As I have said before on more than one occasion, I have spent a lot of the last  20 years or so setting up/designing/maintaining and being involved in a series of online projects themed around my boarding school and the young gentlemen, such as myself, who went there. A labour of love it may have been but a labour it was nonetheless. I don’t regret any of it but as some of you reading this may know, setting up things for others to use or enjoy online can be an empty business.

Inspiration & The Reality Gap

Pondering...

Firstly, you can’t do it quickly. You many have a brilliant idea, one you may visualize with crystal clarity in your head but if you ask any sort of creative person – say an author (ahem) – they will all agree that at this stage, you project is approximately 2% complete. This is often completely at odds with your own perceptions but I would have to throw my hat into the ring and agree with them. Many is the time I have been sitting at work or driving home in the car, when an absolute corker of an idea has filled my head, just above the nose. At this point, shamefully, my gas pedal hits the floor and speedbumps become a thing of skant concern. By the time I reach the end of my gravel driveway, bound up the front steps and allow my manservant to welcome me into the foyer of the family pile, the fire of inspiration is still burning fiercely. Hives removes my coat, the cat drops my slippers at my feet and I power up the PC. The harsh white glow of the screen then slaps some sense into me and most of the enthusiasm  fades like…well, like a sentence without an end.

For a lot of the time, that’s exactly what happens. During the year long gap in which I didn’t blog, that happened about 3 times a week. Now and again, it still happens. You just have to live with it. Now that the blog is up and running again, all I have to do is type and as you will have hopefully have seen, I manage it much more often. Thanks to Evernote, I don’t tend to drive home like a lunatic anymore either. If anyone ever solves the problems or fat fingers and a small touch screem, it will indeed be a perfect world.

If it ever becomes possible to forget that GTA Vice City and it’s tempting streets exist, then that will also be of great help to me.

I’ve drifted again haven’t I?

Well, what I am trying to say is that the first hurdle to creating online wonderment is that its a f**k of a lot of work, even to do it slightly well. To do it very well, you have to be 9 people or 1 genius.  I fit into neither camp. I take my time, get frustrated, Google a lot and copy other people. Don’t look so shocked. I suspect I am not alone.

The one hurdle I sometimes find it hardest to get over, is that some things are beyond me. This usually presents itself when I have spent an afternoon looking for inspiration. Common places for this are…actually going to stay secret, suffice to say there are sights and technical achievements to boggle the mind. Now, I can use Photoshop but its a huge oil-burning pig of a program. The manual for version 5 (the last one I read) might as well have been written in Latin. What the online help file for Photoshop CS5 must be like, I can only imagine. I usually use Fireworks to create my graphics, but even that is largely a closed book to me. I  do what I can and mostly what I need to do. It’s partly why I have never done this sort of thing professionally. I couldn’t stand the idea of being asked to do something I didn’t know how to do. Also, I use about 10% of Dreamweaver when coding HTML. I suspect I am not alone in this either.

Finally, you have to keep it alive. I know this to my cost and you ignore this key ingredient in your online project at your peril. It’s hard to be specific about anything other than my own stuff, but take this blog entry for example; once posted and I have Tweeted a notice of it’s newness to about 100 followers and put it on my Facebook page for 400 friends to see, I will get about 20 hits. Tomorrow, when people get to work, I’ll get about the same amount again. This week, I might make 100 hits. This is unique visitors and doesn’t include return visits. If I make no post next week, I might get another 10 hits and after that, maybe 5 a week until I post again. I can promise you one thing. No one is looking to advertise on my site. Unless you have invented iPlayer or iTunes (I think I see a pattern), a lot of people are not going to give a monkeys about what you have done. You could be really, really lucky like me and have a target audience, some of you whom like what you have done but mostly, you will be ignored. It’s a tough lesson, but all the hit counters and spinning visitor globes will not bring people to your site in droves.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. I once mentioned Gillian Anderson, Clint Eastwood and Pamela Anderson in a blog post (as a test) and got almost 300 hits in a week. This sort of experiment is frowned upon and the Google bots will soon find you out, so don’t try it (unless you are blogging about famous celebrities of the 80s or course). Quite what would happen if I mention Justin Bieber, Dancing On Ice, Lindsey Lohan or Red Nose Day,  I can only imagine. Oops.

The one thing I find hard to babble on about is…well, babbling on. You have to be able to write a bit; I can – write a bit that is – but I don’t do it very well, not on paper or screen at least. Most of us know what to say but either because we haven’t done very much of it since the age of 15 or perhaps because we never could in the first place, we can’t put into words. This is not a huge worry but it’s something you should be aware of. Most of your readers’ brains will work out what you want to say and very few will feel the need to tell you where you have gone wrong. In any case, you will be understood.

So, after struggle, torment, plagerism, manual reading, googing, relaxing, typing, patience, calmness, panic, frustration, desperation, defining your own creative limitation and often going for walk to clear you head, you are done.

Shouting At The World

There's only one really...

