If you look up the word melancholy in the dictionary or online, you will probably be given a list that includes despondency and depression. I have a different description.
To me it’s a place I go to when things have gone wrong but instead of being dark and depressive I think it’s a place that takes you back to a time that although not particularly better, its one you can control.
So that in essence is what this book is. It’s a thing I have written when I have needed an escape.
It hasn’t always been a cheery place that I have visited but it has, for a while at least, allowed me to take a bit of control. I have also this idea of starting each section with some music that meant a lot to me at the time. I may well give up on that half way through so forgive me if that was the one bit of the blog you were enjoying. But occasionally between the political rants I will pop back to younger more innocent times just as a blessed release from all the boring political nonsense.. If you recognise yourself in the blog at anytime remember that you are so important to someone you hardly give a thought to anymore that they wrote about you. In an actual blog. And forgive me if I have not always been 100% factual, but we do want people to read this.
So come with me to Melancholy, it is the story of me, failed sportsman, failed politician , failed Community worker , failed poet, failed entertainer and more than likely failed writer.
Oh and by the way, if anyone of any importance ever reads this far remember
The Forest of Dean and its communites deserve a voice and always will.
Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, oh and it was very very warm.
I remember the brilliant John Sullivan writing a line for Rodney in Only Fools and Horses that truly struck home with me. He had Rodney explaining to his brother how he felt about their Mother dying when he was so young. It was he said “alright for DelBoy and the rest of them, they had a sense of loss.” With Rodney not remembering his Mum he said he just felt “cheated”. Brilliant writing!!
It just summed up how I felt about Mum not being here. I knew Dad missed her terribly and could tell the others were really wary of talking about her. I just got on with it I suppose. I didn’t miss her as I could not remember her. She had died when I was around twelve months old and at twelve months you have got a job to remember to open your eyes occasionally.
1976 was the first time that I noticed not having a Mum made me different. It was Mothers day coming up. Berry Hill Primary school was my education area of choice. Mrs F as I shall refer to her was a pleasant lady. I actually liked all of my teachers and even the head Mr Hiley had a splendid manner. This one occasion however I realised how stupid grown ups could be.
With Mothering Sunday approaching everyone was sat in class making the mums splendid cards to take home. A lad called Shaun asked me why I was looking out of the window instead of working on a card.
“ Cos it do all say To Mum or Mummy on here. And I don’t have a Mum”
Shaun looked at me like I had just told him I was the Archbishop of Canterbury.
“Don’t be stupid, of course you do “
“ No I don’t , She died and hers dyud”
He looked almost hurt, how dare this lad say such a terrible thing about his Mummy was obviously all he could think.
He called Mrs F and continued to dob me in with incredible skill and technique.
Mrs F stopped him about ten seconds before he was about to finish anyway and told him that yes indeed I was not lying and this lads Mother had indeed died.
She then went bright red , ummed and erred and made me do the card anyway.
I would not have minded but I can’t remember ever doing a Fathers day Card. Ever.
And also around this time was when I realised how much I loved my Dad. Obviously having only one parent sort of concentrates your affections but I can honestly say that if I were not his Son or related? then Boxer Gwilliam is the type of fella I would want to be mates with. For a start he had five of us to bring up after the Lady of the House departed. And this is a time when benefits are not quite as readily available as perhaps they are nowadays.
But his gardening and fishing skills were only surpassed by his ability to light a cooch fire and his making of a Corned Beef Stew.
I hope he gets to read this effort by his youngest son somewhere in heaven , near a river , with a pint. If for no other reason than to say thank you Dad for not sending me to the orphanage and for making the best ever cooch fires. Even now in my fifties , the smell of cooch burning takes me back to being 7 or 8 and Dad telling me not to get close or else I will get smoke dried. By the way He was 83 when we lost this giant of a man and he could still run rings around me in the garden even near the end.
I even forgive you Dad for having me believe that the scar on your foot really was from a Japanese Snipers bullet.
Dad would often try to explain how important his garden was to us as family. I realise now the importance of those peas and cabbage and how a football bouncing between the rows of sprouts might mean to him , just one less traditional thing his family would have at Christmas.
I however was hell bent on being Kevin Keegan or Ray Clemence. The two clothes posts were perfect goalposts as I pretended to be Keegan smashing one past Alex Stepney or Clemence saving a Gerry Francis penalty. You can imagine my disgust when just as I was being King Kevin I would be getting a right old bollocking via the bathroom window. “Get that Bloody Ball off the Bloody Garden” should have been Dads theme tune. I know now it was actually important that he got some harvest to feed us. And this wasn’t by choice like the Good Life but out of necessity. I even used to provide my own commentary just like sport on two.. I had even worked out that adding a bit of spit into my speech made it sound like I was Bryon Butler commentating on Liverpool’s progress in some far flung corner of Europe. Mrs Jones next door must have overheard this more than once and now , looking back, I am a bit disappointed she did not chip in with a bit of expert co commentator summary like Dennis Law.And the ball?
