Trauma

 It's weird how trauma hits you. You have it, it's in your eyeline waving at you, but you look straight past it. A few years back my mum kept blacking out. There's more to that tale which I will go into. For the purposes of this narrative I will park it as that for now.

She had fallen on her side and was experiencing shortness of breath, she called me just after breakfast, she did not call an ambulance or my older siblings. For good reasons. One would probably be in a pub, the other was scared of his own shadow and didn't like to leave the house. I think the trauma he suffered having been the first born and having 5 years exposure to my parents had probably shot his nerves for the rest of his life.

So it was up to me to drive and see what was going on. I left Lisa, my wife to look after the children.

When I arrived she was in a bad way sitting upright in her dressing gown as I remember bolt upright on the small settee in the corner. Calmly sitting looking fairly calm and trying to not breathe too much. I immediately called an ambulance. They arrived pretty quickly. Assessed her and said she was putting it on. They thought this 85 year old woman was having them on. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. After a bit of arm twisting I got them to take her to A and E.

The hospital room was full of older individuals who had fallen down stairs, laying on gurneys surrounded by loved ones. It was chaos, although it all seemed quite managed. I am sure it wasn't as dark as I remember. To me, thinking back it feels like a scene from the Boer War. Dark shadows in the corners a 360 view of painful accidents twisting sinew and frail bone. A dark depressing Dutch master piece conveying the aftermath of war.

After hours of painful prodding and X-rays it turned out she had broke a rib and punctured her lung. She needed to be intubated to inflate the lung without aesthetic. So there I was holding my mothers hand while a skilled doctor cut a hole between the ribs, inserted a tube and fixed her.

She didn't flinch. 

Say what you like about her. She was tough as they come. Tougher than me as it turns out. This wasn't her first rodeo, I knew this. My mum had marbled scars on her neck from all the tubes the doctors stuck down her throat, from the outside to drain her lungs of fluid to fight the Tuberculosis she had caught from her father. He unfortunately died from it when she was still in hospital. She was 9 years old when that happened.

Once she had stabilized she was shipped off to another hospital. Exhausted and without any help from anyone from my family I went home. 10pm exhausted. I then woke up at 7, rung the hospital and rushed off to see if I could find her. Once in the hospital I somehow lost my way and found that I was in a "STAFF ONLY" area and needed a passkey to get out. Luckily a kindly doctor let me out. I think they had every right to chloroform me while I was in their domain and harvest my organs for the black market. I take that as another close shave.

Free from the doctors Labyrinth I made it my mission to find her.  When I did eventually find my mother it turned out to be another old lady with a "Green" in her surname. Everyone seems to have trouble with the "HEAD" bit in "GREENHEAD". Don't worry, if you get it wrong, I WILL JUDGE YOU!

So, panic stricken I went back to reception where they directed me to my biological mother. Which was a relief. But also I must admit, I did quite like the look of the old lady they took me to in the first place. I don't think I was allowed to swap parents. I regret not asking.

So, that dealt with we had the problem of looking after dad. He had dementia. Which my mother decided not to tell him. She did once clumsily. It was heart breaking. The doctor was round to see them both. I was in the kitchen making tea. Dad, got up to go to the toilet. As he was gone, mum decided to take the opportunity to talk to the doctor quietly about dads condition. I say quietly, it was like she was talking to a work colleague in a noisy factory, without the factory or noise.

He heard every word up top of the stairs.

 I know this because I was about to call up to tell him the tea was ready to see him sitting in his Stannah chair stair seat, sobbing quietly to himself. I did what any good son would do. Look at my feet spun of my heels and went back in the kitchen and pretend it didn't happen.

Coz that's how we dealt with things in my family.

So with my mum in hospital my dad was on his own in the house for the first time in years. We did all visit him every day. I made dinners and sat with him. My brothers did their bit. Although I think some of the wives did more for one if them than I think he did. It was nice to spend time with him. We never connected. Not even then. All I remember him saying was 

"Where's Jean?"

