Reflections – Charlierobinsonbooks

Where It All Began 29

Prison

Sometimes in life you just get a hankering to do some good. In 2003 I decided to become a prison officer at Feltham Young Offenders. The advert said I would be helping to rehabilitate young men aged between 17 and 21. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. After completing written and role play tests and an interview I was in, and began a twelve week training programme. It went well apart from one day. In a pretend senario I had to enter a room where an officer was supposedly unconcious, his keys missing and the prisoners gone. I radioed it in, but I then saw someone skulking in a cupboard. I was quick off the mark, kicking the door open, and shouted, “Show yourself. Now!” A female officer with a clipboard in one hand and holding her nose with the other hand appeared. My radio crackled and the test examiner said. “Mr Robinson, she’s an observer!”

There isn’t much I can say about the next twelve months, it was a prison. I had a great rapport with the inmates and got some good results. There was a fancy dress graduation ball, I refrained from picking anyone up and carrying them out though.😂

BUT… There was a lot of stuff happened. Lets just say I wasn’t happy with some people’s behaviour which made it increasingly difficult to do my job. I became frustrated with some superiors and other officers. I found out later, some had been sacked. Now prison inmates at that age are not very clever, lets face it if they were, they wouldn’t be there. I remember two in particular. They had robbed a Marks & Spencer payroll office, thrown their masks, shotguns, and loot into the boot of the getaway car and were homefree. Half a mile away a police car came up behind them and pulled them over. They were baffled, it had only been 5 mins since the robbery, but they stopped the car and ran. The police caught them, returned them to the car and opened the boot. They were arrested on the spot. Does that make them dumb? Certainly the getaway driver was, the reason they were stopped is because he forgot to put the car lights on. 😂

One day I was chatting to those two lads and they asked me what I did before. I told them I was a site carpenter and when they asked what I built? I said mainly hospitals and schools (it was the Tony Blair years) They replied. “Building hospitals and schools is more important than this, Guv. You’re wasting your skills babysitting us. We’ll never change.” That was the beginning of the end. At the time I had a new senior officer and we had been doing a lot of good work, but he was replaced by another chap. A martial arts expert and he undid everything we’d achieved. The governors weren’t really interested and after a long chat with my wife and my old boss. I went back to building hospitals and schools. It was 2004. Times were booming, including me there were foremen with a construction site each and thirty five carpenters working for us. I’d found my place at last. What could possibly go wrong?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Reavaluate or Reboot?

Sometimes I need to reavalute, and if you’ve read Where It All Began 1-28 you’ll know I seem to do a lot of that 😂 Last year I entered the Jersey Marathon. So, on Sunday I found myself on the start line. As preparation I’d done Boston and Windermere marathons earlier this year, so all was good. Except 14 weeks before Jersey I tore a calf muscle which put me out for 9 weeks. But hey ho, surley five weeks to train for a 26 mile race is enough? The age category prize was 60-70 year olds… at 69 I wasn’t going to win anyway. 😂

The weather was glorious, the crowds turned out in their droves and my eleven year old grandaughter was excited. Nothing to do with my run, she had entered the one mile race starting an hour after me. 😂 Yes my eldest son (mentioned in Where It All Began 15) is now 48 years-old and still living in Jersey. The first thirteen miles were fine, and it looked like I was going to get under 4 hours. Not my best time but under the circumstances, I’d take that. At twenty miles my legs began to feel tired and when I speeded up my calf gave a little yelp 😂. The final few miles took me all the way down the main esplanade from St Aubins to St Helier with the sea on your right. Sounds great? Except by this time everyone else was well in front of me or behind me. Ah, The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. I remember it well.

