All we really need is love

Did an early, late, sleep shift at a home I’ve been working at for some time, and was warned ahead that they had a new placement there; a vulnerable CSE girl (one whom has suffered from child sexual exploitation).  She was sixteen, but was tiny and looked all of thirteen really, and was so damaged by her experiences: raped by members of her family and even prostituted out for a while against her will, you could clearly see it etched on her pinched little face.  She was an engaging, likeable kid, but had already attempted suicide by running into busy traffic, so we had to keep an eye on her at all times.  She talked openly about her life history; abandoned by her mother as a toddler, she was for a time brought up by various family members, and the abuse both sexual and physical was constant; and even when she found herself a boyfriend in Birmingham, he pimped her out to the Asian gang network there.  One of the carers took her to the doctors to register her there and to talk over her problems, and when she came back she was in floods of tears – she had requested a female doctor, but it was a man, and that was just not what she needed just then.  She said through choked sobs, “He’s doing nothing to help my depression, just told me to talk to people.”   I assured her we were all there for her, and would do everything we could to help her through this painful episode in her life.  And we will; but she still carried on weeping into her hands for what seemed ages, wondering what the point of her life was.  Later, together with another girl in that home and another member of staff we went out to a supermarket and got a DVD, chocolate and face packs for a ‘pampering night’ to try and cheer her up; she saw some luminous loom-bands in the store, and even though she was sixteen and sort of past the age for that kind of thing, she was delighted when I bought them for her; a small act of kindness that allowed her the space to just be a kid.  And slowly back at the home she began to relax and even asked if I’d make her some supper, as she had refused to eat all day.  She eventually made her way to bed with a sad little smile on her face and had a hug from the female carer on the landing before settling down.  The manager and team there I know will do everything they can to help her, but all this poor soul needs is to be loved by someone…  I try not to take this stuff home with me, and managed not to cry while sitting with her, watching her dissolve into the misery of her life’s horrors, but on the way home the next morning I had to pull off the road for a while and just let the tears come.

Armistice day - history

As today is a very special Armistice day – the centenary of the first world war, I thought I might include the short essay I wrote for the programme of the production of my play, Mr And Mrs Schultz for the Watermill Theatre in Newbury.  The play was set at the end of the conflict of the second world war and concerned major figures in that conflict, including Mengele – the so called ‘angel of death’ whose evil experiments on Jewish prisoners in Auschwitz are beyond human comprehension.  But the son of a bitch bastard escaped capture and lived out his days in freedom in Argentina.  The play as you might expect from me proved somewhat controversial, and some people even tried to get it banned.  But the reviews were great and the audiences (although sometimes reduced to tears) seemed to love it.  Below is my programme notes from the time about why I feel it is important that we should never forget these conflicts.

HISTORY

What dark stuff stirs within the human heart that will urge a man to evil?

Throughout history, dictators and despots have emerged to lead entire nations on the barbarous journey to genocide, and ordinary people too will sometimes join the slaughter; seemingly oblivious of the cruelty they inflict on their victims: the industrious clerk, the schoolteacher, the factory-worker, the next-door neighbor; the common crowd of everyday citizens will somehow commit horrendous crimes when called upon to do so.

To kill a whole race of people takes determination; but one man can't do it alone.  It's a task that requires the approval and capitulation of a great number of accomplices.  It's happened before, it's happening now and will probably happen again.

Over 60 years have passed since Nazi Germany plunged the world into a war that devastated the planet and ended with the creation of the very first weapon of mass destruction - the atom bomb.  One of the most brutal dictator's that has ever been known, somehow inspired a nation to follow his mad dream of world domination.  Along the way six million Jews were systematically murdered in the most horrific ways imaginable.  At the end of it all many Nazi war criminals escaped retribution and fled to Argentina, assisted by a network of people in Scandinavia, Switzerland and Italy; they even had tacit support from the Vatican, and Argentina's president Juan Perón welcomed them with open arms.