In a word, don’t bother. I pondered for a while before writing this paragraph and while the first sentence seems a little harsh, it rings true. Perhaps it didn’t 15 years ago when there were dozens of search engines, all eager for your content. Now there is just Google and to a lesser extent, Bing. Google is really the only one that matters and it’s bots will eventually index your online world and show it to the world. Well, they will show it to the world if they enter the right search terms. If they don’t, you webby work might as well be in a bin bag in the shed. Again, harsh but true.

But remember, you have friends – both Facebook and real, tell them and tell everyone on Twitter. That process alone will grab the attention of those who know and love you and who are eager to click a link whilst slurping the Kenco.

Of course, as I said before, I am lucky. My stuff was and is for a largely captive, ready made audience of old school friends. They are brilliant, receptive and sometimes embarrassingly grateful. I feel guilty sometimes because I get frustrated when they don’t use my site exactly the way I intended or because I wish they would contribute more but a swift kick up my own backside soon rids me of this. This swift kick is usually in the form of someone I haven’t spoken to in 20 years suddenly popping up or like this week when a well respected author of online content and the printed page finds the time to join my new forum and enters into a short correspondence.

So, don’t bother shouting. Do it because you want to and because a few other people might like to see what you do. Don’t worry if you don’t work on it for a while and don’t worry that your audience is getting frustrated or thinking less of you for not spending your Sunday afternoon banging away at your PC keyboard. They will still love you when you do come back, no matter how long that is. Go for a walk, go to Vice City or go and sit on someone else’s sofa watching X-Factor, eating chocolate muffins and trying to convince them they will be a great mother.

The more you do, the more you will have to think about and write about and the more likely you will be able to spend an hour typing 1600 words about yourself to no one in particular.

A bit like I have just done.

Room 405, The County Hotel, Dover, Kent

Offline

After a tragically enforced absence of almost a week, I am back, back back! Well, back online anyway. This blog entry would have appeared  earlier in the week had I not understood the exact nature of my home’s internal telephone wiring. After an indignant semi-rant directed solely at some poor sod in Bangalore, I was transferred to someone closer to home and after an indignant semi-rant directed at some poor sod with an incredibly strong scottish accent, it slowly dawned on me that I was an idiot. 12 minutes later, my internet was back and almost 4 times faster than it had been for most of the past 8 years. Anyway, here I am.

Old Boys Weekend – Part One: Friday

I won’t bore you with the exact nature and details of my school’s traditions again, except to say that Old Boys Weekend is our annual reunion and is always held on Rememberance Weekend. My school was and still is a military boarding school and there has always been a Sunday parade, very similar to the one held at The Cenotaph in London on the same morning. I go to the one in Dover and the Queen goes to the one in London. It’s an arrangement that has suited us both for many years.

The weekend begins with a longish drive to Bicester in Oxfordshire, where my best school chum Sean lives and from where he then drives us the rest of the way to Dover. It’s a long old day and is what used to be known as “a frig of a long way”. In reality, thanks to wide, largely empty roads it isn’t and Plymouth to Dover could now probably be done in about 6 hours. This is a far cry from when I was a young nipper and being driven back to Dover after the school holidays, 20 years ago. This journey seemed to involve us getting up at dawn and at least 5 stops. There were mixed emotions as we finally neared journey’s end and the school clocktower appeared on the horizon, none of us  in any hurry to get to school but all of us wanting to get out of the bloody car.

A Frig Of A Long Way, Plymouth is A, Sean's house B and Dover C

This year’s trip was different as I was not alone. Chris Mapp (Class of 96) lives in Tavistock and only 30 or so miles away from me. As is typical in these situations, we have seen neither hide nor hair of each other since last Old Boys Weekend. He was excellent company and so absorbing was our conversation that I drove slightly more slowly and took almost an extra hour to get to Sean’s. Chris left the school about 10 years after me and so we didn’t actually attend at the same time. Nevertheless, I found events at the school after I left to be as fascinating as those what took place while we were there. We stopped for breakfast at a Costa Coffee on the M4. I’d love to tell you where but I honestly can’t remember. It was an unremarkable, characterless shack, staffed by people who obviously could have done with us not bothering them. So typical is this of such places, it only bothers me now in hindsight. At the time, like most of you, I just put up with it. They talk to each other while serving you, mumble grumpily in you general direction and then expect you to understand the fact that you order in one place and pick your coffee up in another. This is so clearly for their benefit that I wonder why we put up with it. A general tone of “give us your money and bugger off out of the way” seems to pervade the place. Quite why a latte has to cost so much is a discussion that I fear would take up too much or you generously given internet time.

This was also the first year with Sat Nav, a fact that almost made up for my slow driving. Under it’s guidance, we stayed on the M4 longer and looking at the route now, I wonder at the cross-country ramble I engaged in for the past 8 years. It’s a shame really, I shall miss those landmarks, particularly those I repeatedly passed (in both directions) on the same trip in the early years. Sean’s new house was easily found and I experienced something genuinely weird when I got out of the car. It was a strange feeling of Deja Vu. Ridiculous really, as I had never been here before. True, I have driven up the road many a time (Sean didn’t move far) but I hadn’t actually stopped here and looked around. I soon realised that I was experiencing Google Streetview Deja Vu. Yes, it’s true. When Sean gave me his new address, I checked it out and wandered around in Streetview. I recognised the houses opposite and had even wandered around the general area trying to get a good look at Sean’s new place. As I said…..weird.

