, “You can have one if you want one, me!”

Whilst many of you may consider the story so far and the rest to follow, to be the words of a big-head (I was I admit back then quite a confident/arrogant sod, not so much nowadays I hope), and no doubting that I am self-assured, I do wish to appear to brag, but given this is an autobiographical account of my life, think that I may as well tell this and all the stories reflecting who I am, as accurately as possible.

So, I felt that even if Mum and I had denied that I was indeed George Michael, Monique was of a mind that:-

A) She fancied me (George),

B) She was going to have me (George), and finally

C) I was of a mind that I could have successfully chatted my way into her knickers anyway, whether purporting to be a world famous singer or not.

There, I’ve said it and I stand by it.

The evening progressed, Mum and Monique talking about clothes, shoes, (Mums weakness), travel, holidays, etc and ended with the three of us agreeing to meet for dinner the following evening and Monique had ventured as far as to continually touch my thigh, hold my hand etc, as she made a point during conversation or as she reached for her glass. There used to be, (it maybe still there) a lovely restaurant on a corner in downtown Santa Barbara (the name slips, sorry), that had a nice garden and terrace tables so we agreed to meet there. As the evening drew to a close, with mum showing her tiredness, we made our plans and said goodbye until tomorrow. Monique left slightly before us, which was good as she would have wondered why George was driving a hired Chevy Saloon and not a more up-market model or indeed where was his chauffeur?

As soon as Monique had left, after lingering kisses to each cheek, the journey between which, she gently brushed her lips against mine, Mum turned and said “She’s lovely Jonathan, I think she likes you”, with a naughty glint in her eye. Mum could be many things; she loved to laugh, loved intrigue and a challenge, moreover I discovered that she could be very duplicitous, almost conniving and I was going to be the pawn in her tricky game. I was going to have to maintain a charade long after I had tucked mum up for the night, if as I planned, I played my cards right and ended up exploring more of California and Summerland’s beautiful scenery.

A Shakespeare wrote, “All the worlds as stage, and everyman must play his part”. I was to play two roles over the next few days, simultaneously, all very Shakespearean!

Definitely "NOT" the Job I was after

2012-09-19T11:23:00.000+00:00

After a lazy time sat with the Ranch Hands and cowboys, Mum and I got into the car and drove back through the Lake side camping area, toward the exit. Mum asked me to stop the car and once again got out and wandered down toward Lake Cachuma. I followed and she seated herself on a large boulder and looked again at the Santa Ynez Mountains in the background.

“When I die, I want my ashes scattered here in the lake” she said, without a hint of irony, given the events of the last month. I looked at her; she smiled at me and said, “As well as a bit in Spain, a bit in Alderney (her birthplace and from where she had been evacuated during the Second World War), a bit in Leicester and a bit in Norwich with your Dad”. “You’re only small mum, are you sure there’s enough to go round?

That’s quite a journey for someone” I said, “I can see a competition for seats on that trip from Mark and Helen, Richard and Julian”. “Well, I am just telling you, that’s what I want” and with that, she stood and walked back to the car, as if a decree had been made that was to be followed without question. Almost medieval in a way, like a task for a Knight, a journey was to take place in the future that would result in the Queens ashes being spread across her lands, foreign and domestic. I wondered who would be footing the bill for that lot, as I walked behind her to the car.

Onwards then to Solvang and we sped through the Wine country towards a small town, dedicated to Denmark and all things Smorgasbord! As well as shops selling everything Danish, there was a Fortune Teller, numerous Cafes and Restaurants invariably called Pedersen’s, Andersen’s or Helga’s, and wide sidewalks with quaint hand painted benches beneath arbors covered in flowers. Mum loved it.

We went into a cafe and looking at the menu filled with numerous delicacies, ordered salt beef sandwiches, pickles and coffee. The menu offered a Smorgasbord, as did most eateries and we walked over to look at the display of cooked cold meats, salami, sausage, cheese, salads, pickles and breads laid out under glass and chilled in a continuing fight against the heat of the Californian Summer, that burst in through the doorway every time someone came in. The air-conditioning whirring away above our heads and sending a chill blast of cold air down into mum’s coffee cup, eliciting a “tut” and a “tsk” every few minutes as her coffee rapidly lost its heat.

The menu was ripe for my 'famous' impersonation of English spoken with a Danish accent, which Mark had laughed at so much, I thought he was going to have an asthma attack and which I am sure inspired a small but definitely audible but odourless 'fart' from mum. With tears rolling down her face, she tried to eat her way through her sandwich but eventually had to tell me to “shut up Jonathan!” in order to be able to finish her meal. Besides, we (me) were drawing strange looks from the customers and staff.

Solvang offers among its delights, rides around town in a horse drawn carriage and we paid the fee and took our seats for a twenty minute tour around the more notable buildings and what most likely would have been a detailed history from the driver. His Danish accent was far better than mine, but given that I kept asking questions in my best” Daneglish”, he soon got irritated (pissed off actually) and asked if I was “trying to annoy him”.

That he asked it in a straight American Accent, without a hint of Danish to be heard, made me lose it, and he sulked (silently) all the way back to the stand. So now I had mum annoyed at me for ruining her ride and a tour guide/carriage driver, threatening to drop me for taking the piss out of him. The fact that his accent was as put on as mine was lost on him. I walked off as mum apologised to him and left a tip. After an ear bashing from mum, and an apology from me, we drove back to Santa Barbara and our Motel.

