Chapter 34 – Ideologies Part 1
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A Zen student once asked their master, “What happens after death?” The master replied, “I don’t know.” The student, taken aback, exclaimed, “But you’re a Zen master, you must know.” The Zen master smiled, and answered, “Yes, but I’m not a dead Zen master.”
* * *
Introduction
It’s almost 1 am on the 21st of September 2021, I’m listening to Laurie Anderson singing ‘Baby Doll’ on Spotify. It’s a song about her brain having very different ideas from those she would like it to have.
The summer of 1982 saw the end of my first year as a 6th former and it was time for me to think about what I’d want to do after leaving school in about ten months. I was interested in psychology and philosophy, and besides I thought they’d help me sort myself out too. There was a Psychology and Philosophy degree course available at Leicester University and as I read through the prospectus, I imagined myself living there. As far as I was concerned this was going to be my destiny. Given I tended to be sceptical about most things, even at 17, I should have been ready for what fate had planned, but I wasn’t.
* * *
Chapter 1 – Part 1
Home Life – May 1982
In TV dramas, after people have arguments, they talk about it, then soon after, the problem gets resolved. Well, either that or they kill each other. The fact that the killer-type ones are more popular says something about human nature. For most of us though, here in real-life land, when it comes to family issues, we rarely get to move on so smoothly but instead, find ourselves caught up in repetitive cycles of dysfunctionality.
John and Mum had been married since 1977, so we were almost five years down the line and still, nothing had been resolved between us. At most meals, there’d be an argument, and everything I did became an opportunity for John to have a go at me or Mum. I am sure there were times when I deserved it, and in a way, I feel sorry for John having me as a stepson, but none of us seemed able to find a way forward. Most people go through a process of ‘forming, storming and norming’ but for us, the storming became the norming.
The more John had a go at me, the more Mum would take my side, and then John would have a go at her. Even chatting to each other became something for John to criticise. As much as Mum and I had our issues, we were easy in each other’s company, and would often have a good laugh together. Unsurprisingly, the more intense the issues became between John and Mum, the more distant they became too.
It’s easy to look in from the outside now and recognise the dynamics that made their relationship worse, but at the time, none of us had the wherewithal to do anything about it. As a consequence, I started reading psychology, philosophy and religious books in the hope of finding an answer but it soon became clear, that there weren’t going to be any, well not any time soon, and if there was a quick fix, it probably wasn’t going to be a legal one.
John’s family were very prim and proper. For them, there was a far greater consciousness of there being a public persona than either Mum or I had. Given Mum’s family had been similarly reserved, it’s hard to work out where our lack of concern came from. I’m sure we had our version of being worried about appearances, it’s just they were different to John’s.
* * *
There was a café called The Manor Bakery that I’d sometimes pop into on my way home for a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. Not only did this feel very ‘grown up’, but it meant I could avoid eating at the argument table. One day I sat down in the café and tentatively tucked into an egg custard when John walked past. He saw me, came in and had a go at me in front of the staff and other customers. The whole humiliating experience put me off egg custards for decades. I hadn’t exactly been that keen on them in the first place; I’d only had one then because it was on special offer and I was hungry. It was all very unfortunate, but at least nowadays a lot of cafes sell Portuguese custard tarts, (Pasteis de nata), so things worked out okay in the end.
Anyway, back to the haranguing. When I returned home it continued right on through the evening, eventually climaxing with John blaming me for the breakdown of his and Mum’s marriage and for good measure, he added I was mentally weak. That was a phrase I found a little confusing, which might have proved his point. Did he mean I was academically thick or just weak-willed? I thought it best not to ask him for further clarification, so I took shelter in my room, but every time I heard him moving around downstairs, I’d go into the bathroom just in case he’d come up for another go.
Compared to a lot of people’s relationships with their parents, this was nothing. John didn’t beat me, and I had shelter and was fed, but I wasn’t happy, and couldn’t wait to leave home. I expect for him the feeling was mutual, although when I did come to leave home, they didn’t separate. However, for both of them, there was a bit of a resigned acceptance when it came to their relationship.
* * *
1982 – Wilson’s – How to Make Love to a Man
One morning I came into class with a book called How to Make Love to a Man. Within a few seconds, everyone started calling me gay, but instead of getting defensive, I read some of it out loud. Everyone went silent and didn’t want me to stop. Likewise, when I read some of it to a group of friends on the bus home I gained quite a large audience, including a few non-school-age co-travellers, some of whom didn’t get off the bus till I did.
* * *
Autobiographies
I acquired several books from Sutton Library’s book sale in 1982. One of them was an autobiography called You Should See Me in Pyjamas written by Robert Giddings, who was a broadcaster, writer and teacher with a disability. This was probably one of the first books I read which touched on disability-issue-based politics. Even the title was a statement about how people’s expectations of disabled people tend to be very low. At the time, I often experienced a similar reaction to my disability, which I called, ‘The Bloody Marvellous’ syndrome. No matter how trivial a thing I did was, people would tell me I was “Bloody Marvellous”. I didn’t knock them for doing so as it was understandable, especially if they hadn’t had much contact with disabled people. But the downside of it was they’d underestimate me, which also meant they’d think less of me too. As far as I was concerned their opinion had little to do with who I was, but it was still something I found annoying.
When friends first suggested I write about my life, I thought of Giddings’s book. When it comes to autobiographies, if you’re not famous then you better have an interesting story to tell. Being disabled kind of gets you a free pass but I didn’t want to focus on disability too much. As far as I was concerned the message I wanted to put out regarding disability was everyone is different, and in many ways, mainly bad ways, I’m very normal.
There’s also something else to consider about autobiographies, it’s the format they’re supposed to follow. I’ve read a few lately, well most of them were audiobooks but that still counts as reading in my book. Having the writers read their work to me also added an element of intimacy, an intimacy that reminded me of the first HiFi we had at home. It had speakers that were covered in a material reminiscent of the screen between the priest and confessor in the confessional. On one side of the screen I sat listening, while on the other Tom Jones confessed to me that he’d killed Delilah, Elvis kept rushing in, Bruce liked open riverside sex with Mary and got her up the duff, and Phil Collins could feel it coming in the air, and then, rather aggressively seemed to beat the crap out of something, somebody or himself.
