Simon Mark Smith’s Autobiography
CHAPTER 13
All The Rage
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August 9th 2007
I am driving to London from Eastbourne. My roof is down, the sun is shining, and I’m cruising at the speed limit, (for a change). I am on the intersection of the motorway between the south coast (the M23) and the one that circumferences London (the M25). Before joining the M25 there’s another intersection which requires me to give way to cars already on it. The vehicle ahead of me brakes slightly to give way to a white car travelling at a speed that won’t be making room for anyone. Just behind them, there’s a blue car that could let me in but doesn’t, so I brake. I’m slightly irritated but I know they’ve got the right of way. Somewhere in my mind, I’ve already built up a picture of the driver. It’s a man, most likely in his 30s or early 40s, he’s a bit unkempt, likes to think he’s tough and wants to teach me a lesson because I’m driving a flashy car. I laugh as I realise I could be describing myself.
As we drive onto the M25 I decide I want to accelerate into the overtaking lane. I look over my shoulder, check all is clear, kick down and sweep into it. Within seconds I’ve caught up with the blue car and am just about to overtake it when, both he and another car which he’s tailgating, pull into my lane. He’d done this without checking his mirror or deliberately cut me up. Either way, I’m forced to brake hard. The guy in the blue car has now been promoted in my mind to bully status, someone I want to stand up to. I’m thinking, “fuck you, you wanker, who do you think you are?”
I spot a gap on their inside so pull into it. Seeing a space suddenly appear in front of them as the white car ahead of them pulls away, I slowly get in front of the blue car. I don’t indicate because I want to deliberately wind him up, cut him up, fuck him up. As I’m a quarter of the way into the lane I notice the nose of his car in the corner of my eye, he’s accelerated and is not going to let me in. I think, “Fuck he’s hard, he doesn’t care if we crash, in fact, he wants to hit me, he wants to ram me. I quickly pull back into my lane. I pull in behind him as he sounds his horn and brakes hard. I shout out, “That’s what you just did to me”. His passenger opens his window and pulls the wing mirror in. I realise then, our car mirrors have touched. I check mine and it has been knocked out of place too, so, I pull it back into place. They decelerate and I kick down and undertake them. As I do, I mouth some obscenities at them, then drive off leaving them behind, far behind.
* * *
2007 – The Consequences of Violence
I have spent weeks trying to write this chapter. Slowly it has written itself in my mind, and the incident with the car the other day literally drove me to get on with it.
This chapter is about several issues, the first is the consequence of violence, and the second looks at classic storytelling. A few months ago I was involved in the film I mentioned in the last chapter, the one that followed another painter, Marcia, and I, as we produced some paintings together. I got a phone call a few weeks ago just as I got to the same intersection of the M23 and M25 mentioned above. During the call, I was informed the editor/cameraman, Sam, had pulled out of the project because he didn’t think we had a good enough story, and he didn’t want any of the film clips with him in to be included.
Maybe the ghosts of the houses that were demolished for this bit of the motorway to be built haunt drivers as they pass this spot.
Anyway, this whole episode had me thinking about how story structure could relate to this book, and whether or not what I was writing would be of any interest to anyone outside of those who already knew me.
Classic story structure follows this path. There’s a protagonist, and they’re normally the central character, the hero or anti-hero, (that’s me by the way, although I’m not quite sure which one I am) and their path normally follows a journey that in some way resonates with the audience, and it’s through those journeys, the lessons that interest us reveal themselves.
The story of the blue car and my road rage may horrify you, but at the same time, maybe you recognise this rage within you too.
There’s often a shape to a story’s structure which can be traced as a line on a graph. At first, it travels horizontally, then will go up or down between points of success or trouble and later return to a different level than the initial horizontal line as some kind of resolution. Along this journey, a classically founded story will reveal through its development some background information, some action, and a degree of conflict, then in its end sequences, there’ll be crisis, climax and consequences. To put it simply, you will get to know a bit about the protagonist, and then through some action, there is likely to be conflict, often involving either risk or suffering for them. Finally, as you approach the end of the story, there’s very likely to be more action or heightened drama where matters are sorted out or not, (as in a tragedy), and ultimately either the protagonist or at least the audience learn something from the story.
