Sheep in the Road

Sheep in the Road 

vol.1 

Alan Rutherford


vol. 1

Living to work? 

Or preferably, working to live! 

We are all sheep in the road 

B


vol. 1 

Alan Rutherford 

HAND OVER 

FIST PRESS 

2 0 1 4

HAND OVER FIST PRESS 

This volume published by Hand Over Fist Press, 2014 

email: alan.rutherford@blueyonder.co.uk 

website: www.handoverfistpress.com 

Design, photographs, all text and additional artwork 

by Alan Rutherford 

(from 1986 to 2014) 

This volume published 14 September 2014 

Dedicated to Ann, on our 46th anniversary

... some people cannot 

understand ideas like 

equality and freedom because 

their livlihood is based on 

them not understanding ... 

FFS! 

Dedicated to Ann, 

Joanna, Tanya, Callum, Cameron and Oscar ... 

My family 

For Anne, my sister, and her family 

And in memory of my mom and dad, and brother Brian 

D

Contents 

Introduction 1 

1 Smiths Strike 1977 5 

2 People 9 

3 Religion, capital and ... 27 

4 Socialism 31 

5 On the Avon 41 

6 Intellectual Candifloss 51 

7 Sheep in the road 55 

8 Cheltenham lines 59 

9 Apples, cheese and a red wedge 69 

10 Bishops Cleeve 81 

11 Brian 89 

12 JDK Printers 103 

13 A kevin, a louise ... 113 

14 High School 117 

15 Tree Mist Obscurist 121 

16 Funeral 129 

17 Ann’s mum, ... 135 

18 Music club 139 

19 Falling over in public 143 

20 Gloucester Docks 147 

Epilogue 165 

ix

Sheep in the road 

x

Introduction 

A first volume of a set of sorts containing all sorts ... 

from the mumblings, imaginings, wanderings and 

ramblings of one of the sheep in the the road, to the 

hiding and skulking rebel in the margins of a page, 

to outrage ... but, how to introduce? 

Ideals, principles and deeply held convictions about 

a better society for all might seem so pointless in 

the face of increasing vandalism by world powers 

and those that control our lives. Neoliberalism is 

increasingly the dominant world narrative since 

Thatcher and Reagan, with its rampant market 

economy privatisation of anything public that is 

useful ... and then its cutting of any public services 

left to make a nonsense of them ... Entrepreneurial 

gangsters claim that unrestricted competition, driven 

by self-interest, leads to innovation and economic 

growth, enhancing the welfare of all – an unhealthy 

dose of bullshit by those with the wealth to feed us, 

the ‘have-nots’. 

Religious bigots and venture capitalists have long used 

an imagined God-given ‘authority’ to recklessly and 

ruthlessly push through their agendas – in their attempt 

to both dominate and plunder our planet for their own 

short-term gain. A special planet, I would argue, that 

rather requires the so-called intelligent species to act as 

1


guardians of the earth’s precious sliver of atmosphere. 

An atmosphere so fragile that our robust pollution of 

it must surely be the height of incredible stupidity – this 

18km envelope of life supporting gases supports the only 

life that we know of in an infinite universe. Precariously 

clinging to the crust of this spinning molten ball an ape 

with half a brain might have developed the chaos we now 

find ourselves in – on the brink of catastrophe. The point 

then, is to engage the brain’s other half, cooperate in the 

planet’s maintenance and, in the words of someone or 

other, truly make this a ‘heaven on earth’. 

So a first volume of a set of probably no consistency, no 

real aim, no proper intention, many ideas pointlessly 

popping ... much like real life ... sheep in the road 

indeed! 

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4

1 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

Smiths Strike 

1977 During 

my time at Smiths Industries where I was 

employed in the Machine Shop as a setter-operator 

on a number of machines, from capstan lathes, drill 

section, grinders and finally put out to pasture on the 

grinders’ deburr and polishing bench, I managed 

to become healthily and positively politicised from 

around about the 1977 strike. 

Management at Smiths engineered an 8 week 

strike over pay in the summer of 1977. They were 

an amorphous bunch of suits who rarely made any 

appearance to us shopfloor plebs, rather dealing 

with our elected negotiators, the JSSC. Perhaps order 

books were down, or management had all booked 

a two month cruise that year, we don’t know, but for 

whatever reason they took on the might of the united 

trades unions on site, eventually knuckling under and 

coming up with an acceptable pay offer after a long 

8 weeks … but, I reckon, probably achieving their 

aim, whatever it was. 

The trades unions on site were quite solid for most 

of the strike under the leadership of the JSSC. Now, 

if you have read any other pieces by me you will 

know my annoyance at abbreviations, so it was 

under the leadership of the Joint Shop Stewards 

5


Committee … and at the helm of that local soviet 

were the holy trinity as far as militant activity at Smiths 

was concerned. Rocky Hazzlenut (chairman), Bob 

Gaylord (convenor) and Dave Wishbone (deputy 

convenor) were my idols, even though almost every 

action they proposed was just a reaction to a guileful 

management playing with the lives of its workforce … 

with no other goal than profit. 

Just an aside, but why is it that after all these years 

our trades unions, our shop steward representatives in 

the workplace, already hampered in their negotiating 

by only seemingly responding to management 

dictates and gameplay, can only come up with ‘work 

to rule’ or ’withdrawing ones labour by striking’? I’m 

not sure this still gets results, especially now with a 

smaller overall union membership split by devisive 

union leaders not supporting each other while 

trying to get a Labour government elected and a 

knighthood … short-sighted or what? Someone once 

mentioned to me when French railway workers had a 

grievance with their employers all workers continued 

to provide a service but refused to charge commuters 

… so taking their employers on and keeping the 

public on their side … 

Anyway around about week 4 of the Smiths strike 

as strikers struggled to get by without their wage, 

you know, pay their way: some scrounging, others 

working cash-in-hand, but lots just going into debt … 

it became obvious something grand had to be pulled 

by the Joint Shop Stewards Committee to keep the 

strike solid. 

In the snug at the King’s Head a demoralised group 

of shop stewards were dragging out their one pint 

allotment for their regular ‘battle’ meeting. The group 

were joined by a late arriving, but beaming Rocky, 

questioning looks replaced the despondency and all 

eyes were on this short, portly, balding, experienced 

negotiator who usually always kept a poker face … 

he looked so strange grinning, like he had lost it, his 

smile fit to burst the room. Bob, who was chairing the 

meeting, looked bewildered but nodded and Rocky 

exploded … 

‘I have just got off the phone … and we have 

managed to set up a benefit gig to raise funds for 

the strikers’, he managed to blurt out. Astonishment, 

quickly followed by different questions from all 

assembled, all at the same time … and quickly ruled 

out of order by Bob, who was a stickler for following 

rules. 

‘Order order, one at a time and through the chair’ 

Bob tried to gain control of the meeting with his 

booming voice, his London accent being most 

pronounced when he felt threatened, like now. 

‘So exactly what have you arranged on the sly, 

without going through this committee?’ asked Dave, 

still seated, with an unlit pipe clenched in a twitching 

jaw … probably the only shop steward present who 

wasn’t in awe of Rocky. 

‘I’ve only gone and booked John Lennon, he is happy 

to play for nothing to support the strike … we just 

have to find a venue, geezus, only John Lennon!’ 

sparked Rocky, in his mind he was being carried 

around the room shoulder high by his comrades … 

and they all looked like they would like to do that but 

the low ceiling of the snug would have killed Rocky, 

so it was fortunate that unless they were given the nod 

they were not that good at following through on any 

spontaneous thought. 

6

It took a while for Bob to get control of the meeting, 

but when he did the smiling faces … the smiling 

faces … it had been a good few weeks since he had 

seen the Joint Shop Stewards Committee in such 

good humour. Probably the last time was a couple of 

months ago when one of the managers had attended 

one of their meetings in the canteen and had 

involuntarily, and embarrassingly, farted as he had 

stood up to address them … took the wind out of his 

sails, Bob remembered and chuckled at the thought. 

Days after the meeting and a venue was proving 

hard to find. Any hall or pub in the vicinity seemed 

to be rather reticent to take on the show. Suspicions 

as to Smiths management involvement in spiking this 

much needed benefit were confirmed, this made the 

Committee even more determined not to be thwarted 

by the very intransigent bastards who caused the 

strike to be called, and the consequent hardship, in 

the first place. 

At the next Joint Shop Stewards Committee meeting 

it was reported that the only venue to be had was 

Bishops Cleeve Dhobi which could hold about 50 

squashed in amongst the machines ... with John set 

up on the washers. Posters were plastered all over 

Bishops Cleeve and tickets for inside and out in the 

road were sold. 

And so it was that John played the Dhobi. In a 

conciliatory mood he played only Paul McCartney 

compositions with a left-handed guitar for around 3 

hours, and it was great. 

A rough draft that needs attention, but is not going to 

get it! 

Dedicated to 

Pat Rawlings, John Styles and Derick Eyre 

7


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3 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

Religion, capital and 

the man in the moon 

Assure, Believe, Convert: religions assure 

salvation; religions believe in a precise theology; 

and religions convert nonbelievers … 

Dan Brown 

Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, 

the expression of real suffering and a protest 

against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of 

the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless 

world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is 

the opium of the people. 

Karl Marx 

As an atheist, but one who spends much of his life making 

a living out of typesetting religious tosh for a major 

publisher I hope this does not read as ‘biting the hand that 

feeds’ but, dipping into the occasional book as I go along 

… really, what a load of fudge organised religion is. And, 

even though I have no objection to those, who in a world 

of uncertainty, accept this fudge as salvation, or use it as a 

balm to soothe the troubles when struggling with life … we 

don’t all have to swallow it - do we? 