After a quick visit to the loo, we were soon back on the M4 and on our way to Dover. I am (almost) ashamed to admit that Sean did the driving whilst Chris and I buggered about on Facebook. I could disguise that fact with flowery verbage but we spent two hours behaving like teenagers on a school trip. If you have the time, check out our Facebook newsfeeds for 12th November and all is there to see. During the few brief periods when I couldn’t think of anything funny to write on there, I watched my GPS trace fly along the map on my phone. Don’t think bad of me, I am not a good passenger. I was amused beyond the level appropriate to one of my somber age by the names of roads in the middle of nowhere. As I watched the little blue arrow on the phone fly down the M4, roads would scroll into view with the most individual names (I wish I could remember them now) despite the fact that this small, empty road stretched to the horizon in both directions.

At around 5ish, we hit Dover. It’s hard to be honest about Dover in 2010 without seeming harsh. I’ll try but I probably won’t succeed. In it’s defence, almost 3 solid days of pouring rain added a tinge of Bladerunner to the whole mood. We have stayed at The County Hotel for the last 5 or 6 years, opting for a cut-price rate for bed and breakfast, a bar open for guests into the early hours and general feeling of familiarity. Whether we stay there again is difficult to say. As you can see from the photo at the start of this blog, the rooms aren’t bad. The noise, however, is terrible. Every year, I walk into the room and think the same thing. “The bloody maid has left to balcony door open again” and every year i open the curtains to find she hasn’t.

Traffic Outside The Hotel. Imagine noise.

The traffic is deafening and thanks to the proximity of the port, is almost 24 hour long. I tried to record it on my phone but the mic was overwhelmed.

I actually recorded 4 audio diaries over the weekend. There are almost 50 minutes of me droning into a tiny microphone, sounding like Leonard Cohen after some particularly distressing news. I had a mad idea of making them available as mp3 files on line but I fear I come across as a little grumpy and a lot introspective. Entertaining it isn’t and listening back to it an hour ago, I realised that taking out all the “ums” and “ahhhs” would reduce it in length to about 12 minutes. I’ll see what I can edit down to anyway.

First order of business on arriving at The Hotel is to head into Dover and buy some food and drink. I picked my dark alley and moved as slowly as my cowardly pride would allow but fast enough to make me feel safe. The Bladerunner effect was further enhanced by a huge TV screen in Market Square. Nobody was watching it but everyone had to listen to the deafening blurb hailing the impending Olympics (622 days to go!). Nobody looked and nobody cared but there it was. What it’s like to live in any of the buildings nearby is anyone’s guess. I am sure it get’s switched off at some point but Sunday mornings must be a joy.

I stocked up on a few essentials and a few non-essentials in M&S, bought an evening paper in WH Smith’s and headed back. It was raining harder now and my woolen coat had started to feel heavy. My umbrella stayed dry in the hotel room (see photo at the top) for reasons that now escape me. It was probably something to do with looking cool. Dover still has that effect on me. Somewhere along the route back to The County, poppy no. 8 fell from my lapel and down a rain clogged drain. I was wet, cold and now dishonouring the war dead. Party on.

I returned to the room, unpacked my vittles and set about the sodden coat with the hair dryer. I briefly considered inserting it into the trouser press like a hellish woolen panini but pondered the damage that could be caused by such an ancient device and thought better of it. Still, the hair dryer fun killed an hour.

In a huge departure from normal, Sean and I headed to The Light Of India. Yes, we had a curry on Friday night instead of on Saturday. The solicitous staff welcomed us into their empty restaurant  and I was soon tucking into the traditional Meat Thali. I say traditional, but once a year hardly makes me a regular. Sean pointed this out to the waiting/manager when he came over and asked us if we were enjoying our food. “Oh yes”,  I said, “I always have this”. He managed to display confusion at not recognising me, happiness at my fondness for his food and disappointment at the truth all in the space of about 30 seconds. Worth the tip alone.

We were just starting to eat when Alex Clowser (Class of 85) sent me a text from his luxuriously appointed room at the Premier Lodge, just along the seafront. 10 minutes later, he jloined us in The Light of India and his coat was scarcely off when he was bullied (there is no other word for it) into also having a Meat Thali. It was interesting sales technique that involved pointing at all the food on my table and implying that injury would be done to his person if he did not have the same. All this was done with tremendous good humour and the sort of fixed smile only found plastered the faces of curry house waiters and managers the world over.