Some crimes are so great; they demand swift and immediate justice.  The horrors that were perpetrated in Belsen, Auschwitz and the rest of the Nazi extermination camps should not have gone unpunished.  Yet an astonishingly large number of Hitler's henchmen have lived out their lives in relative comfort and prosperity.  It seemed the world was all too ready to abandon the past and call it history.

But history is our teacher, our example; and to ignore its lesson will only lead us further into chaos and calumny.  War is still with us; and as a consequence it now to some extent seems to affect our daily life.  We constantly invent new terms to coin our dilemma: acts of terrorism, pre-emptive strikes, ethnic-cleansing - it's still murder as far as I can see, and since the second world war, genocide has occurred with fearsome regularity all over the globe: Ethiopia, Sudan, Uganda, Zimbabwe, Croatia, Iraq - the list goes on.  And behind it all there always appears to be one charismatic leader; someone who inspires a country to wage war against their neighbors, stir up enough hatred for the clerks, the schoolteachers, the factory-workers to rape, maim and kill...  History is important.

Alex Jones - February 2004.

Another First World War Play - 'Dead Wood'

Dead Wood was produced by the Watermill Theatre September 1997...

Summer 1918 - a battle scarred soldier returns from the horrors of the trenches to his family, and a hero's welcome.

But who is the stranger he has in tow and what is the terrible secret that the two of them share?

This superb new play belies the myth of war as a gallant adventure and reveals a raw emotion that seeks both reconciliation and revenge.

Click here for reviews

Don't be anal - get arsey!

While I was at the gym last week one of the TV’s that morning was screening the breakfast news programme, ‘Lorraine’, and one of the presenter’s guests was the actress and ‘Loose Women’ panellist, Lynda Bellingham, who was talking about her battle with colon cancer, commenting that she had decided not to brave any more chemotherapy treatment as it was so debilitating; she had accepted that the end of her life was approaching and was I guess preparing herself for it.  She talked very openly and honestly about her disease and about dying, hoping that she would survive long enough to spend one last Christmas with her family.  So I was shocked to hear yesterday that she had sadly passed away so soon.  She was a familiar face on our TV screens, and I will always remember seeing her in those oxo adverts when I was a kid, playing ‘everybody’s mum’.  Later on that day, a few commentators on other news programmes when paying tribute to Lynda discussed bowel cancer, and how if it is spotted and diagnosed early there is a good chance of surviving it; but as it is associated with an area of the body that we are somewhat squeamish of discussing, its symptoms are still sadly left too late for some people to be able to survive.  It’s because it’s our anus, our arse, and it’s associated with going to the toilet and with shitting and as a society we are still too (pardon the pun) ‘anal’ to discuss it and to go to the doctor with our worries before the physical implications of those worries becomes something too substantial to ignore any longer.  Well I had to really battle to get my treatment, and for the medical services to take my case seriously, but if I hadn’t, well I just wouldn’t be here.  So when symptoms of bowel cancer present, however unsure you are, my advice is – ‘don’t be anal, get arsey!’  Might be a useful phrase for the campaign? 

Caring

Once again in the news this week we hear of the horrific consequences of paedophile Pakistani gangs grooming and abusing over 1,400 young girls.  I work in care homes and know that this stuff goes on and have had to deal with the consequences, and I reckon Birmingham will be the next city to be implicated as some of the girls I have worked with have indeed been abused and raped by Asian gangs there.  I did of course write a stage play about that very subject called The Girl In The Box, but whilst on the channel 4 screenwriting scheme I also developed a hard hitting drama series called Caring, which alongside the abuse of girls by gangs also tackled the issue of historic abuse that has also recently been uncovered in former care homes from some years ago.  But I was advised to change the perpetrators of the drama from Asian to white characters, as it might appear to be ‘racial stereotyping’.  This is of course was what was happening in Rochdale and Oxford; the social workers and agencies involved were afraid of being seen to be racist by singling out a particular racial group; but the truth however unpalatable is that it is mostly Pakistani gangs who are exploiting vulnerable white girls; and particularly those in care.  As a writer I do tread very carefully when approaching these kind of subjects, and do my best to write positive roles with a good racial mix wherever possible, but as I said as far as this subject matter goes I know first hand the truth of it, and I do feel that someone should be brave and honest enough to stand up for these poor kids who have suffered the most appalling sexual and physical abuse anyone could imagine.  With this in mind, I will have another go at trying to find a home for my drama as I have had nothing but positive responses from every producer who has read it so far, but they pretty much all admit that the subject matter is just too challenging and risky for them to consider taking any further.  Below is a synopsis of the series…