After a day or so of this, my left eye began to water. I thought it was an infection. I got drops. It wasn't until a few weeks later I realised, I was crying. Once I realised that. I could let it all out. That's when I finally realised we are not in control. Well, not totally anyway.

Mid Life Madness

 I am 60. I look around me, and a lot of older men my age, older and below have problems mentally. They seem to go a bit gaga. Maybe they are looking for answers. Lockdown seemed to throw a few people through a madness loop.

Famous examples. I mention this person not because they told me on Twitter my Cow cartoons weren't funny. which stung I must admit. The person was a comedy behemoth...But at least Boy George and Julian Clary seemed to liked them. They both followed me before I came off that particular platform.

I speak about the amazing comedy writer and director Graham Linehan. I don't know what caused his behavioural change . Perhaps a constant diet of Mrs Brown's Boys on a YouTube loop in his basement sent him over the edge. 

Whatever it was, he decided instead of writing and directing some of the worlds greatest comedies it was his role in life to become an anti Trans Gender activist. In my experience that's not that funny and it doesn't reward you with any BAFTAs. I guess it doesn't involve any thinking. Just drain yourself of all joy and rant your pants off in a dark room, screaming into the digital void. 

Not as bad as Vladimir Putin, I grant you, who got it into his head to invade Ukraine, but still I would say it was a wrong turn to say the least.

Mrs Brown's Boys has a lot to answer for.

It's a choice I guess. Not the best choice to take in my experience. A trap I could have easily slipped into myself. I started using words like WOKE as a derogatory term, until it was pointed out to me(My kids actually) what sort of other people were cheering me on to say it. I then realised that Anger leads to hate, fear and foaming at the mouth if someone male chooses to wear a dress and lipstick on Only Connect.

Keep the peasants busy pointing fingers while we pick their pockets clean and burn the whole world to a crisp for the mighty dollar. I see the play.

I can see why me and my peers in Kent are so susceptible. My community was very much a racist one. Very homophobic and sexist. The anger and fear was there. The dislocated community's from London didn't provide that harmony we all needed. My brothers who are 10 years older than me were brought up with this. 

What set me apart was TV. My saviour. Sesame Street taught me my ABC and racial tolerance to other races and puppets. Star Trek taught me logic and again tolerance of different culture, albeit, pretend alien ones not only Tribbles. 

Although watching it back now, the sexual politics of that show were very questionable. Chekov was a sex pest dry humping rocks on the nearest planet he beamed down to. That missed my growing brain, thank goodness. Or maybe it was part of that great tapestry of misogyny. 

So am I racist? Well yes to a degree and homophobic and anti trans...all that. I think you have to own that shit.

Where I grew I have been conditioned to think like that. Being gay was some sort of sick illness., the person you didn't want to be. I don't think we really understood what it was. I knew Mr Humphreys on "Are you Being Served" was one. He seemed quite fun. At school it translated into the black spot. God things are so much better now.

Jokes about other races were common place and Trans just wasn't a thing. If it was I do believe people would have exploded. I recognise it's wrong to hold such views and I am working on climbing out that self destructive pit of despair. That's what it is. That sort of hatred and fear will rot you inside out.

Members of my family are in the pit. The conditioning stuck.

I have had to work on it. I think I'm doing a pretty good job, Having said that there is always room  for improvement. To do this I have had to leave people behind. I'm much better for it and so are my family.

I hope Graham drops that rancid stone he is carrying. The poor man needs help. I hope he finds some peace in the joyful comedy he used to write. Then we would all benefit.

 I forgive you Graham for not liking World of Cow. I hope that sentiment helps with your journey to wellness.

They are all Garys to me.

 It takes me a long time to make friends. I am very wary. I didn't really question it until a couple of weeks ago. I think I am suspicious of people because I got invited to peoples houses as a kid with some pretty weird family dynamics.

For instance. When I was a junior school, there was a kid. Let's call him Gary. All kids were called Gary in those days*

*For the purposes of my little memoire all kids will be called Gary. Of course not all kids were called Gary, that would be madness and make my system pointless. If you were called Gary I apologise, if I called you any other name under my system, people would realise that your real name was Gary and there would we be? Just be thankful I called you Gary to prevent people knowing your real name was Gary, Gary!*

*I will work out a name for the girls later. I don't feel there are any comparable female versions of the mighty Gary in that decade. Maybe Tracy? I'll have a think...Oooo Tina! Yes, I think we have it Ladies and gentlemen!