49p , from the paper shop, plastic , black hexagons with football club names on. Not good around roses or Goosgogs.
But 1976 was
a turning point as I found a new sport to adore. I would often have been with Dad when he went to the Post Office. Harold Powell the Post Master would often discuss with Dad (and sometimes display) Mike Deness’ weakness outside off stump or Boycotts immaculate forward defensive. One very very hot morning however I remember him telling Dad how the England Captain was going to make someone called Lloyd grovel.
I should point out that Lloyd was my biggest brothers name and although somewhat estranged from the family at the time , I had no wish for this Tony Greig man to make him grovel.
I immediately took a dislike to this Greig. And it stuck . Later that summer when I had worked out what actually had been said and who about, I still was against him.
Whenever John (my other brother) and I would go out on the lawn to play cricket I was always the West Indies, Vanburn Holder or Clive Lloyd. With the somewhat small playing area I do remember John reaching 347 not out at one point as the long hot days just merged into one another.
The Cricket equipment was not exactly standard MCC issue either. Wicket, Dads lawn up to the cabbage patch. Stumps were three cut off branches of either Lilac or forsythia depending on straightness. Bails, two wooden washing pegs. Bat , either piece of wood from the shed whittled with a kitchen knife by John or a metal pipe that I found under the hedge. But the ball was a work of art, take one cobble about ping pong ball size, wrap in insulation tape. Cover with a football sock and wrap in more insulation tape.
That ball lasted nearly all summer, until one dry evening about six o’clock , just before close of play Dad arrived at the wicket. All afternoon we had been playing and Dad must have shouted to us twenty times about keeping off the garden and those bloody cabbages. Indeed not ten minutes before he had really told John off for running through his runner beans as he chased one I must have hit.
Any way now Dad had come round to our way of thinking and wanted to join in. I was to Bowl and John took up his position at square leg. Dad took a somewhat careless guard I remember thinking. Shall I bowl a quick one or spin it to get him caught?
I ran in and bowled a full toss on middle stump. I remember the thwack of insulation tape on plywood and remember watching the ball soar high into the air, over the runner beans, over the garage and over the hedge. I suspect it landed somewhere between the bottom field and the Social Club car park, either way never to be seen again. The tears in my eyes had just started when Dad handed John the bat and said, “Perhaps you will stay off the garden now?”
Now I don’t want you getting the idea that Dad was in any way mean or anything. He was strict and sometimes perhaps overly so when it came to us going out or things like that. I think it was done out of love and really out of the fact that he would worry himself to an early grave if he did not know where we were at all times.
To me his not letting us out meant just that the garden and the house were my sport stadiums and play areas. I can imagine that John and Jill and certainly Jackie may have seen this slightly differently their relative ages. Also it may be true to say that this slightly overbearing approach affected us all in some way later in life. But I know that Dad just would not have been able to be any different. I for one was glad he was like it too. Lets be honest , being on a tight reign at home is far better than off the leash in some orphanage or home.
Apparently it really was on the cards for some or all of us kids to be put somewhere. Dad was a freeminer and although the work was hard the money was not great. And being self employed meant no time off. Five kids under sixteen and no employment benefit meant something had to go. Luckily it was his pit and not us. Better to be poor together than well off apart.
After Mum had died we had moved from the family home in Joyford to a council house in Berry Hill. Three bedrooms a coal fire and most importantly a non leaking roof.
Some of my first memories were the Christmas times. I remember one Christmas eve being in bed . I even remember Dads overcoat being on the bed so It must have been chilly. John was in the room in a different bed And Jill was in the big bed we shared with Dad. Which meant that the eldest two Jackie and Lloyd would have had their own smaller rooms. This particular Christmas Eve John must have been a bit excited and wanted to get his little brother and sister in the spirit as it were.
“Sssshhh ! Can you hear that? “ I recall him whispering. Now I know he added “that’s Santa Claus on the shed roof”. But to me about 5 and just having sorted Father Christmas out in my head all I heard was “ that’s Santa CLAWS on the roof.” I was scared witless and hardly slept all night. Thinking this beast was on the shed and trying to get in.
I cant remember the gifts really , not really surprising as we were still in orange and some nuts territory with one special present. I often wonder how my boys might react if they were given the same instead of the room full of presents they get nowadays.
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