It’s as if I sing the song of that savagery and it happens to me again and again. But something worse than a physical beating had harmed me. My naïve belief in democracy and justice and the police being there to protect these was also knocked out of me. I’m slightly angry with myself for not continuing with my complaint about police brutality: not in South Africa; not in the Southern states of America but right here in my own hometown. But I had my reasons. I had insider information that the police had a thick file on me, even in those early days. I think they suspected I was a gangster using my business as a front for drug-dealing! I was making a lot of money: every lad wanted to be in a loud band and the market in vintage instruments was doing well. All my assets were legitimate but the police were on my case and that’s why I didn’t pursue the brutality issue.
PC Thug was transferred.
Any Substance In It?
Mushrooms In A Pencil Case
To redress the balance, I have another story in which the police were courteous, good-humoured and tolerant. My girlfriend and I were decorating so everything had been moved upstairs, including me. There I was with a glass of malt whisky, Radio Four, a Wilbur Smith book and a big spliff. My contentment was shaken by a horrendous bang like a cannon followed by a galloping noise coming up the stairs. Eight police officers – two of them women – spilled in like the Keystone Cops and consumed all the space. A drugs bust. But in spite of the numbers – or perhaps because of them – the whole thing bordered on the hilarious. Did I know what I was smoking? Well, yes. They found some dried mushrooms in a pencil case in my girlfriend’s drawer. Asked if I knew what these were, I took the rap. Magic mushrooms are actually more illegal than cannabis. I was interviewed in a good-humoured and non-threatening way, even though the police made it clear that I would be going down to the station to be charged. But the really gratifying thing was that they allowed me to smoke my spliff and drink my drink all the time I was being busted.
This time nothing bad happened to me at the police station and I was even released in time for last orders at the Leisure Club. Eventually I was fined £100 for the resin and £100 for the mushrooms.
The good humour continued. I remember what my barrister said in my defence and that makes me laugh too: “Mr. Johnson is a well-respected business man of the area, brought up in academic circles. What could be more natural than to smoke a spliff – or cannabis cigarette? It’s just like having a G & T.”
Dead Giveaway
People make roaches for spliffs by tearing bits off business cards (for example) so the presence of cards with corners torn off was a dead giveaway in drugs searches. Incidentally – no-one tore my cards up because it was too difficult and because they had nice photos of nudes and guitars on them!
Fudging The Issue
Alcohol has been my main stimulant and some would say I was an alcoholic. I refute this but then I would, wouldn’t I? My best friend died young partly as a result of alcoholism and the effects of abuse are irrefutable. Apart from the physical toll alcohol has a devastating effect on judgment. A musician I knew had been in the shop having a drink with me. Quite a drink. He stumbled off, only to return later. Finding the shop closed he had tried – using that strange logic drunks have – to get in by scaling the back fence. He fell, of course, crushing two vertebrae. Somehow, he made his way back to the shop front, where I saw him: ashen-faced and clutching the security bars on the shop window.
This had all the hallmarks of farce but I immediately saw the danger of his condition. I had to get him to hospital. My dilemma was that I was over the limit for driving but there was no time to sort anything else out: this was an emergency. So I drove him to Leighton Hospital, by which time he was in a very bad way. Fortunately I was able to deposit him with two ambulance men and drive off. Very quickly.
It’s quite possible that my intervention saved his life. His crazy drunkenness led to a stupid decision: in a sober moment he would have got over the wall by standing on the handy dustbin!
Or he could have knocked on the front door.
I was more likely to get high on fast cars and music when I was young and I didn’t take drugs till I was thirty, although they were readily available. In some dubious venues I’d even been paid in pills! The first time I took drugs was after a partner and I split up. Whitty offered me a joint and I spent the next two hours unable to move but aware and laughing. Then it became more a part of my life though I’ve given up on it recently: the quality’s not there and the more you use, the more you need. Unlike cannabis, cocaine is good for concentration and also helps you imagine and play things a little more adventurously. That’s why the jazz musicians use it. I’ve had no personal experience of using heroin; it wasn’t around much in my youth. By the time it was there I’d already seen the cases. Fastidiousness also plays its part. I wouldn’t want to vomit horribly and as for injecting myself…
During our irresponsible bachelor period Dave Evans and I dabbled in almost every illicit drug. One night, pissed and stoned, we were dipping joints into the residue of amyl nitrite. What I forgot was the bit about letting it dry off. There was a sudden sheet of flame a foot long on my spliff. “Dave – put it out!” He did – once he’d stopped laughing. I used to go to business meetings in respectable places, dressed smart. I smoked Consulates which I’d bored out with a guitar string and refilled with weed.