Decades later it’s a different speaker cover and they’re not singing but telling their tales, but still, it’s the same dynamic. This time Phil seemed to be searching for forgiveness, while Fenella Fielding purred her way through a life of understated reactions and ‘marvellous darlings’, whereas Bruce, well, Bruce just laid it out like one of his songs, there was darkness, foreboding, fear and love. The lessons they learnt, the funny tales they told, and the emotional connection between themselves and all of us; that was their form of autobiographies.
Then there was Carl Jung. For him, the incidents of his life were barely worth mentioning; what was important were his thoughts, beliefs, and spiritual growth. Even within the first chapter, he spoke of childhood dreams which I recognised I’d had too. (Something small in the distance gradually approaching, getting bigger and bigger and eventually overwhelming us dreamers, he and I, with fear). And later there was his, and my own, attraction to lighting fires.
What they all said to me was, “You’re not alone”.
So, here I am, someone of little significance in the grand scheme of things, writing an autobiography that seems to have veered a long way away from the traditional path, and in this chapter, I’m writing about ideologies and corruption. But is what I’m up to a corruption of what an autobiography is supposed to be, or was the definition a bit too definite in the first place anyway?
* * *
2020 – Living the Dream
I recently wrote a song about the person who commissioned the building of the house I live in. The first owner was a woman, well, it says something to that effect on the deeds. Plus, one morning I woke up suddenly and saw a woman’s face looking at me from behind a door and when she realised I’d seen her, she looked startled. It was probably just a waking dream, however, for some reason, I got the feeling she was the original owner of the house.
Whether she contributed to the design of the house or not, at some point, it was, in a way, a house of somebody’s dreams. I mean, after all, someone had to imagine it before they drew up the plans. The same could be said of Roundshaw, the estate I lived on from the age of seven to twelve. As far back as the 1920s, artists and architects formed ideologies about people’s lives being improved by the buildings they lived in. These architect’s dreams resulted in better lives for some and nightmares for others, but either way, the reality rarely lived up to the expectations of those ideologically inspired designers.
As I became more aware of ideologies, I couldn’t help but have a very cynical reaction, especially when it came to human nature having any involvement. Was this in part caused by my experience of living on Roundshaw, and if so, did this mean someone else’s ideology had impacted my vision of the world? Ideologies create realities that in turn, affect ideologies.
I’ve often come across people debating the merits of one ideology over another as if a logical argument could lead us to a single correct outcome. However, the influences that form our beliefs and values are so varied and subtle, that there’s very little chance of us ever meeting eye-to-eye with those who’ve had very different experiences. So, when people declare we don’t need borders, boundaries, or fences they seem to be ignoring that these barriers are not just symbolic lines, but the external manifestations of internal worlds whose borders were in part created by very different worlds.
Historically, religious denominations tended to be the main cause of conflict within borders. In recent decades, Western societies have experienced internal divisions on an unprecedented scale where physical borders no longer constrain ideologies. The Internet, mass migration and multiculturalism have all seen to that. Ideologies divide people to a far greater extent than borders do, but what borders do allow for, however, is the easy identification of different sections of society constrained within them. Borders don’t have to be defined on a map, they can be found in the words we say, books we won’t read and uniforms we don’t even realise we’re wearing. There will always be borders as long as there are people who don’t meet eye to eye on everything.
* * *
2020 – Turning Japanese
I have been studying Japanese for several years. I don’t have my father’s gift for languages so I’m still only a beginner. The reason I mention it is because the mindsets behind the evolution of Japanese and English are so different. Efficiency, brevity, social hierarchy and order dominate not only the Japanese language but also its culture. In turn, its culture affects its language, and so on. No matter how similar people are, or whether there’s more that connects us than doesn’t, we ignore our differences at our peril; likewise, ignoring our similarities can be just as dangerous too.
* * *
1982 – This is War
On the 25th of April 1982, I’d gone to Wales for the day to watch a karate fighting competition. An hour into the proceedings we were told a conflict between the British and Argentinians had commenced over who should rule the Falkland Islands. Even though the competition continued, a hushed depression fell upon everyone. We were at war, even though war was never declared officially.
A few weeks earlier we’d been informed that the Argentinians had taken control of the Falkland Islands. Initially, a lot of people got the Falklands mixed up with the Shetland Islands which were North of Scotland. Why would the Argentinians be attacking them, had they not realised how tough the Scots were? But within days the TV put everyone straight, telling us the Falklands were in the South Atlantic Ocean, 8000 miles away from the UK, and 1500 miles from Argentina.
Still, it seemed hard to comprehend why a country would attack another, especially in a nuclear-weapon world, but it soon became clear this war was less about historical and geographical sovereignty and more an excuse for the Argentinian Government to shore up division within its ranks while securing political gain. They gambled the British wouldn’t do anything, but what the Argentinians hadn’t banked on though was a weapon just as dangerous as a nuclear warhead, a politician facing low poll ratings. For our Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, this couldn’t have come at a better time. On both sides, the politicians spoke of high ideals but were more than willing to sacrifice their citizens for political gain. Admittedly, Thatcher was more of an opportunist in this instance as she hadn’t instigated matters directly. There’d been warnings the Argentinians were planning an attack that may have been conveniently ignored, but a pre-emptive attack was dismissed as highly unlikely. Still, once things escalated it was no surprise to anyone that both the UK and Argentinian politicians would be so self-serving. After all, it’s pretty well-accepted that politicians all over the world are corrupt, not just in the 1980s but throughout history too. Indeed, a non-corrupt politician tends to be viewed as rather exceptional.
