A LIFE OF CHANGE

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What’s on today: A look back on the changes in my life … PLUS … Brit Police bug an MP as totalitarianism strikes again. What’s the best form of knowledge?
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A LIFE OF CHANGE

When I read this week’s Writers’ Island prompt I immediately thought about my own life. Changed. Well, yes, it certainly has, many times. If we could look at an image of ourselves over the years, those changes would be evident as we age.
Yet change in life is more than biological. It is social, cultural, professional, psychological. As a kid I was a very different person to what I am now. Yet maybe that kid is still with me, inside, rising up in my mad moments.

I do hope so. We should take that child with us into adulthood.

As childhood gave way to teenage years, I changed a great deal. Girlfriends helped, but the main change was becoming lead guitarist in a local rock band. Things certainly changed – and I can even remember some of it.
But teenage hormones don’t last forever. Hence, the band went and I changed into the young man, entering my father’s business. But this was most likely a period of transit, because I was never happy in this life I’d changed into.

The transition ended when I changed and went off to London.

The big city was a change indeed, especially as I’d lived in the countryside. The next couple of years I spent drifting from one change to another, until finally my life seemed mapped out.
This change led me into the Royal Air Force, and I was no longer the drifter, but doing a useful job. But I guess I’d just got used to changing, and eventually I changed when I came down with chronic fatigue syndrome.
That was one very big change. I turned from action man to barely being able to do anything. It was a change that was hard to cope with until I changed – realized this was the new me so get on with it.
That was over twenty five years ago now, and cfs is still with me. And I suppose one of the most fundamental changes that came along with it was a thirst for knowledge and writing.
It was then I realized I’d had the perfect life to become a writer. All those changes, you see, led to experience – the stuff of the writer itself. And maybe a certain wisdom. After all, is a life truly lived if it doesn’t change?

© Anthony North, February 2008

CHANGED

Milk white skin, it is no more,
peppered by zits, so full of gore;
Pure of mind, I used to be,
happy to play by climbing a tree;
thoughts invade of a different kind,
not wanting to leave life behind;
hairs do sprout upon my jowl,
all night long I seem to howl;
Hormones are pumping throughout my veins,
Hey! I’m a teenager,with growing pains!

This is post inspired by a Writers’ Island prompt. Have you had a go yet?

WHO ARE THEY BUGGING TODAY?

It has been announced that two sixth-formers from every school in England are to visit Auschwitz, keeping memories of the Holocaust alive, so as we will never go there again. Such a noble gesture, but what should we really think about this …
…read more…

WHAT CAN WE KNOW

There are many opinionated people in the world, and they all think they know about this or that. But do they really know? Indeed, does our knowledge allow us to really ‘know’ anything …
…read more…

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CHRONIC FATIGUE SYNDROME – THE BEGINNING

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What’s on today: Find out how I contracted chronic fatigue syndrome … PLUS … You may be interested in my new study of racism. And a short story that would make Agatha turn in her grave.
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CHRONIC FATIGUE SYNDROME – THE BEGINNING

As regular readers will know, I have the condition, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I’m often asked questions about it, but apart from the occasional mention, I haven’t really written about it.
Why that is, I’m not quite sure. Maybe it is too close to the real me. But after the latest prompt I’ve decided to take the plunge. This, therefore, is the first of a number of posts about the condition and my life with it.

People often ask what causes it.

I’ll offer a theory of my own in a later post, but many ideas have been put forward. These include stress, a viral infection, exposure to chemicals such as organo-phosphates, and even radiation exposure.
Can any of these factors be found in my contracting the condition? Well, in the two years prior to it I was in a very stressful job. During that time I had viral infection after infection. And it doesn’t stop there.

I was in the Royal Air Force at the time.

And for those two years I was on emergency overseas reinforcement. Hence, I’d been inoculated against every disease known to man – apart from CFS, apparently – and I worked on a site with acute radiation hazards.
So take your pick. But life finally came to a head following a 3 day military exercise in which I’d had practically no sleep. I’d also cracked two ribs a couple of weeks before. Finishing at 8am on the morning, I jumped in the car to drive 200 miles for a period of leave. After 20 minutes I passed out at the wheel. To this day I don’t know how I stopped that car. But I’ve never felt ‘well’ since.