Bloated and, to be honest, ready for bed, I recieved a text from Chris asking where we where. 10 minutes later we were in the basement bar of Blakes of Dover, a place previously unknown to us. Ben Hanson, his girlfriend Katie, Chris and a older, friendly looking bloke were already there and about 4 drinks ahead of us. The older bloke said hello and feigned offence that I had no idea who he was. It was Stuart Dimmock (Class of 80), someone who had popped up on Facebook and whose Facebook photo was actually a poppy. I think I can be forgiven for not recognising him. The fact that he left the year before I started at the school didn’t help either. Still, Dukies we all are and all that…

We never did quite catch up on the drinking front but at about 10 O’clock, one of the older folks in the corner, who we had presumed were just regulars, suddenely held aloft a mobile phone and shouted “who wants to speak to Pete Sampson?”. Pete Sampson, school master of many years and housemaster to me and Sean for 4 years was on the other end of the phone, in a state of alcholic relaxation and only a short distance away in The White Lion pub. As one we headed in his direction and as just me, I headed back to The Hotel. I had reached my limit and after 248 miles and 15 hours awake, it was time to sleep. On reflection, it’s a shame. I assumed I would get to see Pete at the Old Boys V Dover RFC rugby match on Saturday afternoon and it didn’t seem to matter. As it happened, the England rugby match kept him away on Saturday. Considering the kindness he has shown me in recent years, I wish I had gone.

After a drunken and rambling 24 minute audio diary,  I showered and climbed into bed. Despite wafer-thin pillows, the unsettling experience of sheets and blankets, deafening traffic and a thumping head, I drifted off to sleep.

Day Two: Saturday…

Soon.

Dr House & Mr Polymathic Genius Personified

Beating Myself Up A Bit

My reasons for choosing the above photograph are manyfold. Chiefly, it’s brilliant and that should be enough, but less obvious to you, dear reader, as you pass a few minutes of paid employment (go on, don’t fib), is the fact that both parties in the photo had a profound effect on me this week. I apologise for the fact that my explanation train stopped at every station but hopefully I will be forgiven by end of the page.

I don’t know what I was thinking really. It was an idiotic and an ill-thought-through act. I am in the middle of emptying my head of thoughts onto the printed page and I decided to pass the working day listening to someone far, far better at it than I will ever be. Sometime tomorrow, I will finish listening to the first two volumes of Stephen Fry’s autobiography. For just over 20 hours, the author himself will have talked into my ears and I can only hope that not too much of it has rubbed off on me. He does have the decency to apologise for his over-zealous verbosity in the introduction to the first volume, excusing it with a love of talking and using language. There are indeed a few too many times where he does depart descriptive text to thrash about in stormy waters of internal dialogue, and in several places, this goes for several pages. If only he weren’t such a joy and an education to listen to.

So what of the other chap?

Several weeks before, I decided to finally tackle Jerome K. Jerome’s classic “Three Men In A Boat”, coincidentally read by Mr Fry’s erstwhile colleage, Hugh Laurie. It’s not an easy listen, due to it’s age, but I was well into it before my forehead hit the desk. Mr Laurie’s reading is full of charm and humour. It put me mind of a restrained Bertie Wooster, if that helps. I have had the printed version for years but never got past page 4. I did, however, have to consult it to find that this particular piece that greets you half way down page 52.

The quaint back streets of Kingston, where they came down to the water’s edge, looked quite picturesque in the flashing sunlight, the glinting river with its drifting barges, the wooded towpath, the trim-kept villas on the other side, Harris, in a red and orange blazer, grunting away at the sculls, the distant glimpses of the grey old palace of the Tudors, all made a sunny picture, so bright but calm, so full of life, and yet so peaceful, that, early in the day though it was, I felt myself being dreamily lulled off into a musing fit.

Apart from an amazing (and typical of the time) use of the comma, it flows like water and left me curiously depressed for the rest of the evening. There in black and white was the difference between someone writing something and a writer. Can I do that?

So, I have metaphorically stuck a finger in each ear and can be heard going “la la la” for most of the day.

Not really.

The truth is that I write a lot but I’m not actually very good at it. I tend to write as I speak and thanks to spell check, grammar check and the good sense to read things about 9 times before I click “publish”, I mostly get away with it. Listening to or reading the works of great authors may serve to inspire me, but I fear its been too many years since a semi-satisfied English teacher threw back an exercise book, annotated to hell in red biro. My favourite was Ronnie Robertson. He used to always draw a little doodle next to his mark and once favoured me with a small gravestone bearing the words “RIP Good Taste” when I had treated him to a depressing and graphic tale of automotive disaster. Our brief for prep the previous night had actually been to tell a sad tale. Multiple death and dismemberment was obviously taking it a little too far.

I suppose you are still searching for a point.

Sorry. I listened to two gifted people and it made me worry about my own ability. It’s a bit late now.

Fireworks

Bobblehats - Hyphenated?

I am not a big one for fireworks. Owning cats does that for you. Sam, sadly gone these past few years, hated them and hid under my desk whenever someone let one off within range of his tiny ears. Actually, this year hasn’t been bad. I have many times previously blogged about “arseholes with explosives season” and I am tempted to believe that my yearly diatribe has actually had some effect. Either that or it’s all the rain we have been having.

In any case, I drove home in the foggy drizzle on Friday night and witnessed some truly beautiful sights. The fireworks, shrouded in mist, gently lit the whole sky up and for once I think I might have smiled. I tried taking a few photos but I captured nothing except my rear-view mirror and someone in a bobble-hat.