CARING

Grace spent her entire childhood in care, now she herself is a care worker and in spite of her difficult circumstances has just been selected to manage a children's home that is in imminent danger of closing.  She is determined to make a difference for the kids there, and more particularly for Monique, a challenging girl whose life somewhat mirrors her own.  Monique has been absconding regularly, putting herself at risk and is getting seriously close to being housed in 'secure accommodation'; a distressing establishment that Grace has experience of herself.  Similarly, Monique is seen as easy prey to adult sexual predators and is already being groomed.  But Grace's battle to save a vulnerable fifteen-year-old girl is further complicated by an affair with a co-worker and explosive revelations of horrific abuse at her former secure care home.  Following suicides of other residents there, the pressure is on for Grace to testify, and the past for her is just too painful to face up to.  Two human stories intertwine in a breakneck journey to save souls, and a deep longing just to be 'normal' - A modern day parable tackling the worrying trend of sexual exploitation of vulnerable girls in care by Asian gangs, and the dark consequences of drug crime.

Lyndam Gregory - a good friend

Just heard that a friend of mine Lyndam Gregory has sadly passed away following his long battle with lung cancer.  I met Lyndam while recording The Archers, but he was also an actor on Coronation Street and East Enders.  But I really got to know him well while on an ‘Archers Cruise’, where we spent three weeks together onboard a ship that travelled to various ports of call on its way to West Africa.  We were inseparable mates, both on the ship and exploring the various stops on our journey, and we both talked our heads off, setting the world to right and all that kind of stuff.  He was a talented actor, but more than that he was a wonderful human being; sensitive and caring of other people, especially his family.  He was always talking fondly about his wife and daughter, and had some pictures his little girl had drawn for him proudly pinned up in his cabin.  We kept in touch over the years mainly by email, and we both meant to get together again sometime and catch up, but life I guess kept getting in the way and now it’s too late.  Lyndam sent me a video though he made while on that cruise, so I can still remember what an amazing time we spent together then.  I’ll miss him.

Great War plays - 'A Miracle In No Man's Land'

Today is the centenary of the Great War; a seemingly purposeless conflict that saw for the first time mechanised slaughter on an epic scale.  The stories of the suffering and the bravery of the people who fought and suffered then are now a part of our national consciousness.  I have always been moved by the event and particularly the poetry of that time; particularly, Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, and I did in fact write two plays about that war – Dead Wood and A Miracle In No Man’s Land.  The latter play was commissioned by the late, great Peter Cheeseman of the New Victoria Theatre in Stoke, but as it was such a large cast, he tried in vain to try and get a joint production with other regional theatres in the Midlands.  The radio producer, Sue Wilson loved the play and decided to lend a hand by staging a reading of it at the BBC studios in Pebble Mill, and when no representatives from local theatres showed up, she commissioned a radio version, in which I played the lead role and gleaned fantastic reviews from the national press.  I tried in vain to interest theatres and TV/film companies in these two plays leading up to the centenary year and sent them all over the place – when I did actually get a reply it was generally positive, but mostly I didn’t even receive an acknowledgement, and it seemed most theatre companies and broadcasters had already planned ahead too, commissioning new plays and such like, including Red Planet Pictures, who have a major series on our screens soon, which given their previous track record, I am sure will be brilliant.  But as I am so passionate about that subject matter I did try really hard to try and get some interest; I even sent Jeremy Paxman the play as he had made a few programmes about the conflict!  Anyhow, if anyone would like to hear a small segment, here is a link to a minute or two of the play on my website together with a few other voice clips:  http://www.alex-jones.org/alex_jones_listen.html    And below is a short synopsis of A Miracle In No Man’s Land, plus some reviews…  

Play Synopsis

Radio play and unproduced stage play - Radio 4, 15.12.97. Repeat, Radio 7, December 2006.

