Monday Blog – Page 2 – Charlierobinsonbooks

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 14

Summer of “77”

This is a difficult one to write, there were happenings during that summer that are not really for public consumption, so here comes a generic description 😂

Jersey in the Channel Islands was a holiday destination, there were a lot of girls around the same age working in hospitality and holidaying on the island. I was 18\19 years old, it was hot, and through a friend I worked partime as a DJ in a nightclub called The Deep. Enough said.

During the day Peter and I managed to get some serious runs in and some fishing. Jersey was rich in fish and we were rarely out of pocket. I bought a car, a 1969 Mini Clubman for £135. I lost the keys one evening, so I would pull the windscreen wiper arm off, remove the blade, unlock the door, fire up the engine and then replace the wiper blade. I suppose a screwdriver would do the same job but it saved me carrying one around, cars were different then. But I had a lot of fun in that car. 😂

We were training for the Jersey\Guernsey Inter-Island Spearfishing competition, to be held in Guernsey. When the day came the venue was shifted to the other side of Guernsey which was a little more sheltered. The weather had turned and it was considered too rough. I smiled to myself as I recalled San Nicolas. We sorted ourselves into teams, and were in the water for 10am. You’re allowed 6 hours, and have to be out of the water by 4pm. It was a tough day with quite a big swell, but my team came first. I won a trophy and a diving knife, so as I recall I was very chuffed! There was a considerable write up in the Guernsey Evening Press on the following Monday, which I sent to my sister, but it appears to have been lost, although I still have the photo.

I’d work in the disco until late three nights a week, usually taking some singles back to the bedsit I shared with the other DJ, play some music, and entertain whichever guests had joined us. I survived on three to four hours sleep all summer. Most of it was a haze and Peter had told me it was unsustainable, but I survived, and never missed any of our runs or fishing trips.

For some adventure Peter and I would swim and fish from St Brelades to Portelet Bay and back, it was only a four mile return but passed a day nicely.

Paul Gaye owned the Savoy Hotel and we would go out on his boat, strap some tanks on and bag Scallops. We used those net style shopping bags tied to an empty 5litre orange carton as a float 😂 It was illegal to land shellfish using underwater breathing equipment, so we docked the boat very carefully. That ban always amazed me, they allowed dredging, trust me when you are down there on the Scallop beds and see the damage dredging does, you too would be amazed.

In between all the excitement we managed a trip to Herm Island one weekend. It was purely a fishing/relaxing expedition and we spent some quality time on Shell Beach which is made up of tiny shell fragments. It’s such a beautiful island.

Of course all good things come to an end. After two years of beach bumming from Jersey to Gran Canaria and back. I started dating a girl in the late autumn and by Christmas of 1977 we discovered she was pregnant. Things were about to change.

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

Where It All Began 12

And Where it Nearly Ended

March 1977 and we had been in Mogan, Gran Canaria for four months. The police informed us someone had broken into a car and stolen some German tourist’s luggage. We couldn’t help, we’d not seen or heard anything, and so they left. I was considering a dive, when a white car screeched into the carpark. Two smartly dressed guys got out, walked over, told Peter they were Cuerpo General de Policía (CID) ordered him to sit on a log and I was taken to the drivers door by one, while the other searched the van.

He banged my head against the van door and asked, “Why you come Espania making trouble?” Now I hadn’t been an angel but my time in Mogan had been trouble free, so I had no answer.

He marched me to his car, put me in the back seat, told Peter to collect me at 6pm and off we drove. I was only 18, but figured this wasn’t an Island Tour. We stopped beside another camper van and Inspector Clouseau got out. Now this was going to be interesting! A few weeks earlier I had been on a night run and as I passed this particular van the guy ran up to me and asked me where his cushions were? I had no idea what he was talking about. He said his cushions had gone the previous night and he saw me running away! Now Clouseau was chatting to him and he nodded and pointed to me.