During those last, lonely 6 miles I began to wonder about my life choices and decided it was time to reavaluate. Maybe, after running for fifty years, it was time to take it easy. Swop the running shoes for some golf clubs? Yes, that seemed like a plan. But then… my Garmin watch told me I was still running at 6mins per kilometer with two miles to go. As I reached the last 500m’s there are people again, lots of people, cheering people, clapping people. Yup! There was the finish line, the clock above it said 04:06:00. I was 8th out of 23 in my age category, with only five weeks proper preparation. Okay, maybe it was time to reavaluate my running, but let’s leave it until next year, eh? 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 28

Sally and I had been running Night Owls, the largest Mobile Disco company in Yorkshire for five years. In the December of 2000 we had thirty mobile rigs in the store and had hired thirty five DJ’s. Christmas parties were at an all time high and we did 308 functions that December. We’d managed to get away a few times, visiting Kenya and Sri Lanka, but they were brief visits and I always felt disappointed when we left.

I was still running, completing several half marathons in a time of one and a half hours. I’d joined the local gym and taken up Kickboxing, but after two years, and in my forties, it was getting tough. One night I broke three ribs, which kinda hampered installing disco rigs, so I called it a day. The next challenge was to climb the National Three peaks in 36 hours with the boxing club.

We had a great time, but it got me to thinking. There was more to life.

Sally and I were at loggerheads, she fancied selling up and settling down with ordinary jobs. So inevitably we sold the business, paid my old bosses off and went our seperate ways, all very amicable and everyone happy. But I needed a plan, so as breather, I rented a small flat in Boston Spa and worked the night shifts for my old kickboxing instructor who owned a security business. That was fun, especially one night when I came across a guy in a lorry park, slitting open the side of a lorry with a knife. Sadly he managed to get away. I’d been single for a while and had two ideas for the future. One – Buy a smallholding in France from where I could get anywhere in Europe. Two – Rejoin the Foreign Legion if I could get away with lying about my age 😂 It was around this time I reconnected with Gillian. We’d met in 1990. I’d made a few moves on her at the time, but she was engaged and I was rebuffed 😂. After she married and Sally and I became an item, we all became close friends, but she’d divorced in 2000, and moved to Bracknell as Operation Manager of Oakley Court Hotel, which had been used for the Hammer House of Horrors back in the day. We got on famously, even though we were in different parts of the country. Eventually I moved to Bracknell and as a stopgap took a job as a Carpenters hand (labourer)

Surprisingly I enjoyed having a proper job and working on a constuction site. After six months I qualified as a Level 2 Site carpenter, a year later I took my Level 3 and the boss made me a foreman with my own site. Gillian and I married, and everything was hunky dory.

But there was something niggling at me and one day I saw an advert for Prison Officers to train and work at Feltham Young Offenders prison. TBC 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x.

Where It All Began 25

Torquay was a beautiful town, but we arrived in 1993 with £25 to our name. I thought (foolishy) if I went to the Social Security I might get some help. But without an address it was unlikely, also I’d need one to get a job. So by the end of the day I’d sold the van for £300, bought a newspaper, picked the cheapest bedsit on offer, and I was in the office of Alfred Marks recruitment agency being interviewed for a job at the NHS Hospital laundry in Newton Abbott. The problem was it was shift work and I had no transport. The lady told me her daughter was selling her bicycle for £30, sorted. The day after, I was cycling an 18 mile round trip up and down seven hills to start work at 6am.

Early starts meant early finishes so I could be in the gym by 3pm and get a run in before teatime. The laundry was entertaining, no disrepect to the residents of Newton Abbot but it was a little ‘run down’ As an example: one day as we put sheets through the drier a chap said, “These don’t have a label, write the name of where it’s going on some paper. You’ll have to write it and take it to Raymond.” He was taking the laundry off at the other end. “You write it because I can’t write.” As I set off with said paper he shouted after me. “You’ll have to read it out, Raymond can’t read!” It was a hard winter cycling with plastic bags over my feet and hands and a binliner over my shoulders. Yup, hospital launderies didn’t pay much 😂 Sally landed a job as assistant manager at a hotel, Frognell Hall and by Spring of 1994 life was ok. I enrolled in a Karate class and took up a Combat Course on Sundays