A soldier on the Western Front accused of desertion claims a vision of Christ commanded him to lay down his arms and abandon the war... Joseph Taylor, an army deserter during the First World War is ridiculed when he tells his court martial that a vision of Jesus Christ caused him to walk from the foul carnage of the battlefield. His chaplain, Captain Simpson believes him however and eagerly defends him with the result that Taylor is miraculously spared the death sentence, but as Simpson discovers, Taylor is not the innocent he seems. A play that is dramatic and moving, both about the brutalities of war and the nature of faith - contributing to the debate on pardons for deserters and the effects of prolonged battle on the health of ordinary soldiers, that is sadly still something of an issue today.

Play Reviews

Radio 4, 15.12.97. Repeat, Radio 7, December 06.

Radio Times - Radio Choice: Accused of desertion on the Western Front in 1917. Joseph Taylor faces a mandatory death sentence. But at his court martial, he claims he was commanded to lay down his arms after seeing a vision of Jesus Christ in no-man's land. The drama's author, Alex Jones stars as the accused man.

Daily Mail - Radio Choice: Loosely speaking, Alex Jones's A Miracle In No Man's Land is a Christmas play, because it is set on the Western Front in December 1917 when carols softened the rattle of the machine guns. Jones himself plays the army volunteer accused of desertion after claiming that he met Christ on the battlefield and was commanded by him to lay down his arms - a super performance in a super play, I don't believe Sue Wilson's direction has been equalled in radio drama during 1997. Peter Davalle.

The Express - Radio choice: Alex Jones's play about a deserter who claims to have seen Christ on the First World War battlefield starts slowly, but builds to a compulsive drama about faith and killing from a soldier's point of view.

The Stage - Radio Choice: The nature of theological belief versus the acrid stench of war was powerfully examined in A Miracle In No Man's Land for Radio 4. Alex Jones co-starred with Christopher Scott.

The Guardian - Radio Choice: It's hard to understand Radio 4's decision to abandon 90 minute dramas. What, after next spring, will the network do with splendid productions like Alex Jones's A Miracle In No Man's Land? The author plays the war-weary First World War private who tells a disbelieving court martial he deserted because Christ appeared on the battlefield bidding him stop the war. The text brilliantly captures the mood of the period and the performances are first-rate. Harold Jackson.

Daily Telegraph - Radio Choice: Just before Christmas on the Western Front in 1917, Captain Simpson (Christopher Scott) is ordered to defend Joseph Taylor (Alex Jones) a Black Country soldier who says he's had a vision of Christ bidding him to lay down his arms. The court martial doesn't believe him. But a miracle has happened. Gillian Reynolds.

Daily Mail Weekend - Radio Choice: When a World War 1 deserter claims divine guidance, is it A Miracle In No Man's Land? Alex Jones's Monday Play contributes to the debate on pardons for deserters. * Recommended. LO'C.

The Observer - Radio choice: In The Monday Play - A Miracle In No Man's Land, Joseph Taylor, an army deserter during the First World War, is ridiculed when he tells his court martial that a vision of Jesus Christ caused him to walk away from the foul carnage of the battlefield. His chaplain, Captain Simpson (Christopher Scott) believes him however and eagerly defends him with the result that Taylor is 'miraculously' spared the death sentence, but Simpson eventually discovers, Taylor (Alex Jones, who also wrote the play), is not the innocent he seems. Stephanie Billen.