The following morning was a beautifully hot, Californian summer’s day and so we decided to relax by the Motel pool. This actually required that I go to the supermarket to get fruit, definitely Peaches and Oranges, fruit juice, pastries, potato chips, National Enquirer and other “gossip” papers and magazines for mum and a copy of Rolling Stone for me (I had to keep abreast of the music scene, as all budding rocks stars do!). By late morning we were laid out beside the pool, or rather mum was, as I threw myself endlessly into the pool and posed as much as possible in front of the girls who were starting to come out from their rooms and seek a sun bed beside the pool.

By now my hair, styled as closely as possible as to George Michael had his, was almost bleach blonde on top, swept back and close cropped into the neck. Topped off with my brand new Rayban Aviators and black Speedo trunks, I figured I could almost pass for George, except for the fact that I am pretty sure he’d be staying somewhere other than a Motel on Main Street, and launching himself into the pool in vain attempts to impress women. (Although you never know!)

After lunch beside the pool I was becoming quite tired; the exertions and posing were wearing me out and I said to mum, (who would never waste the chance of a tan) that I was going back to the room for a rest. I picked up my gear, slipped on my Espadrilles and wandered through the gardens around the pool, across the car park, past the laundry room where the Ice machine was and to our room in the middle of the single storey block. All doors faced the car park and I wedged the door open, so I could see across to the pool (an eye always on mum) and lay face down on my bed, facing the door, reading my magazine.

About fifteen minutes later, a shadow passed in front of the open door and I looked up to see a guy aged mid-twenties, tall, slim and dressed in t-shirt and trunks holding an ice bucket. “Can you tell me where the Ice Machine is” he asked, “yea, straight down the walkway to the corner; it’s in the Laundry room” I replied. “Thanks” he said and wandered off. Five minutes later he was back again, holding a full ice bucket and leaning on the door frame. I looked up again and he smiled and said “Got it” brandishing the ice bucket in front of him, “great” I said and focused back on my Rolling Stone.

“Do you want a blow job?” he asked. I looked up at him again and said with the manliest voice I could muster, (which probably came out like a squeak) “Erm, er, no thanks, I think I’m alright as it goes”. Now I figured that that refusal on my part was polite but firm enough and clear enough. I had thanked him for his (kind?) offer, but had declined, given that I had no desire to succumb to being noshed off by a tall, smooth, albeit brave, gay American male.

“Are you sure?” he said, “my boyfriend and I were watching you over by the pool and I told him I wanted to give you a blow job. He said I should be careful, in case I get punched, but you look like a nice guy and I want to give you a blow job, so please, can I give you a blow job?”

“No, thanks” I said, “I really don’t want a blow job at all; I am fine as it is”. So for a second time, I had politely declined his invitation to fellatio, “bye”, I added by way of closing, again smiling nicely so as not to cause offence.

“Do you have a nice cock?” What was it with this guy? I nearly said ‘that’s for me to know and for you to find out mate' but didn’t; instead falling back on that age old but powerful statement that delivers a clear, unequivocal response, leaving those on the receiving end under no doubt as to the state of play. “Fuck off”.

He looked at me; I was no longer smiling; paused for a second and walked away. I lay there wondering if I looked as if I was open to such offers, decided I did not and returned to my Rolling Stone. “It’s just that it took a lot of guts to ask you and I am pretty sure you will enjoy it” he said. I sat up on the bed, facing him once more. He was stood there with the same eager to please look on his face that my previous refusals had failed to wipe off.

I stood up, walked up to the doorway and slowly shut the door in his face. I walked over to the kettle, made myself a coffee and turned on MTV, to watch some videos and take my mind off recent events. Just as I settled down, I heard a muffled knock on the door. Deciding I had had enough of being polite, I pulled open the door and said “look mate, fuck off, I do not want a blow job, so fuck off will ya!”

Mum, with a startled look on her face walked past me into the room, put her bag on her bed and went into the bathroom. I shut the door, turned around and sat on the bed drinking my coffee and watching MTV. Mum said nothing until she came from having her shower,

I told her the first part of the story and she said, “but you’re not gay are you Jonathan? What made him think you were gay?” I looked at myself in the mirror, bleach blonde hair, tight t-shirt, fit, muscles in the right places, Speedo swimmers and Rayban’s. “I have no idea Mum, no idea”.

Never mind the fact that George Michael had not yet ‘come out’!

Left to our own devices

2012-06-11T11:19:00.004+00:00

Santa Barbara is a beautiful City, Ronald Regan had a ranch there and numerous film stars and celebrities had homes in and around the hills overlooking the town and the Pacific Ocean. Santa Barbara sits nestled against the Santa Ynez Mountains, in between the Pacific and Wine Country. The first inhabitants of the land that was to become Santa Barbara were Chumash Indians. Fleeting visits by Portuguese and Spanish explorers resulted eventually in the arrival of a group of Spanish Missionaries and soldiers, led by Felipe De Neve, and Padre Junipero Serra who had visited in 1769 and now returned to convert the locals to Christianity in 1782.

Mission Santa Barbara was built by local Indians under the instruction of the newcomers. Apparently, they needed God and western religion so much so, that most had died of Smallpox and other diseases, to which they had no immunity, within a few decades.

God works in mysterious ways!

Mum’s hospital bed offered a fair view of the City across the rooftops toward the ocean and she was making good progress, whilst undergoing various tests to measure the capacity of her heart. My brother Mark and I, whilst enjoying the scenery and various attractions in and around Santa Barbara, were slowly convincing ourselves that Mum was improving and Doctor Braniff concurred, going as far to say, after mum had been in hospital for 4 days that another 4 days would see her released to the outside world again. We decided we had best prepare the town for the invasion that was Cynthia Joan Weaver.