© Anthony North, January 2008

ONE BLOOD – A Study of Racism

You might be interested in this new series I’ve just started. In it I will examine various histories and theories concerning racism – what exactly is it, what atrocities has it caused, what lies behind its existence …
… access here …

Fiction Xtra – THE CASE OF THE ERRANT HUSBAND – Agatha Christie would turn in her grave

Matilda Green walked purposefully out of the village post office, realising she was late. Pension day was always a problem, as Mrs Evans, the post mistress, could chat for England. Not that Matilda minded that much. Although not a gossip herself, she so did like to keep up with village affairs …
… read more …

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IN DEFENCE OF BREAKFAST

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What’s on today: Breakfast is good for you, but don’t do as I did … PLUS … Robbie Williams spearheads protest at EMI. Why being forced to carry donor cards is a bad idea.
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IN DEFENCE OF BREAKFAST

Doctors have recently advised that the best way to fight middle-age spread is to breakfast like a king and take lunch like a pauper. Of course, this has always been known. It’s called commonsense.
To eat first thing provides immediate nutrients, whilst to eat much later leads mainly to fat. Indeed, I was brought up to love my breakfast. Mindst you, this doesn’t mean that my breakfasts were always healthy.

My mother was a great believer in dripping.

It could come from any joint of meat, and she’d keep a permanent bowl of the stuff in the kitchen. She’d pour it into the frying pan as required, and when finished the pan would never be washed, but scrapped back into the bowl and the pan wiped out with a newspaper.
You must remember this was the late 1950s, early 1960s. For breakfast I would be sent off to school with a ‘lining’ in my stomach, caused by a couple of slices of bread given two seconds each side in the frying pan. It was beautiful.

I took my love of breakfasts into adult life.

Before being married, I loved my breakfasts in the Royal Air Force mess. Bacon, sausage, egg, tomato, beans – I’d pile it all on. And when married I cooked a fried breakfast every morning, breaking the runny yoke and pouring the excess from the pan onto the plate to be mopped up by bread.
Of course, I realized this may not be such a good idea, but I’ve never quite got the hang of cereal, etc, for breakfast. Today, my breakfasts are smaller, my egg scrambled, my bacon grilled. But do without breakfast? Never!

© Anthony North

ROBBIE LEADS THE CAUSE

I’m not a great fan of Robbie Williams, but admit he can sing. Further, he has a distinctive voice, which is the usual criteria for a long career. Think Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Freddie Mercury and – dare I say it – Cliff Richard. They all have a voice that is immediately recognizable …
… read more …

BODY PARTS BROWN

There is a transplant crisis. Not enough people are carrying donor cards. Hence, our ‘esteemed leader’ Gordon Brown has unveiled plans, finally, for doctors to remove organs without consent. If you disagree, it is up to you to opt out …
… read more …

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Fiction Xtra – A FRAME OF MIND – A celebration (?) of Voltaire’s Candide

Professor Thunderstruck was a philosopher of note. As he walked down the street he turned to his pupil, Arnold, and said: ‘Now, young man, we are told that the streets are cruel and vicious. I disagree. If we take the chance, it is perfectly reasonable to meet a thoroughly nice chap anywhere …
… read more …

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HAPPY NEW YEAR

As explained below, my Tony On posts are now combined with the rest of my output. From now on you can access my current affairs by clicking Home, or Beyond the Blog title.

READ MY ALL NEW ULTIMATE MAGAZINE POST
What’s on today: For a new year, a new way. From now on my Diary of a Writer, Tony On and Magazine posts will be combined, allowing more of each. Hope you enjoy.
YOU KNOW IT’S THE WRITE WAY

HAPPY NEW YEAR

It is New Year’s Eve, so it’s inevitable I will speak about Scotland. After all, Hogmanay is their celebration above all else – world renowned for downing more whisky than the rest of the world put together at this time (not true, really).
There isn’t a Scottish gene in me, but my children, it seems, are a sixteenth Scottish. This is, obviously, because my wife is an eighth Scottish, which does, of course, explain the ass.

She wasn’t always, I might add.

Which may seem a strange statement to make. Well, there was always a story in her family that her adopted grandfather was the illegitimate son of a Scottish aristocrat, or Laird.
We can’t prove that bit, but we did get proof of his Scottish parentage. But if only Yvonne could say ‘laird’ instead of ‘lard’. ‘So you mean your greet granddaddy was a block of cooking fat?’ I always ask, only to be greeted by a steely Scottish eye.

Since finding out this Scottish ancestry, things have changed.

New Year’s Day has taken on a new slant, what with her prized Andy Steward CD with renditions from ‘Loch Lomond’ to ‘Donald Where’s Your Troosers’. And then, a compilation of Robbie Burns is placed in my hand for the reading of.
But it is also a serious time, where New Year’s Resolutions are made. Sadly I could never keep them, until, that is, I had a brainwave some ten years ago. I made a resolution that I’ve kept to this day – namely, to never make resolutions again.
Happy New Year to you all.