Dover

Lest We Forget

My next blog will hopefully be written in Dover, next weekend. I am going back for my yearly school reunion, to see old friends, stand on cold rugby pitches, drink a bit, spend a lot and on Sunday, do what a lot other people will do. I won’t write it up until I get back, so expect my blog around Tuesday time.

Fin.

The Dover Pylons & A Bit Of Dover Castle. A bit higher up and you could probably see the school.

A Brief Point of Admin

What ho everyone. It’s Sunday again and I need to get this done quite quickly as I am switching broadband providers this week and will be without the internet from midnight tonight until Thursday night at the earliest. Yes, I am terrified. I still have my phone though but don’t expect any great length to my online musings. The screen is very small and my fingers are quite pudgy.

All of which has nothing to do with my life as an author.

It’s All About Me

Since I first started writing about all things school, the 80s and my life in general, many have stared at me in disbelief and uttered something along the lines of “how the hell do you

Ready For Parade, 1980

remember all this stuff?”. Both “hell” and “stuff” are oft replaced by something a little fruitier but their consternation is quite genuine. I usually respond the same way – I look a bit embarrassed and mumble “I don’t know”. It’s not a prepared answer but it is honestly the truth. I really don’t remember everything. I really don’t even come close. I have a story in my head but it’s the story of me and to a lesser extent those I interacted with. There will be those I won’t remember at all and there are certainly events that completely passed me by. After 25-30 years, its all a bit of a confused muddle with only specific dormitories, common rooms and music there to help me differentiate.

I also suffer terribly from “day two” syndrome. I read about this online a few years ago when looking for something completely unrelated (you know how it is) and was relieved to see it is something of a common dilemma. Let me explain; Day one of my story is easy. It’s the first time I walked into the school, the first time I saw my dormitory, bed, locker, uniform, housemaster and probably Sean. Dead easy. It’s also the day we saw Disney’s “The Rescuers” in The Nye Hall and the time I lost the £5 my dad gave me. It is however, NOT the day I cried into the lid of my suitcase as my dad left. Yes, despite a lifetime of feeble protest from me, he went to his grave convinced that I blubbed when he left me my new school. I actually didn’t blub until well into my 2nd form but we’ll get to that later.

Anyway, Day One. Easy.

So, what about Day Two?

God knows.

Actually, I do have some thoughts but my point is still distressingly valid. The same problem rears it’s head when we get to my 4th Form. The 4th Form is an almost non-year and if it wasn’t for the fact that we moved into a specific common room, there would be little to hang 3 terms of memories on. Fear not eager reader, I managed many thousands of words nonetheless.

So I will get stuff wrong and there will be gaps. My story seems to hang together pretty consistently and Sean’s tags along quite healthily too. Not far behind him, several other friends tag along. Then there is everyone else.

Everyone Else

Many of The Class of 86 Outside The Science Block, circa 1982 or 1983.

So what of everyone else? What of the people I didn’t know? What of the people I disliked? What of those who’s stories are unpleasant, embarrassing and not much fun at all?

The people I didn’t know will probably get little mention and probably care little. The people I disliked…well, I realised a while ago that I still don’t like them 25 years later and I didn’t enjoy writing about them much. This hasn’t changed. I am also not out to embarrass people. Raking up stories about things that had no effect on me whatsoever is not the general idea but there are a few things I can’t ignore and I won’t. I just hope I get it right.

To take one example, two people left in the middle of our 4th form for related reasons. I must have rewritten this bit the most but I am still not happy with it. I’ll just try and stick to how it affects me and leave it at that. It’s all hindsight in any case and as I quite liked one of them and disliked the other, it’s hard to be objective. I can only hope it doesn’t dissolve into a mess of initials and apologetic, uninteresting generalisations.

Where To Begin

Where to begin or more precisely, when to begin has bothered me since I first put metaphorical pen to paper. How far back do I go? Do I begin with walking through the school gates? How about when I sat the entrance exam? How about when first stared into the distance and pondered a life? In the end, I asked someone else and went with their advice. This simple guidance probably prevented me from burying the school years into the middle third of “Neil Argue – A Life”, a mighty tome beginning with a shrieking baby and ending with a 42 year old bloke getting his haircut last Friday.

And who apart from me would want to read that?

Let’s see how much you like Volume 1 before I worry about the rest.

The View From The Pavillion - November 1999

They do say that everyone has at least one novel in them. If this theory extends to one story, one work of non-fiction or even an interesting few paragraphs then I might be in with a chance. I am a terrible procrastinator and would always rather do something else than something I have to. I am probably not alone in suffering from this crippling condition but I might just challenge all comers on the depths of my suffering. I well remember staring out of the bedroom window in Taunton in April 1984, Steve Wright was on the radio and a very loosely followed revision plan on the table in front of me. In a few months, my O levels would begin and all the stuff I was supposed to be cramming into my head would soon have to be regurgitated in readable form. The problem was, I didn’t care. I really didn’t care. I am counting on the fact that I am actually trying to complete something I care about to make things a little different this time. I can think of few better ways to find out if I am right than to actually give it a go.