A sample call from BBC Daily Log - Re. A Miracle In No Man's Land: "Absolutely superb. The best thing I've heard in years." Mr. Penton, Poole.

Caring for criminals

I recently did an ‘early late sleep’ shift at a home where I’ve worked quite a bit, and was disturbed to find that there were three young adults there with a vulnerable young girl, who were basically criminals awaiting their trials.  One had a tag and was probably going down for all sorts of crime, including drug dealing and car theft, one was regularly assaulting staff, and another (almost eighteen) was at the scene of a murder which had been reported on TV a couple of weeks before and was facing a prison sentence for possession of a fire arm.  I found myself having to constantly face down confrontational young men, and had to drive one of them to Birmingham for an interview with a criminal solicitor.  All of a sudden this relatively settled care home was more akin to a remand centre and the staff there were bravely maintaining some kind of order in the face of some pretty intimidating behaviour.  It was clear also that the young girl there was under pressure from them too; there was definitely some bullying going on and some inappropriate behaviour too.  The manager and the staff there are a fantastic team, but they should not be expected to baby sit career criminals.  I have worked in the education department at Brinsford Young Offenders Prison and feel that pastoral work within that environment is important, but people like these should not be placed in children’s homes; especially among vulnerable kids, and I question the authority that allowed this to happen. 

Assisted Dying

While I was recovering from my cancer operation in hospital, sometimes the pain was so great; (especially when the epidural drip was removed) that even morphine hardly helped – it was all enveloping, and there was literally no escape from it; pain was me, it was all I could think of, and of course I just wanted it to go away, and thankfully eventually it did.  But there were moments when I thought if this continued I would want my life to end, because it was just so unbearable and defined my every waking moment, so even when Sarah and Lucy visited it was an effort to even speak to them.  I also remember my mum’s last moments on earth, sitting with her in her hospital room while she grimly and bravely faced her end, dying from lung cancer in excruciating pain; it was distressing for us her family, but for her it was truly awful, and I remember too wondering why she had to suffer the indignity of this long drawn out death for so long when there were surely drugs available to help to ease her on her way.  But recently it seems assisted dying is being considered seriously as an option to help us on our final journey, and now that church leaders such as the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Carey and Desmond Tutu are speaking up in favour of the bill that is facing Parliament there may be an option for the terminally ill to make an informed choice about how they die.  It’s an emotive subject, and of course laws like this should not be rushed into for all sorts of moral reasons, and many safeguards must be put in place to ensure that elderly relatives who may think their lingering illness to be a burden on their carers are not therefore pressured to end their lives before their time.  As I said, this is a subject I have been thinking about for some time for very personal reasons, and following my mum’s death I wrote and acted in a short film inspired by her called Rhubarb And Roses.  Below is some stuff about the film and a link so that you can watch it too if you like…

Short Film funded by Screen West Midlands, screened Bristol Brief Encounters Festival, Birmingham Film Festival, Soho Rushes and was short-listed for a BAFTA nomination and was a finalist in the fujifilm best new writer competition.

Molly has lung cancer and not much longer to live. As her pain increases, her son Ricky tries to give her everything he can to make her comfortable. When nothing seems to be working, she asks him to help her end her life. A last supper is prepared to help her on her way.  Rhubarb And Roses is a tribute to my mom, Jean Jones:  I spent eight months watching her die of lung-cancer, and although I have no firm conviction either way, it's also my informed contribution to the debate on euthanasia for people with terminal illness and in acute pain.  Ged Maguire (the director) lent a sympathetic touch as his father too had recently died of cancer.  It was a challenge to make a short film of life’s final taboo and to do it with dignity.  But I think it’s both funny and moving, and that was how my mom was right up to the end.

