Life Story#21: Girls, Girls, Girls
Part One
Sex. Girls. We were four predominantly heterosexual guys, and the two were pretty much synonymous. And, as enthusiastic members of a counterculture that had apparently thrown off the shackles of chaste, repressed, previous generations, it was amazing how little sex was actually around at the time.
There was the strategic element. With three of us sharing the same communal sleeping area, there was no obvious venue available for passionate trysts. We weren't going to be heading off to the Randolph Hotel in town, where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton reputedly spent nights of love or something.
This is, it must be said, a lame excuse; others would have been less discouraged by practicalities. And things didn't usually get that far, anyway. Mottie spent ever-increasing quantities of energy in unrequited sexual pursuit, which eventually threatened to unhinge him. There were basics that he seemed oblivious to: he needed to do something about his acne, and his smelly feet. Dave, meanwhile, seemed content to just get on with his own take-it-as-it-comes life, unperturbed by lack of carnal activity. Since giving up his job, Liberty didn't meet people anymore. And I embarked upon a series of failed, nearly, and pseudo- romantic adventures that almost did my head in.
First up was Julie. Julie was the daughter of Jack, who was a friend of my father. They would sometimes come into town on Tuesday evening for a drink at the nearby Anchor pub, and I would occasionally turn up as well for an hour or so. Julie fancied me, I could tell. She would tag along with her dad if she knew that I was popping in. And her face would flush uncontrollably whenever I walked into the lounge bar.
For a while Julie and I got on famously. Evening mealtimes together, long summertime walks along the River Thames on Port Meadow. And then something happened. All the problems that Julie had, and which she had unloaded on the towpath so fulsomely before an attentive and sympathetic me, miraculously dissolved away. In a strictly parallel process, her interest in me rapidly evaporated as well. You see, I'm the nice guy, the counselling-for-free, love and peace dude. She could at least have sent me a cheque for my services.
Then came Wendy. Into the macho male environment of Oxford sorting office strolled, as in a miracle, this sweet, petite, blonde-hair-down-to-her-waist, new postie. A quite inappropriate girlfriend for a university-educated, tripping, hardcore freak and Zen man, you might think. No matter. Soon Wendy and I were hanging out together, going to the bars nearby after work, playing pool, joking, laughing. The other posties noticed, and were beginning to treat us as an item. But there was always something not quite right. Cool, evasive, maybe just shy: that was Wendy.
I was really getting fed up with feeling messed around by girls, and was living on a short fuse. At five o'clock one morning I stomped into the sorting office, heading straight for Wendy's delivery frame. "So" I growled. "Are we going out together or not?" The entire sorting office stopped dead in its tracks, took a glance in our direction, then got on as if nothing had happened. For her part, Wendy turned crimson, sat silent, and stared at a pile of letters. "I don't know" she eventually whimpered. Actually, she did know.
Soon afterwards, a work colleague by name of Chris Elms let on that he was going out with Wendy. Unbeknownst to her, though known to me, Chris was two-timing her in a masterclass of professional jugglery. Then the other woman got pregnant, and Wendy had to go. It was a seedy, sordid episode, and I felt confused. Lovey-dovey New Testament, maybe?: poor little Wendy, getting messed about by that horrible Chris guy. Or nasty Old Testament-like: the sword of revenge falls sweetly on the fair damsel, and the wronged simply gloat. Or do you opt for karma? Previous actions, past lives, Wendy. In the cosmic scheme of things, you brought it on yourself. In the end I shrugged my shoulders, left Wendy to herself, and got on with the rest of my life.
Part Two
It was midsummer. Undoubtedly I was feeling at the end of my tether because I had recently been down to visit Bridget.
Bridget had at least been a fully-fledged girlfriend. For a while I was a member of the Young Vegans Society, and Bridget was too. There was a pioneer in plant nutrition, a Dr Wokes who, now in old age, required some help with all his papers and files. So Bridget and I would meet at his spacious dwelling place, for work by day, play by night.
By now, Bridget and I hadn't set eyes on one another for a couple of years, but in a perverse moment of self-induced torture, I got in contact. One last try, I suppose. She lived on the south side of the North Downs, in prime commuter belt country, and I slept out under the stars on Box Hill the night before going to see her. I woke up with a dry mouth and feeling remarkably unsexy. Nevertheless, I staggered down the hill early morning to pay her a visit.
She was horrified to hear that I had slept on the hill: somebody had been murdered there at night only recently. Her shock I took as a good sign: she still preferred me alive than dead.
This aside, emotions remained cool to 'I'll have ice with my martini'. Two years is a long time. While I had been busy transforming into a countercultural hero, Bridget was busy finding Jesus. She showed me around her church, and the evening's entertainment culminated in a game of baseball with her friends in the large back garden. Things were going well until I demonstrated what a shit-hot dude I am by slamming the ball deep into the woodlands beyond.
What was strange was the total absence of reaction from Bridget and her friends. You might have expected them to be annoyed at this long-haired dirty upstart turning up and spoiling the game; they might have gone running off to find the ball, or get another one; they might even have been impressed at my remarkable skill. But no. Anodyne emotion. Maybe that's what too much Jesus does to you.