As Mums eldest child, Mark took care of anything Mum worried about back home, followed by my sister Helen. When our father passed away, Mark organised all the papers, the banking and filing of documents and as our dad had been pretty much on the ball with everything, even had to show Mum how to write a cheque, much as it is hard to believe. As the reliable oldest, he was the soothing appearance of family Mum needed, and had brought an aura of calm along with him.

I struggled to find a picture of the three of us together but eventually settled on this picture, but as usual, I was all about the joke I suppose, as illustrated by rabbit ears behind mums head, the picture being taken 15 odd years ago. I am the fat boy on the left and Mark is the one with the hairy bogey on his top lip.

We decided that the hotel was fine for her needs, but decided to move into a cabana that had parking outside to allow her easier transition between the car, wheelchair, room and vice versa. The hotel had a pool, just a short walk away across the carpark, through a gate and onto a lawned area. Disappointingly for Mark, Mum was due out the day after he was due to fly back to the UK, so extra time was spent with her at hospital, Mark entertaining her with stories of our trips, her grandchildren, Michelle, Jason and Ben, his wife Monica and his career, which had transitioned through and apprenticeship in engineering and into sales.

I have written of Mark in earlier blogs, most notably in blog 1970 to 1979, Growing up is a Family Affair. Mark is ten years older than I and whilst I was still growing up at aged fifteen, he was married with children. My last two years at home before leaving school and joining the Army, hold memories of Mark and Monica seeing Mum at weekends, usually Saturday mornings, or for the occasional Sunday Lunch. Most Christmases and Easter holidays included a visit to either his house or ours, or my sister Helen’s for a meal and catch up.

Monica had been married previously to Mark and had two children, Michelle and Jason. They would go onto have Benjamin (Ben) who was born almost a year after our Father had passed away. Being that much younger than Mark it was obvious that we would have little in common (or so we thought). Finding ourselves forced upon one another in such extreme circumstances as we found ourselves, we cemented a loving relationship, dispelled a few myths and created a bond that has lasted to this day.

Mark was focusing his attention on Mum during those last 3 days in Santa Barbara. He wanted everything to be set right for her release from hospital and to know she and I would manage well enough. I suppose it was a quiet a difficult time for him, as he had to leave Mum with me. A brother, who despite being exceedingly good looking (ha), had pretty much little else going for him at that time. So it was obvious that he would try and ensure every little detail was set for her discharge.

Everything from making sure she had access to her bank, that the insurers knew our contact details, that we would only have to pick up the phone to access expenses from them, through to extending the car hire and buying mum all new toiletries, nightdresses and a dressing gown. The irony was that mum liked her hospital issue nightdress so much that she kept it for years afterwards.

One often reads of the impact of others upon our lives and whilst I have become somewhat more mature over the years, back then, I was always about me, myself and I. Mark had to go home and it stands to his confidence that I would manage, that he did fly back to England. For my part, I was being relied upon to do the most trusted job anyone had ever asked of me. My reliance on Mark had grown and whilst we had enjoyed a superb week together, I was so set up by the time he left, I had little to do but collect Mum from the St Francis and ferry her about for two more weeks in the sun.

No one had ever relied upon me like Mark had to do then. The trust shown and the support and love he gave have never been forgotten. And whilst I may joke and pull his leg (all the time), I love and respect my Big Bro more than words could possibly say. His support, love, respect, strength and organisation of everything, saw Mum and I manage superbly after he left. I took him to Santa Barbara Airport, hugged him goodbye and armed with Baseball Mitts, Cigars, T-shirts, all type of mementoes and a mix of emotions, he climbed into the plane and away north to San Francisco and England.

Mum for her part was happy to be out and in the sunshine only the day after Mark had left for home. Of course, me being me, I had plans to take her everywhere, but had to temper my enthusiasm, as it was very apparent that she needed lots of rest. Once settled into her room, I went to the Supermarket and got her favourite magazines, National Enquirer and the other tabloid papers, propped her up in bed, made her coffee and we relaxed.

Mum had to attend the Cardio clinic at Dr Braniff’s surgery for a treadmill test in 5 days time. Until then we decided that each day we would venture further afield, have a nice dinner out each evening and stick to the regimen prescribed by the doctors, plenty of rest when needed, but try and exercise every day. We had been provided with a wheelchair for mum to use until her treadmill test and despite leaving her in that chair, on the steepest of hills, she resolutely refused to take off the brakes!

So I was stuck with wheeling her around town. Our first trip was to the Marina in Santa Barbara. The pictures here show that day and as you can see, Mum ensured she always struck a cool pose.

Nothing too taxing, but as Mum was proud and courageous, she refused to be pictured in that chair, so any pictures we took had her out and about, leaning against a rail, or seated on stairs or a bench for support.

The next few blogs will cover this period in Santa Barbara and the two weeks spent back in San Francisco, sorry it’s been a while since I last “blogged”, poor show and all that, but back on track again. Bon Chance’.

My Mum and her Myocardial Infarction!

2012-04-11T13:20:00.000+00:00

Further to http://jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/journey-into-darkness.html,

I composed myself and had another discussion with Doctor Braniff about mum’s condition and what the next few weeks and months may hold. I explained that mum was here on holiday, had been here only a week and was due to fly home early August. That was no longer the plan as he explained that she would be in hospital for at least a week, would not be able to travel back to the Bay Area for at least another 3 weeks, and only after a series of tests at the Cardiologists offices. As all Health Care in the USA is private and insurance cover is vital, I knew I had to get hold of the CO-OP back in the UK and start the ball rolling on her insurance. First and foremost I had to call my family back home.