Click here to see the film

69 Shades Of Black - not '50 Shades Of Black'

A mate rang me today to ask if I had a play touring, as she thought she saw one of my titles.  The play in question was called 69 Shades Of Black, and I had a short play at Soho Theatre 'Terror Night' a while ago that did very well and had some great reviews called 50 Shades Of Black, so that’s where the confusion came from.  Thing is I’ve been trying for bloody ages to get a producer/director interested in me rewriting the two-hander as a two act play, but have met with utter indifference.  It’s frustrating when you know you have a good idea and even one with a decent pedigree to discover that finding another home for it is for someone like me, a struggling playwright, near impossible; I’m not even sure if I had one response or acknowledgment, and so after a while I gave up trying with that one.  I guess it was only a matter of time before someone else came up with a similar idea, so - best of luck!  I was approached by someone who was interested in making my play into a short film though, so you never know it might still have a further life.  Anyhow, below is one of the reviews from my production in the Terror Season; this one, Charles Spencer for The Telegraph…

There are four short plays and three of them are no great shakes. Robert Farquhar’s No Place Like proves an entirely damp squib but comic actor Mike McShane’s Representation does at least achieve a couple of shivers with its tale of vampires in Hollywood. There is also a characteristically nasty and disconcerting piece from Mark Ravenhill about sinister experiments on children in which the narrator seems to be confusedly recalling a bad dream. This one does indeed haunt the memory but never delivers the required final punch.

Alex Jones’s Fifty Shades of Black however achieves exactly the required jolting impact. It stars the two likeable cabaret performers, Desmond O’Connor and Sarah-Louise Young, as a pair of lovers who, clearly influenced by 50 Shades of Grey, are engaging in a spot of S&M. They set about the domination and submission routines with nervy embarrassment and it all feels like a risqué lark. But suddenly the mood changes with a payoff that really does shock and terrify.

The fact that this deeply disconcerting moment comes from two artists who have come to seem like reassuring friends in the course of the show proves a genuine theatrical coup in an evening that is otherwise not nearly as scary as one might wish.

Stephen Sutton - an inspirational kid

Apart from my caring work, I have also been busy recently writing audio trails for the National Trust, and when I am at home I generally go for a walk before settling down to write.  So I dropped Sarah off at the school where she works and set out nice and early on a beautiful May day for a stroll.  I usually trudge up the Malvern Hills behind our house, but today I decided to go downhill instead and take in some of the beautiful woodland walks in the valley below us.  The grass was wet with dew and the birds were singing their hearts out; I saw a woodpecker and heard a cuckoo too as I made my way through the trees and flower meadows, and just had to stop now and again to take in the various amazingly beautiful scenes and vistas on my way; the bluebells were still there, although fading a little now, but the tiny white flowers of wild garlic and peppery yellow celandines lined the pathways everywhere.  I didn’t see a single soul, apart from a few horses galloping away in the distance, and a roe deer furtively making its way through some undergrowth.  And I got to thinking about how I felt when I came out of hospital following my cancer surgery, and how I had blogged about how surviving that trauma had made me appreciate the commonplace and ordinary things in life more, and speculating if after a while life would just become normal again and routine…  Well I guess you do have to settle into life’s little routines and find a way to earn a living and pay the mortgage and stuff, but my perspective in life I realise was changed forever by that experience, and I really don’t take moments like these for granted anymore – I’m very lucky to be here still to see and hear the beauty of the natural world as I walk around the woods here, and experience… well as a million other things too.  On returning home I switched on the radio and heard the news that Stephen Sutton, the teenager who had raised over three million pounds for the Teenage Cancer Trust had sadly passed away.  I kind of had an affinity with this kid; when I first saw him on TV, he was lying back in bed and you could clearly see the long surgical scar right down his abdomen – I have a replica of my own.  He was an amazing guy; a teenager who in spite of being diagnosed with a terminal illness still managed to have a positive outlook on the life he had left.  He achieved his bucket list, and along the way raised an incredible amount of money to help other young people who are suffering from cancer too.  He like me had bowel cancer, and in an interview he talked about how unfortunate it was that his illness was diagnosed too late to save his life.  It seems that doctors weren’t able to believe that a young man could be suffering from a disease that usually affected people much, much older.  And even though I myself am much, much older, this is what I was told too – “You’re not old enough to have bowel cancer, and you don’t smoke; I have other patients who are far more at risk than you.”  In my case, persistence paid off – I’m still here, and am grateful for every precious moment, and grateful too for inspirational people like this young man who didn’t waste a second of what life was left for him to live, and who has left behind a legacy of hope for other young people who may be in a similar place.  Sometimes life can be cruel and totally random tragic stuff can happen; but as he said – “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade”…  God bless you, kid, I give thanks for your presence here on earth however brief it was – you made a difference, and not many of us can say that.