We continued our journey until we reached the police station. Once inside my detective friend asked me why I stole the cushions. I explained I ran every night but had no need of cushions, so he hit me. To save you any grimacing 😂 Let’s just say this went on for an hour or so. It was broken up by his amigo putting his arm around me and explaining that if I told them where the cushions were he could stop his friend beating me. I’d seen Kojak so I knew good cop, bad cop routine. I’d boxed at school and been in a few street fights so I knew how to take a punch, but not quite so many over a prolonged period, when I finally hit the floor he brought in a German Shepherd (the dog, not a sheep farmer) which barked and snarled at me. Sadly for my detective friends it must have taken pity and started licking my face 😂

There was outrage, some expletives shouted and Rin Tin Tin was removed. I was left to sit in a chair for a few hours with a towel, to wipe the blood off my face and stop the nose bleed, I guess. (I couldn’t see a shower)

Eventually I was helped into reception and given a seat. Clouseau smiled and presented me with some papers. “Sign these and you may go.” At that point Peter arrived spotted me, and shouted sign nothing! He was still shouting it as they ushered him outside and locked the door.

A debate followed that went roughly like this:

“Sign the papers.”

“No.”

This chat went back and forth for about 15 mins. Eventually Clouseau sighed stood up and walked me to the door. He looked at Peter and told him we must leave the island within a week. Told me I was free to go and held out his hand to shake 😂 (It didn’t happen!)

Peter didn’t speak. We drove until we reached the sea. He leaned into the back of the van, grabbed a towel and told me to go soak, the sea water would be good for my mashed face and sore ribs etc. He said we were due to leave at the end of March anyway so no harm done.

So that was it, our tour complete and time to head back to Jersey. Peter must have remembered my statement back in Spain when Mudguts and I had become feral. As I climbed out of the van he said. “ What did the British Consul say, by the way?” 😂😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

Social Media Man

TikTok Update and Other Stuff!

If you remember a few weeks ago I joined TikTok? I appear to attract a few other TikTockers (if that’s what they are called) I’m not sure if they are people or robots though. Some of them are people, I know this because they want to sell me services (out of the gutter, please!😂) Formatting, editing, SEO something or other, you know what I mean. I started by explaining I wasn’t looking for those things, but they persist, so now I just ignore. The Bots are easily identified. “Hi, how are you today?” or “Where are you from?” “What’s your book called?” I find it strange because all that information is in my 30-40 second videos. I guess a Bot can’t watch videos. I mean, really, when was the last time you met an old Phillpino or Russian bloke with a Yorkshire accent?

I decided to put the same 40 second videos on You Tube. In the first two weeks my three shorts (they’re YT lingo for short videos, See! I’m getting down with the kids already 😂) I’ve had 3,700 views, 10 hours watching time, 10 subscribers and my last one got 23 likes and 17 comments. BUT, more importantly three book sales. No one asked me a thing, or tried to sell me something. So, I’m happy with You Tube at present.

Out of all the social media Apps I’ve tried this has been the most enjoyable one. Instagram is okay once you get rid of the sex workers. I remember a girl started following me and messaged. “Have you been in my Cam Room?” I replied with. “Why did I leave my socks behind?😂” I never heard from her again.

Aww, bless em, I guess everyone has to earn a living.

Happy Trails, Folks.

Can You Do It?

Apparently I Can

Boston, that’s Lincolnshire, England, not USA. Its a market town, I know this because on Saturday the sat nav wanted me to drive through the Saturday Market. It became upset when I didn’t, so had to be switched off. I was in Boston for my first marathon of the year. It was going to be tricky as I’d missed nearly 8 weeks of training because of that broken rib, but the flattest marathon in the country? It’d be fine. Boston is quite nice, and the parking is cheap. We lodged at No 20 Hotel and Bar. It was a four minute walk to the start of the race. They didn’t do breakfast which was fine as I was leaving at 7am anyway. There’s a lovely church down by the river.