* * *
My OCD Part 1
For much of my life, I’ve had a bit of a magical thinking OCD trait. From early childhood, I’d think that if I did one thing, for example, don’t step on the cracks in the pavement, look at a stranger’s face, or hold my breath until a car goes past, then something I want would come my way. Lots of other people have told me they have similar thoughts too. For instance, Monica, the girlfriend in the early chapters of Volume One, told me that when she wasn’t sure about us seeing each other anymore, she said to herself that if the time of a song on her CD player got past a certain number before the track ended, then our relationship was meant to be. Luckily, for me at the time, it went in my favour. It’s probably not unreasonable to see this as a thought process that’s partly behind the formation of superstitions and religions. Something along the lines of, “If we do this, then God or the gods will either punish or reward us.”
One day in the summer of 1982, I realised I was silly letting myself be controlled by these kinds of thoughts, so I decided not to give in to them anymore. But a couple of things happened that made me feel I was being punished for even daring to try stopping them, but I’ll tell you about them in the next chapter. Yes, I know, the suspense must be killing you.
* * *
Therapy Session 1985
Me: Sometimes I think if I do something, like get to a lamp post before a car passes, I’ll get something I want. But also, I get a feeling that if I don’t try to do these things, I’ll be punished.
Therapist: That’s a lot of responsibility and power to have.
Me: I don’t see it as me having the power, some kind of external force has it.
Therapist: If everyone could manipulate reality merely by doing these things then could the world function as it does?
Me: I know it’s irrational, but unfortunately there have been times when I’ve tried to stop doing it, and as soon as I did, bad things happened.
Therapist: Maybe there are times when you can’t bear not having control and at other times you can’t bear the responsibility or effort involved in getting something you want. So, the childlike part of you resorts to magical thoughts to deal with the hardships of reality.
* * *
2021 – Supernatural Part 1 – B&B
“A matter that is explained ceases to concern us”
Nietzsche
I first met Barry and Barbara in a café called Mamma Mi in Eastbourne a few years ago. It was one of those places that had a lot of regulars and wasn’t particularly fancy. A mixture of table and chair styles, and lightshades made from kitchen utensils, such as cheese graters and colanders, but what drew most of the customers, apart from the strong coffee and cheap Italian street food, was its very sociable atmosphere. Nearly everyone who went there ended up chatting with each other and developing friendships with those they connected with and that’s what happened to us.
Both Barry and Barbara were in their 80s when we met, they seemed to appreciate my dodgy jokes which I think often indicates some kind of deeper understanding. Maybe it’s the experience of difficult times that fosters dark humour and it was partly that which connected us. Although they’d frequented the upper echelons of the international trade world, neither had forgotten their humble and difficult beginnings, consequently, their feet were firmly attached to the ground.
* * *
1991
When Barbara and Barry [let’s call them B&B from now on for convenience’s sake], when B&B first got together, they both had children from previous marriages, so, once their kids finally flew the nest, they got back into travelling together, which was something they loved doing. It was 1991 when B&B decided to drive up from Wakefield in Yorkshire to Inverness in Scotland for a four-day break. It was too long a journey to do in one go, so, they decided to take a gamble and find a place to stay en route. It was mid-May, and the days were starting to get longer. After a seven-hour drive, they passed through a town called Callander in the late afternoon, and beginning to get weary, decided to look out for a hotel as they travelled northwards up the A84. Some miles later, they finally came across a large hotel situated on a mound to the right of the road, so, Barry pulled up.
“Oh, thank goodness for that,” Barbara said.
Barry got out of the car, “I’ll go see if they’ve got any rooms.”
“If they haven’t, ask if they’ve got a stable,” Barbara said.
Barry smiled, closed the door, and walked 50 metres from the roadside to the main entrance. He looked back at Barbara, who gave him the international hurry-up hand sign, so he did as ordered and went inside. The building was old, maybe 30 metres across and while there was a “Hotel” sign out near the road, apart from that, it looked like a typical Scottish highland manor house. Barry entered the reception area where an old woman in a shawl was sitting at the desk. She slowly looked up but said nothing. Barry waited for a second, then decided to initiate proceedings. In his poshest Yorkshire accent, he said, “Hello, I was just wondering if you have any vacancies? I’m looking for a double room for my wife and me for one night, and we’d preferably like an evening meal if that’s possible, as well as breakfast of course.”
The woman nodded slightly and got up while saying, “Aye.” She pointed at the signing-in the book. Barry quickly filled in their details, then went to the car to fetch Barbara and their cases. As they entered, the old lady was waiting, key in hand and without speaking she started walking along the corridor.
“We’ll follow you, shall we?” Barry asked.
The woman paused, half turned and nodded slightly.
They walked along a dark oak-panelled corridor till they came to the room. The woman opened the door and held out the key. Barry, whose arms were full, said, “Barbara, can you take them please?” which she did, then thanked the old lady.
“If we come down for our meal at seven, would that be okay?” Barry asked.
The woman nodded and quietly said, “Aye.”
When they got into their room Barry burst out laughing and said, “I didn’t think she’d ever stop talking.”
Barbara laughed then sat on the bed and bounced up and down on it to check the mattress, “This feels very comfortable.”
Barry went into the bathroom and started filling the bath but soon came back into the bedroom with a slightly distressed look on his face, “Well, there’s good news,” he said, “and there’s bad news. The good news is there’s hot water. The bad news is it’s as brown as tea.”
Barbara walked into the bathroom, “Blimey,” she said.
Barry laughed, “I’ll give it a go. If I dissolve, then be careful driving the car home.”
Barbara whispered, “I’m not bathing in that. I think I’ll wait till we get back to civilisation.”
“Why are we whispering?” Barry whispered.
Barbara leaned a little closer to Barry, “I don’t know, it’s just, I don’t know. Do you think anyone else is staying here?”
Barry shrugged, “There must be. A place this big, there’s got to be at least a few other guests.”
After they’d settled in, they decided to explore a little before dinner. Firstly, they went outside, where a man was standing under a tree smoking. As they passed him, they said hello. He smiled and asked them where they were from. He didn’t have a Scottish accent, so they asked if he was staying in the hotel.
“No, I’m stopping in a cottage nearby. I’ve just had a quick drink from the bar here. I’m having a bit of time away to,” he paused a second, “to get myself together.”