Poem of the week - 'Marriage Vow'

A mate of mine got married recently and I was asked to do a reading as part of the ceremony.  She asked if I had any suggestions and I mentioned that I had a piece that I was asked to write for another friend’s wedding many years ago.  So I read the piece on the day and it went down really well; ‘hitting the emotional spot’, I guess.  Afterwards one of the guests told me that she loved that poem, and that a friend of hers had used it at her wedding too.  I remember that the girl I wrote it for asked if she could pass it on to someone else who wanted to use it, and apparently it has somehow become a bit of a favourite piece for wedding readings, being emailed on and on, I suppose. So if anyone out there is using it, perhaps you wouldn’t mind just acknowledging the author?  Anyhow, it’s called ‘Marriage Vow, and here it is…

Marriage Vow

There is now,

There is here;

The two of us before so many

Saying “We are here together

Sharing a word;

A word that brings us together”.

And so we say to all of you

“Here we are - the two of us

Now,

Now and always”.

And so let this be our vow:

That we, imperfect people

In an imperfect world

Will strive for that word:

That single word, perfect in its simplicity;

And our lives from here on

Are as husband and wife,

Man and woman

Linked together until death

By a pledge before you.

Witness us,

Bear witness to us

As we say to each other

“I love you”.

For what more can one person say to another?

So bear witness

And share this moment with us

As we pledge our troth,

As we sign our names on paper

For some official to record and mark in time,

Not knowing how we feel now;

Standing before you, our witnesses,

Sharing with us

This ceremony that brings us together

And these words that bind,

This word,

This single word

That brings us here together,

This word -

“Love”.

Poem of the week - Hello Sarah

The momentous revelations last week about the origins of the big bang and the existence of gravity waves really fired me up; it’s such an exciting time we’re living in scientifically.  And so I found myself one night unable to sleep, turning it all over in my head, and suddenly I felt inspired at 2.am to get out of bed and write this poem, which oddly enough isn’t just about inflation, the big bang and gravity waves, but is also about the creation of my wife, Sarah… whom in case you haven’t guessed, I quite like.

HELLO SARAH

An eye blinks a universe into existence,

The thud of passion sending waves of fear and possibility through the void –

White on black,

Red on white,

Fireworks ripping into the fabric of space-time.

And there,

Right there in the moment of inflation

When time begins to click its idea into substance,

There,

Right there in the centre of a fireball,

In the melding of atoms,

Right there

In the red hot blistering crucible of creation,

There…

There’s a spark,

A fuse that ignites a star,

A star that will one day explode in a blaze of light,

A stardust sparkle of galaxies that holds the essence of you.

Who would have thought that gravity waves could be so creative?

There,

Right there

You stand,

Your eyes shining, so human and frail,

Eyes twinkling with the dust of stars,

Your smile a greeting from the beginning of time,

A smile 13.8 billion years old –

Hello Sarah.

Trapped in the floods.