It was 06:00 in Santa Barbara, the sun was up. In the UK it was 13:00 and the only number I had in my head was my sister Helen’s. I called her number and David her husband answered the phone. This was good, as I did not want to speak directly to Helen as Dave could take care of her, and once sorted, she could contact Mark, Richard and Julian. All went well with David and I left him to deal with Helen and the boys. It transpired that my oldest brother Mark had been in Boston Massachusetts only recently, with business.

Dr Braniff explained that mums heart had stopped quite a few times and that her heart was being damaged little by little as she ignored the pains and shortness of breath. The right hand side of her heart, the Right Ventricle has artery’s supplying blood to it. A number of these had become blocked, interrupting blood flow and resulting in that area of the heart muscle dying, thus causing a Myocardial Infarction (Heart Attack). He would be carrying out tests and scans over the coming days, and where possible addressing particular problems by means of angiograms. Phew!

As mum was asleep and resting he advised us to do the same, so we jumped into the Shelby and drove with Tammy’s mum Sandra, to their Hotel. The staff and management at the Hotel greeted us at reception and advised that we could stay free of charge for two days until we had sorted out accommodation elsewhere, or could then pay for our rooms. They were worried for mum and were very kind, and I will always be grateful to them, http://www.fessparkersantabarbarahotel.com/

Sandra went off to her room and we checked into two rooms, a single for Mark and a double for Tammy and me. We slept and met for a light lunch by the pool as we planned the next steps.
Sandra came to join us, as did her sisters who were staying with Mum and Sandra. It then transpired that on the night of mums attack, the sisters had been arguing in mum’s room, she was sharing with Sandra, and on the balcony. By all accounts these women had been screaming at one another and mum had got upset and stressed as apparently the sisters were really going at it. She had gone back into the room and laid on her bed, Sandra then went into the room a few minutes afterwards and found mum spark out on the bed. She had called reception, who called the paramedics.

The hotel manager got to mum first and carried out CPR, followed by the paramedics who were there very quickly, revived mum again and then put her in the ambulance, where she was shocked with a defibrillator again and again. I was angry with the sisters but held back as it was not going to help mum, they had their own problems and guilt to deal with I supposed. We went to visit mum and sat by her bed for some while until she awoke. Her first words as always were “What are you doing here?” followed closely by, “I must look terrible!” and “does my hair look ok?” All that was missing was “does my bum look big in this?”

I had collected a few of her toiletries from the hotel and brushed her hair and washed her face and hands. She told me her version of events as best she could remember and recalled the shocks from the defibrillator and the arguments between the women. She told me that when she was in the ambulance and the ER, that she was aware of what was happening and saw he “legs fly up off the bed with each jolt”. Obviously, that does not happen in reality, but it reflects her own view that she knew she was being shocked back to life and how it felt.

Later I called her insurers and reported the facts, they set up a claim and I then spoke to my brother Mark, who had decided that he would come out to see mum and be with me. The Cavalry was on its way!!
Helen also wanted to come but given the time constraints and family matters along with accessing a visa from the Embassy, decided against it, but was very disappointed. I suspect all of my brothers and Helen wanted to be there. The next few days was all about seeing mum and finding a new hotel, as the Red Lion was beyond the insurer’s budget. We decided on the Holiday Inn and moved there. We then moved to the Days Inn (or what is now the Day Inn and Suites), on State Street. My friend Mark and Tammy had to get back to work and get Bobs Dodge Shelby back to him as well. Mum had a balloon angioplasty procedure and we were told that a large part of her heart muscle was dead and would not recover, but the rest of her heart was fine and doing well.

My brother Mark arrived on Friday 1st July and stayed for a week. He had flown American Airlines via Houston Texas and San Francisco and we met him at Santa Barbara airport. I was really pleased to see him as the week had been stressful and his support and help was great to have. Mum was progressing well and Mark wanted to see her. First of all though, having travelled for about 18 hours in total, he needed a wash, shower, shave and a sleep. Mum would not be impressed if he turned up looking like a shower of shit.

After some rest, a coffee and light meal we set off to the hospital. I told Mark the news and brought him up to date, including the fact that Lloyds Bank had agreed to give us access to Mums credit card (nice) and that the Insurers had agreed to cover all out of pocket expenses for us (even nicer) and onward for mum and I once Mark had returned home (most nice). Mum was still in Intensive Care when we arrived and she looked up as we went into her room and said “What are you two doing her?” Typical and not unexpected!

Mark and Tammy headed back to the Bay Area on the Saturday, leaving Mark and I in the Holiday Inn. Once Tammy and Mark had departed, we had to decide what we would do apart from visiting mum. We were allowed to visit mornings before 10am and afternoons and evenings after 5pm. So we decided, as any right minded person would, to travel around the area, taking in the sights. I treated it more as a reconnaissance mission, as I would find places to take mum to once she was discharged. Mark treated it as a holiday!

Each day we would turn up to mum’s bedside, give her the news etc, and then she would ask where we were going that day. Days out included; Universal Studios LA, Rodeo Drive and Hollywood, The Beach Malibu, The Beach at UCLA Santa Barbara, and Solvang the Danish village in the wine country, as well as State Street Santa Barbara, the Pier and Boardwalk.. Each day, exhausted from our adventures, we’d report back on the day’s events, taking her treats and souvenirs Mark had purchased to take home to Monica and his kids, Michelle, Jason and Ben.