I am not really selling this “follow my literary journey” bit am I?

So, how did I go about starting my book and what do I need to sort out?

Deciding To Write The Book

Outside The Swingate after parade Back (L - R) Dave Irvine, Mark Hart Front(L-R) Sean Veasey, DJ Vaughn, Ian Cokayne

Well, this sounds a little obvious but I don’t really want to skip over it. I decided to write the book whilst standing in the cricket pavillion at the school in 1999. I was watching the traditional Old Boys Vs 1st XV rugby match late on Rememberance Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t a terrible weekend and as my photos remind me, we had met up with 7 or 8 fellow Class of 86 friends who neither of us had seen for knocking on 10 years. By the the time Sunday afternoon came round, most had left but my best school chum Sean (Veasey) was with me, as were Mark Hart and Dave Irvine. Mark had actually left in 1984 at the end of his 5th form but his connection to the school was nonetheless strong. It could be argued that it was in fact stronger as his mother was a matron at the school and he had been back far more often than any of us in recent years.

We stood watching the rugby more in line with tradition than any great love of the game. All of a sudden Mark said “trainasium” and 13 years crumbled away. I can’t remember the context but it doesn’t really matter. It was easily the funniest thing the other 3 three of us had heard since we left school.

And so I thought I’d write a book about it all.

I could probably have worked up to that a bit slower.

The Title

My early efforts turned into a website that has long since vanished but that is pretty much where it all started. I’ll ignore the few tentative starts and jump forward to somewhere around 2002 when I clearly remember sitting down and typing the words “Fried Bread & Marmalade” at the top of a brand new document in Microsoft Word 97.

Mmmm…the title. It was what the website was called from the beginning and unlike a lot of what I will commit to paper, I can confidently claim 100% ownership of the idea. You see,  it will come as no surprise to most of you that the school provided 3 meals a day and breakfast was one of them. I could bitch about the quality of the food but I won’t (not here anyway). We didn’t starve and let’s leave at that for now. Anyway, breakfast each day consisted of cereal, toast and a full fry-up. Instead of toast, we could have a piece of fried bread and in a tradition that probably had outlasted all others up to that point in Dukie history we spread marmalade on it and it was wonderful. It seemed to be greatly enhanced by the fact that they only fried the crusts of the bread. This was breakfast cake and if it wasn’t for the fact that I only managed to get up early enough for breakfast about 5 times in the whole of my two-year sixth form, I would have left school weighing 25 stone.

As a title, I have never really considered anything else apart from “Grand Old Days” (Grand Day was and is the end of year parade) and for one brief weekend in 2005 or so, “Shit…Can I Try All That Again Please?”. I am not completely familiar with Waterstones’ purchasing policy but that last one might have been a little problematic.

Fried Bread & Marmalade it is then.

No? Well, it means a lot to a few thousand blokes and I am not changing it now. I have a folder called FBM on my PC and everything.

Where was I?

Oh yes..the blank page stared back at me like a literary cliche (sorry) and my fingers were poised. I dimly remembered reading somewhere about having a writing plan. Certainly, all of my english teachers had spoken of such things in my youth but did real authors actually plan what they wrote? I now realise they probably do and so should I.

The Plan

Thud.

My forehead hit the desk.

This was going to be harder than I thought. As more and more thoughts entered my head, I typed like a possessed idiot and soon ended up with a huge, messy list. Like I had done so many times before when working on a project, I switched to Excel and tried to lay things out in some sort of order. I had started off with 9 headings – Before, 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1984, 1985, 1986 & After. This seemed pretty logical but it turned out to be too general. So, I added sub-headings under each – friends, music, travel, schoolwork and so on. It sort of worked and after almost 10 years, it’s huge. I have also done a huge family tree type thing which is pretty impressive. I seriously doubt I will ever stop adding to it. The last addition for instance was dated 8/10/10 and just says “terrified of losing dad’s cap badge”. Many friends of mine in their 40s just slowly nodded.

A Brief Fictional Detour

One thing that still bothers me is privacy. You see, I have and will be speaking about people who actually exist and some of those things they were involved in, if not completely embarrassing and offensive, certainly could raise a few eyebrows. There is no way I am going to be able to ask everyone’s permission and from the beginning, I knew I would end up talking about some quite unpleasant stuff in amongst all the whimsy. I still wonder to this day whether I have the right share all this with the world. Obviously, I could adopt a few common methods – using initials for instance – but that would probably only work up to a point. It wouldn’t take a genius long on Facebook to work out who I.K. is for instance. Actually, I am not sure I.K. is actually on Facebook but you see my point. After 10 years at this, it is still something I ponder and it is also why, for a brief period, I was going to write it all as a work of fiction using completely different names and in some cases, merging characters and even making a few up. I actually wrote about 5000 words and might share some if it in the near future. It’s not brilliant by any means and reading some of it this morning made me cringe a little. It had a really original beginning set in November 1999. The “hero” was watching a rugby match with some friends and thinking about the past. His hair was blowing in the harsh cold wind and everything. Profound it wasn’t. Pretentious I think it might have been. You could even picture the point at which the image of the clock tower would shimmer and someone would play an arpeggio on a harp.

