An Everyday Warrior

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Despite suffering from anxiety for most of his life, Simon Morrell has been incredibly successful in his chosen fields. Once he overcame the condition known as agoraphobia, he blossomed into one of the world’s leading Martial Artists and holds an impressive list of qualifications.

6th Dan Black Belt Karate & Kickboxing. Mushin Kai.

Two time Hall of Fame including Top Fighter.

Black Belt Krav Maga (the official unarmed combat system of the Israeli Special Forces).

British Combat Association Senior Instructor.

B.A.W.A. Certified Wrestling Coach.

Chief Instructor of Fight Fortress Worldwide.

He currently teaches his Self-Protection Seminars to bodyguard training camps, security personal and other valid candidates as well as teaching men, women and children his Martial Arts program at his academy ‘Fight Fortress’ in the U.K. with plans to relocate to the U.S.A. in the near future.

He is responsible for delivering Self-Defense programs to The Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme. However, Simon’s niche is not limited to Martial Arts and indeed he will argue that it isn’t about the physical skills we learn, it is about the life changing confidence and self-awareness we develop via them. It is this attitude that caused Geoff Thompson to call Simon ‘an authority on Fear Control’.

His first book From Bullied to Black Belt is currently being developed into the feature film Fight Back in the USA.

An Everyday Warrior

by

Simon Morrell

Another True Story.

What happens when a man thinks his days of adversity are over only for them to return tenfold.

Edited by James Eccles.

All photographs; Copyright Simon Morrell 2001-2014©

Published by Blue Porch Publishing 2014.

All rights reserved.

Printed and bound in Great Britain.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 0956560334

AN EVERYDAY WARRIOR

Another True Story

This version printed July 2014 (revised and updated)

All rights reserved. The rights of Simon Morrell to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with Copyright, Designs Patents Act of 1988.

Simon’s website is www.simonmorrell.com.

He can be contacted at info@simonmorrell.com

He is available for motivational talks, seminars and self-defence training. His latest course ‘Despite the Fear’ © is about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting public! Be the first to book this life changing experience for your club, group, corporation or event.

DEDICATIONS

Without any doubt whatsoever, this book, any book I have written before and any that may follow would not have been possible without the person in my life who makes it all worth it: the lovely Julie Morrell.

As well as love, support, friendship and help she gave me three ducklings that I will love forever:

My daughter Luka, forever kicking, my son Cy, forever singing and my youngest son Billy, forever smiling.

All our hearts beat together.

Some years ago I was a nervous wreck taking my first Black Belt under ‘The Animal’ Sensei Alfie Lewis. Twenty years later on I found myself facing him again for my sixth dan and he was as formidable as ever, funny but formidable. I am proud to say he and I have become good friends. Thank you Alfie.

My friend and mentor Geoff Thompson has been a consistent source of love and encouragement. I am forever in his debt.

I read a saying recently that said Work so hard that your heroes become rivals. A nice saying but I would like to think in Alfie and Geoff my heroes became friends. Thank you both.

Sometime ago I met a quirky man by chance. We hit it off straight away and he became my friend and editor. With my grammar and spelling, Lord knows I needed one. Thank you James ‘Jimmy’ Eccles. You and I are headed places.

Many thanks to our friend Nick Engelen for stepping up and helping us when we needed it. Much appreciated Nick.

What they say about Simon Morrell:

You are better than this Simon…You are a Warrior.

Geoff Thompson in a private conversation about dancing chimneys, two days after Simon was released from hospital.

Simon, you are Samurai.

Sensei Alfie Lewis.

Simon is class...a class above the rest.

Jonathan E. Kiser, Director Integrated Combative Concepts, USA.

Prologue

I had it all, I had the world at my feet. From a bullied, tormented, skinny kid who fell to agoraphobia, nervous breakdown and panic disorder, I had turned it all around to become a Black Belt, a Fighter who was quickly establishing a solid reputation. My first book was published, I was receiving fan mail from all around the world and my full time gym was producing winners and attracting students from near and afar.

More importantly than that I was married to a beautiful girl. Indeed, it was fair to say that Simon Morrell, the boy who no girl would look at twice as a kid, was married to the girl he had yearned after for so long and she had given him three of the sweetest kids in the world.

The car I drove? A brand new shiny 4 x 4 with two loyal German Shepherds in the back that made it look the part and who stood watch over my family at night.