In a long story, such as this, there is a device called an arc, which is a metaphor for the development of the protagonist’s character. Through a series of stories, the hero or anti-hero is led to different emotional and psychological understandings.
So why am I writing about this? Well, normally when I watch a film I can tell, almost to the second, when the protagonist’s luck is just about to change, and, spoiler alert, I am just about to reveal yet another of my many falls to you.
* * *
But first… The Blue Car
I had driven about four miles since the incident with the blue car when I saw a vehicle about half a mile behind me, on the crest of a hill, flashing its lights. I was pretty sure it was likely to be a police car and I also had a feeling they might be after me. There was also the possibility that this was the blue car, in which case they might be after a fight. I didn’t want to run away, but at the same time, this could become a lot more violent, so wasn’t sure what to do.
My exit was less than two miles away but by the time I got to it, the car had caught up and pulled in behind me. The driver flashed his headlights, so I pulled onto the hard shoulder. Deciding this might not be a good idea I pulled off. Again, they followed, but this time, the passenger pointed a police warrant card through the window at me. What I hadn’t considered was the occupants of the blue car might be police officers, but they were.
I pulled up on the hard shoulder and got out of my car. As they approached me, one of them put on a yellow safety vest with “Metropolitan Police” written on it.
The one who got to me first had a goatee beard, was short and a little rotund.
“Do you know why we’ve pulled you over sir?” He asked calmly.
I felt like saying, “Why don’t you tell me you fascist pig,” but I refrained and instead said, “For speeding?”
He moved his hand as if asking for more, “Yes and what else?”
“And because of the incident with those guys back there.”
I still wasn’t completely sure if it was the same blue car, or maybe I was still in denial about the possibility of the blue car being the cops, but just to confirm my worst fears he added in a horror story tone, “We are those guys.”
At this point, I wanted to fall to my knees and scream, “Noooooooooooooooooooooo!” but instead, I nodded and said, “OK.”
“Was there a reason for you pulling in front of us?”
“Well, I got wound up by the way those guys, I mean you, pulled in front of me.”
“But sir does the highway code not state that you should give way on such an intersection?”
“Yes, I realise that, but it wasn’t at that point that I got wound up, it’s when you pulled up in front of me.”
He looked a little perturbed by this revelation and paused a second.
At this moment the other officer strode up and aggressively interceded, “I just want you to know that I didn’t appreciate the way you tried to kill me back there.”
I was still annoyed about them cutting me off so retorted, “I didn’t, I tried to pull in front of you to show you what you’d done to me, I was shocked when you continued towards me, I couldn’t believe it!”
“So, it was road rage?” the angry, bad cop, said.
Matter-of-factly, I replied, “Yes.”
The good cop joined in again. “You do realise that what you did would easily result in you being banned from driving if we went to court.”
I nodded, “I know what I did was wrong, I’m not trying to defend it. I’m prepared to face the rap”.
I don’t know why, but at this point, I started to try to make the best of the situation and imagined how much weight I’d lose if I had to cycle everywhere, as well as how much money I’d save if I didn’t drive.
The good cop continued, “Do you have any points on your license?”
I shook my head, “No.”
“How long have you been driving?” He asked.
I answered, “Twenty years.”
“What’s your zodiac sign?” Ok, he didn’t really ask that.
But then the bad cop, OK, he wasn’t bad, let’s just say he was a little more highly strung, asked me what I did for a living. The real answer normally goes something like, “I’m a painter, singer-songwriter, photographer, writer, web designer, computer consultant (whatever that means) property developer, and a teacher”.
Instead, I just said, “I’m a teacher”.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a good point for you.”
I did wonder what jobs might have not boded so well. City traders, estate agents, and civil-rights lawyers, all came to mind.
Calming down a bit he added, “Okay we’re not going to take this any further.”