The hospital laundry agency job came to an end and I was offered a job as breakfast waiter and barman at Frognell Hall by the owner Lynne. This suited me, as I got to run after breakfast and spend the rest of the day on the beach. We’d rented a cottage not far from the hotel and had no need for a vehicle. Torquay had small buses called Hoppers. They ran every 7 mins and it was £1 to go anywhere. But alas, all things must come to an end. After a falling out with the husband of the hotel owner. I guess not everyone can like you… that’s a clowns job. I decided to move on and there was good money to be made apple picking in Kent, but that didn’t start until September, I needed something for 6 weeks. I had been in contact with my sister, they had just moved to a new farm and there was a lot of work needed doing. So it was agreed in return for food and lodgings, Sally and I would travel up to Yorkshire and work on the farm. Time passed quickly and September soon arrived. It was time to head to Kent I had three addresses of farmers who employed apple pickers, an old Hillman Hunter Estate and a two man tent from Argos.

This looked like fun. But you never really know until you get there? Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 21

So here I was in 1985, a farmworker for my sister on £10 a week. My nephew and I worked from 5:30am until around 9:30pm Monday to Friday that summer. It was a cattle farm with a few milking cows. We bought stirks. A stirk is either male or female, and we bought them between 6 months old and 18 months old, fattened them up and sold them at market. Life was simple, and I managed to fly my eldest son over for all the school holidays, the youngest was not allowed. On Saturdays and Sundays we showed cattle at Country Shows. That year we won nineteen Championships. Many years later, in the nineties, his son, my great nephew carried on the tradition from an early age.

I did this for two years, believing I had found a vocation. I was still running, often rising at 4am to get a long run in. But there was a bear in me somewhere, and restlessness began to eat away. Saturday nights we always went out, roaming from one country inn to another, there were a few scrapes😂But, there were also mobile DJ’s operating in some of them. Yup, you know what’s coming! My brother-in-law borrowed £800 for me and I purchased an old van, some disco gear, and Dial A Disco was born. By driving around the area touting for work I got two regular gigs a week, a heavy rock night for bikers on Thursdays and a dance night every Friday. It involved two types of dress code. The landlady on Friday’s nicknamed me Miami Vice 😂

My sisters husband was now working on the farm, finances had improved and I wasn’t in as much demand. I took a flat in York and went to work for an agency, Nightowls, who gave me as many gigs as I wanted. Their dress code was a little different to what I was used to.

I remember one particular night I was doing the after party for Bramham Horse Trials in a huge marquee. Late in the evening, on a packed dance floor people began to run, there was screaming. The crowd parted to reveal a young man with a chainsaw attacking the centre post. He had been refused entry, gone home got his chainsaw, and climbed under the tent to wreak his revenge. Such is country life 😂 He was talked down eventually and the marquee remained standing. Six months later the couple who owned the Disco Agency offered me a full time job as manager. It looked like life was about to take yet another turn.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 20

A Struggling Farm and Homeward Bound

I have to admit I kinda had my tail between my legs after the Legion failure. But as Peter had told me years before “There’s only one person at a pity party!” I had mixed emotions too. I really needed to contact my wife, I had an idea to go to America and my sister was really struggling on the farm. There was a lot of work to do, no money to pay staff, and constant begging letters to the bank so they didn’t foreclose. After a week of 5am starts and 10pm finishes, my sister told me to phone my wife. To cut a long story short I was back in Jersey the week later.

Over the next year I did two stints at two garages as a mechanic La Motte Motors and then for John De La Haye. One day Peter walked into the garage and offered me a job as a shuttering carpenter. It was on the Jersey Hospital car park at £90 per day, big money back in 1985. That’s when I bought my Estwing hammer that I still have. It was hard work, and we had a young labourer working for us. It didn’t take homelife long to deteriorate, and once again I was out on my ear. No one could say we hadn’t tried. Once again it looked like I’d have to leave the island.