I was coming off the back of not only gaining my third Black Belt, but beating down a gang of drug dealers who were tormenting the area’s peaceful community. Taking me on and losing, they lost all face and reputation. They had left town for good after a full scale confrontation with me, one that they lost. The respect I had gained from people after that fateful afternoon was nice, but what was nicer was the self-respect I had found.

And then it all disappeared. Everything I had worked for, sweated over and created was gone. Looking back, I should have seen it coming, but at the time I would tell you it happened overnight. I later realised that nothing of the size of catastrophe that lay waiting for me happens overnight…believe me.

It didn’t sneak up on me in the night but when the years of adversity I had endured announced its result and displayed itself so vividly, it did so with a venom that could end a man.

At first I thought it was funny. Well who wouldn’t? It isn’t every day that a TV company makes a film in your neighbor’s garden. The subject matter though confused me, as I lay on my bed watching from the window. It would appear to involve lots of men and women dressed as chimneys, marching up and down the rooftops, stopping occasionally to salute one another as the director shouted his instructions.

Well, I say shouted, I couldn’t actually hear him but somehow, I instinctively knew what it was he was saying. It was like the words were in my head but not said out aloud. Still, I just had to show Julie, she would love it! I shouted downstairs to where she was working in her office.

Ju, you have to come and see this! I called, excitedly. What I didn’t realise was that this was about the fifth time I had called her to see the exact same thing...and that really there was nothing to see.

I heard her make her way up the stairs as I turned back to the window. To my delight, there was now a fairground carousel with children riding on it, some of them playing the banjo. My favorite instrument! How did they know?

As Julie came into our bedroom I excitedly pointed the whole scene out to her, as I saw it.

Simon. What are you talking about, there is nothing there? she said, exasperated.

Look, I will prove it to you. Let’s go downstairs and see all the trucks parked up outside the house. There’s bound to be loads, what with all that equipment.

Julie shook her head, half sad and half angry.

I’ll go with you but then that’s it. You need rest. When we come back in I want you to get some sleep.

Yeah, yeah, I will. Come on, let’s go! I made my way down the stairs and out of the door, convinced I would be able to get involved with all the festivities.

What greeted me however, what stopped me in my tracks was the sight of a completely empty road, and no one or thing at all in the garden that I had seen from our bedroom. No trucks, no wagons carrying fairground equipment, no people playing musical instruments. In fact all I saw was a completely empty street. The scene was made all the more eerie by the fact that there was a very cold wind blowing and dust from the nearby roadworks floating around. At least I think that is what it was.

I stood, barefooted, confused and a little scared as I realised on some kind of level that I was in trouble, deep trouble.

Julie tugged at my hand. Come on love. Come back inside and have a sleep. You will feel better after it.

Although I followed her inside, she could not have been more wrong about me feeling better. What followed would be like a trip to hell itself. The first thing I did was check from our bedroom window to see what had happened to all the rides. They too had gone, or rather they were never there at all. All I could see now were the rooftops of the houses below. Trying to escape what I thought was madness I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep.

For an hour or so I did indeed manage sleep, but woke to more visions. It was going to be a long night for everyone, and an even longer few days for me as hallucinations, caused by sudden withdrawal from a massive alcohol intake, would bring me to the brink of insanity.

Whilst not a ‘sit on a park bench knocking back vodka at nine in the morning’ drinker, the years of stress, particularly the previous four or so, had taken their toll and alcohol had been a way of release. I may be seen as weak confessing this, but you can’t fault me for my honesty and as they say ‘he without sin…’

Indeed, when my stress was becoming intolerable and I realised I was drinking on a daily basis, I had the courage to seek out help and not for the first time found myself on the shrink’s chair. Going there to get advice about my stress was my priority but I also wanted to address the issue of drink.

However, after hearing of the pressure I was under, the doctor half-heartedly commented, It’s no wonder you are drinking too much. She then kind of recoiled in horror, apologising and saying I shouldn't take her too seriously. I didn’t; I was already well on my way to knowing that the adversity I was under was going to get worse and therefore, in the back of my mind knew that more drink would follow.

However, all this was just a distant blur as I lay on my bed that day, musing about the chimneys and drifting in and out of consciousness.