There is also a Mexican restaurant, if you’re a runner you’ll know how important carb loading is before a race, so I had no choice 😂

Sunday morning I found myself in the Market Place (the market had gone) 90s House Music blared out from some speakers, a man on a michrophone was sayin stuff (I think they were words of encouragement) Was I the only one shivering under three layers? It was windy! Gillian had her route map for photos, I found some friends, had a photo with one, wished each other good luck and waited until 8am for the start.

Boston Marathon — Trust me the sky is decieving

Boston UK Marathon — Trust me the sky is decieving

The flattest marathon in the country sounds great, but then there is a reason… the terrain is flat with no shelter. 😂

The first 10 miles were okay, averaging 5 min kilometers and looking at an overall time of 03:40:00, but it dawned on me, I had for the most time, a tail wind. By 11 miles the route had turned. 30mph head wind with gusts to 40mph, but I was still smiling when I saw Gillian and her trusty camera at a water station.

Around 13 miles the sciatica started playing up and the hips began to grumble, pace had dropped to 6-7 mins per kilometer, everyone was swearing at the wind 😂 I decided it wasn’t worth it, and the next time I saw her, I’d go home. The problem was I didn’t see her until 18 miles. Now, when you’ve run 18 miles in that wind and only have 8 miles left… well, you may as well carry on?

By 20 miles the rib decided it wanted to play too, I thought I’d broken it again😂 It was then I made some life changing decisions. I was going to sell all my races. Windemere Marathon, Hardwolds 47mile ultra, and 50k ultra, Jersey Marathon… yup, that’s me from now on, just your average fun runner. Spend the rest of my days, relaxing and not dragging Gillian round the country, carrying my gear and taking pictures.

I didn’t get the time I wanted it ended up at 04:17:00, I was in pain and a tad disappointed, but apparently there were 32 people who didn’t finish, I did finish at least.

Boston UK Marathon finish. — Smile or grimace?

But now I’ve slept, I’m warm, and I’m thinking. If I improve the hip therapy, reintroduce the sciatica exercises, get some good quality trail runs in, with lots of hills, Windemere Marathon is eight weeks away. I could probably do it 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

AI The Final Word

I once gave a carpentry apprentice a written task. Explain the four types of Construction Foundations. For the uninitiated they are, Strip, Pad, Raft, and Pile.

He gave me this:

Liquid Foundation, versatile and good for all skin types.

Powder Foundation, ideal for oily skin.

Cream Foundation good for dry or mature skin.

Stick Foundation, versatile and portable.

He said there were a lot more but I’d only asked for 4.

Trying so hard not to smile, I asked him where he had got his information, to which he replied CoPilot. Not entirely the robot’s fault, obviously he hadn’t read it, but I found that generally carpentry apprentices don’t edit. The worrying thing is; he hadn’t learned anything. This brings me to my real point.

Did you know the brain constantly improves through consisitent, new mental challenges and learning new skills? Plus exercise, sleep etc, But we’ll concentrate on the first two. If you’re writers you probably don’t sleep much anyway. So if we stop using our brain? All I see is a future of numpty’s. Take a look at Reddit’s Author pages. They’re all at it. “I did this with AI. I did that with AI” The last comment I made was to a geezer who posted that he had written a complete novel with AI. Isn’t that an Oxymoron? (Which as a youngster, on the farm, I believed was a stupid cow) How can a robot write a novel and you then say you wrote it? Anyaways, I replied with. “Did someone steal your imagination?” He came back with. “Why?” I gave up!

If they let AI do everything for them surely their brain will shrink, or do whatever brains do when you don’t use them? Doesn’t that mean in years to come our civilisation will end, because as with my apprentice no one will actually learn anything? In which case they won’t know anything. So, I had a brilliant idea (score two brain cells, ka-ching) I asked AI. “If you let AI do your thinking would it cause brain deterioration?” The answer?

Yes, if you consistently rely on AI to do your thinking, your brain can experience a form of cognitive deterioration often referred to as cognitive atrophy or “use-it-or-lose-it” cognitive decline.

