Welcome to my blog which
has purpose if not direction.
Forty-four years ago,
almost to the day, I was put on a train in London and despatched to Llandudno
junction. I was fifteen and had just been expelled from my grammar school for
reasons which I’ve explained before. I don’t remember exactly what I felt that
day but generally at that time I was miserable because I was discovering the
joys of falling in love with numerous girls while being too shy to be
proactive. I do recall the book I was reading, ‘War and Peace’. I was a quick
reader and it was a long journey. Russian novels were my staple, primarily
because they were the longest books in the library. ‘War and Peace’ became my
favourite book of all time, so I when I wrote to Louis Berniers to compare his
‘Bird Without Wings’ to Tolstoy, it was the highest praise I could give it.
My Welsh sojourn lasted
maybe 3 months, from May 11th 1968 to the end of July, by when I’d
finished taking my ‘O’ Levels. After countless years of trauma and trouble with
the Jesuits and the demands of the catholic religion, ‘Hen Ysgol’ in Talsanau,
near Penrhyndeudreath, was an oasis of peace and freedom.
I think there were very few
of us there; less than twenty I’d say. The only person I remember was a local
girl called Rhianna who I met at local café in Penrhyndeudreath that had a
jukebox on which I’d repetitively play ‘Child of the Moon’ by the Rolling
Stones, ‘Young Girl’ by Gary Puckett and ‘Honey’ by Bobby Goldsborough, (a
sickly song about death). After the few tutorials of the day, I’d get on my
bike and ride down to the village for cups of tea and a look at the girls. The
freedom was extraordinary. On Catholic holidays I was given the whole day off,
so I’d cycle to the beaches at Harlech and Portmadog and relax by the sea, safe
in the knowing that no-one would ask me if I had actually been to Mass.
For a romantic
country-loving boy, the environment was perfect. I loved wondering off in the
hills, disclaiming to the sheep and discovering empty spaces inside myself. One
day, a friend and I, (I recall he was Lebanese) ‘discovered’ Port Merion, the
extraordinary village designed by Clough Williams-Ellis and later used in ‘The
Prisoner’. To stumble on such a place unwittingly was a delight and, in the
modern parlance, awesome.
I didn’t do particularly
well in my exams apart from passing French. This was managed mainly because my
French teacher told me all the answers and when we had an oral exam she spoke
to me in an English accent so that I could understand what she was saying.
After years of abuse from teachers, that act of kindness was of particular
note.
At
the end of July I went back to Surrey and in September 1968 was accepted back
by Wimbledon College who then had me for another term before expelling me for a
second time.
***
Last
week I read ‘The War of Women’ by Dumas. I read it because I’ve decided it is
too long since I addressed the classics. The local library isn’t that strong on
books and the classics section is tiny and consists mainly of Dickens, Trollope
and Thackery, all of which I have read. (In fact I haven’t read much Dickens.
My father used to have the complete works and whenever I looked at them they
oozed boredom. I know I’ve actually enjoyed them in the past but the reluctance
remains.
The
Dumas tale was brilliantly written. Although neither the story nor the
characters were in themselves of any great interest to me, it is a rollicking
read, full of good dialogue and pace. Most of my reading takes place in the
bath at night. This week I’ve been in there for an hour a night, a hundred
pages or so and I relearned that one of the reasons these authors’ books are
‘classics’ is because they are so damn well written.
I
returned to the library today with the hope of finding ‘War and Peace’ or any
of the classic Russian authors but had no luck. A choice of Martin Chuzzlewit,
Moby Dick or G.K. Chesterton sent me home empty handed.
By
some strange coincidence, the very day I was recalling Tolstoy’s Katya and
Natasha, I received an email from a woman in Arkhangelsk in Northern Russia
called Mariya. She is 25 and says she is a trainee dentist who is about to be
sent to the UK for a month for special training sponsored by a scholarship. So
far, so good. She’s contacted me because she likes the look of my profile.
What
profile?
I’m not aware of having one. Did she mean my facebook page? She
included a rather pretty headshot of herself. I responded with a polite ‘I
think you’ve made a mistake’ only to receive back an email with my own photo
attached together with six pictures of her and a quite passionate letter asking
‘for your friendship at least’. In the pictures she is depicted either in short
skirts or nighties and in the letter she confesses that she works as a stripper
but ‘would never sell my body for sex.’
Of course I am assuming that there is some scam going on but so far
can’t guess what the point of it is. My ignoring of this letter was followed by
a third one from her, repeating much the same story and adding five nude
pictures of herself. She signs herself ‘your passionate tigress’ and begs me to
meet her when she reaches the UK.
I
guess my facebook picture must make me look either stupid or gullible, both of
which I am. But not stupid enough to think a golden hearted perfect bodied
multilingual Russian stripper and dentist has fallen in love with me.
I’ve
just remembered that when I was 13 I began corresponding with teenage girls in
Finland. Quite quickly these letters turned into mutual filth and fantasy. One
girl in particular seemed to chime with me and our letters were frequently ten
or more pages long. Then, to my horror, I discovered she was being allowed to
visit London for a week with a couple of older friends. She wanted me to meet
her and have sex with her. When the day came to meet her, I set off to school
as usual but stayed on the train and went into central London. We’d agreed to
rendezvous outside a hotel in Green Park. I arrived early and stood some
distance away. I was desperate to have sex and terrified. After an hour I saw
the three girls. My god they were stunning; all blond, all beautiful, all in
the miniest of mini-skirts newly acquired from Biba in Kensington.
I
turned and made my way back to the tube station.
***
My
last strained link to Russia and teenaging concerns communism and socialism. My
early emotional fervour for the revolution was tempered by a visit to Communist
Eastern Europe and Russia in 1967; nevertheless I have never been inclined to
accept either the inevitability or the justice of global or social capitalism.
In fact at times it seems incredible to me that the 99% allow the 1%, or the
80% allow the 20%, to get away with it. For this reason I have been delighted
to read Peter Wilber’s book, ‘Deep Socialism, A New manifesto of Marxist Ethics
and Economics’. I hope that with a little time I will be able to digest his
ideas and communicate hthem accurately. Everything he writes is fascinating and
relevant. Just this morning I was reading his chapter on ‘Currencies, Languages
and the National ‘Ethos’ while on the news came the latest panic about the Euro.
If only the world leaders would read the fucking book and do what he tells them
to do. Mind you, it isn’t down the leaders is it? It’s our job.
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