Mark and Monica taken more recently

Mark was like a man possessed. He really entered into the California Lifestyle, as far as the eating, drinking and enjoying yourself was concerned. Except that Mark also stayed resolutely British in his dress sense, including long socks with trainers and shorts (No!!) and tucking his t-shirt into his trousers (still does). I attempted to walk a few steps behind on a number of occasions and on others pretended I had a simpleton brother with me.

Not Mark but a work of art

Many people took pity on him and offered to get him trainer socks, but he wouldn't budge. Even mum turned away once when a vision in orange shorts, blue socks, white trainers and yellow t-shirt appeared at her door and she asked for the curtains to be drawn around her bed, lest others see her with him.

Mark has an intolerance to Limes, so on our first night out after Tammy and Mark Cameron had departed, we went to an amazing Mexican Restaurant on the seafront called El Torito. http://eltorito.com/about.asp. Mark went for the strawberry Margarita and I had the traditional Lime variety, salt rim glasses and blended, not on the rocks. We had a tasting platter and Chimichangas all round and at some point Mark and I had Tequila shots and he had the lime slice to suck.
Next day, well all I can say is that this clip sums it up. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4la47SzTzSc

Whilst in town it was Independence Day and we wound up at the top end of State Street at what is now Carlitos Cafe and Cantina. It had a large car park out front and a tree filled with lights, so in the evening it looked really welcoming and was full, also a good thing. We spent some time drinking, chatting to various people and this guy tagged along as we moved from bar to bar. As we were walking he stopped and said he wanted to go to his room to get some money. We waited in reception and he rang down and asked to speak to Mark. He asked Mark if we wanted to go up to his room to take some coke, at which point Mark said he was a Detective from the Police in the UK and that he was under arrest! We walked out sharpish as he hung up and did not see him again.

Mark was keen to get Ben a Baseball Catcher’s Mitt, so we found a sports outlet on State Street and he got what he wanted along with a few baseballs. We crossed over the road and went into a small alleyway that led to some outdoor seating for a small cafe’ bar. We sat down and ordered a couple of beers. Next door was a Tobacco and Cigar Shop, selling anything and everything to do with tobacco. Being a cigar smoker meant Mark was naturally inquisitive and we both went into the store for a look around.

Mark got himself some cigars and we left ad went back to our beers. Beers downed, we picked up our gear and went back to State Street. Only then did Mark say “where is the bag with the Mitt?” He’d left it under the table. We dashed back down the alleyway and with most stories like this, it was gone, in fact it was probably taken whilst we looked at cigars. So back across the street, into the sports shop and a new Mitt and baseballs were purchased. Mark was spitting feathers.

We had a few more days together including an unforgettable trip to Solvang, the Danish village, which I will tell about in the next blog. Bye for now.

A journey into Darkness

2012-03-19T15:33:00.002+00:00

Continuing from the last blog http://jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.com/2012/02/you-gotta-have-faith-faith-ah.html.

Cynthia Joan Weaver

Through the windscreen of the Dodge Shelby, the names of previously unknown towns and a few I recognised from the John Steinbeck novels of my youth offer themselves in a line and pass by as we sweep southwards along Highway 101 in California. Gilroy followed by Steinbeck’s birthplace, Salinas, is followed by Soledad, in turn followed by King City and onward I drive. Spanish names, Atascadero, San Luis Obispo, Arroyo Grande, Santa Maria, Los Alamos and Los Olivos tumble past in a blur.

Then Solvang, exit left appears, Danish, in California? The name fixes itself somewhere deeper in my mind for later recall. Any conversation from my companions has long finished; slumbering as they are, unaware and therefore unconcerned at the speed I am driving, which would get me stopped in any country apart, from Germany probably, but especially in America; freeway speed limit 55 mph, my speed 80 to 100 mph.

A little over 3 hours ago I was naked and dripping wet, standing at my bathroom door, more or less knowing the phone call from Tammy’s dad has something to do with mum. Mark is stood in the hallway with a look on his face that says “I am your best friend, I am here and you are going to be OK”. Behind me, Tammy is naked and in the shower, the water running, the room full of steam. Dave our flatmate is stood just behind Mark, the phone in his hand. I turn my gaze from Mark and drying my hand with a towel take the phone from Dave and say “Hello” to Tammy’s father Steve.

“Jonathan, I have just taken a call from Sandra, (Tammy’s Mother) your mum had a heart attack in the hotel room and has been taken to hospital in Santa Barbara. I am going to give you a phone number for the hospital; it’s the St Francis Hospital”, I listened to him giving me the number but could not concentrate, so passed the phone to Dave and asked him to write it down. I sat on the floor in the hallway and said “What am I going to do?” Not to anyone in particular, more a question to myself. Mark sprang into action saying “we’ll drive down there!” My reply was along the lines of “not in our car, it’s a piece of shit”. Dave said he would take us but he had to work and I wondered whether we could hire a car.

Mark went off to make some calls and I went back into the bathroom to dry off and get dressed. Dave made coffee. It was well after eleven PM and the only car hire offices open were at San Francisco Airport. I called the number for the St Francis Hospital, got through to the Emergency Room and spoke to a male nurse there. Mum was in good hands, was being monitored and was under control, for now. I should travel down as soon as possible.

I asked the guy for directions. “Where are you coming from?” he asked. I told him San Mateo and that I would use Highway 101. “Ok then” he said, “drive south on 101 to Exit 99, turn left onto Mission St, then right onto Garden Street and then left onto East Micheltorena Street. The hospital is on your left”.