The young labourer asked where I was going? Peter and I told him the shuttering game was a front, and we were actually drug dealers. I was going to Columbia to take over from Kenny who was coming home after years of service over there. Our young friend was captivated 😂 Peter threw a leaving party for me and we invited him, telling him it was also a coming home party for Kenny. All our associates would be there including the Godfather.

When the night came our diving buddies excelled. One of them was older than the rest and turned up as the Godfather. Dressed in a smart suit, his glamorous wife by his side, and wearing his huge sovereign ring, which we all kissed while on one knee. He’d even stuffed cotton wool in his cheeks. 😂 Kenny (who was a good looking guy and always tanned) appeared wearing a white linen suit. He recieved cheers and slaps on the back because of his service in Columbia. He had a briefcase with him which we had previously stuffed with flour wrapped in plastic bags.

Peter and I took Kenny into the kitchen along with our young friend. Peter opened the brief case, slit a bag, poked his finger in, raised it to lips and smiled. “Almost pure,” he said. Rather than use a £20 note, Peter’s girlfriend had provided a cuticle pusher with an ivory handle. We gave it to the boy with some flour (cocaine) on a small wooden bread board and told him go and offer it around. I was amazed how many people were willing to shove Self Raising Flour up their noses 😂 When he reached the “Godfather” I had to nip over and whisper in his ear. “Kneel and kiss the ring.” The Godfather patted his head, but refused to sniff the substance, saying he never sampled his own goods.

Back in the kitchen, Kenny informed us he thought he’d been tailed by the police, and we all looked at our new apprentice dealer. “What?” he said, his eyes wide open. We told him he had to leave now with the drugs. He was the only one who wouldn’t be suspected. To keep the case under his bed, tell no one and return with the case the next day. We called him a taxi.

He returned the next morning, told us he hadn’t been able to sleep, and had been expecting the door to be smashed in at any time. Peter slit each bag open in turn and washed it all down the sink. The poor lad looked aghast. We sat him down and explained it was a life lesson. Don’t believe everything people tell you. If it sounds too good or to bad to be true then it probably is. He seemed to get it, I just hope 40 years later he’s not still traumatised 😂

Now it was time for me to take my leave. There was another discussion with my wife, who was now seeing someone else, and she was OK with the fact I would be staying on the farm for the near future. I left for another 3 days of travel by ferry and hichhiking.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 19

The Finale

We were in our ninth week and getting increasingly frustrated. According to an older guy, who seemed knowledgeable. The three of us Pieter, Otto and myself represented a kind of threat to disicpline. The legion considered us as Anglo-Saxons, aggressive, tight-knit, and capable of causing violence inside the unit. He said they would be running endless checks, and maybe we should keep away from each other. I didn’t think so. There was a lot of aggression in the camp and the three of us made a good team.

But I’d forgotten Corporal Yarring’s warning😂

A few days later Otto got into a fight in the shower with some Belgian guys. We intervened and we did well. “An Anglo-Saxon victory over the Franks,” as Otto put it. The next morning we were enjoying our breakfast when a corporal told us to stay where we were until everyone else had left. I thought at last we were going to be shipped out to basic training. Later we marched to a broom cupboard (literally 😂) It was cramped and there were some other new recruits with us. We waited there for two hours. “We are going to be kicked out!” Pieter said. The atmosphere was pretty gloomy. The new recuits said they had a bad ‘Gestapo’ interview, and were fed up anyway. So what was I doing in here?

Otto confessed he’d stabbed a Turkish bloke in a Berlin street fight, and maybe they had found out. Pieter related a couple of tales from his Rhodesia days, which I’ll never repeat, and if he returned to what was now Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe he’d be killed. He presumed this was the reason he was being kicked out. But I reflected on what the older bloke had told us. If a fight broke out involving Brits/Rhodesians and Germans against another group, the staff wouldn’t care who started it they would see a dangerous, cross-national brawl that threatened camp discipline. I recalled Corporal Yarring’s words!

Eventually we were marched past a hatch in a corridor. A soldier asked our name, showed us the five year contract we’d signed, tore it up, and told us not to come back. Pieter, the new recruits, and I had signed up in Paris so we were taken to the rail station and given a ticket back there. Otto? They just showed him the gate.