I wanted to jump in the air and scream, “Yehaaaaaaaaaaaa!” but I bowed my head sheepishly and said, “Thank you.”
They asked me to gain as much speed as I could on the hard shoulder before joining the carriageway – I did think accelerating up to 120 mph might be taking the piss. So, instead, I drove slowly and endured them trundling past me a bit later. I was tempted to wave, then stick my tongue out at them as I went up the slip road and they continued on the motorway, but, the passenger, the highly strung one, looked sternly forward and I didn’t think he’d see the funny side anyway.
* * *
2007 – Control
The next day I drove a co-worker through London and remembered how he’d converted to Islam at a time when he felt he was a bit out of control, seeing it as a stabilising force. I told him about the incident with the blue car and said that I felt it had a similar significance to me. It was a controlling force that I secretly yearned for. The part of me that is wild leads me into such dangerous situations, that I’m actually scared of it, and as a consequence I want it to be curbed.
* * *
2007 – Controlling the Controller
A few weeks ago, the mother of my sons, asked me to deal with one of them. He’d lost his temper and strewn a load of things down the stairs then locked himself in the bathroom. I walked slowly up to the bathroom and knocked on the door. No answer. I tried the door, but it was locked. “I’m going to come back in ten minutes. If you haven’t cleared this mess up by then, then there’ll be trouble.”
I walked away and about seven minutes later returned and said, “OK this is what’s going to happen if you don’t clear up. I am going to return in five minutes and break the door open, come in, grab you by your hair, take you outside the house and call social services to come and get you because you can’t live here if you don’t abide by the rules. I’m willing to listen to what you have to say but only when you clear up this mess.”
I walked away and within a minute or so he cleared up. I came upstairs and thanked him, then said I was here if he wanted to talk. But he didn’t, well not right then.
There’s a paradox in all of this. As I walked up and down those stairs, I was petrified that I would go berserk and beat up my child. So far, I have never hit my children, I’ve threatened them a few times with corporal punishment, but never hit them.
I once marched one of them into his bedroom by his hair when he wouldn’t leave the living room after his mum asked him to, but as I left the room I looked back and saw he was sobbing. I felt so sorry for him, he looked so alone, that I went back and hugged him. But now as they approach their teenage years, I’m worried I’ll lose it with them in a battle for power and end up destroying the love between us.
* * *
2007 – Take a Taxi to the Edge of My Mind
Last night I dreamt that the children were much younger, and we were on a road somewhere and one of my sons was playing up, so I threatened to make him walk home alone. In real life their mum plays along with this game, in fact, it was hers originally as her father had done it to her. But in this dream, she feels sorry for our son, so, orders a taxi which they take home together.
* * *
Out of the Blue
I am making love to a woman, her legs and arms are wrapped tightly around me. We are covered in sweat. Our bodies are sliding against each other. The movements are deep, slow, and hard. She is coming and between her breaths, she whispers, “Come, come inside me. I want you to come inside me.”
The sudden twists of fate rarely come after a bout of careful thought from controlled actions, but instead from seemingly nowhere, out of the blue. But somewhere in the blue, decisions come from parts of us we barely know exist.
* * *
13th August 2007 – Second Life
A few months ago, I played around in a virtual world on the Internet called Second Life. It’s a three-dimensional virtual landscape in which you can build houses, see other people, speak to them, go to clubs, sunbathe, shop, you name it.
During my first few days there I frequented a few bars. I was sitting in one, drinking virtual orange juice, speaking to three beautifully dressed Japanese women, who were actually men in real life. I realised I like sitting and chatting in bars, it’s a good way to meet people. What was weird about this was, when I was sitting in a real bar in Eastbourne, a few nights later, it felt so reminiscent of sitting in the bar in Second Life. Only there were no Japanese women, just three blokes.
Via Myspace I’ve met quite a few people in Eastbourne since moving here last November. One such “new friend” is called Steve, and he and I have been writing songs together over the last month or so. After a typical song-writing session we tend to go out to a couple of the late-night bars around here, even though I don’t drink. A fact, Steve says, which makes my antics even more inexcusable.