Simple really, just drive for 304 miles, take a left, a right, another left, boom, you’re there! 5 easy steps to get to my mum!

As I hung up, the phone rang, it was Big Bad Bob, Marks Karate buddy. This guy was, as Mark recently told me, as tight as a ducks ass, he’d nickel and dime you over a restaurant bill. He called to offer us his Dodge Shelby. No questions asked and based upon nothing more than being Marks friend and an acquaintance of mine; the guy gave up his pride and joy. This car was a 2.2 Litre turbo mental case, which went like stink off a turd and scared many who drove it. We thanked Bob and he was at our door within 15 minutes and Dave ran him home after we had left.

He neither gave instructions nor veiled threats as to the wounds to be suffered, should we damage his baby, only that it drank gas and simply to wish my mum a quick recovery.

Mark called Paul and Shirley, told them what had happened and that we’d update them later, once we knew what was happening with mum. Tammy insisted on coming along with Mark and I and Mark insisted on driving, as I “might kill us all, as you’re fucking stressed out mate”. We threw together the bare essentials, toiletries, change of clothes, under crackers and socks, pants and t-shirts etc, dropped into Tammy’s on the way for her to pack a bag and we were off. The car was filled with nervous chatter as Mark drove south. We decided we were all hungry and as the car needed fuelling up, pulled into a service station in the town Morgan Hill. Mark gassed her up and Tammy and I went to pay for the fuel and get coffee and Twinkies, Donuts, Pastries and potato chips.

We came out to find Mark climbing into the back seat of the car. “Sorry mate, I am knackered already, you will have to drive”. What a fanny! But, that was fine by me and with Tammy holding my coffee, off we sped. Mark was soon asleep and after a few more miles, Tammy was asleep too. I focused on the road and as I was too wired on caffeine and nervous energy, barely noticed the miles passing under the wheels of the Dodge. The three hundred odd miles passed by in a matter of four hours or so, and we swung into the car park of the hospital and walked into the ER a little after four in the morning.

The nurse on duty sent us to the Cardiology ward and we emptied out of the elevator onto a darkened floor, low level lighting guiding us towards the nurses’ station. I told the nurse there my name and that of my mother and she called another nurse over. This lady took us into a side room, sat us down and left to get a doctor. The Doctor came in, he looked not unlike a film star; late thirties, neatly combed hair, tall, tanned and good looking came in, followed by the nurse. He introduced himself as Doctor Blaine Braniff, Cardiologist.

Sandra came into the room just as he started speaking, rushed over to me, crying and hugging me, saying she was sorry, it was her fault, she should have noticed something was wrong. Tammy stood up and took her mum out of the room and Dr Braniff started again. After introductions, again, he said that it appeared from the initial tests that mum had suffered a number of heart attacks over the last few days, and that earlier today she had suffered an “acute myocardial infarction” (Heart Attack).

She had been brought to the hospital by ambulance, and during the journey had been resuscitated a number of times using a defibrillator. She had been administered that procedure both in her hotel room by the paramedics, again in the ambulance and a couple of more times in the ER, where she had then undergone a series of tests, once her heart beat had normalised. She was very ill and the next 48 hours would be critical.

“Oh” I said, “can I see her”. In fact, I was crying my eyes out whilst saying this and spent some time sitting with Mark, Dr Braniff and the nurse as he asked me questions to determine what might have been the cause. I talked about my dad, his heart attack and subsequent death, about mum’s diet; her pain leading up to the trip to Santa Barbara, my brothers and sister, our family history and anything else that seemed relevant. Mum had been sedated, he said, but I could see her and leaving Mark with the nurse, Tammy and her mum, Dr Braniff and I walked down the corridor to my mum’s room.

Her door was slightly ajar, Dr Braniff pushed it open and I walked past him and into the room. Dr Braniff stood by the door and I walked over to her bed. For a while I stood listening to her breathing, the beeps and whirrs of the machinery monitoring her and began noticing how weak and frail she looked. The only light in the room was coming from the various machines and their readout screens, each casting a pale blue, red or green glow across the floor and bedclothes.

A small yellow lamp on a telescopic arm, leaning over the bed like an angel, watching, waiting quietly.

I touched her hand, it was noticeably colder than mine, the bedclothes reached her waist and she wore a thin hospital nightgown, so I gathered the sheets and drew them up towards her chest, trying not to disturb the legion of wires, trailing out from her body and arms.

Her eyes were closed and she appeared peaceful and resting, no sign of the struggle for life, the battles fought by unknown medics, no horrid marks showing, except for needle entry points and a cannula in the back of her hand. Her hair was a mess though; she’d be angry about that I thought, I noticed how thin her hair looked, wiry and swept in all directions. I turned to the doctor about to speak, I was crying silently, but huge sobs started to build in me, I felt them rise, fought to hold them back, failed and a wail came from me, a noise I had never made before, almost primeval, made worse by the attempts to restrain it, animal and loud, so deep and guttural that it hurt my stomach to make such a noise. I sank to my knees, trying to breathe in, but the noise was still coming out and coming and growing and growing.

Cynthia Joan Weaver 5 years old

I put my hands flat on the floor and wailed out that noise, thinking about the other patients, I’d wake them, wake mum, make people worry, got to stop, can’t stop, where is it coming from, my guts hurt, can’t breathe.

I saw my sister Helen and my brothers Mark, Richard and Julian, they had to be told, how to tell them, what to say, I was gasping for breath.