27


In July 2003, at the time of my father’s death, I wrote, 

Death, a concept of sweet taboo, not to be talked 

about too openly, but can be written about surely 

– Anne [my sister], who claims to be a born again 

christian, will believe dad is in heaven, with 

mom and Brian, and all his brothers and sisters, 

and so on, and thats fine... whereas I find it very 

difficult, with all the inconsistencies thrown up by 

humans trying to explain the unexplainable, to 

believe in a higher being so cruel and merciless 

and consequently believe you live and then you 

die, in between you procreate like all species, 

giving encouragement to your offspring and 

making a mark in the history of some – and in 

that way you live on... I think dad thought the 

same way, but we never discussed it. I also think 

in life, because we humans have an ability– 

however feeble and narrow – to imagine and 

also reason methodically and intellectually, we 

will use whatever we need to get through this 

life, and if you need a crutch because you cannot 

face the fact that we are just a minute, and 

probably insignificant, part of the 4,600 million 

year evolution of the gaseous third planet of a 

minor sun in an infinite universe... then go for it! 

Reel me in, I’m done. 

from ‘Wee Timerous Beastie’ in Writing Some Wrongs, 

2007 

It is still my explanation for life, for how I reason that 

although my father is dead … he lives on in mine and 

others’ memories, and it is still my explanation for the series 

of similar mystical and unproven belief systems which 

exist and pervade human societies the world over. It is 

this series of similar belief systems that have their set texts 

repeatedly quoted and mis-quoted to give comfort to those 

with ‘faith’, or to silence disbelievers. So-called holy texts 

are interpreted to suit and used to authorise superstition, 

slavery, racial segregation, racial subjugation, oppression 

of women, homophobia, ethnic cleansing, terrorism, selfsacrifice 

and suicide, war, rape, slaughter, genocide and 

holocaust, pogroms … and man’s dominion over all else 

on this planet … when, in a parody of blinkered ignorance, 

most religious people would argue their religion promotes 

caring and tolerance, love thy neighbour and a moral 

code. Almost without question, core elements of a country’s 

adopted religion are accepted as part of that country’s 

culture and employed as a form of social control. On the 

one hand, a religious dogma, pomp and ceremony is used 

to shore up a corrupt system of ‘don’t do as I do – do as I 

say’, sometimes to be exercised by a ruling elite as the final 

and ultimate boot at the throat of a questioning population, 

but more often wheeled out occasionally to give a moral 

authority to some ruling class dictate in the guise of binding 

a nation. But then on the other hand, also, in a bizarre 

twist, it is often openly ridiculed and were anyone to follow 

the plot and ever dare to say out loud ‘God has told me to 

do this’ - they could be declared insane if it does not fit with 

the dominant ideology. Yet, this is what a lot of organised 

religion is based on – long gone ‘mad’ people pronouncing 

on this or that after hearing ‘voices’ or seeing ‘visions’. 

28

That there are similar (but slightly different) organised 

religions and that they have grown up in different countries, 

or regions of the world, is purely the result of small groups 

of people (almost exclusively men) who seek either personal 

power, or to suggest a code for living usually beneficial to 

a dominant class of society. They do this by hijacking those 

‘mad people’ and claiming them to be the conduits for 

remarks credited to an all seeing and knowing, powerful 

god (or gods). Certainly these remarks, when imbued with 

some canny timing, logic and mysticism, can, in a world of 

confusion, give those who believe them feelings of security, a 

sense of purpose and a reason for being … when in reality 

there is no security, purpose or reason that we actually know 

of. One of the consequences of slightly different religious 

leaders claiming a hegemony in different parts of the world 

and looking to increase their influence and power for their 

brand of organised religion is a friction which has led to 

some of the most pointless horrors perpetrated by human 

beings on other human beings. This competition for hearts 

and minds is now mirrored in human relations living under 

capitalism – a religion of sorts – where the fetishism of money, 

property and more wars are the result, and where different 

nations compete and jostle for markets, land and control of 

raw materials such as oil, water and minerals to appease 

their profit-god. Under this system, the savage immediacy 

of the fist when dealing with a group of people, a nation, 

or a country when they fall foul of the world’s ruling elite 

is contrasted in the darkest, cruel irony by the awfully slow 

hand of assistance to any natural tragedy by the rich and 

powerful nations. The red tape and logistical complications 

that seem to hinder any relief effort to human suffering is 

noticeably missing in the speedy dispatch of troops or high 

grade munitions to bludgeon an erring nation bucking the 

system. 

Back with the more spiritual, the kerfuffle caused by Charles 

Darwin and his book ‘Origin of the Species’ which developed 

the theory of evolution is ignored by most organised religion, 

or can, with some trickery be incorporated into their belief 

systems … well, they have to try to explain where dinosaurs, 

etc fit into the scheme of things. Various theologists either 

dismissed evolution when it came to discussing the ‘creation’ 

and ‘Adam and Eve’, or cleverly fudged and misdirected 

their flocks by saying the early Bible texts are merely moral 

tales. However, central within the evolution theory is the 

idea of all species evolving, including humans, and this is 

the hard pill to swallow for organised religion. By saying 

humans are also just a momentary blip on a constantly 

adapting and changing earth, who will eventually, over 

years, either destroy themselves or evolve into other species, 

challenges and undermines that very security, purpose 

and reason religion promises when it says we humans are 

‘God’s chosen’, created in his image and put here to exploit 

all else on this planet, and given the authority to do this by 

God. 

Religious bigots and venture capitalists have long used 

this God-given ‘authority’ to recklessly and ruthlessly push 

through their agendas – in their attempt to both dominate 

and plunder our planet for their own short-term gain. A 

special planet, I would argue, that rather requires the socalled 

intelligent species to act as guardians of the earth’s 

precious sliver of atmosphere. An atmosphere so fragile 

that our robust pollution of it must surely be the height of 

incredible stupidity – this 18km envelope of life supporting 

gases supports the only life that we know of in an infinite 

universe. Precariously clinging to the crust of this spinning 

molten ball an ape with half a brain might have developed 

the chaos we now find ourselves in – on the brink of 

catastrophe. The point then, is to engage the brain’s other 

half, cooperate in the planet’s maintenance and, in the 

words of someone or other, truly make this a ‘heaven on 

earth’. 

29


For a number of years now there has been a trend where 

human beings seem to be backing away from progressive 

ideas, regressing to a ‘safe for some’ world where 

‘thought’ is overwhelmed by feeling and ‘logic’ is trumped 

by faith. Those that help to engineer this mood are attuned 

to another agenda – that is, to enslave humankind to base 

animal instincts, a blinkered worldview and unquestioning 

acceptance of the status quo. Wake up! there is another way 

to organise humanity in fairness, equality and harmony, its 

called Socialism ... its a truism not made any the easier by 

being so, but come on, we have to start somewhere... 

30

4 

–––––––––––––––––––––––– 

Socialism 

This 

chapter instigated by the previous one and a need 

to focus. Often I am stifled in discussion by a clever-arsed 

‘Of course socialism is a wonderful idea but with human 

nature (wrongly labelled as greed) its just unattainable…’ I 

am then deflected into arguing that human nature (if there 

is such a thing) is a very changeable commodity, and what 

is true of today’s fetishism with individualism and private 

wealth amongst a minority of the world’s population was 

and will not always be the case. 

The dynamics of capitalism have developed the means 

to meet the needs of every person on the planet – but 

because it is rooted in the anarchy of the market, it fails 

millions of people with its accompanying waste, wars 

and unfulfilled promises. Because capitalism is geared 

to profit it has a tendency to over-production and product 

placement where the money is and not where its needed, 

resulting in a glut of products and services in the rich 

wasteful west and a paucity in so-called destitute third 

world countries. Violence and wars developed in feudal 

times for the acquisition of lands and peoples for a 

monarch and/or landed gentry, are now much more 

sophisticated and an integral part of capitalism. Violence 

and economic sanctions are used by nations with the clout 

to pacify, dictate, acquire … and generally speaking, the 

threat of violence is developed, glorified and paraded, 

much as any playground bully would, to dominate and/ 

or preserve the status quo. 

31


FADING 

EMPIRE 

32

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Under capitalism key decisions over what is produced, 

how much is produced, how it is done and what happens 

to it after, are made by a small group of people commonly 

referred to as the ruling class. Those excluded from this 

elite group, that is, most people, the working class, feel 

alienated from the process of provision – like cogs in a 

machine. Capitalism, by suggesting that everyone has 

their place in the scheme of things and important decisions 

should be left to experts, trounces its own promise that 

everyone has an equal chance in life, that anyone can 

make it to the top. Of course then, if or when you fail 

– then its quite obviously your own fault. The point is, 

with a variety of inducements, threats and mind games, 

capitalism presents its main plank of competition (from 

cradle to grave) as a completely natural, useful and healthy 

ideal, when, in reality, it is a nurtured instinct based on a 

primitive pre-history survivalism which benefits only the few 

(the winners), it is wasteful, destructive and … decidedly 

unhealthy for anyone living outside the rich nations. And, 

insofar as it being natural, I suggest the Earth needs 

humans – an evolved social animal with the capability 

of controlling its environment, the first ‘intelligent’ species 

(probably) to exist on this planet – to develop their more 

natural caring instincts of helping, supporting and cooperation. 

Flagrantly flying in the face of this base, selfish and 

pointless competition promoted by capitalism, truly 

inspiring examples of working people helping, supporting 

and co-operating with each other abound in abundance. 

Because workers produce everything under capitalism, 

socialists want workers to plan and control the things they 

produce and democratically plan society to meet the needs 

of everyone. Socialists want a world that isn’t racked by 

war, poverty and oppression. Wonderful ideals, but how to 

achieve that situation. 