Just two days earlier, I had again found myself in the doctor’s office, this time after a final row with Julie when she gave me the ultimatum; pack in the drinking or find somewhere else to live.

Having already spent many a night sleeping on the floor of our gym after yet another row, and realising how much my family meant to me and how much upset I was causing them, I had to take decisive action.

I sat in the doctor’s office and told him my situation. I had lost a lot of weight, had no appetite and had been drinking to forget my problems. However, these weren't my biggest worries. No the thing that frightened me most of all was something I had come to realise, yet not address, a long time ago; my feet were dying.

You see I had watched a few years earlier as an acquaintance succumbed to much heavier stuff than drink and I had seen him hobble up and down the local streets, limping like an old man. I didn’t know what caused this, nor did I ask, but I was fascinated as his legs seemed to struggle with his (not very much) weight. I only found out when he died that the coroner had reported he had killed all the nerve endings in his feet by drinking excessively.

So this had always been at the back of my mind when my feet started having agonizing tingles and shooting pains that would keep me awake at night. I would, from time to time, wobble over on them when walking. Indeed, to my absolute mortification they had given way completely some days earlier when I sat in our local bar with my son. We were there to watch a big football match and the bar was packed with happy punters and friends.

As our team looked like scoring the people in the bar raised as one, only to let out a collective sigh as we saw the ball fly past the goal. Going to sit back down, my feet just gave out and I crashed into the table knocking drinks everywhere, smashing glasses and ending up in a heap on the floor.

A couple of the locals rushed to my aid but the damage was done. I had never been so embarrassed in all my life and felt dreadful for my son who watched horrified. People laughed and reassured me I had just lost my footing in the excitement but I knew this had to stop. I knew I couldn't keep getting seen like this in public.

So as I explained my symptoms to the doctor he confirmed my fears. I lay on his bench as he prodded my feet with very sharp needles. Some I could feel, some I couldn’t.

Julie looked on upset and commented how sad it was to see me like this as I had once been so fit. The doctor didn't reply but concluded his tests and sat down.

We then talked about the amount of drink I was consuming and when I gave him the answer he simply looked over my shoulder at Julie who told him the truth, which was much, much more than I cared to admit.

After he took all this in, he gave his opinion, Well Simon, there is definitely nerve damage and you are definitely drinking too much. I hope we have caught it in time but we will have to run some blood tests. In the meantime, I don’t want you to just stop drinking immediately because that can be very dangerous. You will have to stop gradually.

After making notes for me to see a nurse for blood tests and referring me to an alcohol counselor, he shook my hand as I left his office. He looked genuinely sad when he said, I wish you all the best, Simon. I really hope we have got to this before it is too late.

I felt like I had been hit by a train. What did he mean too late? Surely there wasn’t any danger. But it was obvious what he meant. If I didn’t stop drinking I was going to die. No ifs, buts or maybes. This forty four year old father of three once tipped as a potential World Class Karate man was going to die of drink.

If anybody doubted I had the strength to stop, they had me all wrong. I was strong enough to, I just had to draw upon every ounce of strength, determination and doggedness I could muster. I had to draw upon the strength that took me from a bullied, weak individual to a recognized, respected fighter. It was time to ask questions of myself again.

I could, and would stop, let there be no mistake about that, but I had to start the process by cutting down. However, in my determination to beat this condition, my eagerness got the better of me and I went about the withdrawal in a completely wrong fashion.

Instead of taking my time, weaning off alcohol over a period of days and weeks, I would have one glass of wine that night and it was to be my last, I swore to myself. It was very nearly the last of anything I would ever have.

The following day I had no alcohol at all to drink and then I entered a twilight world, a world where I was first greeted by the dancing chimneys. They were funny, something that I could laugh at but what followed them was not so good. What followed was a world so dark and frightening that some people thought I would never come back from it at all. Some thought I had lost my mind completely. It was not a world I would recommend anyone to visit. Not even the bastards who had been instrumental in putting me there.

Chapter One

First came the rat. It was a big black horrible bastard that just jumped out of the wall and ran at me. Julie woke up with a fright as to her horror, I screamed at her to get rid of it, but again she couldn’t see what I could see as there was nothing to see. It was all in my head.