Gary invited me round to his home after school to play games. I didn't feel this was too bad an idea. He seemed like a good kid. Slightly chubby with a basin haircut, brown hair and freckles. I seem to remember a tank top and shorts. Your basic trainee bank clerk. Just add water and wait a few years. I don't remember his dad. I am imagining a balding short man who smokes a pipe and smell of Hornby train sets.

I do remember his mum, a short dumpy lady that had set scoops of ginger ridged hair framing her plump lip-sticked face like a honeycomb halo. Dresses that looked like sofa material. A thick flowery textile bent into shape by fashionable ship builders. She looked very comfortable to sit on, just throw on a few cushions and a cat.

Their house was nothing to write home about. Better than ours of course. I have the instinct that they owned it. There was nice wooden polished furniture and the slow ticking of expensive clocks. 

So it felt like the last place someone would try and knife you in the face.

And yet... during a game that I played defeating Gary, he drew a pen knife, a small Christmas cracker pen knife( Yes, we had knives in Christmas Crackers in those days) unfolded and pinned me to the ground trying his hardest to stab me in the face. His little freckled face all screwed up in an angry red eye popping snarl. I kicked him off and screamed for help. His Mum rescued me grabbing her basin haired bad loser. I simply made my excuses and left. Leaving a poor woman to deal with her troubled son. Not sure if I thanked Mrs Gary for their hospitality. My Mum always said I should do that. Oh well, I'm sure she got over it.

I don't think I did.

I steered clear of Gary from then on in. This was not an isolated behaviour from the little people I was surrounded by.

I do have a really early memory. We had a garden with a gate round the side alley. I must have been 4 or 5. Could have been less. The children of our estate were wild. Roaming around in packs. They banged on my gate. We had a nice front garden, which they had walked up to rap on. Climbing up on the fence like Jackals to laugh and taunt me.

My fortress of solitude was breached. However, my mum, let me go out and play with these demon kids. Some of which became my school friends. Gary in particular.

What the heck was my mum doing? On a couple of levels. 1st, she wasn't busy as far as I could tell. Her job at that point was to look after me. Telly was 2 and a half channels. BBC1, ITV and BBC 2 you could just see if it wasn't raining too hard through the static digital blizzard. 2nd, WHAT ARE YOU DOING JEAN, he's 4 to 5 years old and your letting him run about on the streets?

I remember one of the games Gary thought would be fun to play was a delightful game of "Chicken". If you are not fully up to speed with the rules "chicken" it involved the players (ME) to run in front of cars as they tootled down the street. Only for my first run, Gary got me to run in front of a Lorry. It felt like a big one.

I think it was quite close. He honked his horn. I ran and screamed. I got across the road experiencing bullet time as I traverse the tarmac. I blame my premature greyness on that one incident.

I didn't play chicken again. I was stupid, but not quite that stupid.

Bloody Garys!

Leverage.

 I was born in Farnborough Hospital in January 1966. It was miles from where we lived in Crystal Palace, the reason for the inconvenient baby producing was that my mother had survived TB when she was a child. Being hospitalized for most of her child and teenage years. Her dad died whilst she was in hospital. She had it tough.

The age gap between myself and my siblings is 15 years and 10. I never really thought about it until relatively recently. Why did did my parents wait to produce this glorious little human?

Pure speculation on my part, so here goes.

I was leverage

I believe they just couldn't afford 3 children. So what changed?

My existence gave them a tipping point to a better area. KENT. That magical garden of England.

They were living in a block of flats in Crystal Palace. Mum hated it. I remember she described small children being tied to lamp posts playing outside their homes. Parents using the latest rope nanny technology if you like. There were bomb sites everywhere still from the war. My brothers were chucking bricks at each other. She wanted out. Who can blame her?