We went for our first beer in 10 weeks. Propped at the bar, we had all our gear stashed on the floor by our feet, and stood chatting… where to next, who was going where, suddenly one of the new recruits asked me where my mate was. Pieter’s gear had been at the side of mine and he’d been stood at the side of me. But now? He’d gone, it was as though he’d vanished. We puzzled about how he’d got his gear and walked away without us noticing, looked around the bar, and outside in the station, but he’d gone. Someone joked about The Ghost of Aubagne Station. It was strange, and I often wonder what became of him. I caught the train back to Paris, and from there hitched to Calais, at Dover I hitched back up north and decided to visit my eldest sister on the farm for a while. I had a plan.

Happy Trails, folks x.

Where It All Began 16

Légion Étrangère

Ken and I disembarked the ferry in St Malo. Using my limited French I managed to get us to the main road leading to Rennes so we could hitch a ride. Eventually we got a lift with a chap, but Rennes was as far as he was going. From there we gave in and caught the SNCF locomotive to Gare Montparnasse. There had been an interesting train crash there in 1895, luckily for us this was 1985, but Ken did remark about the similarities of the year, and so we left fairly briskly.

We knew the Legion headquarters were at Fort de Nogent, we just weren’t sure where that was. People we asked directions from, bowed their heads and scurried away. Eventually one chap took pity on us, told us the correct term was Légion Étrangère, gave us sound directions, and explained that people who sign up for the Legion are generally criminals escaping justice, hence the reluctance to engage with us. He said it was best not to keep asking or we may be reported and arrested. We walked for hours until eventually we saw the gate to Fort de Nogent.

To be honest we weren’t quite sure what to do, so we knocked on the door. A small hatch opened and a rough, scarred face grunted. “Oui?”

What do you say? Apart from. “Hello we want to join the Légion Étrangère.” The hatch slammed shut, and a few moments later the huge door groaned on it’s hinges and we were ushered in. Mr Happy pointed to a bench, growled something in French and marched off. A few minutes later a chap arrived. He introduced himself, with a cockney accent, as Corporal Yarring and took us inside. At this point I was quite excited, as some people had said we would be turned away at the gate.

What I wasn’t prepared for, was what happened next. I expected we would hand over our belongings, be ordered to strip and given some kind of uniform. From thence (i do like that word) marched to a bunk house. We hadn’t researched this adventure but we had seen the movies!

Corporal Yarring sat us down in an office and explained that he was full. My heart sank. We didn’t have the funds to hang around for long, and so my mind was racing with a plan B. Then he smiled and said not to worry (he must have seen my expression) There were a lot of recruits being shipped out that night to Marseille, and could we come back tomorrow?

Really? now I was puzzled 😆I had presumed, once we set foot over the threshold, we wouldn’t see civilisation again for five years. He explained the Paris Boat Show was in full flow this week, hotel rooms were in demand and expensive. Were we ok for money? He didn’t want us sleeping rough and getting arrested. Ken and I looked at each other in amazement, shrugged, and nodded. “Good stuff,” the corporal smiled. “I’ll show you out and we’ll see you tomorrow.” I asked what time and suggested 5am, I knew these boys would be up and at it early doors. “About ten o’clock,” he said. So we left him at the gate and set off in search of a hotel. Wandering the streets of Paris was fun and we found cheap accomodation in an impoverished area (the ladies on the street gave it away😆

We ate and turned in for the night, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring, but we were committed to the unknown.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 15

1978-85 A Synopsis

There are periods in your life where nothing really happens, have you noticed? I mean, yeah things happen, but no different to anyone else’s life. A bit like a soap opera. September 1978, I remember bringing the baby home, and we both sat and looked at him. It was a kinda, “What are we supposed to do?” moment. I was 19 she was 17, and they had just sent us home from the hospital. Life was a little difficult, and looking back now it was obvious she had post natal depression. Sadly in those days she was just a misery, and I’m glad women can get help these days.