Socialists come in many forms, the goal is roughly the 

same but there are disagreements about how to achieve 

socialism and ultimately a communist outcome. Valiant 

attempts so far have resulted in corrupted economies, the 

best and worst being neither capitalist nor socialist but an 

unsatisfactory middle-ground. The Labour Party claims a 

socialist heritage, originally hoping to bring in socialism 

by reforms of parliament, in practice – and although on 

occasion making life better for the working class and 

denying some of the ruling classes’ excesses – when in 

office the Labour Party is only allowed to tinker with the 

system. The fact is that a parliament of any hue can only 

make policies with the nod from a ruling class of wealthy 

businessmen, industrialists and bankers – they really do 

hold the power and purse strings in a capitalist society 

like ours. Unfortunately for us these ‘powerful’ people 

are corrupted by capitalism’s driving force – greed at any 

cost – witness the so-called media and banking scandals 

of late ... top dog criminals looting with impunity while 

playfully accepting knighthoods and nepotistic accolades 

... all with complete disregard for the rest of us plebs. 

Under capitalism a hard-fought-for element of democracy 

is allowed to exist in the development and maintenance 

of the state. The state’s role in all of this, with its police 

and armed forces, judiciary, its ‘education for work ideals’, 

social security and healthcare provision for the masses, is 

biased in capitalism’s favour and really is only allowed to 

exist to control, maintain and provide a capable, healthy 

and pliant workforce. I think the State in any civilised 

society should be for a provision to the whole population, 

so that all are nurtured, supported and cared for, however 

a capitalist state shrinks from this obligation. It fails 

miserably by negating its responsibility for those it sees as 

lame ducks, leaving it to opportunist ‘charities’ to squabble 

over this provision. This creates another negative legacy 

for our capitalist society, in that, along with being unable to 

provide full employment, it does not provide a means for 

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living for us all. This leaves us with ‘charities’ taking on the 

role of the State, where truly natural human instincts, that 

is, caring and sharing, has working people donating away 

chunks of their earnings because they do care passionately 

about the plight of those less fortunate than themselves. 

This act of caring calls into question and exposes that 

so-called greed element inherent in the ‘human nature’ 

argument as a fabricated nonsense … the greed element 

more than likely to be an illustration of the values of those 

who hold and propagate this view. 

Politicians of all hues happy to enter Parliament under the 

illusion that they will run the country seem staid, thwarted, 

ineffective, pompous even, in their inability to seriously 

consider the effects of global warming, other than to 

short-sightedly promote unreliable and dangerous nuclear 

energy technology ... ignoring all the risks and shortfalls 

... as a short-term sop to reduce carbon emissions. They 

also have no strategy for reducing the ever increasing gap 

between rich and poor, rather they talk glowingly of ‘profit’ 

as some sort of saving grace for us all, when in reality it 

is the reason for that gap in the first place. Their narrow 

corridor of ‘democratic’ activity gives no hope to us for a 

fairer society, or of ever seeing a world free from war. It 

becomes increasingly obvious that this country (and all 

others) are surreptitiously ruled by an undemocratic elite 

who control the economy and so the government, and 

have no responsibilty other than to themselves, the fucking 

ruling class! 

Unable to see this trough and its attendant greedy pigs, 

and still thinking they can make a change by playing to 

a popularist electorate, the Labour Party has consistently 

watered down its socialist rhetoric and squandered its’ 

founders ideals to such an extent, that today its policies are 

hardly distinguishable from the ruling class Tories and their 

sycophantic Liberal Democrat buddies. So much have the 

Labour Party strayed from their red roots that at the behest 

of besieged ruling class swine whose greed has caused 

and perpetrated this latest crisis (and every capitalist crisis 

after crisis in the past) they also want the working class 

to pay for the failings of their capitalist system. In fact, all 

parliamentary parties, and almost all governments in the 

rest of the world ... are in favour of working class people 

paying for the failure of capitalism … Time for a change? 

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On 

the Avon 

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6 

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Intellectual 

Candifloss 

or, footnotes (and abbreviations) 

– the farts (and belches) on a page 

While a very small number of footnotes are useful in 

unobtrusively directing a reader to the source of a quote, 

generally they are the reclusive domain of the intellectual, 

or those looking for intellectual status, trying to prove a 

point by referencing another, as if by mentioning another 

source for their information adds some sort of weighty 

authority or gives credence to their flatulent point. A fart on 

a page indeed! Are we then to believe that the source of an 

unexplained point is correct just because it was published 

elsewhere? This is nonsense, a literary nepotism based on 

what? This kind of posturing, this elitist ‘ibid.’ nonsense 

masquerading as researched writing, attempting to bolster 

the importance of a text littered with superscripted numbers 

and give it an air of intellect where it is absent, is just in 

reality lazy writing. 

51


As one who typeset books that are riddled with footnote 

intrusions I can see the indolent advantage for an 

intellectual writer whose time is so important that he/she 

needs to enhance, strangle or smother a throw-away 

mention of something trivial or otherwise by referring to 

some giant tome which attempts to explain the universe 

and is only available in some specialist library. Then there 

are those boorish readers who won’t consider any text 

which is not punctuated with this pygmy fly-away text as 

intellectual, will decry it as unsubstantiated and will not 

accept points however well they are made. For fuck sake, 

do we readers need to be sent on a wild goose chase to 

verify some smug author’s pandering to their own ego 

only to find the source unavailable or merely a figment 

of the author’s imagination in that it does not explain or 

compliment his/her point. 

If an author wants or needs to make a point which is made 

elsewhere by another then this needs to made in the text 

and, if needs be, explained in the text. Of course, if points 

are fully explained and credit for them given to another, 

this may make the author’s assertions look feeble and will 

definitely give the impression that the work is not entirely, 

or even vaguely in some cases, their own. It might even 

be said by some that a book riddled with footnotes is at 

best an ambiguous bibliography with the veneer of a 

guiding idea, rather uncharitable, but a view with some 

merit surely? 

Afterthought 

Joining that club of exclusive and deliberately obscurest 

writing techniques are abbreviations. Another feeble 

mind-fuck tool of the ‘busy/lazy’ intellectual. A nasty belch 

staining the page, where, unless you are attuned to them, 

they leave the reader second guessing the flavour-by-whiff 

… or maintaining a jiggery-pokery library in their head full 

of trite-useless alphabeti-spaghetti. These manufactured 

and localised acronyms are then, incredibly, given 

credence and weight by audiences of similarly challenged 

people, who accept them as actual words containing 

nuggets of ‘wisdom’ as they tumble out from platforms, 

or spread their self-importance on a page, during the 

inane utterances or dank scribblings of these ‘intellectual 

charlatans’. 

If you have a valid point, ‘SPELL IT OUT!’, you lazy fucker 

There will be those, certainly, who can find a reason for the 

industry and profusion of footnotes in that they allow a text 

to be read as the argument intended by the author without 

distraction or tangental flights of fancy, and that the ‘notes’ 

which congregate about the foot of a page are just there 

as helpful indicators of reference … more like ‘tosh and 

camouflage!’ to cover the cracks, in my opinion. 

52

Books are 

weapons! Hit 

a tory with 

a hardback, 

especially if 

both are full of 

footnotes and 

abbreviations ... 

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Been 

stood at a doorway all my life, watching, posing, 

flexing, but never entering. Instead I’m reaching up the 

doorframe, until at 65, I get a grip of the lintel – there to 

hang until I drop. Its a life ... 

‘Are you living to work, or working to live?’ a question for 

those of us fortunate enough to live in an affluent part of 

the world ... and have a job. 

Pressures to conform, cooperate and carry on make this 

a hard maxim to answer correctly and then abide by. 

Not really sure but in re-reading events so far, of a happy 

life, I conclude that working class lives are dictated by 

interacting and reacting to events with the merest hint of 

inner direction. This seems to sum up my experience, and 

looking around it seems to appear so for others too. In 

the midst of all the shuffling this way or that at the whim 

of chance, coincidence and conspiracy there is the rare 

headstrong idiot amongst us who bucks the trend, and 

then ... occassionally, even I make a decision which seems 

to be mine, free from outside influences, for reasons only 

I can know – but don’t analyse this too carefully as, on the 

whole, we proletarians are all floaters ‘living to work’. 

55


So, as social beings inhabiting this crust of a speck of 

intergalactic dust, being bounced, bundled and broken 

together in the chaos of our own limitations we are still 

ordered in our murmurating flight by a hegemony of 

our own restricted imagination ... flying on the ground is 

definitely wrong! 

You may say this is all very well, but within our small 

timeline on this planet why aren’t we in a revolutionary 

situation now? One harsh answer was suggested in 1935 

by Upton Sinclair when he said, ‘“It is difficult to get a man 

to understand something, when his salary depends on his 

not understanding it.” 

Another less complimentary but more generous conclusion: 

we are like sheep in the road being pushed, shoved and 

cajoled to pastures new, shearing sheds and the abattoir 

by ankle-nipping dogs and know-all shepherds ... the ever 

more urgent point is, how to change that! 

Work to live, don’t live to work! 

56

57


58

8 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

Cheltenham Lines 

59


60

61


62

63


64

65


66

67


68

9 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

Apples, Cheese 

and a Red Wedge 

Friends, 

you probably never choose them, they come with 

school, a job, your social networking, a chance encounter. 

Most come and go in their own time, sometimes leaving 

you with ‘a wonder what’s happened to him or her?’ as 

they slip under a hedge. Usually its a two-way thing until 

something is said … There are some who stay the course, 

accepting your fluctuations and flatulance because they 

actually like you, and you them, but these associations are 

rare. 

I have had a few ‘friends’ who are no longer ‘friends’. Their 

flaws made obvious by that unique defence mechanism 

we all have, the one that reasons it out for us in our favour 

so that we don’t get hurt ... just thinking about them with 

this filter in place makes me question my judgement in 

these matters … am I that naive? 