One way to do this was to have another child which would push you up the waiting list to get a nice council house in Kent. The plan worked. At 11 months old in the depths of winter we moved to Orpington. The house was a good semi detached house. It had a lovely big garden with two apple trees. Not the roughest area in Orpington, it had a park nearby. Compared to where they had come from it was an upgrade.

Only...What do we do with this kid now? Dad was against it, as you know, and I bet my brothers weren't too chuffed at this little kid changing the family dynamic and making everyone poorer. My mum had to give up work to look after me. She was employed in a toy shop before she had me, putting all the load on my dad, who was a milkman at the time. I am guessing the pay wasn't great.

Now a little aside here. I don't think rents were that expensive so I don't really know what my dad was doing with the money. I do know things were tight because when I was about 3, playing with some lovely metal toys...Big metal toys you could sit on. My dad yoinked me off them and sold them to a rag and bone man for a couple of quid accompanied by me screaming little tears down my chubby, dusty cheeks. That didn't seem to phase him.

 I loved that metal double decker bus. I used to have a little PG tips monkey figure I used as a ticket inspector. Funny what you remember.

I did talk to him about that when I was in my 30's. He thought it was funny. Probably thinking " What was I like?" 

Mum did take control of the finances later I believe. Maybe he was gambling. Who knows?

That's where I grew up. Orpington is a strange place. It is incredibly old in some respects. After the war there was a huge building programme and with relatively new train stations they could get people out of London to resettle. Part of the glorious commuter belt. I think that was part of what made these London borough towns a weird place to live in. People scarred by war and no real old community spirit to help them deal their shared trauma.

Well... at least he was honest.

 Against everyone's expectations, my Dad made it to the ripe old age of 90. Almost 91... he clawed at life using the armchair as an anchor on this mortal coil. After his heart attack at 80 he decided the best course of action was to move as little as possible. 

Refusing any exercise, he sat in the armchair, and basically declined. The only times we could get him out was to have his cataracts done. So he lived in fear of death. Keeping going for 10 more years of non living.

It was heart breaking.

What was interesting was, and this sounds bad. When he developed a form of Alzheimer's he mellowed. He became more approachable. Before his illness he would delight in his role as contrarian. To put it bluntly he would thrive in getting you angry. With the onset of his mental decline he became more gentle. My mother, not so much. That's a different story.

Also, he became super honest. So much so he decided to share a truth with me when we were visiting with our children. Within earshot of my daughter he told me that he never wanted to have me.

I said "Pardon.."

" I never wanted you. I have always regretted it."

I thought for a moment, looking around at my children, his grand children happily playing and chatting to their grand mother. Everyone seemed very happy.

" But you don't think that now, right?"

" Yeah, I do."

My response was to ignore it. Bury it. It wasn't until long how he died and events with my mother's attitude with me changed from my biggest advocate in the family with her own mental decline I realised the what world I had been living in when I was growing up.

My Mum was my force field against the rest of the family.

Diary of a little Known Artist

 Guess what? I hit 60. Getting to this milestone you begin to think.

 It's like doing a long run round a park and thinking, "Did I really travel that far?"

I thought I had a fairly ordinary childhood. Working class parents, living in Orpington in the late 60's to the 80's with a bunch of people all in the same boat. The majority of Families plopped from London to the "Garden" of England. Raised by the parents, or the children of parents who witnessed the Blitz.

Parents like my dad, who had seen a boy machine gunned to death in his playground by a German fighter plane. His father, referred to as POP, a fireman at the time, drowning kittens in a bucket in front of my young Dad because they couldn't afford to feed them. My mum had TB as a child during the war and was in a hospital until she was a late teen. Shunned by her family she had to make it on her own.

  These people raised me, and I don't think that was particularly abnormal in my area to have a family like this. Looking back, I think we were all slightly traumatised as a community by the violence of the war, indeed wars of the last century.

It was a very angry, violent area.

 So, with this little Blog I intend to write little bits about my life as a form of therapy. Because I've come to the conclusion I might be a messed up a bit. I am hoping that I might be able to reflect and learn a bit about myself. Hopefully having a laugh along the way.

Britain's Got Cow Talent!