So far nearly every night out has ended up with us at Maxims, a bar with a night-club downstairs. When I dance Steve stands there, rotating his pelvis in slow motion laughing hysterically at me. He says it’s good to see the old spirit of Saturday Night Fever is still with us.
Normally as we drive home, we take the long way which involves cruising around the town centre about five times while Steve shouts out, “Free open-top taxi, government-sponsored free open taxi” to any group of women we drive past. Quite frequently they’ll shout back, “Give us a lift”. Although there’s always one who’ll shout back, “No it’s okay mate, you might murder us.” Steve then puts his hand up and says with an official tone, “It’s okay. We’re part of a government-sponsored scheme. The government are getting local millionaires to give back to the community. So, we’re out giving lifts. The only problem is we can’t give lifts to other millionaires. Are you a millionaire? If you are you’ll have to get out.” By the end of this spiel, they’re snuggled up in the back seats saying, “Don’t worry mate we live in [whatever road they say] we ain’t millionaires… Oooh, I ain’t been in a convertible before, well not when its roof was down anyway. I hope you ain’t expecting anything for this you two?”
Steve interjects in his official capacity, “Oh no we’re not allowed to receive any payment for this, that would be against the spirit of the scheme.”
One of them will invariably ask me, “How come you’re sitting so close to the steering wheel mate, you’re almost kissing the mirror?”
To which, another, less drunk one will whisper very loudly, “Shhh, he’s got short arms”. Normally they go quiet for a second because the one who’s just been told to shhh can’t believe what she’s heard. A couple of curious looks later they’re waving and shouting hello to strangers as we drive along. By the end of the journey, Steve has fallen in love with one of them, and much to my disbelief gets a snog from at least one of them although normally it’s not the one he’s fallen for.
I used to think drunken women were a danger to themselves but the other day I was put right. Steve and I had been talking to a woman in Maxims who was so drunk we started to avoid her. A bit later, she approached me and leaned forward to say something. I could feel her move towards my neck and thought, “She wants to kiss my neck, I think I’ll let her.” I felt her mouth open over the side of my neck, but within a second, she bit my neck so hard I thought she’d cut through to my carotid artery. I couldn’t push her away because I thought that might cause even more damage and I couldn’t hit her because that might make her bite me even harder. I realised I was close to being killed, even if it was by accident. I don’t know if I made any noise, but had I done so, it would have been drowned out by the music. Then, after a few seconds, she started to pull me up, so my feet left the ground. At this point, I admit it, I was pretty scared. She then let go and I dropped back down to my normal height or lack of it. I put my arm to my neck to see if there was any blood, there wasn’t, but then Steve, who’d just come over, looked at me and yelped, “Oh my God”. Where she’d bitten me, a bulge immediately appeared alongside a large bruise where her teeth had been. Some people pay a lot of money for that kind of thing so maybe I should’ve been grateful, but I wasn’t.
A day later we went to another bar called The Loft. I put my bag on a seat while I put my car keys in it and heard the guy at the table next to me say, “I’m gonna chin the guy behind me in a minute.” So, presuming he was talking about Steve I said, “I hope you’re not talking about my mate”.
“Nah it’s someone else.”
A moment later the guy pushed me and I stumbled a bit sideways. I was holding my drink and nearly spilt it. I looked at him and he was smiling and moving in a drunken motion. I felt confused. There were five of them and just Steve and me.
At first, we moved away but then I said to Steve I was getting wound up by what had happened, so I stood right next to them again and looked in their direction. I could feel my rage beginning to bubble up. At this point, still outnumbered, I thought that if anything was to happen, we might get kicked out and banned. The reasons for not getting into a fight were stacked against me.
I eventually thought I’d wait for him to go to the toilet then follow him and while he urinated punch him as hard as possible in his spine with my sharp stump, but the damage I could do might be permanent and even I knew it wasn’t worth it. So, realising I would lose too much if I tried to avenge what had happened, I concluded it best to do nothing.