One was a school friend who I managed to relocate with 

the help of the internet, remembering and pleased to be in 

contact with ‘Apples’ again I forgot what almost 40 years of 

conditioning can do, and the fact that I only knew him for 6 

months in 1964. It soon became apparent that other than 

our friendship all those years ago we now had nothing in 

common. After a couple of friendlies he then took liberties 

and sent me emails edged with sexism and racism. On 

69


being alerted to this he took umbrage and his final vicious 

email before he blocked my emails told me I was a 

sanctimonious shit while, in a seemingly contrite attempt to 

prove he was no racist, he outlined all the wonderful things 

he had done for black people in Africa – as if this gave 

him some kind of licence. As an attempt at a concluding 

barb he also, with sniper-accuracy shot his whole foot off, 

by sneeringly alluding to the fact that I had left South Africa 

just before being called up to the army as if this might 

have meant something to me? Armed forces around the 

world are generally involved in some murderous hokeypokery 

at the behest of some shady politician or other, and 

should be avoided for that reason anyway, but the South 

African army at that time was outrageously indulging in 

an unjustified defence of white priviledge. I do sort of 

understand those ‘other’ reasons why some may have 

reluctantly abided by this conscription, or why some may 

have just gone along with it in all innocence ... subscribing 

to some jingoistic mantra, putting humanity on hold and 

leaving the thinking to the generals ... 

But, for fuck sake Apples, who but a racist would suggest 

anyone would voluntarily want to be involved in that ... or 

feel guilty at having missed the experience? 

Thinking about this, I’m not mentioning all friends who 

come and go, just the ones where there was a hurt felt 

by their inexplicable and sometime unexplained exit. I was 

going to write a bit about another friend who just stopped 

and then moved, and well, just got lost. I read up some 

notes in a diary from the 1980s and thought they would 

explain it but then thought, hey, what am I doing ... it can 

probably be said in a few sentences. 

Paul became a good friend of ours during our political 

activity stage, he lived alone in a bedsit in Cheltenham, 

wrote poetry and was a fanatical, but tolerably so, member 

of the Socialist Workers Party at the same time we were. He 

was unemployed all the time we knew him, which was for 

a number of years in the early 1980s. We sold Socialist 

Worker quite regularly on Boots Corner, but it was an issue 

over branch discipline where we took different sides that 

festered ... and eventually he just faded away for reasons 

only partially explained or just hurtfully unknown. I think 

he now lives in Gloucester (?) and well, he knows where 

we live ... 

70

Paul 

71


A recent ‘friend’, who upon reflection may not deserve that 

title, just up and fizzed away in front of us, and something 

just needs to be put on record before this saga fades away 

into oblivion. I’m usually quite easy going but this event 

and its unsatisfactory conclusion keeps gnawing away and 

so here it is. 

Over a number of years Ann and I got quite friendly with 

one of her work colleagues, G: a bit stocky looking; hair 

that never seemed to grow or show the signs of a barber; 

all year round he always seemed to be wearing a check 

shirt and corduroy trousers; he was always slightly sweaty 

with a damp handshake; he walked a lot; lived alone; 

spoke in disjointed toffiness, ‘Ruthers, play some chess, 

what’; was a bit sulky at times, but had a good sense of 

humour and was good company despite himself. In all the 

years we knew him we never got past his front door. He 

was always interested in our gripes and chit-chat about this 

or that but he told us hardly anything about himself. For 

instance, we didn’t know his age, his birthday, his politics, 

the things that got him down, his other relationships … 

and this not for the want of asking … he was a mystery 

which perversely he seemed to enjoy. Perhaps he thought 

it cool to be so enigmatic but it was a strange situation 

to have someone whom we thought of as a good friend 

who was so reluctant to give up anything in a conversation. 

However, during these five or six years his guard did slip 

and a few things did come to light. 

Well, things that just don’t quite add up … we know he had 

been a border at Cheltenham College (for gentlemen) 

although his parents lived in Cheltenham, we know he went 

to Durham University where he did music, but he ended up 

working in finance? He told us he had a girlfriend who 

lived in California and on a 2-3 day visit by this girlfriend 

he introduced us to a very beautiful American blonde but, 

we wondered, how on earth such a relationship worked? 

… with him here in England and her in California. 

One of our social events of the week was to go as a team 

to a quiz night at a local pub with an assorted group of 

acquaintances where G, AW and Ann and I were the 

permanent nucleus. Odd evenings this group met at one 

another’s houses (never G’s) to socialise. One particular 

evening was set aside for the male team members to eat 

cheese whilst the women went off to some sale in a pub. 

72

G 

73


Preparation and table setting, anticipation, AW and G 

arrive, both live on their own, and as AW was itching for an 

audience he dominated the opening conversation (G and 

I participated by nodding, it was all good banter): AW’s 

car, now a boat, sailing … G nothing, me – a book I’m 

working on. Evening set to cruise. 

AW threw in a joke: An old man takes viagra in quarters, 

why? So as not to piss on his slippers … its the way you tell 

‘em so this abbreviated version does not do anything to 

lift it to the heights of wine enhanced jollity that greeted its 

punch-line. (sorry, it was funny beyond its humour on that 

evening, at that time, with the three of us ...) 

More chit-chat as the cheese is whittled away … AW is 

going to write a book made up of essays about his life – 

sound familiar? I look at him and wonder if he is taking 

advantage of his joke’s victory to gently take the piss …. 

has anyone read my prevoius book, I wonder? 

Anyway, the evening did sort of cruise but an incident of 

minor irritation which caused me to have no enthusiasm 

for the planned evening’s end – the wee dram of malt 

whiskey – developed an impetus of its own and escalated 

into its own corrupted sensibility resulting in another ‘friend’ 

floating away to where no words could ever make it as it 

was … see the following emails and weep for the logic that 

decided to abandon us. 

-----Original Message----- 

From: Alan Rutherford 

Sent: 09 July 2011 12:44 

To: G; AW 

Cc: Ann Rutherford 

Subject: Spit out the pips 

Life is just a bowl of cherries... 

if you come across pips ... spit them out! 

good advice, so here goes... 

Thanks guys it was a very pleasant thursday evening, only 

slightly marred by the sight of two grown men licking the 

table’s only 2 communal cheese knives. I wouldn’t have 

minded if you had both licked the same one but to put 

both knives out of commission and under your individual 

spell, left me speechless and only able to eye up the last of 

the cheese with the thought, ‘I could go and get another 

knife ... but it wouldn’t be a cheese knife’ - so I just sat there 

slightly disappointed. 

If it was your intention to commandeer the final morsels, 

then your strategy was a success. 

Otherwise lets do it again, and if you can resist that 

childish urge ... I might reward you with the wee dram in 

cameraderie as was planned. 

Alan 

74

Friends under the bridge 

75


_____________________________________________ 

On 9 Jul 2011, at 17:08, AW wrote: 

Get more knives would be the best strategy! 

_____________________________________________ 


To: AW 

Subject: Re: Spit out the pips 

Sent: 9 Jul 2011 19:23 

Ahhh... A your response was just so predictable, I won the 

bet with Ann. 

_____________________________________________ 

From: AW 

Date: Sat, 9 Jul 2011 20:25:33 

To: Alan Rutherford 

Subject: Re: Spit out the pips 

Damn 

_____________________________________________ 

From: G 

Date: 11 July 2011 09:23:21 GMT+01:00 

To: alan rutherford; AW 

Subject: RE: Spit out the pips 

Hi Ruthers, 

no no....I’ll avoid the rules of the house....see you 

Tuesday perhaps. 

G 

_____________________________________________ 

-----Original Message----- 


Sent: 19 July 2011 11:53 

To: G 

Subject: Quiz? 

Hi G 

Quizzing tonight? Is everything OK, just wondered as you 

seem to have gone quiet lately? All are quite concerned... 

Alan 

76

_____________________________________________ 

On 25 Jul 2011, at 18:50, 

G wrote: 

Hello Ruthers, 

no, possibly not, there again: 

“Herein lies the answer to reader jeffzelli’s question: 

... 

We’ve discussed how to taste cheese, but how does one 

eat it? Especially in a formal setting? 

... 

Don’t underestimate the service a knife provides. Dinner 

knives are perfect for delving into the creamiest of cheeses, 

and since they aren’t sharp, eat the cheese directly off of 

the knife itself. It’s one of the best ways to eat cheese like a 

pro. It also eases the voyage from plate to nose to mouth. 

Always smell your cheese before eating: you taste more 

with your nose than with your taste buds, actually. 

... 

It probably goes without saying, but take into consideration 

your setting. A dip of the finger into an oozing triple creme 

may be better suited for a gastropub than a four star, once 

in a lifetime dining experience. But in either situation, do 

what makes you feel comfortable-- the most important 

rules in the world of cheese are in regards to enjoyment 

rather than etiquette! 

It is considered impolite in the extreme to put a knife in 

or near the mouth when dining. (There are ancient and 

psychological reasons for this rule.) I don’t mean ‘eating’: 

whatever you do in the privacy of your own kitchen or in 

a very informal setting among consenting adults is your 

business. But if dining in a fine white table cloth restaurant 

or dinner party, the formal place setting and usage is 

preferred. 

Correct ‘cutlery’ for cheese service is a small (appetiser/ 

salad) knife and fork and sometimes, if a very runny 

cheese is served, a small dessert spoon. The fork, tines 

down pointing right; above that, the knife, blade facing 

toward the diner, pointing to the left and spoon, if any, 

bowl down, pointing left, above the knife. 

Also ‘do what you feel comfortable’ is weasely advice to 

give someone looking for the socially accepteble (sic) way 

of doing anything. The basis of etiquette is not one’s own 

comfort, but the comfort and consideration of others. And 

once someone is comfortable and confident as to the 

expected behaviour, then enjoyment will inevitably ensue.” 

G 

77


_____________________________________________ 


Date: 26 July 2011 09:41:32 BST 

To: G 

Subject: Re: Quiz? 