Arms pick me up, help me into a chair, pass me tissues, stroke my hair, rub my hands, soothe with words and I fall into regular sobs, deep but regular, able to breathe but unable to speak, just crying and crying for my mum.

You gotta have Faith a Faith a Faith Ah!

2012-03-01T14:25:00.000+00:00

Pull that gut in Fat Boy!

Following on from (http://jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.com/2012/02/splish-splash-i-was-having-bath.html), I kissed my girlfriend Tammy goodbye at SFO and wandered off to find my gate. My British Airways flight back to Heathrow was due to take off late afternoon, dropping me back on UK soil early morning the following day. My sister Helen, nieces Claire and Katie and my mum Cynthia were waiting for me when I into the arrivals hall. I wore my tasselled sleeved Black leather jacket, my Levi 501’s, Hokusai T-shirt and black crocodile leather cowboy boots and a pair of Rayban Aviators. My hair was almost blonde with highlights and I was tanned and healthy (apparently). Claire and Katie spotted me first, their squeals of “there he is” accompanying their run towards me as I stopped, dropped my bags, and lifted them both into the air. Claire and Katie gave me the once over and approved of my new look. I walked forwards to my mum and sister and hugged them both. It was great to be home!

As it was still early, we went for coffee and a catch up before piling into my sister’s car and driving home to Norwich. The journey home was filled with my stories and theirs. They told me the latest news of my brother Richard and his wife Tracey in London, Brother Mark and sister in law Monica, their sons Ben and Jason and daughter Michelle. Julian and his girlfriend Toni, who had just had a baby boy Lewis, were now going to get married. I was home for three weeks and was due to take Mum back to California with me.

Once home (mums house) and after a sleep, I was off to the Wensum Community Centre to catch up with the lads there. One commented on my tan thus “Look at the fucking colour of him!” I did not tell them it had been developed by spending some serious time on the sun bed, rather, I said that it was due to the unending sunny days in the Bay Area, in fact, the days can be overcast and cloudy/foggy more often than not.

I planned to hold a party at the community centre for my 24^th birthday and booked Saturday the 18^th June. A buffet would be pulled together by family and friends and I was looking for some live music, a disco and as I had by now been perfecting my “George” shtick, would need a tape deck and microphone as I had discovered that I could actually sing. Mark and I had been to a couple of Karaoke bars and I always got up and did a George Michael number. I had bought the Father Figure CD single as it had an instrumental version on it. I also had an instrumental of Faith and Kissing a Fool, all from the Faith album.

I went around to my friend Rick Holmes house and after a few cups of coffee and multiple cigarettes, we agreed that his Band “The Law” would play a few covers, as well as their own stuff; I would then accompany them on backing vocals and follow them with my George songs. With at least a week to go until the party, I went along to rehearse and watch the band go through their numbers.

Rick at Back, Luke Bullen seated in blue denims

I expect many of you know someone who had been in a band, had almost made it, should have made it etc. The Law were one such band. Patrick (Rick’s brother) was a front man in the style of Bono/Adam Ant/Mick Jagger/Jim Morrison. He looked not unlike Adam Ant, had Jonny Depp cheekbones and a swagger and attitude that made him the perfect vocalist for their brand of rock music. Their cousin Steve was on Lead Guitar (he now teaches guitar in schools), Melly, an old school friend on bass, was a steady consistent player and they had Luke Bullen on drums.

Luke, then a young drummer learning his craft, has gone on to great things and is now married to KT Tunstall, after becoming her drummer, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luke_Bullen). He was very committed to his craft even then and attended Drumtech (http://www.techmusicschool.co.uk/) in London. The Law won the “Battle of the Bands” on Radio One and recorded in London, performing live sessions. The pictures here are (apologies for the focus – crap camera) of the band in the recording studio in Norwich recording a EP “Jacky D”. Not lacking confidence, they even gave themselves more "rock star" last names Rick Holmes became Rick Sheridan and Patrick Holmes became Patrick Kingston! Love it........

The picture left is Rick (Red Bomber jacket) and Luke Bullen leaning on wall far end in Black Leather Jacket.

I met up with everyone I knew, including the girls who came to Rhodes (http://jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.com/2011/10/all-roads-lead-to-rhodes-and-police.html) along with Helen Breakell, (my Brother Richard’s sister in law and an ex of mine), Jackie Barton who I had a serious crush on, but who was going out with someone else, Elisa Savory, who I dated after Helen, and her twin sister Emma. I invited all the boys from the club and the football team, my extended family and anyone else I bumped into and felt like inviting.

When not rehearsing during the day, I was organising my mum’s trip to California. She had organised her flights already, (linking with my return on BA) and we went into Norwich City centre to the CO-OP to get her travel insurance. He trip was for 32 days in total. The insurance was sold in blocks of weeks and months. Mum could have insured herself for the month (31 days) for £44. I told her better safe than sorry, so she added an additional month for another £44, had some discount applied (returning customer) and paid the grand sum of £81 for travel insurance. I realise there a bit of detail there, but hold on to that as it becomes very relevant in the forthcoming blogs.

Saturday 18^th June 1988.

I accompanied “The Law” to the community centre and helped them set up and we sound checked, laid out the buffet and then all headed off to change. Patrick and Rick always put on a proper show no matter where the gig was being held and my party was no different. Imagine a rock concert at a stadium venue, intro music on a mix tape that Rick would produce, some light show effects, a backdrop, an intro song to reflect the bands output and then their entrance, well the musicians anyway. They’d kick off the first number, something like Sympathy for the Devil (Rolling Stones) and repeat the opening bars, until with much fanfare and ado, a bottle of brandy in one hand; Pat would emerge through a backstage door and make his way to the front of the stage. They’d crank it up and Pat would launch into the song, a showman.