A bit later we were joined by a couple of friends, so I pointed out the guy who’d pushed me to one of them. My friend stared straight at him, they caught each other’s eyes and the troublemaker quickly looked downwards.
A few days later we were in the bar again and talked to the bar staff about the group of troublemakers. They said they wanted to stop them from coming in because they continually harassed others and were worried they’d lose peaceful customers like us. I was glad they couldn’t read my mind.
* * *
So, Where is This Going?
Before I show you one of my many falls, I wanted you to see some of the consequences of it. They aren’t particularly positive ones, in that it hasn’t taught me not to be violent. Instead, it’s injected me with a kind of poison, a darkness that when pushed, is ruthless, and while at odds with much of my character, can inflict violence upon others, with barely any warning.
* * *
December 2005
I’m driving in London, it’s raining hard. A man walks out slowly in front of me causing me to come to a jarring halt. I beep my horn at him. He turns his back to me and sticks his arse up at me. I drive forward and push him over. He falls to the ground. He gets up. I stare at him, put my window down and shout, “I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking cunt”. He looks shocked. He steps out of the way and I drive off.
* * *
1989 – Somewhere Near Trouble
My friend Lee from up North and I are sitting in my flashy car. We’ve pulled up in front of a coach. A man gets out and approaches us. “Right lads, you’ve had your fun, but you better go before you get hurt.”
“I tell you what,” I say, “When the guy who spat on us comes and apologises, we’ll go.”
He shakes his head slowly, “That isn’t going to happen.”
I put the car into reverse then drive back behind the coach and pull up.
“I think we should go,” Lee says.
“In a minute,” I say.
A couple of guys walk toward us.
I speed forward and pull up in front of the coach again.
This time about 20 men are waiting there. One pulls Lee’s door open, but Lee manages to close it and lock it. I spin the car around so we’re facing them. They are blocking the road, both behind and in front of us. They think they’ve got us trapped. They’re jeering, taunting and beckoning us so I drive towards them at full speed. Seeing I’m not scared of hitting them they dive out the way and end up sprawled on either side of the road. I look in my mirror as we speed off. As they get back to their feet a police panda car comes around the corner. Its blue light starts to flash so, I kick the accelerator down as hard as I can, the gear changes down and we get pushed back into our seats as the car shoots forward. Within minutes we’re speeding down country lanes and I see the blue lights fading into the distance. I take a hard hairpin right turn and as fast as possible head towards Woodhead and the moors. Within minutes we get to the summit of a hill where the sun is coming up and the whole landscape is covered in snow. I want to sing ‘Feeling Good’, because it’s a new day, and we’re on top of the world.
* * *
2007 – The Unreasonable Agony of Injustice
I am currently reading “Man’s Search for Meaning” by Victor E. Frankl, which is the reflection of a psychoanalyst who survived the Nazi concentration camps during World War 2. His story makes mine look like a positive walk in the park. A couple of lines struck me in terms of what I’m trying to convey about violence here. I’ll paraphrase them for copyright reasons:
“It’s not physical pain which hurts most of all. It’s the mental agony caused by the unreasonableness of injustice.”
Perhaps deep down I carry with me a sense of being treated unfairly, maybe being disabled has a part to play in that too, although it’s more the unfairness with which people have treated me than the physical limitations of being disabled. Even Shakespeare recognised this when he wrote:
“In nature, there’s no blemish but the mind;
None can be called deformed but the unkind.”
Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene IV
* * *
2007 – Trying to Appear Tough
A friend of Kate’s has read some of these chapters and reckons I’m trying to sound like I’m tough. I can see that it comes over that way, but being tough is relative. Against a lot of people, I wouldn’t stand a chance, but I think what I’m trying to touch on is the rage inside me.
Now, it’d be easy to blame it on my disability, or the frustration of my early years, but then my father and half-brother on my mother’s side are similar too. So maybe I’ll never know why I have this ruthless violent streak, but it was there from very early on, from when I kicked my mother in the head, to the Roundshaw fights, and many other times, including as an adult. It was always there and had far more control over me than it should have.
* * *
End of Chapter 13