Dear G 

Thanks for the cheese dialogue, but I see no mention of 

what to do if your guests decide to deliberately contaminate 

the cheese with their spittle and drool, by licking the 

communal cheese knives from the cheeseboard, thereby 

affronting their hosts hospitality and spoiling his evening 

... should he speak up and be damned ... and almost 

certainly destroy the conviviality of the occasion? Or should 

one be a generous host and later write a considered, but 

pleasantly worded, note to express one’s annoyance at 

his guests’ laddish and unhygienic behaviour? I suppose 

neither is the answer if your guests consider this practice 

OK and a bit ... rebellious (ooooh!). Your curt reply and 

distant conduct towards us since this hoo-hah has been 

revealing to me, however, your petulance has mystified 

and upset Ann very much (this is truly unforgivable) – she 

actually cares about you. 

Alan 

_____________________________________________ 

From: G 

Sent: 27 July 2011 10:36 

To: Alan Rutherford 

Cc: Rutherford, Ann 

Subject: Music Round: Quiz? 

Hello both, 

ok, ok...the criticism gets worse....I am forgoing further 

comment (“The Glorious 12th is just around the corner... 

Don’t delay, reserve your Grouse today - Game on for R!”). 

Therefore best count me out of everything, best wishes to 

you for the future and I’m quite happy talking with to Ann 

whenever our workload allows.... 

G 

_____________________________________________ 

From: ann rutherford 

Date: 27 July 2011 10:53:33 GMT+01:00 

To: G; alan rutherford 

Subject: RE: Music Round: Quiz? 

G, I think that over the last few years we have had a good 

friendship and we (Alan and myself) have enjoyed your 

company, and it seems very sad that this has happened. 

Can’t see why it has happened but have a good life and 

all the best for the future. 

Ann 

____________________________________________ 

And it was done ... 

78

AW, portrait of an artist 

79


Bishops Cleeve, 1909 

Photograph: courtesy The Shitshute Collection 

80

10 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

Bishops Cleeve 

Situated under an edge of the cotswolds chalky ring, 

a village now overgrown with poorly designed ‘mock 

cotswold’ and twee housing estates that feed the 

growing conurbation of Cheltenham. 

There are few records left from the nineteenth century 

that relate to Bishops Cleeve when it was a major 

shipbuilding centre and dominated the local area. Some 

limited photographic evidence exists of the tail-end of this 

industrious period (see photograph opposite). Stories still 

persist amongst the ‘old boys’ of the village about Church 

Road being the keel setting for the record breaking tea 

clipper, Typhoo. The shipbuilding trade finally ceased when 

the cost of transporting the ships to the sea grew too great, 

leaving behind a village of unemployed wheelwrights, 

chandlers and riveters and ... even today, a phonebook 

full of surnames like Bolthead, Shortmast, Clawhammer, 

Frigg, Metalplate ... Amongst locals, crossing Church 

Road, is still refered to as being keel-hauled. 

Local pubs, like the Kings Head (originally the Old 

Bulkhead) and Royal Oak have sadly removed all 

references to the Typhoo when tea-towel fanatics redesignated 

Bishops Cleeve a nondescript cotswold 

village, however some of its past greatness can stll be 

seen at Shitshute House. 

81


82

83


The Any O’Clock Cannon: occasionally found 

outside the Parish Offices. Was traditionally fired 

randomly at any hour, day or night, as a tribute to 

the Bishops Cleeve Angry Brigade. It has since, in a 

grand gesture to political correctness, been fitted with 

an industrial-strength bubble-blowing machine and 

is now still ‘fired’ at any o’clock ... the result can have 

villagers hopping and popping mad all day long! 

Opposite: David Cameron House, a wax effigy of 

a guard dog was successfully installed to deter egg 

throwers. 

Overleaf: Bishops Cleeve once again dominates the 

local area, now with its huge commercial centre ... 

where ironically Typhoo Tea is a big shipper. 

84

85


86

87


Family portrait, 1950 

Me; my father, James; my sister, Anne; my mother, Mary; and my brother, Brian 

88

11 

––––––––––––– 

Brian 

I 

probably do not know enough about Brian to give him 

a proper account, seems like there are vast chunks of his 

life either I did not notice much or I was not around to 

observe. But like all human beings who have been noticed 

he deserves to be thought about occasionally. I’m talking 

like I know something but really I found a cache of airmail 

letters he sent to us around forty years ago and reading 

them I get a bit tearful and the bits I do remember start to 

crackle and spark and I suppose writing it out and maybe 

putting it in a book will mean he lives on (?) 

Brian was my younger brother, three years younger and 

in popular legend, you know the sort that clings to old 

photographs and if you say it enough times … well, thats 

the way it was, well … I used to tease him a lot, until he 

cried the story goes. Sadly this is also my memory now, 

maybe this wee spot at the keyboard will open up other 

more pleasant ones? 

Brian David Rutherford was born on 28 June 1950, I don’t 

know any details although at almost three years old I was 

about then and have some memories of that period, trying 

to compliment the few surviving photographs. My sister 

Anne had just had her first birthday on the 25th, I don’t 

remember that either. As a family we had been living with 

my mother’s parents in Pretoria, but it was around the time 

Brian was born that we moved to Durban. The house we 

lived in, 31 Manor View Road, Hillary, was a solid brick 

89


detached house with a corrugated tin roof. The yard was 

on a slope and terraced with mango trees out back and a 

guava tree in the front. 

I must have noticed Brian crawling, walking, saying his first 

words … as I must have also observed Anne, but none of 

this is in my memory. Although, I do remember our first 

nights at the house in Manor view Road where we slept on 

mattresses on the floor as no furniture had arrived. 

Brian was always small for his age, my mother doted on 

him and called him ‘Binky’ making a fuss of his curly hair. 

We kids had our childhood illnesses and even spent time 

in Wentworth Hospital with scarlet fever, but Brian seemed 

to suffer illness more than either Anne or I … he also 

had polio and meningitis. With his slight build, sorry … I 

think I enjoyed teasing him as when he got fighting mad I 

laughed as he pummelled me, making him madder. I was 

just another cruel child. 

This is not going to be some weighty account, but as 

befits the limited information its going to be a bit flighty 

with things I remember, things I have been told and bits 

from his letters, but maybe thats enough? I am trying to 

fathom why I don’t have any sharp memories of Brian. 

When I left home proper he was 14, he went to Glenwood 

High School where he played snare drum in the school’s 

marching band. As children, he accompanied me in our 

forages into the bush around the houses we lived in, he 

was a party to the collection of crabs, he never did have a 

pet (Anne and I both had dogs at some point) … he just 

seemed to be there. 

Umkomaas to stay with my mother’s sister, our aunt Ivy. 

She had 2 sons and a daughter too … anyway, rather than 

have family versus family in the games we would play, I 

partnered up with Guy, Brian with Clive and Anne with 

Janet … I’ve never wondered about this until now, but was 

this engineered by adults or did we so egalitarianly choose 

this arrangement? 

After leaving school, where he matriculated, he drifted a 

bit, seemed to have a couple of dodgy jobs, was in the SA 

army for compulsory service, went to Tech but left without 

diploma. He seemed to have good politics. He liked music 

by Jethro Tull, CSNY, James Taylor, King Crimson, Traffic, 

Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Band, Jimi Hendrix amongst 

others, and read books by authors like Ken Kessey, 

Herman Hesse, Charles Reich, J.D. Salinger, Norman 

Mailer, Scott-Fitzgerald … He worked in a graphic studio, 

had an exhibition of his art along with our cousin Guy, 

lived in a flat with others including Guy, never made the 

visit to us that he often talked of … and died on 29 May 

1977, probably due to all those childhood illnesses. 

Other than the teasing, memories of which I have been 

forced to admit so they do come to mind, he was just 

my brother – we shared a bedroom, sometimes we were 

dressed identically for special occasions by my mother, we 

played together. Every summer we kids were packed off to 

90

On the Beach, 1953 

As I mentioned, I recently found some letters from him, rereading 

them makes me quite sad as I think, were he alive 

now, it would be the most wonderful thing and we would 

chat and chat … I miss him. 

91


_____________________________________________ 

From 1967/68 

Dear Alan and Ann 

How are you, Alan I think you had better get an alarm 

clock or if you have one you better have a haircut so that 

you can hear it. 

Well I seem to be popular with the Government, I’ve been 

getting lots of letters from them and tomorrow I have to go 

for a medical and in ‘69 I’ll be a soldier. 

S’pose you’ve heard we’re leaving this dump soon, its 

really dead around here now so I’ll be glad. 

Hope Ann’s back is OK and the GOLD dress? The last 

time he was here the only thing he gave me was some 

gum, still not to complain he didn’t tease me. I suppose 

he hasn’t told you that in his younger years his favourite 

sort was me. 

Bought some new shoes today for school and dad blew 

his top, says they’ll kick me out of school if I wear them to 

school. 

I think the chances are good for me for getting a buzz bike 

for christmas my birthday, but don’t put that in your letters 

home ‘cause dad doesn’t know yet. Dad’s just said I’ve got 

a chance if he wins a raffle on at the MOTHS. 

I’ve got a nice pair of hipsters, with a wide belt but I s’pose 

thats gone out of fashion in England. SA seems to be miles 

behind. 

I’m beginning to think the hit parade on Springbok here 

is rigged, some records stay on for 20 weeks and some of 

those are terrible. Anyway top here is ‘I’m a Believer’, by 

the Monkees, 4th week at top. 

the ban on the Beatles is still on Springbok – Government 

controlled radio, but L.M. has never had a ban. Craze 

here is signs on T-shirts like, ‘DURBAN PRISON – 276431’ 

and lots of surfing signs. Have you ever been to the beach 

there? Wonder what size waves you’ve got, can you beat 

10’–15’? 

I am now a staff sgt. in the school band (HERO) finally 

getting somewhere. 

Sorry about the last effort but I hardly started it when 

somebody sent it, excuse the handwriting I’m in bed at the 

moment – Happy Easter. 

