Mason on Monday.
I thought I’d try and write something in 60 minutes every Monday, so welcome to the first of what may or may not be a regular feature on my Substack page. There’s been more than a few false starts from me with ‘regular’ postings, but maybe this time will be different?
It’s a snappy title for a column if nothing else, no?
It’s been a challenging few weeks, as some of you (whoever you are that reads my Substack) may know, my mum died on September 11th. A date previously synonymous with religious loons flying planes into buildings in 2001, is now also the date when I lost my mum and thus became a proper adult because I no longer have any living parents. Is it wrong to not feel fully qualified yet to be a ‘real’ adult, I mean I’m 55 surely, I still have some wriggle room before having this particular yoke of responsibility placed upon me? This is surely exactly the kind of situation when the expression “Age is just a number” or “You’re only as old as you feel” come into their own? I don’t feel like an adult, I have no idea what that is supposed to feel like but there are currently some strong indicators suggesting that perhaps I am more than qualified. I have a sneaking suspicion that my relentless enthusiasm for trying to behave in a manner that my aching back or receding hairline suggest I ought not to, is born from the reality that I actually became an adult when I was still a child. I think losing my dad at 11 years old (me, not him obvs, he was 57) was the end of my naive and ‘isn’t life great’ younger self.
Death will do that to you unfortunately, it has a nasty habit of bursting the bubbles of childhood innocence and then tipping the rest of the bubble mixture down the nearest drain while you stand there crying wondering why this has happened to you. Death is the worst kind of bully, relentless and unforgiving and as sure as lawyers will light their cigars with your last £20 note, the sudden end of someone’s existence on this mortal coil is not something you ever really get used to. Or is it?
I have experienced a LOT of death. Not as many as the emergency services in New York in 2001, or indeed the mullahs and undertakers of Derna in Libya are currently experiencing, but still, it’s more than most people of my (uncomfortable) middle age might wish to have endured.
I just tried to count how many people I’ve been close to over the years who are no longer here having to listen to apparently ‘normal’ people celebrate Donald Trump as a messiah, or indeed, think that Russell Brand ACTUALLY is the messiah and thus entitled to behave (and dress) atrociously without any comeuppance. To be fair, I think the only person who actually thinks Russell Brand is the messiah, is Russell Brand.
*Insert Life of Brian quote here if it makes you laugh. *
While I’m on the subject, I don’t enjoy the trial by media circus that is currently coming to your town and everybody else’s town as this sorry story is squeezed into column inches tighter than the skinny black jeans Brand seems to have been wearing throughout his entire life until he started dressing like Jesus. Am I ‘qualified’ to have an opinion on all this Brand ‘stuff’? Last time I checked I was allowed to have an opinion on anything but just not entitled to think everybody else needs to agree with it. My own experience of being sexually abused at the hands (excuse the pun) of predatory men and my reluctance to come forward and speak about it for years, sadly informs my opinion that NOBODY knows how they’d deal, or not deal with this awful experience unless it’s happened to them. It took me 20 years to find the chutzpah to speak out about my abuser. However messianic and frightening Russell Brand and those people who colluded with his behaviour might appear to be, the institute of the church and its stranglehold on its legions of followers who will defend it, is a pretty fucking scary proposition to face up to, trust me.
In case you’re wondering though, I went to a lawyer, not the media, there eventually was a settlement, the experience was horrific and by the time the blood/hush money was given, I was back in full-blown addiction and most of it went into a syringe and then various parts of my body.
Anyway, enough about Mr Brand, if he’s found guilty, I wish his victims a better experience with whatever it is they’re after, than the shitshow I created with what I accepted as an apology.
Where were we? Ah yes, death.
I stopped counting at 25 people, that’s people that engendered me with deep feelings of love and connection, not just someone a sat next to at an NA meeting couple of time. Were I to include them, I think the number would be north of 50 maybe more.
Family, my parents, grandparents, aunts, schoolfriends, and yes, obviously a lot of people I formed close relationships with as a result of an overzealous addiction to whatever substance of (no) choice I was enamoured with over the years. It may surprise some of the therapists amongst you that it actually IS possible to form meaningful associations and friendships while off your trolly on drugs. I should however mention, that for me at least, the truly deep friendships have really impacted when not on drugs.
There are so many names, I just can’t recall all of them, which might sound contradictory to the point I’m tying to make, but honestly, it isn’t. I can barely remember watching Liverpool twat Everton in the 1986 FA cup final, but it doesn’t mean I wasn’t there (I was) or it didn’t have a lasting effect on me, does it? (No)
What the not remembering means, is that there have been so many premature deaths, alongside the handful that perhaps occurred at a more appropriate time, that my response to them has become less overwhelming over the years. As previously mentioned, my dad passed away in 1979, I was not allowed to go to the funeral, I’ve never understood why, I never asked my mum why and, as of September 11th, 2023, 44 years after his passing, the day I finally became an adult, like it or not (I don’t) I won’t get the opportunity to ask her. My school seemed better equipped to hide and protect a group of predatory paedophiles than it did to help an 11-year-old boy who’d just lost his dad. There was no counselling, no opportunity afforded to grieve. You just got on with life as best you could back then. I had The Jam and the friendship of a couple of older lads, one of whom I’m still mates with today (Hello Tosh). There was no internet, self-help group or social media with which to slowly, gently start to process what was happening. I have found the countless messages of condolence on Facebook etc to be a beautiful balm for my troubled soul during these past few weeks. I’d like to thank everyone for their messages of support. As I’ve said before and will say again during the Eulogy, I have written for my mum’s funeral on October 2nd. Her death is not a tragedy, the sadness can sometimes feel overwhelming, but another death irrespective of who it is, is another opportunity to be human. To FEEL these feelings, unadulterated by alcohol or drugs. Most people’s greatest achievement in life, will be to survive, life is not fair, this much we know. So, to manage to put 90 years on the clock, despite a life of real difficulties, and to do so with a smile, was very much part of my mum’s greatest achievement. The other was me and my sister Ruth, obviously.
Have a good week folks and try to be nice to each other.
I relate too much, and not just with bereavement of loved ones and parents. ❤️
Hey Simon just found your post , so sorry to hear you lost you mum , as the queen said grief is the price of love .
Lost my Dad last year , still ever so sad , sending a virtual hug and love Jacquie xxx chanel the love into your Daughter , got to love the living xxx