Clerk Non Compus…

Selected (unedited) emails of a cannabis smoker. – Part 1.

8th November 2016. 23:09

Dear Editor

The People have almost spoken I guess.. Whatever happens, happens now.. Might as well make sure

I’ve got 1 or 2 of my favourite recreational vices handy at all times for the coming sparkly s*** fest..

Let the media bulls*** circus unfold until I start hallucinating that the newsreaders have lizard tongues, then I know Hilary has made it.

Safe in the knowledge that we were not getting our first non-reptilian U.S President since Abraham Lincoln.

On the bright side of the s*** coin is that at least we know that is we could find a rich American with half decent morals, She/He would have a half decent chance of causing a colossal seismic shift in world politics for the better.

There is hope to be had from this surreal race of United States of America’s finest political minds.

There is always hope,

until the last breath.

FBB

…..

15 Nov 2016, 02:26

Dear Scribbler,

At the beginning, there was blank space.

I have the capabilities to fill much of this space with words.
One reason I have never made any real concerted effort to fill in much blank space thus far in my life is due to fear of what others may or may not think. Also, self pity played quite a dominant part in my life for probably a couple of decades.

Do I really want to unleash my mind onto electronic white paper like this?

Will I be able to express my inevitable reactive urges and thoughts if it is obvious that I could lose respect from the few friends I currently have?

I am starting to find plenty of things I wish to understand, and when I do understand something, I hope to express the knowledge in the simplest way possible, in the hope that whatever truth I will uncover will help others save time on uncovering that particular truth, so that they can spend more time in trying to concentrate their brain power to learn about something else useful that hasn’t been discovered yet. The next paragraph will make you think I’m about to ask for a favour, but I am really not.

I just cannot sleep, and am finding it hard to concentrate my mind on any given subject, so I thought it would be fun to send an email to someone I’m learning to respect more and more as each day, this layer of craziness that envelopes the core of humanity.

I am forty years old next May, and I have not been in the formal education system since I was expelled from a school for a second time when I was sixteen. Puberty and being diagnosed with manic depression at the age of fourteen is something that defined a lot of bad (easy) choices I’ve made over the years.

Not a time for string quartet to be playing chords and melodies of self pity; I’m actually finding that Manic Depression is not the worst of conditions to mildly have when trying to decipher what the hell is going on around us.

I am like a wiser than average 16 year old in a 39 year old man’s body , with a taste for courting women over the age of 25. It’s quite an exciting time personally I guess.

Getting a formal higher education (I am working towards reading History once I complete an access to university course beginning next year,) is of importance to me. How else am I going to learn the study better and to write better emails and letters, blogs and articles, maybe even a book or two.

A long time in the past I was very ambitious, wanting to change the world, but somehow I convinced myself it was better to try and ignore the world around me as much as possible. I found it very hard to not think I was being paranoid every time my mind came to different conclusions to friends and family on about every given subject.

Suddenly, after putting a concerted effort into taking a little bit more care of my mind, I get more and more about humanity and the way we seem to be heading, significantly than I ever have, And I am so badly equipped to be able to ride this tide of fear and ignorance, that is everywhere I look when I switch on my computer or mobile device every day.

The care and precision that is needed to conduct a conversation with a fellow human these days can be little cruel to one’s senses to say the least.

Political “correctness” has gone from mad to what might be described by some as being fascist, but I find it difficult to use that particular F-word in the ‘current climate’. Every celebrity revolutionary called Russell misuses words like fascist to describe traits in people whilst shouting someone down who is also trying to speak.

Shouting down until the other person shuts up. The loudest bully wins – The crowd cheers.. It absolutely disgusts me.

Why am I writing these words with the intention to email them to you?

I guess that out of all the Journalists/writers/political commentators that appear in the media, you are one of the few people that I respect.
My journey in the land of critical thinking only started in earnest a couple of years ago.. In that time I became a bit of a fanboy of your late brother. And would spend hours witnessing debate after debate on you-tube and C-Span..

.
The reason I am writing this messy email to you is in the hope that you can recomend to me some books to read, names of Journalists of whom’s intentions I can trust, but not necessarily, actually especially people you don’t agree with on a lot of topics.

I value your opinion.. You are one of the few people in the media I trust.

There is no doubt in my mind that you don’t talk in public about a subject unless you have studied that topic for a significant amount of time. You listen and try to debate in a way that seems to be increasingly rare in the media.