Love Brian 

Regards to Ann 

92

_____________________________________________ 

From 1970 

Dear Joanna, Alan and Ann, 

I hope Joanna was pleased with dad’s present. And I’m 

sorry that I could not send one myself as I’m still jobless and 

moneyless. Anne has a card she forgot to send because of 

Noel’s accident. He cut a finger off at work. He is alright 

now and will be out of hospital in a few days. I don’t know 

what I’m going to do for a job, I’ve tried nearly everything 

I can think of that even vaguely appeals to me with no luck 

but I suppose something will come along. I’ll have to get 

one soon ‘cause dads breathing down my neck. 

It is Friday the 13th today but nothing happened to me. 

Noel is out of hospital and he seems OK, he will be off 

work for about 2–3 months the doctor says. He lost half a 

thumb, his index finger and they had to patch up his middle 

finger. He had a skin graft on it and if that doesn’t take 

they’ll have to take it off, or part of it. Percy (cockatoo) died 

on the same day as the accident. You know dad bought 

Percy thinking he was a male but it laid 4 eggs a couple of 

days before it died. No wonder Percy never talked. Would 

you believe it, dad’s on at me to get a haircut already. 

Anne has the proofs of her wedding photo’s and dad has 

some colour ones, so some of both should be on their 

way soon. The wedding itself was quite something. Noel 

battled a bit to get the ring on Anne’s finger and in the end 

they carried on with it about halfway on. When it came 

to Anne’s turn to put the ring on Noel’s finger she just 

rammed it on. 

I’ve got a job, I don’t really know what you could call it, I’m 

going to sell nuts and bolts, ferrous and non-ferrous metals, 

washers, screws, drill bits, oxygen welding equipment and 

so on. So I suppose I’ll be a sort of shop assistant. I will 

be going to Tech to do courses on Metallurgy and so on. 

Everything to do with metal stresses – that is, if my employer 

finds me satisfactory. Dad doesn’t seem enthusiastic as you 

can imagine, he says he sent his sons to academic schools 

to keep them out of engineering and then they both go 

into it. He says he’s going to check up on the job to see if 

its good enough for me. I don’t really know myself whether 

its for me, you know how its like, I thought Matric would 

be out of this world till I got it and realised it was nothing 

really. Oh well, its taken me quite a while to do this letter I 

better finish off or it will never get to you. 

I went to see Anne and Noel tonight and Noel might have 

to have that other finger off, the middle one, because the 

doctor is not sure whether its taking. 

Lots of Love 

93


Brian, picture taken just after I had left home, around 1967. 

94

_____________________________________________ 

August 1972 

Dear Alan, Ann, Joanna and Tanya 

Thank you for the letter, I hope the birthday card has 

reached you by now. I had to send it surface mail ‘cause 

the cost for air mail was too much. Nobody calls me binky 

anymore, I’m ‘curly’ now. I’m so worried about this thing 

of leaving Tech I can hardly think of anything else. If it was 

just me I would leave, at the latest year-end – but dad has 

been paying for it and supporting me, I don’t want to hurt 

him. But its such a farce there, everyone thinks almost 

exclusively in terms of the diploma, most of the third year 

is spent preparing work for the diploma show – art history 

is taught in such a way that you will know enough to 

pass the exam. Radical views are suppressed ‘cause the 

examiners may not understand. The thing that makes the 

farce complete is that the diploma is worthless, nobody 

employs you on the strength of a fine art diploma, though 

‘they’ say it helps. 

Enough moaning, you’ve probably got enough troubles 

of your own. But I must say that I don’t want a commercial 

art job. 

Paul is growing and smiling, he’s got a devilish smile. I 

think Joanna is really beautiful, she looks very intelligent, 

somehow I get the feeling that she’s a little suspicious of 

the camera. 

My latest buy is ‘The Low Spark of High Heel Boys’ Traffic, 

I think its very good. A friend has a very good theory in 

support of religion, he says there must be a god otherwise 

how come we are all exactly the right size for our feet to 

reach the ground. I’ve heard about OZ and seen a few of 

the early issues, what happened about that issue put out 

by school kids, I know they were bust but I’de like to know 

why and what happened? What is ‘The Rise and Fall of 

Ziggy Stardust’? 

I’ve decided definitely to leave I will just have to harden 

heart and mind to try and explain it to dad before the end 

of the year. Counting everything in the good old money 

orientated way he must have laid out at least a thousand 

for those two years. He’s a good person, I say this because 

until fairly recently I just took him for granted and perhaps 

you did too – and its the thing I hate most – to upset or 

worry anybody. At least leaving is a positive action. Nancy 

says you can’t see what you look like cause of all the hair. 

Dad says he hopes you don’t wear those shoes (I said why 

not? and he said its no use talking to you.) Thank you 

again for the photos and letter. 

Love Brian 

95


96

_____________________________________________ 

September 1972: 

Dear Alan, Ann, Joanna and Tanya, 

Anne, dad, grandma, etc, etc are all up in arms, I get 

funny looks, they’re asking what did you (me) write in your 

letter to get a reply (Anne’s upset because she sent you all 

those photo’s and you haven’t said how good Paul looks, 

the second letter crowned it). Its great getting letters but 

I don’t like writing them much and I’ve noticed that our 

airletters are bigger than yours. 

You know I’m 22 now and I’m only just starting to assert 

myself, I really appreciate your advice and know its 

probably the best thing to do - stay for a diploma I mean. 

BUT. Being dependent on dad scraping around for money 

etc are bad for me. We call most of our lecturers by first 

names and vice versa, this has come to the notice of the 

director of the college and he says, stop, most of them are 

friends but now its MR. so-and-so etc. Its just too childish? 

Its really an obvious attempt to get more authority. When 

a guys your friend? you can question what he says, what 

rules he makes, etc. This is harder with the school type 

system. It doesn’t matter to them that their strict system 

creates friction, frustration for students who naturally come 

off worst. The administration knows you can work much 

easier with numbers than with people and they want us 

to be like numbers not individuals. So Tech is out, I might 

have been able to take it if I was happy at home but I’m 

not. There are lots of hang ups there as well and naturally 

I come off worst there as well, or I think so. 

There’s nothing wrong with dad really, I don’t like Nancy, 

but thats got little to do with it , we just have nothing in 

common, we agree on nothing. Anyway I can’t stay in 

this country much longer without blowing something up 

anyway. The politicians here are rottener than most, I think 

history will look back on them as monsters (or I hope so). 

If you do send me an ‘OZ’ wrap it well and try to make 

it look like something else because its banned here and 

I think they open parcels that look magazine because so 

many of them are banned (more reasons censorship & 

police). Another thing is if ever theres more internal strife 

here they will call up the army (as they did for the Cato 

Manor thing) and how can I go, what will I do then, I’m 

not brave or I’d have done something by now, I’d just drift 

along with the army when my sympathy is with them all, 

the way they’ve been treated so badly that I can’t blame 

them. I think if I was black in S.A. I would be for anything 

that would get the whites out. 

LOVE 

Brian 

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_____________________________________________ 

October 1972: 

Another letter, I’m working again, so you get another letter, 

lucky you? Its Sunday afternoon and the lunch rush is over. 

That was written about a week ago, since then I’ve given 

up the job, the owner closed for a holiday and didn’t tell 

me about it, in fact I was told they’d be open – so I got the 

shits. 

I don’t know how it happens but people are always hurting 

me. I don’t think I’m a super-sensitive person but its always 

happening. Thats the real reason for the letters, you know 

this way its safer. I hate to be always ‘wallowing in self-pity’ 

but thats how I always end up. Its obviously unintentional 

because when or if its noticed people (the ones who do it) 

are extra nice, but I still have this feeling of being stabbed 

in the back sort of. 

I think its perhaps because my ‘friendship’ is sort of total 

and theirs isn’t – its a continuous cycle. Every now and 

then I withdraw completely, not talking to anyone, the 

basic thing is sort of if you don’t have any friends you can’t 

get hurt. Unfortunately that wears off and it starts all over 

again. The only good point is that I’m aware of it so I don’t 

think I hurt other people very often, or I really hope I don’t. 

Dad’s put me down quite often lately, I understand it all 

but that doesn’t help much, he really hates long hair (won’t 

admit it though) and its rather disappointing when you see 

the clay feet so clearly. 

I hate illogical prejudices like that anyway. When or if you 

write to me again write to Anne’s address as I’ve had 

enough – perhaps they will be the same in another way? I 

sometimes wonder if everybody is the same. I hope these 

letters full of profound bullshit aren’t too much of a drag. 

If they are tear them up, but it helps me to write at times 

like this … 

98

_____________________________________________ 

June 1973 

Dear Alan, Ann, Jo and Tanya 

I am fine. Since you last heard from me I’ve been to Cape 

Town (hitched there, took 3 days) and back (2 days). Its 

nice there. 

I am now an Art Director for a shitty advertising agency. 

Its shit, I do all the work while the boss farts around. 

Sometimes he tells me something is urgent and I work 

overtime (unpaid) to finish it then he sits on it for a week. 

He’s a real prick. He pays me shit too (when I re-read this 

all I see is shit). 

I don’t think the job will last. I am living with Guy in a flat 

near Greyville (remember?). Its good. We are vegetarians 

and do our own housework (ha!) 

I won’t be able to get out of here until I get some money 

(I’ve only worked half a month). With what I get here I’ll 

never leave but I’m looking around for more money. We 

are having an exhibition in September, maybe that will 

bring some in but I doubt it. I’m at work at the moment, 

not doing much as you will no doubt notice. 

Hope you’re all well, more soon, 

Brian 

99


_____________________________________________ 

And another one, also June 1973… 

Hello folks, its me back again 

Well its the day after I posted the other letter (if you got it) 

and here I am writing again, whats wrong with me? 

I’m supposed to be working out an ad now but I don’t 

know what to do, I know nothing about advertising and 

the boss thinks I’m clued up, he knows less than me!! I’m 

sure to get fired or lose my temper and leave soon and 

I don’t know where I will get another job. Nobody helps 

much either. 