Recently there was a football match here in the UK. Aston Villa vs Maccabi Tel Aviv. The Maccabi Tel Aviv fans were banned from attending by the Birmingham Safety Council on intelligence recieved from West Midlands police. After an uproar (obviously not from the crowd) it was discovered the police had used AI to conduct the risk assessment, and it was unfounded. Scary?

Happy Trails Folks x

From Batman to Hawkboy: A Nostalgic Childhood Tale

The countryside and nature was in my blood, but this was the 60’s and I had been introduced to the world of Superheroes. Batman was on the TV every week and for a while I was hooked. I still have the soundtrack and the annual. 😂

I’ve never been a watcher, I always want to be involved, to be doing something. So, maybe it was time I tried my hand at this superhero business, naturally my first choice was Batman.

Don’t get me wrong being Batman was okay, and I felt inspired, but I was an impostor. I began to search for a yet to be discovered superhero. Difficult without Google🤔. Saturday shopping days meant I was dropped at the library in Wetherby while mum and dad did what ever they did in town. In 1240, King Henry VIII issued a Royal Charter granting the Knights Templar the right to hold a market in Wetherby every Thursday and so Wetherby was a Market Town.

But I was more interested in the wonders of the library. I approached the elderly lady who ran the library and enquired if she knew of the existence of a Hawkboy. She retrieved a copy of A&C Black’s Who’s Who and began to search, to no avail. Eventually I had to infrom her that he was a superhero. She looked puzzled for a moment and then explained it was unlikely a superhero would be listed as they have to submit the biography themselves, which may jepordise their anonymity. I think she took pity on me and added.

“There is a chap in Kirk Deighton who keeps hawks but he doesn’t have a son. So, if someone wanted to take on the role, I think it would be such an adventure.”

That was all I needed, I was over the moon and I began to create my alter-ego. From my base (a tiny cubbyhole under the stairs) I started work. I used my Wolverhampton Wanderers football shirt (yellow), an old pair of mum’s tights, my old trunks (yeah, I know, a therapist would love that!) The batman cloak, utility belt and mask was handy. My utility belt was stuffed with things like my pen knife, laser gun and some baler twine. All I had to do now was hide somewhere and wait for trouble.

When you’re the only kid on the farm there isn’t a lot of crime, but one hot summer’s day mum asked me to go blackberry picking. Would there be blackberry rustlers? I couldn’t take the chance. I wore my costume beneath my ordinary clothes, it was imperative to keep my identity secret. Mum was surprised I was wearing my long farmwork trousers but I won the debate. I was quite an insistent ten-year-old. “You’ll be too hot,” she sighed and we set off.

The sun got higher, burnt off the few meagre clouds, and the heat intensified. I began to pray for a villain, any villain, a naughty sparrow would have sufficed, I was Hawkboy afterall! I began to feel a little sick, my skin felt clammy and I was so thirsty. When I began to feel faint, mum took a good look at me and began to wrench my outer clothes off. I tried to repel her, but eventually I had no option but to reveal my identity. After calling me a, “Silly little bugger,” but promising to keep my alter ego secret, we agreed that Hawkboy could have a day off and I removed the supersuit. There were raised eyebrows when she saw her tights, but I explained how sacrifices have to be made for the safety of the planet. She replied, “Aye, that may be, but not today. Drink some water!”

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began #2

If you read the first post you’ll know by now at the tender age of five we moved to a different farm. Still miles from anywhere and still the only kid. The school thing was becoming a nuisance, and I discovered it would last for eleven years! At least I could walk to this one… it was only two miles away. Although it did mean crossing the A1. If you’re not familiar with this motorway it stretches (or at least it did) from London to York and then later to Hadrians Wall and was built by the Romans 2,000 years ago. There’d been some work done on it since then and back in the day it was a little safer for a five- year-old, and our cows to cross four lanes of traffic😂

I had another five years of interupted peace on that farm. My mother was quite ill (she’d had a brain heamorrage when I was four-years-old) Some days she didn’t feel good so, no school. She liked the company and I enjoyed taking walks in the country with her. I don’t think the teacher missed me, probably glad of a day’s rest from explaining things twice over. I was usually looking out of the window at the sky, the birds and the trees while planning my next adventure or project. I’d found an old pram and made myself a guider or some call a go-kart. I remember my dad made a hole for the front cross member with a hot poker, we didn’t have a drill 😂

That was me, we might have moved farms but happy days. I even managed to breed a few rabbits and I do remember going through an Artist Stage but it turned out I couldn’t paint. Although my sisters (when they visited) said I could tell a good story, even it it was completely idiotic!