I still had a hankering to be a car mechanic so the following year we left Jersey to live in a council house in Wakefield while I took a 6 month TOPS course. When the course finished all fifteen of us were told there were no jobs in Wakefield for mechanics. I filled the car with petrol, started in the centre of town and drove in ever increasing circles knocking on doors. By the time I’d got to Featherstone, 18 miles away, I had a job as a mechanic.

That’s Steve McQueen by the way, not me. A year in Wakefield was probably what helped kill our marriage. She was an island girl and looking back it must have been horrendous for her. We returned to Jersey and I began work as a mechaninc for a Saab dealership during the week, but on Saturdays I delivered bread for Le Bruns Bakery. (Another son born, so we needed the money) On Sunday mornings I tried to get some diving done but it caused arguments, so I concentrated on running after work as a mental stabiliser. After splitting up, and then getting back together five times we both decided it wasn’t working. But, there lay a problem. As a none Jersey resident I had no resident rights. I earned £100 pw. My accomodation was £45pw, and that was room only, so I had to eat out. The States of Jersey informed me I had to pay £75 pw in maintenance or go to jail 😂 We discussed it at length and both agreed I would have to leave the island. It was amicable, we are still friends to this day, and she agreed children could be flown over to UK for holidays etc. Looking back, I realise I wasn’t happy with the situation, and so began a total decline in sensibilty. She was dating, I was getting drunk! Except for weekends when I would take the boys out. The states of Jersey put more and more pressure on until it became obvious something had to give. One night while out with a friend and after several drinks we decided to join the Foreign Legion. It seems ridiculous and selfish now, but sometimes you get so low there appears to be only one solution. One morning I put all my belongings in refuse bags left them by the bin and caught the ferry to St Malo.

Happy Trails, Folks. x

Where It All Began 13

The Long Way Home

Did you know there is a third class on a car ferry? There was in 1977. We sailed from Gran Canaria to Barcelona on one of those tickets. The Atlantic in March can be rough, and we were hit by a late winter storm. Third class means you can’t go inside the ship, the bar\restaurant, anywhere (except to your cabin) They even had a doorman checking tickets. Although there was a snack bar on deck, we had food on the van. So we sneaked down there for sustenance.

We weren’t seasick just cold, we’d only brought minimum clothing and it was all summer gear. The cabin was around the same size as a large wardrobe. To give you an idea, one of us went in first then lay on a bunk to allow the other one to squeeze through the door. Our main source of heat was to sit under the shower😂

Three days later when we finally docked in Barcelona it was snowing, and we began the long drive to Calais. The dear old van was on it’s last legs and burning oil like Saddam in Kuwait. The engine is situated between the driver and passenger seat on an Austin\Morris J4 Diesel van. We left the oil filler cap off so the gases didn’t build up inside the engine, which meant leaving the windows open (or asphyxiate) Don’t get me wrong here, it wasn’t cold all the time just about 90% of the time 😂

The following few months were uneventful. We stayed in Bury, Manchester with Peter’s mum for a while to get some money together. We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and called into Peter’s old local pub. There were friends of his from years ago sitting with half pints. When he explained why we had come back to Blighty they laughed.

“There’s no work here,” they said. “That’s why we’re sat in here, we’re all on the dole!”

We had a pint and left. Out on the street we noticed a building site across the road. Peter walked over and asked the general foreman if he had any work. The guy said. “If you can drive a dump truck, turn up here tomorrow morning with your licence.”

We then visited a local a shoe factory. They had a sign saying No Vacancies, but Peter said they were always looking for people. I popped in and started work the following day sticking soles onto Desert Boots. Three hours in Bury, Manchester and we both had work? I suggested we go back to the pub and tell his old friends, but Peter gave me one of those looks, a kind of “Yeah, right, look.” 😂

The van was a right off and so we scrappped it. By Maytime we’d saved some cash and set off back to Jersey, and a summer of fun 😁

Happy Trails, Folks x