I don’t know what to say about dad, I don’t know what to 

think, he’s been very good to me in some ways, but then I 

don’t know him either. I think you should be careful about 

what you say though cause he hurts easily and worries a 

lot. Have you ever thought what there is for him to write 

about, bowls, Nancy? I know its the same for you but he 

doesn’t. Treat him with care he has had a harder life than 

I think you realise. I suspect we were all disappointments 

for him as far as careers go and I think he thought that 

important. I want to repeat that dad is soft, he can’t take 

whatever it is you wrote. When he told Anne about the 

letter he was very upset. Your moans are legitimate but 

there are two sides to the story I’m sure (even though I 

don’t know the other). 

Working is making me a cynic. The agency I work for has 

absolutely no standards. Its so shit doing crummy work. 

I’m amazed at the lousy drawings he accepts, but I wonder 

if I will ever be satisfied. Maybe its the country, maybe its 

me? 

I hope all my platitudes don’t bring you down, like the two 

sides of a story, and things - thats bullshit. But dad really 

is the softest guy I know, he really trusts people and thats 

something. 

I’m at the flat now and Jeffrey (another cousin remember?) 

is here. Just left home, I think he’s just spoilt, but then I’m 

not infallible. I hope its not serious. I never know whats 

the right thing to do in (these) situations, like I can’t give 

anybody advice. So that brings us back to dad. I really 

can’t say anything about the situation, I’m not inside you 

or dad, so anything I’ve said about the situation (?) is more 

comment - uninvolved and mistaken as that can be. Never 

accept the appearance of things. Write a letter of love and 

Peace. 

Brian 

100

Artwork: 

Brian David Rutherford 

101


102

12 

——––––––––––––– 

J D K 

Printers 

Oxbutts, Woodmancote 

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104

105


106

107


108

109


110

111


112

13 

——––––––––––––– 

a Kevin, 

a louise 

& Free Range 

Cocksuckers and 

Arselickers 

A company I worked for had some odd characters to deal 

with over the 8 or so years I was involved as book designer 

and pre-press project manager. One way to deal with the 

turds floating about in your [working] life is to write about 

them, give them a helping hand around that u-bend. In 

2011, an experience with someone who gave us work 

and then inexplicably, later, brought tears to my eyes as I 

bit down into my bottom lip trying not to rock the boat ... 

and keep the work flowing. The man became a Mugabe 

character and for financial reasons we at Free Range were 

his captive audience. 

Well, after an agreeable 20 or so books going through 

in a timely fashion without too much comment, he just up 

and made an issue of a late book whose lateness could 

be laid at any number of doors. It took us by surprise 

with its unreasonableness … and then after we failed 

to grovel at his harsh emails, uppercase and peppered 

with inaccuracies and exclamation marks, he became 

awkward, irrational, intransigent ... his emails shrieked 

and it took over 6 months for him to grudgingly pay us for 

some considerable work. 

113


They say time is a healer and I suppose holding back for a 

year or so ... that is, until we had been paid, before flicking 

out any vitriol may make this late response seem vindictive 

… but no! ... here was a man, very pleasant at our 

introductory meeting who talked enthusiastically about the 

reverent books he published … who then just turned out 

to be a bully, a possible meglomaniac, perhaps one who 

– I can easily imagine – ruled his company of subservient 

yes-men (sic) by having stamping feet tantrums. You might 

think, ‘hmmm I have known a few bosses like that Alan’, 

and, I suppose ... come to think of it, I have too ... 

Something still weighing on my mind? Well, when entering 

one of those vacant moments, I sometimes recall with some 

distaste an occasion which eased me into semi-retirement 

... actually it prodded me in the back and then trampled all 

over any enjoyment I had for my work ... I was persuaded 

to ‘apologise’ for telling it like it was (for me) working on 

the books of a certain publisher. 

I reluctantly said sorry because, well, others whom I care 

about may have been descriminated against. It is one of 

those ocassions in my life where I can possibly exorcise 

that choking phlegm by writing around it, maybe? Aptly 

I take a religious text to lay siege to this wart on my mind 

... I would like my ‘apology’ to be read and understood in 

the same context and feeling as ... ‘Father Jack Hackett’s 

apology to Bishop Brennan’ ... and let that be an end to it. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgbnWm6nMR4 

114

115


Passport 1964 

116

14 

–––––––––––––– 

High School 

In 

the last year at Bellair, before we all went off to our chosen 

High Schools, standard 6 were witness to my blubbering 

in answer to Mr Williams’, ‘Which High School have you 

been accepted in Alan?’ My parents had just not followed 

procedure and where everyone else in class had been 

accepted at the high school of their choice, I was left to 

wonder my future, head in hands, tears of embarrassment. 

‘On my first day at high school I accompanied my mother 

to DHS where she made some arrangement (freemasonry 

jiggery-pokery?) with the headmaster, Wrinkles McIver – 

the result being me accepted in at this prestigious speckledboater-school. 

Rules whose reason can only have been to catch someone 

breaking them, bully-sixth formers with fagging rights, 

prefects using the cane, a journey through the prefects room, 

the school song by rote (which I still can recite), names of the 

first fifteen and first eleven and all that shit was actually the 

least of my worries. Happily (or sadly) for me my stint at 

DHS was flawed from the start when, after passing well at 

Bellair, I was inexplicably put in 3GC where my new peers 

included colours and honours blazers and some doing 

the third form for the 3rd year - where most classes were 

bait the teacher affairs (English with Colepepper was open 

warfare). I enjoyed maths but have since had this happy 

memory rubbished by the recently acquired knowledge that 

the teacher may not have been a nice man, ffs! 

117


Consequently, lacking the character or confidence to 

overcome this situation, my time at DHS was set. I became 

a lack-lustre student and left in 1964 to become a deckboy 

on a Norwegian ship, MV Thorscarrier, while half way 

through my second stab at the fifth form. One of my better 

decisions! 

My brother Brian went to Glenwood High School – 

presumably to escape my long shadow.’ 

118

I am in both photographs, for the curious ... on 

page 118 I am third from right, third row down, 

amongst my fourth form chums (1962) ... and 

above is my fifth form appearance, second row 

down, second from the right (1963) 

119


120

15 

–––––––––––––– 

Tree Mist 

Obscurist 

121


122

123


124

125


126

127


See ya! 

128

16 

––––––––––––––––––––– 

Funeral? 

As 

you get older you end up going to more funerals as 

people you know die. I cannot say I have been to many 

of these events and then recognised the deceased by 

the summation given ... and those few that had a flicker 

resembling the existence the dead had led were blighted 

by a religious element you know was never part of that 

person’s life. 

With this in mind, and the fear that my own funeral may 

be hijacked by some dog collared nutter, I thought I’d write 

it out myself, for myself ... and as I won’t be around for the 

event this short piece should dispell my concerns (in fact 

I should not be bothered anyway, but while you can still 

think these practicalities need dealing with ...). 

My father’s service and that of Norrie Keir were the closest I 

got to feeling ‘this is it!’ so I hope my turn at the crematorium 

will follow those short and dignified examples. 

Someone who knows me reads my last statement: 

‘As I am really long gone and you are now just dealing with 

my carcass ... here are some thoughts and observations. 

Mine was mainly a happy life, surrounded by a tight loving 

family, Ann, Joanna, Tanya, Callum, Cameron and Oscar, 

and in disignating the source of happiness in my life – it 

is definitely down to the people I came into contact with, 

so thank you. My one true love was Ann whom I adored. I 

was a staunch Socialist ranter who probably didn’t speak 

129


out as much as I should have, and who, like most socialists, 

had his red flag holed and peppered with inconsistencies 

and errors of judgement, but who still argued there is a 

better way to live than under this shit capitalist system right 

to the end. I believe you live on in the memory of those 

who knew you ... and more permantly, by entering into 

new arrangements of life, as the atoms of carbon we all 

constitute. Thank you for coming, if no-one has anything 

else to say here is some music that makes me happy to 

think would be played at my funeral.’ 

The Parting Glass - The Voice Squad 

– 

When you were sweet sixteen - The Fureys 

– for Ann, although she is not particularly fond of it, it 

reminds me of our first meeting. 

The Highway Man - The Highwaymen 

– for the atoms of carbon that help make us physical, not 

reincarnation, more a mechanical rebirth. 

You Can Close Your Eyes - James Taylor 

– You can sing this song when I’m gone 

130

131


A FAMILY IN T 

132

HE EIGHTIES133


134

17 

–———–——––––––––––––– 

Ann’s mum, 

Catherine Maria Byk 

A life of servitude, hunched by spondylitis and cursed with 

the onset of dementia and a dose of Parkinson’s in later 

years, alone and afraid of the world, she is the daughter 

refused an education and singled out by a mother, brothers 

and sisters to skivvy for them, and later expected to keep 

her bullying mother company in her dotage. Denied respite 

and pressured by her mother, a dominant matriarch, into 

a compulsive cleaning disorder, Catherine Maria, now 

past eighty contemplates her life and finds it wanting. 

Without so much as a by-your-leave, nieces and nephews 

were left in Catherine’s care – this was one of the more 

enjoyable indignities handed to her during her life – whilst 

their parents (her brothers and sisters) went off and did 

exciting things. Young nephew Lloyd, whilst sat on the 

toilet, truly summed it all up with, ‘Kit! Come and wipe my 

bottom, I don’t want to dirty my hands’. 

135


136

It would appear her only abiding sources of happiness 

came with her marriage to Pawel Byk (who died recently 

after a brief battle with cancer), and the birth of their 

daughter, Ann. Happy memories needed to be cultivated 

and re-introduced for them to counter her reminiscences 

which dwell almost exclusively on the sad aspects of her life. 

Catherine and Pawel, called Kitty and John by family and 

friends, pass (and passed) through life leaving, it seems, 

only their humanity to remember them by. They are held 

with great affection by Ann, who, as their only daughter, 

is their one true, supportive, committed, constant and 

staunchest ally against anything that gave them reason for 

concern. 