© Anthony North, December 2007

ROBIN HOOD – SERIES TWO

Right, it’s all over. How can Robin Hood continue now? Good grief, Maid Marion is dead, sliced through by the wicked, but troubled, Gisborne! But I never thought you could have Robin Hood without Friar Tuck …
… read more …

CHARLES FOR KING

So, over half the UK population want William to be king rather than Prince Charles. Oh dear, I think this would be a terrible mistake. Certainly, in time, William could be a good king, but let him have youth and experience first …
… read more …

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Fiction Xtra – A MINISTERIAL AFFAIR – a whodunit to take you into the New Year

Detective Sergeant Jordan entered the room with an air of expectancy. It seemed as if he’d been a copper all his life, but although he enjoyed it, he knew that, at thirty five, he should be an Inspector by now. He knew, of course, what the problem was – he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut or tow the line. And with a new user-friendly police service – NOT force – he knew he was seen as a dinosaur …
… read more …

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THE INVINCIBLE LAND ROVER

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1st instalment of my novel, Pictures of Life, is now posted

We knew it was going to get hectic as soon as the message came in. It was a normal RAF Land Rover that pulled up at the checkpoint at the far side of the airfield. But as it stopped, the top came off and machine gun fire wiped out the guards.
Over a mile away, I was defending the fighter dispersal. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, the few low, dark green buildings were surrounded by the dispersed Phantom fighters. The call came in. Stand To.

We saw the Land Rover come racing down the airfield.

The Army loved fancy dress when they attacked the RAF bases. Usually, they pretended to be guerillas, complete with bandanas, and I could have sworn one had a huge cigar in his mouth.
I saw the first post fall. They fought back with rifles and GPMG (bloody big machine gun), but were overwhelmed amid the sounds of gunfire and thunderflashes. And it went on and on as that damned Land Rover approached the dispersal.

I was taken out close to the entry point.

I put up a good fight but was outflanked and caught in the crossfire. As I laid there ‘dying’, I saw them gain entry, the last pathetic defence being when a dozen fighter pilots rushed out waving their little pistols in the air.
This part of the exercise was, of course, to check out our firing positions, and the reality was, that Land Rover wouldn’t have got past the first checkpoint. Indeed, we could realistically say it was wiped out at least 20 times. Which meant, of course, that our defence had taken out half a company.
That felt good. But you always had the mouth of inexperience amongst you. ‘It’s not fair,’ he protested, wiping dirt from his combats. ‘They wouldn’t play dead.’

© Anthony North, November 2007

ME AND THE COLD WAR

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I’m soon to begin posting some of my experiences at the cutting edge of my service in the Royal Air Force. Hopefully you’ll find them interesting and often funny. It was a strange time.
I was in the RAF from 1975-84, and my trade was in administration – i.e. I flew a desk. But for five of those years I worked on two of the 20 or so air defence bases that protected UK air space. And sometimes that got very interesting.

At least once a month the siren would go off.

When this happened, we knew it was exercise time. My blue uniform was swapped for combats, beret for helmet, and pen for 7.62mm SLR. Because, when that siren went off, I was part of the defence of that thin blue line.
How important was that line? Well, British forces contributed 4 divisions to the effort in Germany, whilst the rest of the forces were responsible for UK air space and keeping the Atlantic open for re-supply from America.

The unsinkable aircraft carrier.

US forces first called Britain that during World War Two, and it was a fact that had the Cold War gone hot, Britain’s importance would have been just as great. For if British air space fell, then no American reinforcements or supplies could ever get to Europe, and the Soviets would have won.
Hence, that thin blue line of the RAF would have become crucial. Those bases would have become among the most violent places on Earth, constantly attacked by bombers, missiles and infiltrated Soviet SPETZNAZ special forces.
I was only a very, very, very small cog in all this, but that was what we were training for in those exercises. And they often got scary as well as very, very funny.

© Anthony North, November 2007

GET IN LINE

I did some strange jobs during my time in the Royal Air Force, and few were stranger than when the call came out from the local police for help. This usually concerned recruiting ‘bodies’ to appear in an identity line up.
Much has been said about the practices of detectives during the 1970s in the UK – Life on Mars fans will know what I mean – so maybe these activities can offer a personal insight.

I was based just outside London at the time.

When a line-up was required at the local police station, the call would come in, and a rough description of the suspect given so that those chosen would in some way reflect what he looked like.
I remember once getting the instruction, small and scruffy. So it was obvious I’d be in the line. However, scruffy, in the RAF, meant ‘casual’, and if we were scruffy haired or unshaven, we’d be in trouble.

So, many casually dressed airmen stood to attention next to …

… well, scruffy wasn’t in it. He seemed to come from a different planet to us, and I remember thinking, even if he was innocent, he’d be picked when compared to the rest of us.
Would this system lead to possible miscarriages of justice? Quite possibly. And the fact that witnesses were in the same room as the line-up in those days, tapping the chosen person on the shoulder, didn’t help.
But our good detectives were always appreciative. ‘Right, come on fellas,’ they’d say after the job. And off we’d go to the pub (bar) next door, whether open or not, safe in the knowledge they’d make sure we’d never remember leaving.