There was something about his demeanour, his shaky voice and trembling cigarette hand, that reminded Barry of the soldiers he’d seen return from Dunkirk.
“You say there’s a bar here?” Barry interjected.
The man pointed to the right, “Yes, it’s just beyond the reception.”
Barry mimed holding a beer glass and smiled, “I think we’ll get a drink, can we get you one?”
The man smiled back, shook his head, and said, “No, thank you, I’ll have to be going soon. Thank you though”.
“Where is your cottage?” Barbara asked.
She thought she heard him say the name of a place that was tens of miles away, but she didn’t want to question him so just left it.
“Well, have a safe journey. Maybe we’ll see you later.” She said as they started to walk back to the hotel.
He raised a hand, the one holding a cigarette, and half waved, and half smoke signalled goodbye to them. Taking a big drag, he closed his eyes, savoured the moment and let the last rays of sunlight warm his face.
There was still a little time to kill before dinner, so, B&B made their way to the bar where they were relieved to find a barman. He was drying a glass and turned towards them as they approached. He was in his 30’s, tall, well-built, and had a moustache. Barry ordered two glasses of wine, however, as they started to strike up a conversation with him, they found his Glaswegian accent so strong they could hardly understand a word he said. He seemed to be busy anyway, so, they took a seat and chatted together till seven, at which point Barry took their glasses back to the bar and asked where the dining room was. The barman pointed and mumbled something that sounded like, “To the end.” They found it quickly enough but were a bit surprised when they entered as it also served as a ballroom. Large chandeliers were hanging from the ceiling and enough tables for a banquet, or a wedding were all laid out with starched white linen, candles in candelabras, glasses filled with carefully folded napkins, as well as highly polished, perfectly laid out cutlery.
As they looked for somewhere to sit, the old woman appeared and with an outstretched hand indicated their table. They took their seats, and she passed them each a menu. As they read through it, they were struck by how traditionally Scottish the choices were. Smoked Haddock, Salmon, and Grouse were among the options on offer.
“Wow,” whispered Barbara, “I can’t believe this menu.”
The old woman came back a few minutes later, took their orders, and in time brought their meals through. B&B were not easily impressed when it came to dining, they often frequented top restaurants in London and Paris, but as they tucked in, they were astounded by the quality of the meal.
“What a find this is,” Barbara said quietly, “I can’t believe it. Do you think she cooked it herself?”
Barry nodded in agreement, “I haven’t seen anyone else but the barman and her, and what’s more there aren’t any other guests.”
“Yes, I was wondering about that too. You know, even though it seems we’re the only ones here I feel like we’re being watched.”
Barry nodded once again, but this time said nothing.
Once back in their room, they got ready for bed and got under the covers.
Whispering still, Barbara snuggled up to Barry, “This is the strangest hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”
“Yes, but the food’s good,” Barry added.
“Yes, it is.”
Slowly, and in a slightly high-pitched voice Barry whispered, “Aye”.
Barbara turned towards Barry, “Don’t you start.”
Barry couldn’t resist and repeated, “Aye”.
Barbara lay down, pulled the covers over her head, and said, “I’m not coming out till you stop that.”
A couple of hours after nodding off Barbara woke and quietly said, “Are you asleep Barry?”
“Yes”
“Good,” Barbara laughed, “Can you hear that noise, it sounds like they’re having a ceilidh [Kayley] down there.”
Barry took a quick intake of breath, “Yes, I can hear it. Shall we go down and join them?”
“Well, I would, had we been invited. Can you hear them whooping, they sound like they’re having a whale of a time?” She paused to listen a bit more. “Maybe that’s why the dining room was all set up. I bet a coach load of people have been bussed in for a dinner and dance thing.”
“Ah well, maybe it’s just for locals and that’s why she didn’t mention it,” Barry added.
“Oh well”, Barbara sighed, “Anyway, are you still asleep?”
Barry paused, then made a snoring noise and within a few minutes, they drifted off again.
The next morning, they went down to breakfast, and once more were the only ones in the large dining room. It seemed to be exactly as they’d left it the previous night. If there had been a party, they’d done a very good job clearing up afterwards. Just as before, the old lady served them again. Barbara chose kippers and then finished off with warm oat cakes covered in marmalade.
There was no sign of any other guests, nor was the barman around to help with breakfast. When the old lady served them, there was no small talk, no, “Did you both sleep well last night?” or “We do like our guests to be happy.” Just breakfast options, and “Ayes” and “No’s”.
After breakfast, they packed their things into the car and Barry went to the reception to settle the bill. When he got it, he was astounded by how cheap it was. The prices were what he’d have expected to pay three decades earlier, but “far be it for a Yorkshireman to question a Scot on matters of finance”, he thought to himself.
As the old woman passed him the receipt, he asked, “Was there a party going on last night?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
A little confused Barry then asked if they were the only guests, to which she just said, “Aye”.
“Oh,” Barry said, even more bewildered, “Well thank you for our lovely stay.”
She nodded at him politely then sat down again at the reception desk as he made his way out.
He got into the car, fastened his seat belt, and looked back at the hotel noticing an old-fashioned pram and a child’s tricycle to the side of the front porch.
“I wonder who they belong to?” he asked.
Barbara raised her eyebrows then got herself comfortable, “Maybe she’s got grandchildren. Anyway, that was lovely, strange, but lovely. I mean outside of the Edwardian bathroom and brown water; I’d stay here again. What do you think?”
“I quite liked the bathroom,” Barry added.
“No, I mean would you want to stay here again?”
As they started to drive off, Barbara noted an overgrown tennis court just across the road from the hotel.
She looked at Barry, “Maybe next time we’ll stay a couple of nights, what do you think?”
“Yes, I would,” Barry said. He checked the road was clear, pushed down on the accelerator and set off.
* * *
The Return
After their stay in Inverness, they decided to stay at the hotel on their return journey. Barry knew the route, so took the same road. The loch was on his right, but the hotel was nowhere to be seen. The mound to the left was there, but the tennis courts, driveway, and building were all gone. He decided to double back to see if he’d missed a junction, but he hadn’t. After a few miles, he turned around again and continued along his original route. Eventually, he got to the junction he expected to find so was sure he hadn’t accidentally taken a similar but different road. They were both stunned.