Listening to you talk reminds me of a wonderful year of my life when I had a really good History/Religious Studies Teacher that I liked in secondary school when I was between the ages of 11 and 12 . He was always citing sources that were not in text books that forced my curiosity to spend time in the quite well stocked library shelves of the boys school I attended in Bishop’s Stortford.

And watching you appear on Tv spectacles like Question Time, it reminds myself of being myself on a day to day basis.. Being shouted over if my opinion happens to be different to the one that is on the liberal consensus hymn sheet that so many people incessantly and seemingly ignorantly sing from these days.

This email is a request to be able to correspond with you occasionally.

It’s quite simple for you.. Either reply to this or don’t.

I am quite happy to grow into a good writer while adding decoration to your spam box.
.

I hope you are still writing and talking with such thought and passion for many years to come. And that maybe one day in the not-so-distant future that we can meet, discuss and argue with passion about subject matter.

Thank you for putting in so much effort into trying to make sense of the circus going on around us.

Keep up the good work please.

Yours Sincerely

FBB

Tue, 15 Nov 2016, 14:29

Dear Scribbler,

Thank you for your reply.

I don’t even know the best place to begin, being that a reply from you wasn’t overly expected.

I am likely to be moving to Cornwall in the coming months. Will be renting a house with my partner near the stretch of coastline that accommodates St. Ives bay. This is strategic move away from Manchester, where I have lived for the last fifteen years.

Part of the idea is to have the peace and quiet when studying as a mature student. It is also a preferred holiday destination of many of my friends,family and acquaintances. So the move will obviously attract welcome visitors during the course of each year..

While living in a city, I feel much more isolated. Most social contact with most of my circle of friends is via Facebook, even though many of us only live a brisk walk away from each other, we might only see each other in person once a year. So why not see them once a year there rather than here?

Whether or not the move to the South West is wise, I will not be doing it alone. I am fortunate to have a loving partner with a very nurturing nature, but she has a really rather strange taste in men. Luckily for me.

What sort of light and heavy reading would you recommend on a stormy Cornish winter night?

And if I want to start trying to make sense of mainstream politics in Britain today, where would you say is the best historical starting point for me?

FBB

Wed, 16 Nov 2016, 01:06

Thank you.

But I have to inform you, that the recommendation of your book is not as self serving as you might have liked. I managed to download the book to my kindle device and I got about a thirty percent discount. But even without the discount, it really is very reasonably priced.

I am a fair way through chapter 6 and have had to pause while trying to comfort my cat who is getting freaked out by the nightly fireworks that plague this area sporadically at this time of year. At least I hope they are only fireworks..

I will save Great Expectations until I eventually have a stormy winter night to enjoy. And I am determined to read David Copperfield tomorrow. I have been meaning to start reading David Copperfield in particular,after watching a programme recently about Charles Dickens, presented by the man who wrote “The thick of it”.

And as far as your book, well you know it’s very good, you don’t need me or anyone else to tell you that.

It’s refreshing to me to see someone who is not afraid to confront so much of the rubbish being force fed to us at every turn in the media. I am grateful that people like you still have a voice in this mess. A mess that is becoming ever apparent to me.

I look forward to reading the rest of your book, and the long hours of research and deep thinking it will inspire.

This evening is the first time in my short term memory that I can remember having my computer turned off all evening.

And if I can’t sleep, I can just read the rest of your book.

One last thing. I feel the urge to recommend a book to you. The trouble is you probably have read more books in the last week than I have done in my whole life so far. “Ham on Rye” by Charles Bukowski is my most dog eared book. And I am certain it’ll not be the worst book you have read, if you haven’t read it before.

I’ll give your inbox a rest now.

FBB

Wed, 16 Nov 2016, 23:34

“Of Conservative Atheist Anti Catholic stock.” That does not describe
me well at all. I dislike the fact that I sent that last email.

I’m a Conservative leaning fellow in a very weird, nasty and
intolerant urban-slum closet. Trying to find out what kind of
Conservative minded person I am is turning out to be a really
difficult task. And I am also trying hard to find a ways to stop
being scared of saying what is on my mind. I imagine that many
‘minorities’ in history have and are going through, very similar kinds
of prejudices that a lot of conservative minded people face right now.
It defies logic to me that this is the case. And your book is really
turning out to be a better starting point of understanding modern
British politics than I could have ever hoped for.

I can’t stay in this closet for much longer as I think I am about to explode.

Another reason I have decided to abandon city life for some long and
much needed breaths of fresh, clean air ?