No really.

See you soon.

SECR 440 No. 470 passing Shakespeare Cliff, Dover with a down train

Nice picture huh? It’s an old picture of a train going past some cliffs. The reason for it’s stunning relevance awaits the committed reader who hangs around to the end of this short note.

Where to begin, I wonder.

Well, first of all I need to provide some relevant background for those who weren’t around in my life between September 1979 and July 1986. I will be as brief as possible but if you don’t read the next few paragraphs, much of what comes over the next few weeks and months might be a bit of a struggle. If you were around during those formative years, read on anyway just in case you get a mention.

*clears throat*

A young Neil outside The Duke of York's Royal Military School, September 1979

On September 13th 1979, I was 11 years, 4 months old and along with my late dad, walked into The Duke Of York’s Royal Miltary School (DYRMS). It was (and still is ) an imposing  scattering of buildings spread over 150 acres atop the cliffs of Dover. In the summer it was quite warm and in the winter/rest of the year it could be bloody cold, wet and a tad foggy. Until I went there, I thought knee-high morning fog was the invention of Arthur Conan Doyle and his literary ilk but no, it actually happens in real life. Most of the buildings were knocking on a century old but these had been supplemented in recent decades by an assortment of newer buildings and even some porta-cabins. So what was I doing there? Well, dad was in the army and every couple of years he got posted somewhere in the world and his dutiful, loving family would have to follow him. This was generally brilliant, if a little disruptive to the education of any children who might be along for the fun. It seemed a sound decision to send number one son to a solid, dependable boarding school in England to address this issue. I was told, rather than consulted, about this life-changing decision but I don’t remember being that bothered.

So, I went to a boys boarding school. I liked some of it and I hated some of it. The End.

I wish.

When I left in July 1986, I couldn’t wait to see the back of the place. My academic achievements could generously be called “unremarkable” and more realistically called “disappointing for all concerned”. My dad was in Beirut at the time and by the time we had the chance to review my scholastic achievements face to face, many years later, I was gainfully employed and dwelling on it didn’t seem like a productive way to spend an afternoon. Although of little consolation to my parents, I mostly had a great time and on reflection, it’s hard to believe so much was crammed into such a short period of time.

In the years since then, I created a website and a bit of an online community for those who went to the school. Facebook has more or less superseeded the sort of website I created but the discussion forum is active to this day. From the start, my friends and I discussed our shared history. It was not always pleasant to remember what went on but it was always interesting and because it didn’t look like anyone else would do so, I decided to write it all down. No, I did, I really did. I actually started writing. Then I stopped and then I started again. Ten years later,  I am still doing so. It needs to be finished.

So that’s the plan. If you have read this far then I hope you will continue to read what follows. I am not going to write the whole book on my blog ( I am sure I will include a few paragraphs now and then). My plan is to share the process more than the content. I hope that doesn’t sound too dull. Fear not, I don’t do “dull” very well.

Oh and one more thing.

In case you haven’t figured it out, the postcard shows a train on it’s way to Dover, on the same line as the one that took me there on September 13th 1979 and my mum bought it in a collectables shop just after I decided to finally knuckle down a few weeks ago. I took it as a sign. It probably wasn’t.

Next time, I will talk about writing plans and why having one about 10 years ago would probably have been a good idea.

N x

The Most Expensive Car In The World

Marooned

..and so I dribble to the end of one of the most full, stressfull, penniless and dismal months of my short young life. With no irony whatsover (considering the medium on which you are reading this), I won’t bore you with the minute details. A lot of you with whom I speak on regular basis will know about most of it. The maroon metal monstrosity pictured above played it’s part in no small measure. So far this year, I must have spent the best part of £1000 on it, despite only paying £595 about 3 years ago. The world is full of people willing to dish out advice when this happens but the answer is never so simple as most believe. “Get rid of it!” they yell. But you can’t “get rid” of a car that is broken can you? Who will take it? So, you fix it and then you don’t need to “get rid of it” at all. In fact, the thing you have just fixed is one more thing on it that is less likely to go wrong again. I use this dubious logic to convince myself that after this year’s repairs – the thermostat, clutch, exhaust and alternator will not go wrong again for ages. I know…I know…

Anyway, it’s booked in tomorrow at the garage next to work (I know…I know) that I have often spoken about. Yes, I always feel stupid in there but you have to understand that it’s very convenient and thanks to my kind friends, I won’t have to spend £25 on taxis. By this time tomorrow, I will be able to stop disconnecting the battery every time I park up at home, at work and anywhere else where I am going to be more than about 10 minutes. It’s amazing what you can put up with sometimes isn’t it? If it does have one downside, it’s that I  have to wait around at work so that all my colleagues have driven off before I lift the bonnet to fiddle with the battery. They are all really kind but you do get a bit fed up of “are you ok?” or “do you need a hand?”. It’s my fault really. I shouldn’t know so many nice people.