Even though Barry was sure he’d followed the same route back, he realised he might have been confused, so, for years afterwards, whenever they were travelling nearby, they’d try to find the hotel again, but they never did.
* * *
How We React
I’d have been sure this was an urban folk tale if I didn’t know Barry and Barbara. The way they weave between each other in the telling of the story, the details and consistency with which they convey it, all those things, plus trusting them anyway, meant for me, I believed they were telling the truth. I have made a video of Barbara and Barry recounting this experience so you can judge for yourself. It’s at: https://youtu.be/5ubOvCRxyYE.
For you, the reader, you’re probably wondering if I’m being a bit gullible, or they may have somehow either become self-deluded, or hypnotised by someone else into believing it happened or maybe it’s as simple as them just taking a different route to the one they thought. Then again, it could be something else that I haven’t considered. But, of course, there is also the possibility, no matter how small, that something we can’t explain, did happen.
How you react to this story says a lot about your own beliefs and internal models of reality. Do you believe they experienced a ghost hotel or a time slip, or as far as you’re concerned are such phenomena impossible? Maybe you’re both sceptical and simultaneously open-minded and willing to accept we just don’t know.
* * *
Another Tale
As I wrote the last section, I tried to find out more about this area as well as any buildings that matched their description of the hotel. This involved using Google Street View to have a look at all the roads nearby, but after five hours of doing that, I gave up. Then, trying a few lateral internet searches, I came across a page that described a similar incident which happened to another couple on the same road going Northwards out of Callander, and what’s more, it occurred in the mid-1990s too. If it still exists, you can read the original article at:
http://britishdowsing.net/timeslips-a-cat-circle-and-the-ghost-train-of-balquhidder/
Meanwhile, here’s a synopsis of what the piece reported.
On the 15th of August 1995, Mr and Mrs Hardy of Snaith, Humberside, had gone to Callander for a Chinese meal. At 23:45 they set off back to the campsite at Cultybraggan. A short while later they were driving along the A84 beside the edge of Loch Lubnaig. They looked at the moonlight on the water and then suddenly found they were passing a sign that said, Oban 5 Miles. The time was now 00:20. Mr Hardy said that he felt as if he’d entered a kind of Twilight Zone, and even wondered if he’d died or was unconscious as things felt so strange. One minute he was looking at the loch, the next he was close to 30 miles away, yet the time jump of 40 minutes was not long enough to do the journey given the nature of roads, especially without noticing it. After his wife convinced him to turn around, they headed back, but the journey felt as if it was in slow motion, plus everything looked strange. There were no other cars, road markings or streetlights, plus the landscape and houses seemed different. At one point, they drove under a railway bridge that they’d later find out had been demolished 30 years earlier. Once they recovered from the shock of this detour, the couple retraced this journey many times but never found the “Oban 5 Miles” sign although they did recognise the site of the old railway bridge. As much as they tried to make sense of what had happened, they never could.
I contacted the author of the article, David Cowan, to see if there was any other information about the couple involved but there wasn’t, which is why I decided to make the video of Barbara and Barry. Hearing someone relate an incident directly offers more credibility than just hearsay. However, just because we might be able to find cross-references online about certain things doesn’t make them any more credible even though it’s often thought they do. Still, to me, this article did feel like an interesting coincidence.
* * *
Time Slips
A few weeks later the editor of the British Dowsing website sent me another article about time slips. I’ll paraphrase for copyright reasons… For close to one hundred and fifty years, the Suffolk village of Rougham, which lies four miles south-east of Bury St. Edmunds, has been the subject of a curious phenomenon. A large number of people have reported coming across houses in places where no houses exist, and these buildings subsequently disappearing.
Here’s the link to the original article in case it’s still available.
The phenomenon of time slips was something I’d never heard about before doing the research for this, and just like most people, I feel it is unlikely to be possible. However, as with many of the subjects I’ve brought up here, even the scientifically minded amongst us ought to be sceptical and open-minded at the same time.
* * *
Unproven
Just as cancel culture aims to prevent those who’ve stepped out of line from being included in certain areas of society, the same goes for ideologies. For instance, a scientist should accept an unproven hypothesis as just that, unproven. However, many who claim to be scientifically minded are far too quick to dismiss unconfirmed matters as complete rubbish. The fear of being ridiculed by their peers may be one of many causes for such self-censoring, but by not keeping an open mind, they too fall back on conjecture. Of course, they’re entitled to their opinion, but scientifically speaking something ought to be proven to be false before it’s completely dismissed and, in the meantime, it should simply be labelled as ‘unproven’.
* * *
Half-Truths
When I first started using the Internet I believed it would lead to humans moving forward at an even greater pace than in previous epochs. In the past, only a small proportion of people had information at their disposal, so, along with the constraints of religious and ideological dogmas, they were additionally restricted. I was sure that once billions of people had information at their disposal, there’d at least be millions who’d want to change the world for the better and the result of this, I assumed, would be a progression beyond our wildest expectations.
To a point, that’s been true, but what I didn’t consider was the fly in the ointment. The lack of verifiable ‘facts’ and the almost war-like division that seems to permeate every corner of the Internet. Maybe like Leonard Cohen, I was just a kid with a crazy dream and should have known better, but I didn’t. If only I had waited to see the truth about the Internet.
Accepting we don’t know if something is true is a difficult but necessary position that we will, more often than not, have to take if we’re searching for the truth. Not knowing is a kind of no man’s land between verified and uncorroborated which most people find unbearable, so, before long they feel compelled to fill it, either by turning to the supernatural or convenient half-truths. It’s in our nature to do so, we’ve been doing it for millennia and I doubt we’re going to stop any time soon.
* * *
Science
The earliest evidence of scientific endeavours goes back 5000 years, but it still took from then until the 16th century for something even remotely resembling the scientific method to make headway. Without getting into a lot of detail this method requires that, when a hypothesis about something is presented, a sceptical approach should be maintained when trying to collect evidence to either support or dismiss it.