What I should have said is that my father is very much a Daily/Sunday
Express reading conservative ( I very much doubt he reads that paper
now, but he did when I was growing up as a child in the seventies and
eighties)

I’m not so sure about my mother. She would probably say she is
conservative. She would also say she supports Tottenham Hotspur,
despite being Irish and having no interest in Association Football
whatsoever. The reason she supports Tottenham is because my father
supports them. My father always described himself as an Atheist when
I was a child, I used to overhear his anti-religious views quite a
lot, when I would eaves drop on adult conversations going on in the
house when I was supposed to be tucked up in bed. My mother would
probably describe herself as an atheist spurs fan.

My mother is Irish, she is also left handed. All but one of the Nuns
at the school she went to were right handed. My mothers education
involved a lot of time with her left hand tied behind her back (and a
lot worse.) A nervous breakdown of some kind at the age of about 12,
which she recovered from. She(her hair) went completely whitish grey.
No surprise that it inspired her to become a hairdresser, with vast
knowledge of how to dye hair safely. That was her catholic education.
Many of my happy childhood summers holidays were spent in Ireland..
By the age of about 12, you can safely say I was anti-catholic. But by
no means anti-Christian. The really big disappointment to me was
mixing with other kids in a playground or park, it was advisable not
to talk out loud when joining in a game of Hurling, Soccer, Rugby or
Gaelic football. English accents didn’t go down too well
unfortunately. Lots of people must have thought I was a mute.

Back at home, having lived a quite happy first 8 years of my life in
North London (It wasn’t all good, of course) My parents decided to
live the dream. Got a mortgage on a house and moved to Bishop’s
Stortford. I didn’t like it at first. I had to wear a uniform at
primary school (a very alien concept for me.) I had my own wooden
desk in class. I even made good use of the Ink Well. It was about as
traditional as you could get, at least I think so. As opposed to the
‘loony left modern primary’ (as my father would probably call it.. I
remember “Loony Left” mentioned a lot when growing up in Hornsey,
Haringay, Crouch end).

It’s safe to say I didn’t like it first, but it was mainly because I’d
left all my friends behind. and I was scared of the great unknown.
I had every right to be. As soon as the older kids in the playground
found out my mother was Irish, the bullying was very intense. (Thank
you IRA). Once I plucked up the courage to punch the most fearsome
of bullies in the face(the first and only time I have ever punched
someone in the face I might add). He rolled around and cried, I got a
massive beating after school by a group of 10 year old thugs. But I
never experienced bullying again until secondary school.

It was a very confusing time. The Irish kids don’t like me because I
am English, The English kids don’t like because I’m Irish. Add to
this something else I didn’t mention about my London schooling – I
used to get treated cruelly by mainly Black kids in my London school,
as I was branded a racist.
After innocently bringing in my favourite book one day in
infant/primary school. A book I found the previous summer , found in
a box of books, in the dusty loft of my Grandfathers house . My
favourite book when I was about five or six years old was “Little
Black Sambo”..

That bullying, went on for a year, maybe two. It was mainly scare
tactics, nothing usually got physical. This pretty much stopped when
my little brother (who had just started infant school) witnessed the
danger I was in one day in the playground. He proceeded to hit out at
the biggest Black kid “LEE’ M’ BIG BROTH ALONE!” and he got a lucky
shot, point blank in a certain masculine area that doesn’t react well
to blunt force trauma, even if it is the lame punch of an infant. The
bully’s left me alone after that.

If that happened now, that 5 year old child defending his brother
would probably get excluded from school because it would probably be
seen as a racially motivated attack. I joke about it, but my instincts
are telling me it’s not inconceivable.

Funnily enough, all of that Little Black Sambo drama could have been
avoided if the Teacher who discovered me reading this book had not
made a massive song and dance about racism to the whole class after
dramatically snatching the book from my hand . I actually stood up
for myself a bit, and grabbed the book from her while thinking of the
nastiest thing my six or year old brain could muster .. I think I
called her Mrs Carrot.. I don’t know how that is an insult, I don’t
even know what I meant when I called her Mrs Carrot, I was a polite
child and was not accustomed to talking back and throwing insults at
teachers. She proceeded to give me and my diverse jolly band of 6
year old classmate a rather good lesson on racism (though not nearly
as excellent as your teachings on Racism, Homophobia and Sexism in
The Cameron Delusion.) The problem with her racism lecture lesson is
that effectively she was branding me as a racist in front of a quite
diverse mix of impressionable young peers of mine. My parents must
have died a death or two after conversations with the teacher after
school that afternoon.