Simon, there isn’t anything there. Go to sleep, please, she pleaded. I couldn’t or wouldn’t as I calmed down and watched in fascination as the rat turned into a cat. The crafty bastard wasn’t enough for me though and I pounced on it, wrapping it in the bed sheets. I then took off running and threw the bundle down the stairs. It proved it was too clever for me though and instead of hitting the ground hard and injuring itself, it simply turned into a cardboard cut-out upon landing, then waved its tail in the air and ran away.

I returned to bed, triumphant, knowing I had at least got rid of it. Julie in the meantime had turned her back on me and was trying to sleep but I don’t think she managed to it though, as the night got more interesting, frightening and downright weird.

I tried to sleep as well but couldn’t as I became fascinated again as I watched from our window. The people who had set up the chimneys were back, only this time they had a huge inflatable climbing wall and were erecting it in the hospital car park opposite our house.

It was incredible to see this hundred foot apparatus, shaped both as a wall and at the same time a giant robot, being pushed and pulled into position. The whole thing was in silence but I could somehow hear the noises they were making as they started up the massive generators to keep the thing upright. The problem was the workmen were shoddy and not doing their job properly, instead wasting their time turning to wave to me.

I pulled my head from the window so they couldn’t see me but complained about them. They are doing that all wrong, I muttered to myself. They haven’t tied it down properly and it’s going to fall.

Still, I watched as the fairground returned and came back to life, but as I enjoyed seeing the rides spin around, a sudden exhaustion swept through me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open and drifted into a merciful sleep only to be woken sometime later by a party going on in our bedroom.

Furious, I shouted at Julie thinking that she had invited the staff from the local pub back to our house. I could see them all sitting in our room, sharing drinks and laughing out loud. I was even more furious when my fourteen year old daughter Luka, laughed at me and called me ‘an old stuff’ for complaining about them. She was always such a good girl and neverback chatted or was cheeky. I had no idea what had gotten into her but I was adamant that her actions were out of order. In response to my complaining, she hurled my iPod at me telling me to go back to sleep.

Except of course, she wasn’t even there, she was tucked up safe in her own room. In fact there was nobody there but Julie but I then got it into my head that Luka had snuck some boys in there and so furiously, I barged into her room demanding to know their whereabouts.

Luka jumped out of her bed and rushed toward me very concerned.What is it Dad? What's the matter? she asked starting to cry.

Where are the boys you have in here? Where are they hiding? I demanded.

She shook her head. There isn’t any Dad. Really. Please, go back to bed, you aren't well. I briefly came to my senses as I realised that she was indeed all alone but the glimpse at reality was just that; a glimpse. I became convinced that they had made their escape and I thought I was right, as when I looked out of the window, I saw them waiting at a bus stop. Strangely, it had started snowing and although, again, the whole scene was in silence I could on some level hear the drone of the snowplow's engine as it cleared the way for the ambulance following it, lights flashing. Again, the reality of it was that there was no snow and there certainly wasn't a snow plough.

The night must have been a nightmare for Julie as I slipped in and out of sleep. The following morning was no better as my hallucinations continued. I became convinced that it was my birthday and a surprise party was being held. I waited upstairs as I heard the people downstairs bringing my presents. Julie’s dad and brother were there with a brand new mountain bike for me. I didn’t want them to see me watching them so hopped back in bed, where I proceeded to have a conversation with my sister, who was of course, quite reasonably, the light shade.

I interrupted the 'conversation' by telling her to be quiet as I could hear the partygoers making their way up the stairs to my room. I was right of course, people were indeed coming up the stairs but it just wasn’t who I thought it would be.

As I opened the door to meet them, I was greeted with the sight of seven heavily built police officers; this wasn’t in the script.

Simon, one of them said, how are you? What’s going on? This made no sense to me at all until I had a light bulb moment.

What do you mean, what’s going on? What are you doing here, is there a problem? Is this to do with the German people?

Even though there was madness going on in my head, I was having moments of clarity and I thought that the officers were there as a follow up call to the dealings I had had some months previously with the police and a group of people from Germany.

However, this was not a follow up call to that incident and I was taken completely by surprise when they confirmed they were here because of me.

No Simon, I’m not sure what you mean about any German people, but we are here to see you and nobody else. Listen mate, have you been drinking too much? he asked. There was no patronising attitude or judgment in his voice, just concern.

No, not at all. In fact I stopped drinking completely yesterday, I offered. Who called you anyway? I have done nothing wrong.

His answer broke my heart. Nobody is saying you have done anything wrong Simon but it was Julie. Julie called us.