In terms of human progress, this provided us with a set of powerful tools that changed the world beyond recognition. Likewise, our relationship with the truth changed everything too, and yet it is the corruption of this relationship that may prove to be our downfall.
* * *
The Corruption of Science
When it comes to Science there’s a big black hole that sits in the middle of the scientific universe. You can’t see what’s in it because forces such as money, power and fear bend truth out of view. This isn’t a new thing, right from the moment the big bang for your money got involved with research, and maybe before that even, when just being a star was the goal, scientists could be pulled away from the truth.
During the 1980s, the editor of the British Medical Journal raised concerns about research fraud. At the time his peers thought him eccentric, butr recently the editors from the same publication released a warning letter to Facebook about their inaccurate fact checkers curbing the publication of uncomfortable facts. Not toeing the politically accepted line and arguing against other scientists’ findings all involve great risk to reputations and financial backing within the scientific community. Science is supposed to be an ideology centred on searching for the truth; therefore, if it is so susceptible to corruption, then what hope is there for all those other ideologies that are only concerned with the truth if it supports their beliefs?
* * *
Corruption
In the chapters on love in Volume One, I looked at how I veered away from what I’d come to believe was my chosen path when it came to relationships. Was the path I now found myself on just a more realistic one or had I simply strayed because I was too weak to follow it?
The word ‘corruption’ comes from the Latin ‘corruptus’ which amongst other things means, ‘perverted’ as in departing away from the original or pure, spoiled, contaminated, decayed, seduced, violated, dishonest, fraudulent, and influenced through bribery or other wrong motives.
There are also many ways in which corruption can be facilitated, but seduction and threat are probably the most common methods. The Mafia persuades people to go against their deeply held principles using a case full of money or a bullet from a gun, which puts it succinctly. Violence and threats against us, or our loved ones, are very powerful motivators, as are the temptations of rewards with “no consequences”.
* * *
1982 – Friends
By the early summer months of 1982, I found by acquiring a large pool of people to arrange meeting up with, there was always someone available to meet, and this way I didn’t push myself on any poor individual too much. By the time I’d completed a circuit, a good bit of time would have passed since I’d last met with my unfortunate victim, sorry, I mean friend, so, they were far less likely to feel put upon. There were a couple of other positive consequences to this too. The first was I didn’t exude such a sense of desperation anymore, after all, no one likes to feel they’ve been called on because there was no one else to see, plus there’s something rather unattractive about a person who feels desperate, it’s as if they’re being driven by a touch of madness. The second effect was a few people started to genuinely like spending time with me. I know, no one was more surprised than me. I expect a fair few others might have said I was still a bit of a pain in terms of forcing myself upon them, but for the sake of this book, I’m going to ignore them.
* * *
Jackie
I’d met Jackie in life drawing classes, and we’d regularly meet up. One day, after we’d been studying in the library together, she came back to my house where Mum cooked us some tea and then, on the way back to her place, we decided to go to the pub to see if there were any friends we could have a drink with. It was already dark when we set off and as we walked to the far end of Carshalton High Street, we passed a wine bar opposite the ponds then took the path through the graveyard to get to the Greyhound pub. At one point, I looked over my shoulder and noticed two men walking behind us who seemed a bit drunk. A few seconds later I heard footsteps approaching at speed then heard a shout and felt someone’s hand grab my shoulder. Jackie screamed, I screamed, and in the confusion, I spun around and struck the assailant in the face. He recoiled and slumped backwards onto the railings. He was dazed, his head turned from side to side, and there was blood coming out of his nose. He said, “Simon, it’s me Warren”. I realised then it was a friend from school. As he started to regain his composure he said, “I think you’ve broken my nose.”
“Why did you jump on me?” I asked.
“I was in the wine bar and saw you go past, I thought it’d be funny to jump on you.”
“You scared us,” Jackie said passing him a tissue and helping to clean his face.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “I should have looked first but I panicked. We’re taught in karate to look first. I really am sorry.”
“No, no,” he said, “I shouldn’t have jumped you, it’s my fault.”
I must have felt bad because against my nature I offered to buy him a drink as a way of an apology. He agreed, so, we went back to the wine bar where people looked very concerned as we entered. There were a few “Are you okay Warren?” inquiries, followed by very confused expressions as they tried to work out what had happened. As they looked at me, they most likely thought there was no way I could have done that to him, so, they then looked at Jackie and probably assumed Warren had been a bit inappropriate and got what he deserved. It truly wasn’t Warren’s night.
Although I was a little proud of how I’d reacted, it did show me I was far from a competent karateka. Maybe becoming aware of my inadequacy was the beginning of coming to terms with the reality of my limitations, not just because of my disability, but also my proficiency as a fighter. A few months later, I was to be put in a position that would highlight just how useless I was, even after three years of intense training, but I’ll come back to that in a later chapter. Yet more suspense, I know.
* * *
Corruption Part 2
There’s also another type of corruption that may best be termed ‘subversion’. Subversion turns our values on their heads and often involves seduction, contamination, and dishonesty. It’s a process that’ll make you doubt, maybe even hate, what were once your core values, and by the end of the process, what originally seemed right, will seem wrong. It’s so subtle it’ll feel as if corruption was never involved, but it was. Subversion was there, right at the beginning, well at least at the beginning of the Bible. By the time the serpent had finished with Adam and Eve, their whole world had been turned upside down. People once believed humans were intrinsically kind, and it was society that corrupted us. Even now it’s the Internet and Social Networks that are seen as the biggest cause of division, but what if all along, this division had been planned? What if this division is the aim of an ideology? If you want to know more, come and meet Yuri.
* * *
1984 – Yuri – Stage One
Two men are sitting next to each other. We see them through a grainy, faded-coloured TV screen. The man on the right is Yuri. He’s wearing a grey-blue suit jacket, white shirt and dark tie. He has grey receding hair and is wearing very slightly tinted glasses. The TV presenter is sitting to his right, he’s dressed in a beige colour-coordinated jacket, shirt, tie, and matching face.