Fast forward back to about 1987 when I was a young child living in
Hertfordshire. It only took me six months to settle in and not miss
my London friends. The freedom to roam the nearby fields and
woodland looking for remote spots to go fishing. Discovering old
bunkers, where supposedly an American airbase used to be during the
second world war. Making bases, so many bases.. Breaking in to a
badly bordered up bomb shelter in the centre of town and making a base
inside a black 1930’s car that was abandoned in there for some
reason, I think that myself and my fellow comrades must have made
about 12 strategic secret bases around town.

War was on the horizon though.

Rival kids congregated and played in a stretch of field about 300
yards away from the stretch of field my comrades and I (me?)
protected.

We all made bows, made blunt arrows. We had a tactical advantage.
Not only did we have the higher ground. My Granddad lived nearby. In
fact he lived so close, that my brothers and I still refer to this
stretch of grass as “Granddads field/park” . And being that my
Grandfather (referred to as The Major to some) served as an officer
in Burma during the second world war. He has some essential expertise.
He helped me find the best willow.. And showed me how to build a bow
that could fire arrows probably about 10 metres further than the Bows
of our enemy. He pretty much gave me a tactical run-down of how to
conquer our enemy. His tactics were spot on and after sharing amongst
my fellow comrades, one fine day we advanced and the enemy retreated,
they had no choice but to surrender. Otherwise, one of the arrows
would probably hit someone. There was peace agreement soon after. I
would say that about 30 of us fought in this great little known war.
A war that only had 1 casualty, (one of the enemy’s soldiers grazed
their knee I think.)

, maybe two. It was mainly scare tactics, nothing usually got
physical. This pretty much stopped when my little brother (who had
just started infant school) witnessed the danger I was in one day in
the playground. He proceeded to hit out at the biggest Black kid
while struggling his hardest to blurt out the word “LEAVE MY BRUVVA
ALONE!” and he got a lucky shot, point blank in a certain masculine
area that doesn’t react well to blunt force trauma.
If that happened now, that 5 year old child defending his brother
would probably get excluded because it would probably be seen as a
racially motivated attack.

Funnily enough, all of that Little Black Sambo drama could have been
avoided if the Teacher who discovered me reading this book made had
not made a massive song and dance about racism to the whole class
after dramatically snatching the book from my hand . I actually
stood up for myself a bit, and grabbed the book from her while
thinking of the nastiest thing my 6 or 7 year old brain could muster
.. I think I called her Mrs Carrot.. I don’t know how that is an
insult, I don’t even know what I meant when I called her Mrs Carrot,
but I wasn’t accustomed to talking back to teachers. Mrs Carrot
proceeded to give me and my diverse jolly band of 6 year old
classmates a lesson on racism (though not nearly as excellent as
your teachings on Racism, Homophobia and Sexism in The Cameron
Delusion), and the obvious problem with the lesson is that
effectively she was branding me as a racist in front of a quite
diverse mix of impressionable young peers of mine. The harassment I
endured I am certain was witnessed by other teachers and was ignored.
I had to wait for my brother to save me from this. That being said
that, the majority of my childhood was quite enjoyable.

Fast forward to when I was a young child living in Hertfordshire.
It only took me six months to settle in and not miss my London
friends. The freedom to roam the nearby fields and woodland looking
for remote spots to go fishing. Discovering old bunkers near where
supposedly an American airbase used to be, making bases on and in big
haystacks. Breaking into a badly bordered up bomb shelter in the
centre of town and making a base inside a black 1930’s car that was
in there for some reason.

I think that myself and my fellow comrades must have made about
12 strategic secret bases around town. War was on the horizon. Kids
who congregated and played in a stretch of field about 300 yards away
from the stretch of field my comrades and I protected.

We all made bows, made blunt arrows. We had a tactical advantage
though. Not only did we have the higher ground. My dear dear Granddad
lived nearby. In fact he lived so close, that my brothers and I still
refer to this stretch of grass as “Granddads field” . He was referred
to as “The Major” by many, I am guessing served as an officer in
Burma during the second world war. And he helped me find the best
willow.. And showed me how to build a bows that could fire arrows
probably about 10 metres further than the Bows of our enemy. He pretty
much gave me a tactical run-down of how to conquer our enemy. His
tactics were spot on and after sharing the tactics amongst my
comrades, one fine day we advanced and the enemy retreated, they had
no choice but to surrender. Otherwise, one of the arrows would
probably hit someone. There was peace agreement soon afterwards. I
would say that about 30 of us fought in this great little known war.
A war that only had 1 casualty, one of the enemy’s soldiers grazed one
of his knees, it was quite nasty. The occasional skirmish broke out
amongst some of the older kids from time to time.