I wouldn’t have it. No. No not at all. Julie would never call the police on me. Where is she? I want to see her now.

He put his hands up to placate me. Now now, Simon, calm down. She’s worried about you. Look, you are shaking and look what you have done to your room.

I turned to our bedroom and it looked like a bomb had hit it. Bed sheets were everywhere, clothes all over the floor and lamps knocked over. I sat down, suddenly so exhausted and overwhelmed.

Listen mate, why don’t we get you over to the hospital? They can check you out, he said gently.

I shook my head. No, I’m okay. I just want to be with Julie.

I’m sorry mate. She doesn’t want you here at the moment. She is worried sick about you. Take a walk with us. Come on, the hospital is only across the road. They can help you.

And if I don’t? I asked, already seeing the answer in his eyes.

Well let’s not go down that road. Let’s see what we can get done at the hospital. Come on. He told me to put my shoes on but when it came to tying the laces my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t do them up. In a real act of kindness, the officer bent down and tied them for me before helping me up and holding a bottle of water to my mouth for me to drink.

I made one last attempt to see Julie but they steered me past her, keeping me well away. Even as I left the house my mind played more tricks. Suddenly, I couldn't find my way to the door as our current house had been replaced by one we had lived in some years before. I was completely disorientated and so the policeman put his hand on my shoulder and guided me to his car. So on a cold wet Thursday morning, when I thought I was going to a party, I was escorted out of my house by seven police officers, in three marked police cars and taken to hospital. I was told afterwards that the reason for the big police presence, the ‘overkill’, was because they were aware of my Martial Arts background (they had been tipped off by a fellow officer who knew me) and they feared the worst, or they certainly prepared themselves for it. Who could blame them?

However, I wasn't going to give them any trouble. I was too tired, too confused and too sad to do anything other than what I was told. I felt only shame and sorrow as I sat in the back of the police car. Simon Morrell, leading Karate-ka, author, father and husband; now a beaten man, a forty four year old, hopeless drunk. It had taken a lot to beat me, but finally it had. This is how it happened...

Chapter Two

For those who haven’t read ‘From Bullied to Black Belt’ it might be an idea to tell you about my youth and early years. It has been recorded elsewhere and is a well known fact that my childhood and early adulthood was spent under the umbrella of violence. Spat at, kicked, punched and called all manner of vile names by school mates, locals and pretty much anyone who could spot a victim, I eventually had a breakdown in my late teens. I don’t need to go over all this again as it can be found in the pages of my first book, but what I did omit from that volume, some of the things I couldn't mention due to certain restrictions placed on me, I am about to share here as those restrictions have now, by way of events unfolding, been lifted. To share these previously untold experiences I have to first go back again to my childhood.

I was born in Birkenhead, a town that stands on the banks of the River Mersey opposite the city of Liverpool, a city well known for its hard men, gangsters and wannabe gangsters. Herein may have lay the problem for I instinctively knew from an early age that my father was one of these; a wannabe gangster.

Like any kid, I was desperate to impress my dad, desperate to make him proud of me but there was a stumbling block to this; I think he knew that even at an early age, I saw through his self-created tough man façade and recognized he was just a wannabe and not the ‘real deal gangster’. I would see it more and more over the years and this would cause resentment and become a problem between us as I grew up.

Eventually, when I was an adult, a father of three children myself and finally making my own way, the resentment he felt for me would cause a rift between us so great that it could never be fixed, resolved or made good. I reached a point in my life when I knew I didn't need nor did I seek his approval in anything I wanted to do (hence the restrictions in this book being lifted) but it took a lot of suffering and heart searching before this would happen.

Looking back to my childhood I have to say that not all my problems were down to my dad but, if you were to suggest to me today that he played a big factor in my increasing anxiety, well let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first to comment on it; nor the second, nor the third nor even the fourth etc. You get the picture.

As we grew up, my sister, brother and I, the rows between my parents were common and sometimes could be drawn out over many weeks. Even at a very early age, I remember playing cars on the floor in our small house in Birkenhead with a background noise of mum and dad screaming at each other. The end of the argument came when my mum had enough of his screaming and took a large carving of an elephant down from the wall and hit him over the head with it. Not sure I blamed her but I do remember this being one of my first moments of anxiety.