“Tonight, we’ll be talking to an ex-KGB officer who escaped from the Soviet regime in the early 70s. He sought refuge in Canada but was eventually compromised. He’s decided to come out of the shadows because he’s got a message to tell us. It’s a message I think you’re going to want to hear. Good evening and welcome to the show, Yuri.”
[The audience applauds, Yuri nods politely and mouths “Thank you” to them]
The presenter looks back at Yuri, “How do you feel about living in America Yuri?”
“You know,” Yuri pauses, “When I lived in Russia, America was blamed for anything that went wrong. If the crops failed, we were sent out to look for American beetles; of course, we didn’t find any, but that just showed us how conniving the USA was.”
[The audience laughs]
“We focused on our enemy, that way we didn’t have to look at ourselves. But to answer your question. I’m worried.”
The presenter, looking confused, interrupts him, “You’re worried about living in America?”
“Yes, I’m worried because I know what the KGB had planned for the West, and I can see these things, these plans, are coming to fruition.”
[The audience gasps a little]
“What is the best way to win a battle?” he asks the audience, “Don’t worry, I will tell you.”
He holds up a book. “This book is called The Art of War. Every KGB officer is required to read this book. It teaches many things but one of the most important points it makes is this. The best war is one where you never have to pick up a weapon. I mean, why go to war with your enemies when you can destroy them from within? So much so, that by the end of it, they will not just be willing to be ruled by you, they will be asking you to do so. This kind of war is called Subversion.”
He puts the book down and takes a sip of water from a glass on the coffee table in front of him.
“You’ve got to have patience if you want to win that war, there are at least 4 stages to it and the first one might take anywhere between 15 to 40 years. We call it The Demoralisation Stage. I’ll explain it to you if we’ve got the time.”
The presenter gently says, “Don’t worry Yuri, we’ve got plenty of time.”
Yuri coughs lightly, puts his hand up to his mouth, then looks up.
“Primarily this stage aims to get your enemy distracted from things that previously mattered. This is done by getting them to pay attention to lots of less essential issues while at the same time encouraging division. In the West, this already started in the 1920s. Back then Communism was seen as the way forward, especially within academic circles. Even when those good-hearted people were confronted with Soviet failures, such as millions dying from famine, they just dismissed these as lies until they were confronted with the evidence, and even then, they argued it had nothing to do with the ideology. To some, famine, gulags, and genocide, were all worth it in the long run because the murderous ways of Capitalism were far worse.
Have you heard of the journalist Gareth Jones? He brought the Soviet famine of 1932 to the world’s attention. You probably don’t know him. He influenced Orwell’s book, ‘Animal Farm’. The KGB killed him, they don’t like bad press. That might be why Orwell wrote about farm animals and not the KGB.”
[The audience laughs a little]
The presenter shakes his head slightly. “I didn’t know about that, what did you call him, Mr Jones?”
“Yes, Gareth Jones, the farmer in the book was also called Mr Jones, it’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
The presenter nods and looks back at the audience.
Yuri straightens his back. “So, with an intellectual elite already in the waiting, infiltration began. The main targets were, and still are, the education system, the media, the civil service, political parties, and lots of other institutions such as the unions, even the military and other law and order bodies. And here we are, in the 1980s, with three generations of students having been exposed to Marxism without any contradictory arguments, what do you think the result is going to be?
If you doubt the success of the far left’s infiltration, ask yourself if being labelled as right-wing has an element of stigma to it nowadays and that’s just for a start. Here, let me tell you about the main aims of the Demoralisation Process.
Firstly, we must take away traditional faiths, cultures and values. In fact, we must go as far as ridiculing them and replacing them with fake faiths such as political ideologies, consumerism, and media gods. Does that sound familiar?
[The audience murmur in agreement]
Next, aim to divide society further by taking away traditional neighbourhood and community social life. Soon people will start feeling divided. That’s a good time to create artificial, unelected leaders, such as spokespeople and political agitators. As far as the press goes, encourage those who follow the party line as well as mediocre journalists who don’t question anything in depth, but make sure you stop anyone who does.
Now we’re ready to go to the next step. It’s time to erode the established power structure by undermining leaders and members of the ruling classes and delegitimise the police by highlighting their abuse of power. Make the criminals victims of an oppressive society and victims of crime, the criminals. Surely, it will be argued, we must redress the adversity of the unfortunate victimised criminals.
Don’t worry, we’re nearly there. Finally, we need to ensure the death of the natural exchange of ideas and ideologies. Let’s make people scared to talk openly.
If at any point you find your laws are not working create further, harsher laws, but never question their validity, or the negative consequences of their existence. If a media platform contradicts the doctrine ‘discourage” it. All media platforms should, where possible, repeat ideological phrases like parrots without thinking. Even if it’s the ideology of businesses calling for us all to consume more NOW!”
The presenter leans forward, “Sorry, Yuri, we’ve got to take a quick ad break, but we’ll be back after a word from our sponsors”.
Yuri picks up his glass of water, the camera zooms out and the adverts start.
* * *
Trip to Exmoor Part 1 – Late August 1982
I mentioned setting up my version of a portable stereo in Volume One. Back then the label, ‘portable’, was a typical example of English understatement, consequently, I needed a big bag to carry it in, but to me, it was worth it. Just as car stereos probably saved a lot of people from getting killed (as well as causing many deaths too), having a way of either blocking out the world around me or at least giving it a rose-tinted soundtrack made my life a lot more bearable. So, when Mum and John decided a holiday in a cottage on Exmore was going to improve things between us all, I made sure the cassette player and headphones were at the ready.
I was still playing the Dire Straits Making Movies record all the time, and a week before going away I bought their two other, previously released, albums. I also splashed out on a pair of small headphones. Up till then, I’d been wearing large domestic ones which might be cool nowadays, but back then they just looked weird. By the time we were ready to set off, I’d copied the albums onto cassette, packed a week’s supply of batteries, and thrown a few books into my bag, just in case I needed an escape.