You know that old saying? Nothing lasts forever? Well it’s a lesson I’ve spent many years learning over and over. Things were about to change! I wonder if all you good people have happy childhood memories?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began

My wife is a therapist and I once asked her… “Should I get therapy?” The answer was a very clear. “No!” Apparently it would be too traumatic for the therapist. 😂 So I wondered, how did I get to this place.

I was born on a farm in the middle of nowhere. I had two older sisters but they were at work or at school. I had a trusty dog from the day I was born. Once I grew big enough, so I didn’t need carrying everywhere, she was a faithfull companion.

From an early age it was just me. This isn’t strictly true, I mean there was ‘Johnny’ (imaginary) He was my best friend and there was ‘June’ (also imaginary) she was a kinda girlfriend. As I remember, Johnny and I spent a lot of time rescuing June from the Indians (or as we now know, Native Americans)

We were farmers, at least they were. I was a cowboy! When we finally got a TV, as I remember, we only seemed to watch Westerns. Cheyenne, Bonanza, Rawhide, Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, Laramie, Sugarfoot, and who could forget Gerry Anderson‘s ‘Four Feather Falls‘. Eat your heart out ‘Thunderbirds‘ I was very happy in my world, Johnny and I riding the range, building log cabins, ableit sticking some branches together to make a kind of shelter. And of course there was always June to rescue. Jeez, that girl got inro some scrapes!

The Author aged 5 — I even had all the gear!

As a three to four year old living in the middle of nowhere I had free rein, and apparently I had a lot of energy. According to my mother I talked a lot. But, hey… give me break, if you spent every day with two imaginary friends, wouldn’t you talk a lot? The problem was, I had my own language. So when I related my day to my family they didn’t understand a word. They would retrieve picture books, and have me point to various images in order to better understand. I was told the most difficult sentence they encountered was. “A howashay in the cooashay.” After some patience they discovered there was in fact. “An elephant in the cowshed.” Which was strange as we didn’t own an elephant.

Book by Claude Clayton Smithhttps://www.amazon.co.uk/Cow-Elephant-Claude-C-Smith/dp/0307602192

My elder sister had married her teenage sweetheart when I was a baby, and they had moved into the farm. By the time was two years old they’d had a baby daughter. This had little effect upon my life. I had, for the first two weeks or so entered my sister’s room with toys and posed the question. “Can she play yet?” The answer was always the same, I was told she was too little, and I’d have to wait. It seemed to me babies were a waste of time, they hardly did anything so, I bided my time and concentrated on the prairie, or as the adults called it, the abandoned aerodrome adjacent to our farm.

After two or three years the ‘baby’ became more interesting and I managed to entice it out into the wild. By this time I had a horse called Flicka although to some people it resembled a tricycle. I actually managed to convince the ‘baby’ she was a cowgirl. She took to the role amicably, although I detected some slight misgivings when she was continuously tied to trees, waiting to be rescued. Funny I never had any complaints from June!

Life was good for the first five years. Until one day a man from the village came to visit and I was informed I had to go into the village everyday to attend something called school. My mother told me it would be fun. It wasn’t. Most of the day we were cooped up inside something called a classroom, from where I could see the tops of the trees and the crows fluttering around. Now I knew the meaning of the term, free as a bird. Shortly after that my father became bankrupt and we had to move. At least it was another farm, where he’d secured a job as poultry foreman. The downside was that there was also a village and they also had a school! Little did I know it could get worse 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x