Not long after celebrating our victorious war effort, I asked my
girlfriend for her hand in marriage and she accepted, I gave her some
jewels and a ring (probably from a Christmas cracker.) We had to find
someone to marry us. Luckily one of our classmates was the daughter of
a Vicar , and she knew exactly how to conduct a ceremony perfectly.
And one sunny lunchtime in the school playground, we were wed. There
was a best man, a maid of honour, confetti. We innocently
‘consummated’ our f marriage later on. After school, in the spinney on
the way home, we nervously, but excitedly engaged in a brief, peck on
the lips. Our first ever romantic kiss.

The honeymoon period was over soon afterwards though. I wasn’t a very
good husband, I spent too much time with my comrades, going on
missions, looking for adventure. About 3 weeks later, one rainy
lunchtime, I was served with divorce papers. No heartbreak could ever
match that. It was brutal. But I decided not to contest it. Her
happiness was more important to me than mine. But I was a child, even
my most well written love letters at the time were unable to express
that.

I don’t imagine that many children growing up now will ever know what
it is like to roam free (most of the scenery I explored as a child are
now just tarmac that lead to more tarmac. .. Free to explore the
fading embers of their brief time innocence.

I have never wound back the clock in my kitchen,
the knob at the back only turns the hands clockwise.
Lots of clocks have knobs that only turn the hands anti-clockwise too,
but time can easily be moved forward and backwards whichever way the knob turns.
I’m sorry. I was in the middle of writing a good analogy about something..
And now the thought has totally escaped me,
like the majority of good dreams I have
that just vanish from my mind
moments after an ever rare condition of heaven I call slumber.

I feel this is good a time as any to cease adding words to this
email. Thank you kindly if you are still tolerating my ramblings.

FBB

Wed, 16 Nov 2016, 23:51

(never try to write such long emails on a small android phone.. i kept
copy and pasting things by accident(I am useless with touchscreens.
Proof reading (even by my basic standards) was near impossible after a
while. I really put a bit of effort into that email too.
Unfortunately I didn’t have a computer at hand, or a notepad at when I
had the sudden urge to write).

Fri, 18 Nov 2016, 22:36

This is factual (to the best of my knowledge, obviously my memory is
as unreliable as the next persons)

I used to work for ... (starting in about 2004) in an office of a building called St. George’s house. It was quite a well payed job compared to working in Tesco Metro on Market Street, where I used to get disciplined a lot, and eventually sacked. (And rightly so, I was an absolute obnoxious s** when I worked there.)
And things plodded along with little drama for a few years, despite
the occasional argument with lazy, self serving jobsworth bosses. I
loved arguing my case in disciplinary meetings. I was outspoken,
rebellious, I took ‘thinking outside the box’ to the extreme. my
colleges and bosses were able to tolerate me on the whole, luckily for
me.

That was until 2007(maybe 2006.. sketchy about dates, sorry).. By then
I had built up quite an excellent credit rating (by what I learnt in
giving genuine compassionate, and where appropriate, humorous advice
as opposed to what ..* saw as good advice to disgruntled customers
who had been declined for credit card.) At around that time I applied
for a position with a company that dealt with offering insurance of
some kind to people. I only applied for a customer service job, but
the person who was interviewing me was so impressed.. She got a phone
call saying they regretted they could not offer me the job, but they
would like to see for another role that was most suitable. When I went
back and was offered this PA job, I was shocked. In the end though, I
talked myself out of getting the job. I was broadsided, it was the
first time in my working life that I was ‘in demand’ so to speak.. It
would have been a great opportunity to learn important skills like
learning shorthand etc, but hey.

I lived in a house with my then girlfriend.. we went to work, paid our
mortgage and bills. It even had small white picket fence, in Higher
Blackley (Pronounced Blake Lee)

Things were not so good for me internally though, I was about 30 and I
had somehow blagged my way through my twenties, sweeping my mania and
depression under the carpet by self medicating with mainly alcohol.
The bubble eventually burst, and I felt completely stuck. As much I
loved my girlfriend, I loved her with all my heart, I knew that I
wasn’t to be the one she should be with if she wanted to enjoy a long
and happy marriage, a couple of kids, going on holiday to Cornwall
every year, growing old gracefully, sharing wisdom with our grand
children.. So the arguments began.. I was too scared to tell her what
was on my mind.. And the rot started to set in. Eventually I told her
about my mental health problems.(it’s not really much of a problem to
me really.. we all have our crosses to bear, health-wise)

There was a TV programme about the harsh history of mistreatment of
adolescent people in psychiatric hospitals. I had a little bit of
experience of that for a brief time, as I am sure I have mentioned
before.