Mum and John thought leaving at 3 am was the best way to avoid holiday traffic, so by the time we arrived at the cottage in Winsford, Somerset, settled in and eaten something, I’d been awake for about 48 hours and tempers were a little strained. Nowadays when we go away, we are still connected via the Internet and mobile phones to our friends and other communities but back then going a few hundred miles felt like being stranded in the middle of nowhere. I’d been feeling a bit down generally and thought going away would help but when Mum gave us a quick tour of the area in the car, I downgraded my expectations. Still, after our first night’s sleep, I felt a little better. Mum, John, and Stephen went to the coast while I stayed in most of the day doing homework, as well as writing cards and letters to friends, then after tea, I went for a walk to the local pub. As I passed the bus shelter, I noticed a biker-looking couple having sex in it. Curious to see if they were still at it, I left the pub after just one drink only to find they weren’t, but my heart rate was still raised when a dog started barking from behind me. It was then I decided a quick run might be a good idea.
When I got in Stephen was ill, and as I watched him puke, I thought, “I hope I don’t get that”. Sure enough, a day later I took command of Stephen’s bucket in the middle of the night. The silver lining to this though was I got to stay home alone when Mum, John and Stephen went out for the day. Shortly after they set off, the owner of the cottage turned up and had a long chat with me in the garden. At one point, we were joined by his son, a young man who had learning difficulties and also their dog, who, in a post-modern ironic way, was called Pup.
Once they left, I spent the rest of the time writing, then, as evening fell and I felt as if I’d earned a break, I went to the pub again, this time I stayed longer, had two drinks and chatted with some of the locals, although I could feel my youth keenly as we talked. When one of them said I was bloody marvellous I was tempted to cause a massive brawl, but instead, I smiled and said thank you. On the way back, I prepared to be scared by the snarling dog, but fortunately, the biker couple were at it again, so I walked past as slowly as I could hoping to pick up a few tips.
By the next morning, I was beginning to enjoy staying in the cottage, but then John started having a go at me for talking to the owner the previous day. And so it was, this place had an argument table too.
* * *
Cultural Change – 6th January 2022
When it comes to cultural change there’s often resistance to it from those who, back in their day, instigated their revolutions against the wishes of their elders. But no matter how much they call for things to remain as they are, or return to better days, everything moves on. They may be right of course, some things may have been better back then, but society doesn’t develop along a constantly positive trajectory. Those who resist change tend to believe we’re heading towards impending catastrophe, while those who push for change, may be oblivious to any negative consequences.
As far as natural selection is concerned, no thought is ever given to what might, or might not work. Mutations come about and they either succeed or don’t. It’s almost beyond our comprehension to understand how millions of mutations could ever result in a species being clever enough to cultivate its genes, but here we are. Even so, it’s just another branch of evolution blindly seeing what might happen next.
When a scientist splices and edits human genes, as far as natural selection goes, it’s as natural as a plant leaning towards the sun. Evolution is neither kind nor cruel, but humans, on the other hand, can be a bit too eager to be either. The mutations they plan to create may be motivated by positive intentions, but there’s no guarantee of success. That’s partly why when it comes to adjusting human DNA, the hands of scientists in the West are tied. They are strictly limited by ethical, religious and ideological bodies. But there are plenty of other countries that don’t care about such issues and as a result, we’re coming to a crossroads. The choice was already made in our DNA hundreds of thousands of years ago; as a species, we are programmed to take one path only when it comes to creating Homo Sapiens Mk 2, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
Ideologies have played a major role in human development throughout history, but there’s been a side effect that is easily missed and that is self-hatred. Humans, having realised they can’t live up to their ideological ideals tend to conclude that it’s not the ideologies which are at fault, but humans. Therefore, the solution is to either destroy humans or change them so they can live up to the ideal standards required of them. From religious cultural conditioning, eugenics, social engineering and now genetic engineering, humans can no longer deny there’s no way forward unless we change. Of course, some of us will argue our human weaknesses are our strengths, but such calls will go unheeded.
The universe is filled with billions of galaxies, presumably, some of them have the potential to evolve intelligent life, and yet, so far, we’ve never seen any signs of such civilizations; is that because all “intelligent” beings destroy themselves before we’d ever get to notice them? There’s also a theory that bacteria and other microbes might be able to hitch a lift on bits of debris hurled across the universe and as a result of planetary collisions somehow that’s how life on Earth started. However, maybe intelligence bears no relation to survivability after all, and it was just a one-in-a-trillion chance that life started here.
Last night I dreamt I caught three tiny creatures which in their way were quite sweet, like cartoon versions of bugs. But when I realised they were going to destroy me, just as some bacteria might, I stamped on them. Then I would, wouldn’t I, after all, I’m a human Mk1, but to so many other human Mk1s, including a part of myself, my action was disgusting and anything but human, even if it was just part of a dream.
* * *
Thursday, 6 January 2022
It’s cold here in my house of someone’s dreams. Over the last two years, Covid-19 has turned the world inside out. I’ve been thinking of selling up as this is a big house to maintain and recently, when it rains heavily, water drips in through the bay window roof as if the house is crying. The scaffolders may come tomorrow, but they’re not sure and finding a worker to fix the roof is proving difficult too, but I’ll get it sorted in time.
This year is going to be full of big changes, I can feel it. A few days ago, I ended up in hospital with a suspected strangulated hernia. Fortunately, it wasn’t, but it reminded me of how little time we have, and the deal I made with myself to get this, and a few other projects finished as soon as possible. Although maybe I didn’t quite realise just how real a deal it was.
For now, though, I wanted you to know, I don’t sit at an argument table anymore, instead, it’s a peaceful one that’s often accompanied by laughter. Still, I’m always aware that both good and bad times come to pass, and I’m prepared for things to change, both for better or worse.
When I was 17, it wasn’t the best of times, but things were changing and I knew there might be a different way to live, so I started searching for it. Had I been able to tell myself anything then that I know now it would have been something along the lines of, “You’re going to be very lucky, you’re going to experience so many good and bad things, but at least you’re going to get to live a full life.”
* * *