I slouched off to catch a late train home. At least I knew the score for sure. The Bridget chapter was well and truly closed, and she was free to give birth to as many little choirboys as she wanted.
Part Three
Actually, things weren't so bad. It was summer 1975, the first of two extraordinary long hot summers in Britain. And the impact of the springtime experiences with the tiny brown microdots lingered. Ecstasy and bliss enough, without girls. And then along came Caroline...
By now it was autumn. Saturday evenings would often see parties at the well-populated hang-out that was French Phil's house. It was at one such event that I first met Caroline. She was a student at Dorset House school for trainee nurses in the Headington part of Oxford. She was also the most gorgeous girl I had spoken to in all my life. To my delight, Caroline was intelligent, articulate, and we went through a load of matters philosophical and spiritual. She even listened me out on my rap about the benefits of psychedelics, a regular highlight of my conversation that I seemed unable to turn off.
"We're having a party at Dorset House in a couple of weeks' time. Come on up." Come on up I most definitely would....
November had arrived; damp, cloying fog hung heavily over the Vale of Oxford, challenging the health of the hardiest of souls. I walked through the long dark evening, up Headington Hill, until I could see ahead the warm, beckoning lights of Dorset House. There, the party was in full swing. Led Zeppelin blasted from outsize speakers; half-empty bottles of cheap Spanish wine littered the tables; a throng of Oxford youth jumped and danced to the music; and Caroline was talking to a rugby type. The precise status of the relationship was difficult to tell - but they clearly knew each other quite a bit.
OK. Not only was Caroline with another guy, but he was exactly the straight, conventional kind that I was averse to. I looked around and clarity cut through the mental fog. "This is not my place. These are not my people. I have left all this behind. I have reincarnated as a different species altogether."
I took to the 'Don Cortez', the alcohol scourge of the mid-1970s, and danced magnificently into the night with one of Caroline's friends. She would probably have gone out with me happily, but I wasn't interested.
3am came along. The fog was thicker, the frost heavier, the damp more penetrating than ever. I left the party at the same time as Caroline, who was going home with a friend. "Meet me on Monday at the Chequers. 8 o'clock. OK?" "Fine." I knew she wouldn't.
The journey home was grim. I staggered through the silence of the Oxford night, belly full of cheap white wine, my heart awash with despond. Rime formed on the lapels of my thick winter coat, the cold cutting through to the chase. At 4.30 I finally collapsed into bed, miraculously maintaining the presence of mind not to disturb my fellow communards, before slipping into welcome oblivion.
Monday evening came round. Five minutes early, I was sitting at the bar, lager in hand. I knew Caroline wouldn't turn up. The others in the commune knew Caroline wouldn't turn up. Caroline knew she wouldn't turn up. The whole world knew she wasn't going to turn up.
Caroline didn't turn up.
I returned home feeling subdued, a little silly, and slightly embarrassed. Sensitive to my mood, everyone in the commune moved around quietly. Liberty cast a sympathetic glance in my direction; I appreciated him for that.
Years on, I began to see a little what was going on. It's all in the Jungian handbook: opposites attract, personality types, the works. 'Shit-hot countercultural longhair looking for pretty office girl for a life in wellie boots growing vegetables. Must be a psychedelic enthusiast.' It was never going to work.
In general, females in the alternative failed to turn me on. Too much long straggly hair, muted colours, long lumpy skirts. Vivacious, lively girls with make-up and lipstick; that was the name of the game.
Maybe the gods were protecting me, keeping me a distance from complete embroilment in the attachment-and-relationship game. I don't know. Despite my fair share of bad experiences with females, I always got on well with them, and never suffered from the psychological complications that were to plague some of my Buddhist buddies in the years to come. I kind-of got on too well: a good friend, but finding it difficult to make the leap into sexual relationship. My habit was to leave it too long, too late.
It was written in the stars, or somewhere: my energy was for things other than bringing up babies, finding a regular job, and a mortgage which goes on forever. Precisely the things that the Bridgets and Wendys would soon be dreaming of. For now, the Fates had decided; it would be no other way.
Images: Top: Ahead of the times: A Botticelli Venus, 1485-86, 1970s lookalike.
Middle: Alchemical Coniunctio, Rosarium Philosophorum, 1550
Below: Sonja Kristina, singer with 'progressive' rock band Curved Air, early 1970s
Two 'Current Events' Updates
A 'Nuremberg case' has been filed in the UK against some of the Cabal. There is an accompanying document, which is a comprehensive list of charges, an excellent summary of most of the salient points re. the current fraud/hoax. I recommend sending on the document to the court, as suggested by Hannah in the video.
https://www.thrivetribehub.com/videos/view/2/nuremberg-case-filed-for-the-uk
A recent update from Reiner Fuellmich. A year ago he hoped it would be possible to go through the 'official' court system, but he now sees that it is too riddled with corruption to be of much use, generally speaking. Liberation is up to the population, not any bunch of phony authorities.