I shouldn’t knock it too much though. As is always the case in the middle of diversity like this, I have learnt so much. I can now disable and re-enable the immobiliser with consumate ease. I know where the fuse for the horn is, I know how to change the battery, I know how to tell if the battery is charged just by looking at it and I even finally got round to putting new batteries in my key fobs.

But you are right. I should get rid of it. But look at it..it’s 13 years old and it’s still so shiny. It still has new car smell. Still!

So one final thank you to the RAC men who have helped me these past few weeks. Most of you were friendly, kind and helpful. One of you wasn’t but in his defence, it was very early, very cold and I did jibber like an idiot in an effort to pretend I knew the first thing about motor vehicles. To say I have got my money’s worth out of an annual RAC membership this year would be something of an understatement.

So that’s what’s been happening. It is certainly the only part of it entertaining enough or amusing to post here.

Progress

Long time pals will have been watching this blog on an almost daily basis for signs that it is going to be a going concern anytime soon. Well, I have now finished putting the last seven years of blog posts in and like most such jobs, it was a drag. This is mostly my fault as I re-read most of them before putting them in. Some I left out as a result of sheer tediousness or irrelevance. Some of them were too short to bother and after reading and disregarding the third of forth such dribble, I remembered that my first blog template was a skinny, single-columned affair where such tiny snippets would have filled half a page. Most of them would barely fill a Tweet these days.

Some of the entries reflected how much has changed since in the last 5 years. I had few friends at work who read my blog and it was very much a school friends blog. This is by no means a bad thing but nowadays, many of my work friends read this and would be a bit bored and/or mystefied by talk of things boarding school. I did (unwisely) bitch about work on occasion too. Why I thought this was appropriate is a bit of a mystery.

There is no mention of my dad passing away although there is of his funeral a week later. Likewise, there is little mention of my being diagnosed of Diabetes but there is of my memorable visit to a medical “workshop” a few weeks later. On reflection, I probably didn’t feel like blogging about dad at the time. I suppose the same could be said of my medical bombshell too.

So I guess I am “back” now.  My next blog post will be the first concerning the writing of my book. If you didn’t know I was doing such a thing then you will no doubt be fascinated by what I have to share with you over the coming weeks. If you did know, then once again I promise that I will actually get on with it.

I thought I’d better explain what I am doing at the moment. I found a backup of all of my blog going back to 2004 and have decided to import most of it into here. This is a good thing, mainly because I thought that most of this was gone forever (even the best backup policy doesn’t always work). This is the reason the blog appears to be filling up backwards. I am reading each entry before it is (re)posted just in case it’s not suitable for a modern audience. This could be for any or all of the following reasons.

1. In the days when I first blogged, only my school friends read my blog and I occasionally moaned about work. Reading these entries makes me sound a little churlish and I regret it.

2. Some of it is just dull. Really dull.

3. Some of it is really short. I don’t know what I was thinking posting 1 paragraph. It wasn’t interesting and hardly worth a visit.

I have not edited them in hindsight. What I thought at the time remains unchanged.

I have also made a good start on the book nonsense and can’t wait to tell you all about it. My mum also found something in an antique fair at the weekend which is something of a good omen. I’ll share that too.

Ok, so I promise this is the last time I will start again.  Really. It’s also the last time I upgrade my WordPress installation without reading the instructions. Really. If you have read my blog before, you will have noticed that I have removed my previous blog entries too. There is a very good reason for this. I didn’t like them much. Well, I liked a few and may retrospectively add them again quite soon. The rest can just go away. I was far too angry, critical and shouty in them and although it was funny at the time, reading them back now just isn’t very pleasant for me. The stuff from the blog I wrote two years before that mostly fall into the same category too but again, I might resurrect some of the better bits and pieces in this blog before you know it.

So what’s been going on with me since you last read my blog? Well, I came to a decision about something that has been a part of my life for about 10 years and now seemed as good a time to draw a line in the sand and do something about it.

Let me try and explain.

Me in 1986, dreaming of being an author one day.

A long time ago, I started to write a book. I am still writing it and that’s part of the problem. At the moment it exists as a rather large Word document and it’s terrible. It’s a mess. It’s a hodgepodge of ideas, random thoughts and misremembered facts about my life between September 1979 and July 1986, when I went to a boarding school.

The story of my life at that school (and it’s effect on my since) has been an obsession of mine and for better or worse, I can’t let go of it. I am determined to finish it and it’s this that almost made me stop blogging and go “internet quiet” for a while. Almost anyway. I genuinely thought it was time I chose between blogging semi-regularly and finishing “the book” and as I went to bed last night, I was convinced that this was the way to go and actually felt a sense of great achievement, the kind you can only feel after four cups of really strong coffee and a late shower.

However, at about 2am this morning, it occurred to me that I could probably kill two birds with one stone. I could stop shouting about how life, people, work and television programmes annoy me and I could share the writing process with you all. Most of a day later, it doesn’t seem quite the brilliant concept it did in the dark, but I still  think the idea has merit. Ok, So I will probably still have a good bitch on regular basis but most journeys begin with a single step or at least a good intention.

You all look thrilled at the prospect.