Introduction

This 'life story' section is not precisely a step-by-step life story as typically told. It's a bundle of A4 sheets of paper stacked on a shelf, where they have been for a while. Worked, then re-worked, and re-worked again.

They have made a couple of attempts at coming out into the open, but have failed miserably. It was not the time; I understand this better now.

The 'life story' revolves around the early and mid-1970s, my late teen and early/mid twenty years. I feel an enduring fondness for this period; attached to it and its memories, even. This seems strange. For much of this time I was not particularly happy. In fact, conflict and confusion were more the norm. Despite this, they were years of adventure, experimentation, and personal learning. Despite the messes, I was true to myself, authentic; free to the degree that I was capable. These were qualities which, I feel, became somewhat compromised during later years. Hence, maybe, the nostalgia for the time.

It is a tale based around the counter-culture of 1970s Britain, at least one tiny corner of it. Even the histories of 'alternative Britain' have largely lost, or forgotten, those times, those people. More accurately, it was barely chronicled in the first place. Its commercial potential was minimal. So my story represents a relatively rare foray into the minds and workings of a certain group of pilgrims, of seekers after a holy grail. 

I have done my best to remain faithful to what actually happened, as far as memory, knowledge, and research permit. Some, though not all, the names of the characters in this tale have been altered: they have not asked to turn up in this narrative, after all.

And that's it. Let's go. But before we get to long hair and tatty jeans, we should start at the beginning....

Nice Little Boy, Part One  

I knew from early days that it was going to be a weird trip. It was 1958, just turned five years old, when I learned how to climb onto the living room window-sill of the two-up, two-down terraced house that was home. Clamber onto the arm of the soft, outsize comfy chair; teeter along and onto the back of the chair; take the perilous step across empty space onto the ledge, and breathe deep.

From here I could pull down the net curtain which ran across the lower half of the window and was the thing in 1958; and watch the goings-on of the world outside. It was the High Street world of that village in Buckinghamshire, and was big and busy. Mind you, most places are big and busy when you are five. It offered an infinite variety of fascinations for the eye: people going to work, people coming home from work; people bustling with briefcases, groceries, school satchels, dogs needing a walk. And beyond the busy pavement were the cars, vans, buses, bicycles, and lorries of the main street. Who could tire of such a carnival?

It was late one afternoon, with streams of people heading home from another day in the bank or the office, when it hit me. Uninvited, unanticipated, a big voice in my head announced: "This is not for you. This is not the life you will lead. You won't be doing this stuff." I nearly fell off the window-sill in shock.

I came into this world ugly. I know: I've seen the photo. Who would imagine this wrinkled, mis-shapen little entity was lined up for such shit-hot adventures in the years to come?

The story goes that my mother-to-be went into hospital to give birth. There she encountered a whole array of proud new mums with their beautiful babies. Then I turned up, and my mother almost went into shock. The nurses were embarrassed for her.

I like to think that I grew more handsome with age. Whatever, I got on with the things that young people normally get on with: eating, sleeping, laughing, screaming, crying; playing, playing, and more playing. This was all great, apart from the crying. But even as a recent arrival, I invariably had a sense of ..... something else; something different. 

It was a little like the Buddhist notion of duhkha, translated in the killjoy versions of Buddhism as 'suffering' but more accurately rendered as 'unsatisfactoriness'. You can do all these things, but there's always something missing. It doesn't do the job, not really.

But even duhkha doesn't truly capture that frequent companion of mine. It was more like: "Is this it? Is this really it? Is this all you've got to offer? Really? You must be joking!"

Maybe this feeling was there from the very beginning. Maybe the first expiration of that little dried prune of a guy, the one who sent shudders of horror up the spines of those nurses in Royal Bucks Hospital on March 7th 1953, was pregnant with that knowledge. Maybe it was the opening gambit, the first pronouncement of a life on its own unique parabola of discovery. Who knows?

But in the meantime, life was there for the living.....

Nice Little Boy, Part Two

"Mum's going into hospital to have a baby" my father announced one day, a few months after my third birthday. This was news to me, but sounded interesting. Nobody bothered to explain the mechanics of the situation, but I worked it out easily enough. You went along to the hospital, where there were rows of babies on offer. You just picked the one you liked. The only doubt I had was whether you needed to pay, or you got a baby for free.

Purchased or not, the new arrival seemed a pretty good choice. Well done, mum!

It soon became apparent that, however well we got on together, sister and me were different. I tended to be quiet, reticent, introverted - to people who didn't know me properly, I was a nice little boy. Baby sister, in contrast, was boisterous and a bit naughty. There was one of those grainy cine-recordings of her throwing bits of bread all over the room from her pushchair. And a real highlight was the time my  proud mum invited a neighbour round to see my sister having a bath in the little green metal tub. Things were going great until little sis produced a big brown poo, which floated all around her. That's my girl!

Memory may appear random, scattergun, but it isn't. It can't be. The reasons may elude us, but it's highly selective.

Two standout memories of people I met in my early years:

I was occasionally paid a visit by Gowber. I knew Gowber very well; despite being an adult, he was a great buddy. I knew exactly what he looked like, the sound of his voice. He came over all the way from America to visit, and we had long, intelligent conversations. Then one day, when I was eagerly expecting him, my dad dropped a bombshell: he wasn't coming after all. In fact, he wouldn't be coming ever again. I was devastated. What was all that about? I was so sure that he was a real and faithful friend.

And then there was Caroline. Caroline, the sacred feminine's first grand entrance into my little life. The Mysterious Other making its presence known in the splendid form of Caroline.

I was four years old, Caroline was five. One morning I was told that mum had things to do, so I was to spend the time with her. I had never met Caroline before, but I was told two things about her: she wore a cowgirl hat; and she liked eating peanuts. I was smitten, gone, before I had even set eyes on her. That Mysterious Other swept me away in its spell. You see, I had never eaten peanuts before.

The morning seemed to pass perfectly; I even got to taste some peanuts. Strangely, I never got another invite, and didn't get to see Caroline again. Maybe it was something I said..... 

Image: Houses near my birthplace as they are today