It would seem that whilst we lived in Birkenhead, my dad would keep company that mum didn’t approve of and I’m sure that this was sometimes the reason for the friction that existed. He had already done time inside and no doubt he met some unsavory characters whilst in there.

In fact, as I grew older he would often brag about the ‘hard lads’ whose company he kept whilst away. Once he got out of jail, he didn’t sever his ties from these people and I think the fact that he had also taken to singing at local nightclubs surrounded by others like him, only fueled his self-grown image of a gangster.

So when we upped sticks and moved to the Welsh seaside resort town of Prestatyn, I can only imagine it was a relief to my mum. Looking back maybe it was a way of getting away from an increasingly rough Birkenhead and the lifestyle my father lived.

I make my apologies to the people living there now if that seems a sweeping statement about the town. Having been there recently it appears to have turned into a thriving, busy town but the truth is my dad got us out of there at the right time. Some years later, not long after we left, the town would become a haven for heroin addicts and for a while, parts of it would look desolate.

On face value the move was a good one. The good folk of Prestatyn did not seem to have the harshness needed to live in certain parts of Merseyside and this could only be a good thing for a young boy who did not, at such an early age, seem to have an appetite for adversity.

The problem as I see it was that at the time we moved there, not many people from Merseyside, or indeed England, lived in the area. I think we were a novelty, a kind of a distraction, and from the start my dad played on this. He played on the 'unknown factor' that surrounded him.

Having already served his time in prison, he came to Wales as a big shot and lived up to his own myth. He would falsely declare himself born and bought up in Liverpool, a city whose reputation for violence was increasing daily and which had much more 'folklore' than Birkenhead. The fact that he made the false claims only helped him develop a reputation in his new town as people seemed in awe or somewhat weary of *Scousers.

*Scousers:natives of Liverpool.

When we arrived there he immediately set up his own business and began employing locals to work for him. Despite his shortcomings, he was a hard worker himself, but he liked to control people and used his position as ‘boss’ to manipulate the ones he thought he could use to his advantage. His favorite employees were usually the 'yes' men, men who didn't question anything he asked of them.

As a child, I would visit his factory every Saturday and a lot of the time it was enjoyable but I would also, on occasion, dread it when I heard him scream at some unfortunate who had messed up on the job. Sometimes he was justified, sometimes not. I'm not sure how you justify hurling a lump hammer at somebody's head because they had made a mistake in work.

I also noticed more and more men arriving at the factory, husbands of women who worked there who had been belittled or shouted at. These chaps usually arrived angry at how their wives had been treated and inevitably conflict would rage. As I grew in age, I started to become more and more familiar with my father’s words: If he wants a war, he’s got a war. One phone call to Liverpool and I’ll have the lads out. This was his usual response, as the angry husbands left the premises. As I was already suffering with an increasingly overbearing case of anxiety from my schoolyard beatings, this put my fear into overdrive.

I would sit at home dreading five o’clock, when dad would come home from work. We would try and guess what mood he would be in, good or bad. A bad mood could mean a row with mum (again) and sometimes a six week silence between them.

The thing that threw me was that he could be the kindest, nicest man in the world and all of a sudden he would switch moods and all bets were off. You didn’t want to annoy him, it wasn’t worth it, but if you were in his favor that day he would charm you and treat you nice. The problem was that he wasn’t consistent. I don’t know if it was the pressure of business or his personality that made him this way, but I sometimes watched and studied him and saw that his charm could last all of five minutes before the nice thing he had done for you was thrown back in your face.

As I grew into a teenager, he started to resent me more and more as I think he realised I had him worked out. It still didn’t stop me trying to impress him though, to try and make him proud of me, but any success of my own that I had would usually result in him shooting me down in flames. Because he had sung at nightclubs when he was younger and loved to be the centre of attention, he didn't like it when I started drumming in a local band that achieved a very, very small degree of local success. He seemed to see this as a threat. What really made it confusing is that despite him seemingly being annoyed at the attention I received from being in the band, he went out of his way to spend a small fortune on the best drum kit I could find. He couldn't seem to make up his mind whether to support me or belittle me at every chance.

Even though I worked for him at his factory, I had my own dreams and this he couldn’t handle. A throwaway remark made by me that we, the group, wanted to move away from the small town and try and make it big in the cities, resulted in a severe bollocking from him, and I mean severe. Severe and