Certain memories came flooding back and I started crying. My
girlfriend was in the kitchen doing the washing up, like every good
girlfriend should (I jest, it was only fair she did the washing up as
I was the chef of our household). She walked in the living room, and I
quickly turned the channel over (I don’t know why ) .. And despite my
best efforts to hide my tears and snot, she offered me a warm, but
very concerned hug. And I proceeded to tell her about big chunks of my
life that I never told anybody in detail since I moved to Manchester
in 2002. She did research, helped me pluck up the courage to go to the
doctors (they just tried to make me take pills as usual). I could
never hope for better support from a girlfriend.

I was increasingly struggling at work.. I think I was on an almost
perpetual warning of some kind or another (note to self. find
attempted essay on on illogical disciplinary practices) . Things were
grim. If only I had accepted that PA job, I kept incessantly thinking
to myself every day.

Most days after work I would just go to the “moon under water” on
Deans-gate. And would just drink and drink (mainly alone) , until
eventually I would get a text message from my girlfriend asking me to
stop ignoring her calls and hurry up home (things had got passed the –
are you okay? stage it seems).

I would get home eventually, usually a couple of hours later than she
would like. And we would argue.She would cry, I would cry. She would
stamp off upstairs, I would stamp off to the kitchen. I would shout up
to her that dinner was ready, I would apologise. She would apologise.
We watched TV, played on playstation 2. She would go to bed at a
reasonable time, I would tell my most frequent of lies, that I would
follow her up soon. I rarely did. In fact I spent most of my time
sleeping in the spare bedroom, which doubled up as my study.

We were slowly but surely coming to terms with the fact that we were
no longer on the same path in life. I was holding on a bit tighter
though. (Even though I have a queer way of showing it here.)

One day at work, there was a staff meeting/presentation.. Explaining
the disability discrimination act that had just been introduced across
the country (note to self, don’t forget to work out rough dates) .

It was such an exciting time for me. But that excitement soon turned
into regret and a period of my life that nearly led me to suicide on
many occasions. I don’t say that lightly. Despite the fact I had been
diagnosed with Manic Depression in my early to mid teens, I didn’t
ever have any serious suicidal thoughts of significance (my parents
would probably say different).
Back then, my attempts at poetry were pitch black, and I thought I was
going to die by the age of thirty. Self destructive to the extreme,
even threatened to commit suicide to loved ones on quite a few
occasions. But I had never had truly suicidal urges before.

What led to these suicidal thoughts?
Now that is very complicated. I don’t think it was just a symptom of
depression, or mania. (note to self- try to find old poems written
back then)
I am not going to be able to recall everything, but lets just say I
was going to learn first hand what the term ‘constructive dismissal’
means. And them some! And lots of other juicy legal terms I learnt
from a very kind non-practising barrister, who was going to later help
me build a case against this bank that would eventually be kept afloat
by taxpayers. .

My downfall started when Sur Ferd Badlose came to our new offices,
spanking new offices in a building in what is now known as
Fieldsspinning )

He was on a tour to have discussions and talks with staff on how to
improve profits etc. Managers and a handful of selected staff. To my
surprise I was invited to attend one of these meeting/discussions. And
I soon learnt why.

The presentation was about as dull as you would expect, talking about
targets, and Fred Goodwin just basically singing his own praises. And
telling us how great he is, but how we need to reach even higher
profits. (A year before the big crash? or two years?)

It was like watching a Scottish clone of Tony Blair (more on him
somewhere below) loving the sound of his own voice. When it came to
questions and answers . People were just putting their hand up asking
the most ridiculous questions, singing his praises, sucking up to him.
I stood up, and I was taking notes during his quite pathetic talk (I
discovered my shorthand skills are really not as terrible as I thought
they were.. Damn it)
Now I can’t remember what questions I asked him, but what I can tell
you is that I ripped his talk to pieces, and the air was more tense
and awkward than anything I had experienced before (and since). You
could tell he was incensed, but to his credit he stayed calm. He
responded with all the normal claptrap you would expect. And I
countered his responses. Voices were getting a little bit raised.
After about 2, maybe 3 minutes of this. He said he would very much
like to have a one to one meeting with me, to discuss the very
interesting points I made. That meeting obviously never happened. I
outwitted him, out argued him.It wasn’t difficult. You could tell that
he was not used to being spoken to like that.