© Anthony North, November 2007

My good friends at The Daily Grail have produced the first in a new series of anthologies called Darklore. Including subject ranging from the Sphinx to Afterlife, and featuring top writers on the unexplained, find out about it here. It will be a brilliant read.

WORKING MY TICKET?

I came down with chronic fatigue syndrome is 1982. I was 27 years of age and had two years left to serve of my nine years in the Royal Air Force. And I can tell you, it was quite an upset to my previously active life.
Regularly I would try to do too much and end up unconscious on the floor. Of course, the condition was almost unknown, and the doctors scratched their heads. They did eventually diagnose me with something, but that is for another post.

Life, I knew, would never be the same again.

But it was different in many ways. One of those ways was an inability, by many, to admit that I was ill. Rather, they accused me of ‘working my ticket’ – a term given to a waster who wanted out of the forces, but couldn’t afford to pay, as was then required.
There were many stories of ticket workers, often pretending to be mad to get a medical discharge. One was said to refuse to salute officers, saying: ‘If I salute one of you, I’ve got to salute you all.’ It is not known what happened to him.

Then there was the one who pretended to be a monkey.

He would jump about from time to time on his haunches, making funny noises. It is said he was once tested on his monkeyness by being tossed a bunch of bananas. He ate them, skin and all. It is said, when he finally got out, he really was mad.
But I was not working my ticket. And to prove so, I completed every last day of my service – medically downgraded as I was. Of course, by doing so, I no doubt missed out on a medical pension.
I was not working my ticket, but I think I ended up mad.

© Anthony North, October 2007

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HILLS OF FIRE

I’d only been in the Royal Air Force a few months in 1975. I was beginning to think, this is boring. My basic training was great, but now I was in trade training, and I hoped my career would be more exciting than this.
Then, just before end of class one afternoon, a Sergeant ran in and ordered us out, and quick. Double marched to a number of trucks, we were thrown overalls and told to get in, and off we sped as fast as the trucks would go.

We reached our destination in an hour.

This was some nearby hills, part of which had caught fire, and if it managed to crest a hill, a town would be put at risk. Issued with shovels and pick axes, it was the beginning of a 12 hour fight with nature.
It was a bit precarious on the slopes of that hill. We were there to dig a fire break. It was a long way down, and the heat, smoke and dust made it look like the pit of hell down there. But there was a job to do and we did it.

The heat went under our feet.

That was the scariest bit – and for a while, it caused undergrowth to ignite behind the trench, and we had to start all over again. There were regular breaks – there had to be. We hadn’t been issued goggles, and we had to have our eyes chemically cleaned regularly.
There was a vision of heaven at these moments. Somehow, the Salvation Army had got a field kitchen up there, and their brews were marvelous. But finally, at 4 o’clock in the morning, we beat it.
Filthy, pained and full of pride, I remember marching down a path to the trucks, our picks on our shoulders, singing ‘hey ho, hey ho, it’s off to work we go’.
As we entered the town, I recall a window opening and a voice saying: ‘Shut up, I’m trying to sleep in here.’
Oh well. I knew I’d made a difference, even if he didn’t.

© Anthony North, October 2007

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I WASN’T LAZY

When I was in my teens I was often accused of being lazy. I worked in my father’s newsagent shop – a business I was eventually supposed to part inherit, but decided I didn’t want it. But it seemed I was rarely in it.
In actual fact, one week out of two I wasn’t in the shop during normal working hours. I was up at four o’clock in the morning, working on the paper rounds, and then from five o’clock in the evening until we shut.

But this wasn’t all I was doing.

No, I was lead guitarist in the best rock band in the area – well, I would say that, wouldn’t I? Apart from the occasional gig, we also practiced three times a week in a hay loft above a barn behind a pub in a sleepy village.
There was no heating in the loft, so in winter it was rather cold. I used to argue I learnt my manic stage antics here as a means of keeping me warm so my shaking fingers could feel the fret board.

And then those awful ladders.

Entry to the loft was via a vertical, fixed ladder and through a small hatch, or opening the hay doors and leaning ladders up to them. Going to and from a gig involved sliding drum kit, heavy speaker cabinets and the rest up and down these ladders.
It was a tiring affair, especially at two o’clock in the morning, in the dark, after a gig. And finished, I’d often get home just in time to open the shop and begin the paper rounds.
Lazy? I don’t think you CAN be lazy over something you love.

© Anthony North, October 2007

Have you clicked Diary of a Writer on Blogroll? Meet me, up close and personal.
Click Tony On, on Blogroll, for my current affairs blog.
If you like fiction, click Fiction Page on Blogroll for my short stories.
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