This photos shows the band at full throttle, note the concentration on the face of Steve the Guitarist far right.

The Law - Left to Right, Rick Holmes (Sheridan) Patrick Holmes (Kingston), Luke Bullen and Steve (Coz)

I joined in on a number of songs towards the end of their set. I then took to the stage and sang Faith, but started it Acapella (without music) and slowed down. Rick picked up his acoustic guitar and Luke his sticks and we punched out a version of Faith that had everyone singing along. I couldn’t believe it!

Well, You Gotta have Faith

I loved performing in front of people, even if the songs weren’t mine.

I called my nieces Claire and Katie on stage and on bended knee, sang Father Figure to them. Yea, I know, really gushy, but those girls were/are so special to me.

I finished my set with “Kissing a Fool” and another run through of “Faith”, this time to the backing track and left the stage.

My mum said “I never knew you could sing” and I am sure someone said, “He can’t”. But, everyone had a great time that night and we closed it off with a trip to Ricks Place, at that time the “in” club in town.

The next few days were spent putting final plans together for mum, making sure she had her visa sorted and that she had all she needed. She was really excited to be coming to America and when my sister drove us back to Heathrow she was smiling all the way there. Goodbye over and done with, we made it through to departures and ate breakfast. The flight was mid-morning, getting us into SFO late afternoon. Mark was due to collect us and his cousin Trevor had flown over to California in May and was working with Paul to cover my absence. Trevor was a real character and he and my mum got on like a house on fire.

Mum took my room and checked in next door to Mark’s room. He was eager to have mum stay as he and she were really close. Mark has always had the ability to make friends with the generations older than us. He is a great listener and a good sounding board for people to share their thoughts with. We arrived in Sa Francisco on a Friday afternoon. Mum got over the flight pretty quickly and Mark, Trevor, Tammy, and I showed her around the local area, especially Burlingame and we took her to meet CeCe at La Piñata, the Mexican Restaurant.

She met Paul, Victor, and Shirley, and she and mum were soon great friends, talking about home (UK) and life in America. Mum thanked Shirley for helping Mark and I out when we first arrived and after a few days reconnaissance, mum said “Jonathan, you’ve got a wonderful life out here, you are very lucky”.

I introduced mum to Tammy’s parents on a trip down to San Jose. We were talking about how mum was going to occupy her time whilst I was at work. Tammy’s mum then suggested she accompany her and her sisters to Santa Barbara for a week. Mum would have been stuck in our apartment once I returned to work, Paul having let me take a few days off, he was starting to moan about workload and I knew I’d have to go back soon.

Tammy’s mum explained that she and her 3 sisters were taking a week in Santa Barbara, staying at Fess Parker’s Red Lion Hotel (http://doubletree1.hilton.com/en_US/dt/hotel/SBAMCDT-Fess-Parker-s-DoubleTree-Resort-by-Hilton-Santa-Barbara-California/index.do) that the actor had opened during his movie career along with a Winery at Santa Ynez. His most famous role was as Davy Crockett for Disney studios. Mum was a bit worried about the trip, but Tammy’s mum assured us that she would be well looked after and she would have a wonderful time. Mum decided to go and after dinner, we went back to the apartment in San Mateo.

There was a week or so before the Santa Barbara trip and I had to go back to work. On our excursions, mum had been short of breath on occasion. She had her Ventolin inhaler as she was pretty sure she had Asthma and would take a few goes on her “puffer” as she called it to ease the breathlessness. I went back to work concerned about her breathing; she said I wasn’t to worry and that she would take a walk along the sidewalk everyday to get some air. This she did and most evenings when I got back she’d be out of breath again. Whilst I did not have health insurance, she certainly did and I told her we would go to the medical centre. Mum was having none of it, telling me to stop worrying, but agreed that once back from Santa Barbara she would see a doctor.

The Friday evening before her trip to Santa Barbara on Sunday, Mark’s pals at the Karate studios organised a BBQ, at Coyote Point County Park. The guys were all 3^rd Dan Black belts and above, so knew how to handle themselves. Marks pal Frank came along and they all doted on mum and made her welcome and she, being my mum, treated them like long lost sons and they loved it. She soon took over the cooking duties as they played Frisbee and threw a football back and forth.

One of the gang had a Dodge Shelby Daytona, a beast that could go Zero to Sixty in 8 seconds, was fully trimmed out, and went like stink. I had only met this guy twice before, he was a great big bear of a guy, but really decent as I was to find out.

BBQ over, we headed home, mum out of breath and me fussing and getting told off, which made her more out of breath, so I stopped. Saturday afternoon Tammy’s Dad collected mum and she stayed over at their house, so to leave early on Sunday. The distance to Santa Barbara from my place in San Mateo was 308 miles, a five hour drive. I would speak to her when she got to the hotel she said.

So, mum packed off and my room back for a week, what else to do but get Tammy over for a weekend of debauchery. Saturday night dancing and dinner, Sunday morning in bed, Sunday afternoon a drive out and Sunday evening, well we decided to take a shower together.

The shower was running and we were both oblivious to outside interruptions. In fact, it took Mark quite sometime to get our attention, which he eventually did, by hammering on the bathroom door with his fist. I opened the door and asked what was so important? Mark said "Tammy's Dad is on the phone, its not good"....................