Struggling a bit financially (what’s new?), so I’ve decided to go back to my caring job and have been doing some shifts at a children’s home out in the sticks I’ve never worked before.  They are mostly boys there, and when the manager explained that they were somewhat challenging I sort of knew what to expect.  Sure enough within half an hour of being there, I was pulling two lads apart as a fight broke out, and throughout the day things were kicking off almost every hour.  But later on I went out with them and another carer and we all played snooker together, and gradually I got to know them, and they me I suppose.  By the end of a long, long day they were laughing and joking and I was showing them some riffs on a guitar one of them had.  Yeah, they’re challenging and boy it was one of the most difficult shifts I had worked for a long time, but essentially these kids are hurting inside, and have been let down by the adults in their lives, so unfortunately we carers sometimes have to take the brunt of their disappointments and anger full on.  I went back to do a double shift this weekend gone, and as the weather turned bad, one of the carers rang in and asked me to do his sleep for him as he would struggle to get in.  The kids were kicking off and it took us ages to get them settled, but eventually I got to bed just before midnight; although they did get us up a few times during the night.  The next morning however, the manager told me I couldn’t go home as it had rained so heavily overnight, the home was completely surrounded by flood water and no other carers could make it in.  Food stocks were also running low and the kids were expecting to be taken to a skate park for the day, so somehow we had to keep them occupied and compensate for the loss of their day out. So I baked cakes with them, played chess, monopoly, guitar, pool, watched as one kid showed of his casting techniques with his fishing rod into the lake that had overnight appeared in the garden, played drama games (mostly Cinderella) with the only girl there, cooked a sort of dinner with the remnants of food I could find in the freezer, and then at the end of the day one of them pelted me with tomatoes and fruit, while another spat full in my face.  It took ages for the floods to recede enough for me to get away, and on the way home I stopped at a garage and bought a bottle of wine!  Strangely I somehow find this work somehow fulfilling… but I think I’ll wait a few days before booking another shift.    

Poem of the week - Mars And The Milky Way

I wrote this poem about a faraway memory of when I used to stay the night together with my family sometimes at my aunt’s house, which was always exciting because my brothers and my sister and I would play mad, dangerous games with my crazy cousins, that sometimes involved jumping off bridges and running along railway tracks, pretending to be cowboys and Indians.  Strangely enough none of us got hurt… well not really hurt.  We were dirt poor, and so when we were bought chocolate it was a real treat.  Even then I was fascinated by the night sky and loved looking at the stars; dreaming probably of one day becoming an astronaut; a tall hope for a Black Country kid on a rough estate, but at that age nothing seemed impossible.  Anyhow, after a day of games and mayhem we’d all be crowded together, three or four in a bed, and on that particular night I just couldn’t get to sleep, so I crept downstairs and discovered my mum and aunt chatting together and scoffing chocolate..!

   

MARS AND THE MILKY WAY

I'm sitting on my mum's lap.

Two, maybe three years old,

The stars are spinning,

The stars are spinning.

I'm at my aunt's house,

My brothers and sister are in bed.

I can't sleep,

I can't sleep -

The red curtains that look like carpets, slake across the window,

But the moon pours in -

I'm awake.

I'm three years old,

I've been jumping off railway bridges,

I've been jumping off railway bridges into straw,

Listening for trains with my ear to the rail, like Indians do -

How old am I?

I'm two, no three - maybe four years old,

I'm sitting on my mum's knee - the telly's off,

The men aren't around,

Perhaps they're up the pub?

The conversation is soft and pink and funny,

I don't understand it.

My mum is eating some chocolate; she gives me a bite -

It's not a Milky Way; it's a Mars Bar,

Something different, more expensive -

Toffee, caramel...

My mum's eyes sparkle with love, like stars in the sky,

My aunt's childish laughter at my surprise makes me smile;

The stars outside, I know,

I know,

I really know

Are big and sparkly, and like big jewellery, sparkly...

Stars - shining.

I'm a kid hugging a mum,

And I don't know if I'm two or three or four,

But I'm eating a Mars Bar and the stars are shining outside,

And my brothers and my sister and my cousins

Are all asleep upstairs,

And I'm eating a Mars Bar with my mum,

And the Milky Way is spinning away, and Mars is big and red,

And Auntie Eileen says "He likes a bit of chocolate!”

And I take another bite of a Mars Bar, looking at my mum,

Who smiles back like the moon.