That last paragraph might sound a bit over-dramatic maybe, and I am
sure I am exaggerating slightly (the exchange might have last only 1 –
2 minutes) but it’s a fairly accurate rubbish description of what
occurred. I had a similar experience with another big wig, at a
similar meeting a few months beforehand, and he got control of the
room in exactly same way. Pack of liars.

And that’s obviously why my rebellious manager picked me to go to this
Ferd Badwin roadshow farce.

That friendly and rebellious manager ( and cowardly, using me to cause
trouble coz he didnt have the guts to do it himself) .. wasn’t
friendly rebellious anymore.. Friendly to everyone else, just not to
me. I am guessing he must have got a good talking to for allowing me
to attend the presentation.

Now, the weeks that came.. work become more and more intolerable. I
was phoning in sick a lot. Getting myself sent home early a lot with
imaginary ailments. And I was really struggling.
I was getting taken into the office for every tiny thing imaginable. I
spent more time in pre-disciplinary meetings than I did at my desk.
And the majority of the time I did nothing wrong.
I am no angel by any means, and I was a bit of a handful to say the
least. But my behaviour was no different than before my run in with
Ferd Badlose.

I smelt a rat. My girlfriend said I was just being paranoid.

I was drowning in a sea of Passive aggression directed at me at every
opportunity. Looking back now, how I kept my relative cool at this
time of my life is hard for me to fathom. I didn’t keep my cool at
home though. I was becoming more and more of a misery to live with. I
tried to explain what was happening at work, but no one would listen.
I didn’t know how to explain. You see, I’d never dealt with this kind
of situation before. And only mildly since.

I decided to have a meeting with my manager. And I tearfully explained
about my Mental Health condition. I thought with the disability
discrimination act on my side,. I might at least be able to hold on to
my job, while I looked for other work. I attended job interviews. Each
one went well to a point.. Then the interviewer would grill me about
why i would want to leave such a wonderful company for a job that paid
considerable less than what I was earning.. Hamstrung me every time
They just could not fathom why I wanted to work for them .. Because
the absolutely pathetic golden rule of interviews is to lie and be all
positive about your previous and current experiences.
So I was stuck. No one to turn to.
And things got worse.

One of my colleagues, who I mistakenly thought of as a friend (beware
of mistaking work colleagues as friends) , did something that still
incenses me to this day. My only regret is that I never confronted
that slimy piece of..

Where was I?

I was talking to him in confidence about my mental health history, it
was quite an emotional conversation, and then I just joked. In an
unmistakable tone that made it clear I wasn’t being serious, that I am
tempted to play the system sometimes and just get signed off sick for
the rest of my life.

I had no intention of being on the sick.And for the rest of my life? I
was trying to get another job, but I wasn’t talking about that.

Sometime the next day, I was ushered in an office for a fact finding
meeting, to address accusations that I was lying about my mental
health condition. My colleague only went and distorted my words and
grassed me up to the nearest manager. The meeting went badly, for me..
I was so angry. I stared out of the window. Trying everything in power
not to just turn the table over and shout as loud as I could for them
to STOP HARRASSING ME!!!!!!

I was stupid to have talked to a colleague I barely knew, especially
as I found out later that the person I did talk to in confidence was
in fact one of the in-crowd who would do anything to impress his
manager to try and get that lofty promotion to senior assistant,
senior assistant to the assistant manager. Or whatever silly job
titles they had.
I was so focused on staying calm that I just sat in that chair for
about 10 minutes, in what must have appeared like a catatonic state to
them. Trying to suck in the welled up tears with my moist blinded
eyes.

The only other time I have tried to hold in tears like that is at the
Funeral of a dear Uncle, my Mother’s oldest brother, when I had my had
her hand firmly squeezed around hers during the funeral service, until
it become increasingly harder and harder to draw breath, with an
explosion I made that horrible almost pig-like grunting sound, when
the well of tears and snot can no longer be contained.
I was so full of feelings in that small sterile fieldspinng office
where I was being very amateurishly and coldly interrogated. Could
they not see I was distressed? Eventually, the pig sound came.
I held in the tears again and stared out the window once more, the
same as before. I was not going to give them the satisfaction of
trying to talk when my emotions were in such a fragile state.
I managed to compose myself. And ask if anyone would be kind enough to
get me a tissue.