In any other situation Catherine would have been noones’ 

fool, but unable to break from the years of enduring 

psychological mischief, her circumstances dictated her life, 

leaving her with a house-proud fetish – and a duster in 

her hand. 

Sadly, as time went by, only her Welshness, those friends 

gained at the Spiritualist Church and her immediate 

family, where she was a great-grandmother, offered her 

any solace in what she saw as an increasingly wicked and 

alien world. 

The final insult awarded to one whose life seemed so full 

of life’s back-handers is to suffer the paranoia of an ever 

advancing dementia, have to move into a Home, not 

know where she is or remember people or conversations 

… and have to endure all the resulting corrupted flights of 

bewilderment and thought that that implies. 

137


138

18 

–—————————––––––––––––– 

Music club 

2012-2013 

For 

just over a year I have been involved with a group of 

musicoes, there is no common denominator to describe 

this group really and musicoes is a fittingly loose description. 

The original premise for an evening meeting of around 3 

hours was to play a classic album and other contributions, 

but this evolved into an exciting ‘favourite tracks’ milieux 

… and, in my case, also went into introducing discovered 

musicians and favourites via a freebie CD. I don’t think I 

need to give the other musicoes each an identity as I’m 

sure my observations would only provoke and provide 

ammunition for some sort of vendetta or long drawn out 

correspondence. But I would say, up close they were diverse 

in character, musical taste and background, but from a 

distance we were a group of middling white men steeped 

in 60′s–70′s blues rock, dabbling in jazz, americana and 

folk … and I consciously restricted my contributions to meet 

this criteria. Categories used here are accepted from High 

Street music outlets and probably do not do justice to the 

actual music played … which, personally, I believe defies 

all classifications … you like it or you don’t! 

I was intrigued by the narrow, but occasionally surprisingly 

leftfield, choices included in selections, and spent very 

enjoyable hours analysing and following up the tracks 

played by the others, and often purchased albums based 

on this investigative adventure. All in all, despite my slightly 

duff hearing and the denying of my more eclectic musical 

tastes slipping into my selections, I greatly enjoyed the 

139


evenings and the music played during those monthly 

meetings. 

We met in each other’s houses where clues and markers 

gave further indications as to my musical comrades’ life 

affiliations and tastes … it was comforting and revelatory 

to be in the company of other musicoes like this, see their 

musical collections, watch them grow older and seem to 

appreciate each others’ selections … but, over the year a 

culture developed, a small group which never exceeded 6 

began to develop a hierarchy … and one guy resigned … 

Hello, gentlemen! 

After a fair bit of agonising, I’ve decided to quit the record 

club. It’s a shame I feel I have to do it (and I know I may 

come to regret my decision), but I’ve been acutely aware 

from the start that my knowledge of and enthusiasm for the 

subject has lagged far behind the rest of the group’s. Which 

was not a problem to begin with because the exposure to 

new (to me) artists and styles was exciting and enriching, 

but over time you all brought so much stuff to the evenings, 

plus all the freebies, that it became quite overwhelming 

and, sadly, it has upset the comfortable niche that music 

occupies in my life. It simply isn’t as important to me as it 

is to you. 

I wish you all much happy listening and chatter in the 

future. 

Rob 

And then, nothing to do with music at all, the next 

meeting opened with an attack on the host for talking 

over contributions and a proposal to retreat to the ‘classic 

album’ format was accepted by the others present … and 

my journey with them ends. 

Hi 

And another leaves the band quoting irrelevant differences 

… 

“Talking over each others’ contributions” … almost 

laughed out loud at that, as I think all of you have been 

guilty of that. I say ‘all’, but I exclude myself because while 

music is playing I can’t make out what anyone is saying … 

a combination of duff hearing and actually trying to listen 

to the music … so figure out the ‘all’ amongst yourselves. 

More serious to me was the proposal that the group revert 

to its singular founding idea: to flop and fawn over a 

‘classic’ album and to later waffle, namedrop and claim it 

as the greatest … an exercise for regurgitating Mojo and Q 

articles and probably nothing to do with the actual music. 

In this change of direction my opinion was not sought. 

Sadly gone, it seems to me, the evolved and exciting idea of 

bringing along your tastes and finds (which could include 

‘classic albums’) to play and share with the group, along 

with the exchange of home burnt CDs of thoughtfully 

mined golden treasures. Probably too much commitment 

required, I suppose? 

To support the singular ‘classic album’ proposal words like 

‘there has been too much music’ and ‘I don’t have time 

to listen to all the (freebie) CDs’ were used … I get the 

message. 

I came each month because of that ‘too much music’ 

element, not for any of the chat which, because of my duff 

hearing, I found hard to follow. From freebie CDs and 

the wide variety of music played I have made some very 

enjoyable discoveries and additions to my iTunes library, 

and for this I thank you all. 

Anyway, for quite the opposite reason Rob quit, I also take 

leave of your company … maybe see you in Rise. 

Alan 

140

141


142

19 

–—————————––––––––––––– 

Falling over 

in public 

Falling over in public, really! 

Falling over in public continues to keep my feet on the 

ground, so to speak, stopping me from ever taking 

myself seriously. Generally these falls take place in the 

metaphysical episodes that frequent us all, an assumed 

position defended, or argued for, way past its correctness 

… the ‘egg on the face’ syndrome where our cognitive 

ceilings are tested and found wanting. Then there is the 

physical falter – embarrassing, slapstick, farce … 

A recent tumble made me realise I have not physically 

fallen over that much in my life, and when I have I 

seem to instinctively roll with it, the only injury being 

to any pride I have managed to accrue! I think I’m 

right in concluding falling over in public is a necessary 

humbler ... and its a shame that some people don’t 

experience it more often. 

While working at Smiths in the 1970s I had a couple 

of falls from the bike, one, in narrow alleyway where 

I was too lazy to get off and push, had me over the 

handlebars and helplessly sprawling, bike on top of 

me, unable to get up for what seemed a really long 

143


time, all in front of an astounded young girl who 

was walking up the other way. Another time heavy 

virgin snow on early morning roads had me wrongly 

guessing where pavement curbs were … the thud of 

the front wheel and my flight from the saddle would 

have been excruciatingly funny to any curtain twitchers 

… I would have laughed too. Early 1980’s, when a 

political animal, I remember meetings going on and 

on so that we had to run for the last bus home. Running 

and falling, not seeming to notice the hard road, just 

tucking in my right shoulder and rolling … making it 

all look so contrived – it wasn’t, but we had a bus to 

catch. 

Carrying some books down the narrow twisting 

staircase at Thoemmes Press my footing failed noisily, 

a signal to those in the production department below 

that something worth gawping at was happening, and 

as I slithered to the bottom jolt, my concern to save the 

books and look cool relaxed my sphincter just enough 

to trumpet my arrival which did not disappoint, the 

fart being more embarrassing than the fall … ‘much 

deeped joy of a full moon fundermold dangly in the 

heavenly bode’ as Stanley might have said. 

Not so long ago with friends, instead of going around 

I thought I could climb a low wall and jump down the 

other side. There is a problem when your mind has 

refused to grow up, you feel 18 but your body is 60- 

odd … I landed with the realisation that my legs, my 

knees, just would not take the weight, of yes, I forgot 

that bit … also a bit overweight, damn! Over I went, 

subconsciously rolling and up again as if I had meant 

to be that melodramatically agile … and then, sheesh, 

if only I had the quick mind to claim the acrobatic 

manoeuvre that my friends tried vainly to congratulate 

me on, but no, I had ashamidly admitted my goof 

before I saw their faces of fading admiration. Maybe 

next time … 

Just the other day, after having shuffled a good 

way around the Meadow Hall shopping centre and 

negotiating our way back to the car I fell again, 

schizzen! Coming out of some covered stairs upon a 

road crossing, blinded by the beckoning green light I 

missed the last 2 steps down to the pavement. Holding 

an empty coffee cup in one hand I cartwheeled into the 

road, my eyes following my right shoe leaving my foot 

to make that elegant slow-motion arc, unable to stop 

myself, fortunately rolling with the fall again but still 

ending up on my back, my eyes caught Ann’s shock as 

I lay in the road, the lights changed with cars waiting 

to go, others waiting now to cross the road looked on, 

stupified. Collecting my shoe from the middle of the 

road, my elbow hurt but somehow not my pride as I 

joined Ann back on the pavement. ‘Oh shit!’, another 

opportunity missed I thought, damn! 

Such a wonderful leveller as falling over in public 

deserves the credit for keeping us/me sane and true 

… the next time I fall over in public (and maybe, if you 

are there to witness it you will see) … I promise to take 

a low and flourish embellished bow! 

144

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146

20 

–—————————––––––––––––– 

Gloucester 

Docks 

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148

149


150

151


152

153


154

155


156

157


158

159


160

161


A LUTTA 

CONTINUA 

162

163


164

EPILOGUE: 

DON’T CROSS 

PICKET LINES 

165

HAND OVER 

FIST PRESS 

BOOKS • DESIGN 

at 

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1 9 8 6 

SHEEP IN THE ROAD 

Vol. 2 


2015 


Vol. 1 


2014 

To read/view a book, 

please go to BOOK page 

on website and click on 

their cover and follow the 

links ... 

KAPUTALA 

The Diary of 

Arthur Beagle & The 

East Africa Campaign, 

1916-1918 


Updated 2nd edn: 

2014 

IRISH GRAFFITI 

some murals in the 

North, 1986 


2014 

NICETO 

DE LARRINAGA 

a voyage, 1966 


2014

▼ 

MAGAZINE 


issue 3 

October: 2015 

The first issue Sheep in the Road 

magazine has writing, photography, 

cartoons and odd assemblages of 

ideas, rants and reviews ... eminating 

from a socialist and thoughtful core. 

Available to view/read at: 

www.handoverfistpress.com


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