One of the managers rolled her eyes and reluctantly indulged me in my request.
They outlined the accusation against me and asked me if I had anything to say.
I said “The accusation is false”
One of them said that they took accusations like that very seriously.
I then said something “I take false allegations against me very
seriously. Could you bring the accuser to the office please? I am
pretty sure this misunderstanding can be thrashed out right now. “
They declined my request.
The conversation got nowhere. I was in no mood to be playing their
games. By the end of that farcical interrogation. They handed me a
letter that was warm, straight from a photocopier.

I was duly suspended on full pay (until they could find a clause in my
contract that only entitled to statutory sick pay) while they
conducted their ‘investigation.’
I then had the pleasure to be escorted out of the building, for
everyone to see. Looking like I had just come from a funeral.
It would be over six months before I saw that Psinningfieds offices
again for my next farcical meeting. ( Every cloud. )

There was another trumped up charge they also suspended me for too.
But my memory is currently a bit hazy on that..

And I completely forgot to tell you about the day a certain Prime
Minister called Anthony Blair came to visit the workplace.. He made a
royal visit, sometime after the Ferd Badlose inncident.. Just before
he entered the floor of the building where I worked, we were told not
to answer any more calls, while he was shown around. I am surprised we
didn’t get called to stand to attention. We were just supposed sit
there like dummies, privileged to have that vile excuse for a
statesman to grace us with his presence.

I had different ideas. I noticed that the there were over 500 calls
waiting to be answered (On a really busy day there was never usually
more than about 100 waiting at any given time) .. I just carried on
taking calls. It was a really weird experience.. being in on a call
centre floor probably about the size of a football pitch full of
people sitting in silence, barely even whispering. And there was me
(who rarely sat down taking calls).. theatrically talking to customers
in my, unintentionally loud Hertfordshire/Essex drawl. My manager was
gesturing for me to wrap up call etc.. I ignored him. He leant over
and put my phone on hold. Sat back down. As soon as he looked
comfortable and Anthony Blair got closer ..

I resumed the call and said “I am sorry about that.. My manager put
you on hold, not me.. We are currently have a visitor that is much
more important than you, or so I’ve been told.. “

” I’m really sorry, I know”

“Tony Blair” ..

“Yeah, I can’t stand him either He’s coming past now, do you want to
talk to him?”

Right at that moment, Anthony Blair walked past with a small little
executive entourage.. He gave me that ever familiar brief look, and
false smile. And all the ..* cronies and managers looked at me.. and
well, please forgive the cliche, but – if looks could kill

..

The upside of this is that I didn’t die by the time I was 30, as I
predicted in my teens.

To be concluded next Friday.

Tue, 22 Nov 2016, 03:43

BY THE WAY MY YOUNG BRETHREN, HA I KNOW THAT’S A BIT, O WELL. lets get
back down to, but a whisper. My dear young-lin’ adults in hidin’.

Places everywhere,also where profit has ceased multiplying for our
poor depressed, once admired land. Are the morals of the entire
foundations of our existence relying upon the Burkean Conservative
scribes only; to review the impending doom likely to be consumed by us
all like a multicultural hollow smug satisfaction that self harming
poverty will be just the start.

By not at least forming an alliance of open and well thought ideas
shared for an election that we surely must win (Are we agreed upon
this interestin’ young Corbyn?)

WHO DOES NOT AT LEAST EVEN ADMIT THAT THE IDEA OF COMPLETE FREEDOM
FROM THE CHAIN OF DESTRUCTIVE GREED OF THE PATHETIC TORY PARTY BY
FORMING A TEMPORARY ALLIANCE OF FREEDOM FIGHTERS WHO DO ALL THEY CAN,
to make sure you don’t squander all the power you have to get rid of
the Tories. Let’s at least agree to never refuse to listen to, (and
defend) the right for all your fellow human beings, no matter how
angry, downtrodden, impure or disheartened, and always be as
charitable to our own, and others that don’t share at least similar
views. let’s re-revolutionise and breath our deepest breaths of long
life. Let’s have faith in each other, and we can never try hard enough
to succeed. I will never stop trying to find the answer. and I will
bid you good night soon, my manic mind is almost drained completely
now.

Breaking boundaries, but remember, unless the fortress of ideas can
offend one, or two or three, maybe four retrace my steps, bolt and
run, i don’t know, I’m almost out of creative gas to share, no energy
left for multitasking, praying is an acceptable way to try to get to
sleep against the mind incessantly refusing to play dead, which has
had scientist and medical pioneers baffled for years.

so much more to say, more tomorrow I pray. #RUBBISHIDEAS .. Go forth
and exchange. We must not let the media empires to dictate a consensus
of potential dangerous ideas. Because we dismiss those dissenters with
intolerance and disgust. #RUBBISHIDEAS