Amyl nitrite comes in a bottle like smelling salts. They sell it at sex shops and it’s known as “poppers”. It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac if you take a big sniff of it. It’s like glue sniffing – it gives you a short high – a quick whack.
Wayne Davies (Slim). (1)
My drug experiences have been fun mostly but I have seen at first hand the scourge of heroin addiction. Addicts need a minimum amount of the drug to maintain a crude stability: a vantage point from which they can vaguely cope with day to day living and in addition some means of getting the sought-for “high”. That’s why a heroin addict will also smoke crack and the alcoholic will drink large quantities of spirits against a background of beer or wine. I’ve seen the sheer drudgery of being an addict: the daily grafting – the everyday tyranny of having to get the money to get the drug. By whatever means. I’ve also seen at close proximity the high financial cost of addiction: people losing their cars, businesses, properties, in order to finance their habit. Their chaotic and obsessive lifestyle cancels out holding down a job of any kind. Similarly, coming off a drug whilst associating with people still using is virtually impossible.
Whatever problems led them to take heroin none can be greater than the huge problem of being an addict.
Yet not everyone had a bad drugs story to tell. A friend’s mother came on a bus from Bridgemere with a cannabis plant under her arm for me. “In my country they grew this between potato plants to keep pests away,” she told me. “The men came home smoking pipes very happy!” Mike Slaughter (“That’s laughter with an S,” he used to say) would make fudge containing all sorts of substances. He’d offer it round in the pub. You’d refuse because fudge and beer don’t mix. But then he’d say, “No – have some fudge!” so of course we all did.
Extreme Sports
Whupping The Toffs
Coming from a background where people were sick: my mother an invalid, my brother having TB gland and people dying young, I enjoyed having a fit body and I precociously went in for the extreme end of the sporting spectrum. I’ve done athletics, cycling, potholing, wrestling, canoeing, swimming, Enduro-riding, skiing, climbing, flying, yachting and parachuting, and enjoyed the opportunity to be determined and resourceful, to balance the danger against the thrill. To survive.
I have two medals dated 1962: one for cross-country, the other for athletics, awarded by Nantwich and Acton Grammar School. I broke all records. This was the only time both medals had been awarded to the same person on the same occasion. There was a magic event when Nantwich and Acton Grammar School was competing against a posh Chester school attended by the Headmaster’s
son, who was also competing. The entire senior cross-country team (including my brother Roger) from Nantwich overtook the posh team (including the Head’s son). Not only that: competing in the junior cross-country team, I overtook them as well. It was a sweet moment.
I’m interested in excellence and that’s why I admire the Olympic ideal, though not the reality. Yet I haven’t single-mindedly pursued expert status in any sport. If you have some aptitude I believe that it’s relatively easy to become good at a sport but to become expert takes a massive amount of time, commitment and endurance. That part of me has gone into music.
In A Hole
I remember a very dangerous situation. Aged 18, I was out with my brother and about ten others, potholing in Lancashire. There had been two entrances to a particular set of caves; my brother and I had taken the riskier route and there was a problem with fast-flowing water. At one point Ralph was swept off his feet trying to cross the water. He went like a cork and I had to act fast. It was a weight thing: I was able to put my feet on the bottom and grab Ralph who was much, much lighter. But there was more drama to come. When the two groups were united, the leader mistook the way in deteriorating conditions: water was rising in the tunnel and we had to climb through a waterfall. The leader lost it: “Run for your lives!” he shouted. He couldn’t swim! We had to make our way to a large cavern to wait for rescue.
There we waited and waited in near-total darkness, conserving our carborundum lamps. I remember the differing levels of morale. Some were silent; some were cheerful; some were very panicky: men were breaking down in tears. Their panic flared and subsided, flared and subsided – the worst case was an ambulance man. I suppose he knew all about the fragility of life or perhaps off-duty he had relaxed his guard and therefore lost control. I was surprised: a bit of water round the ankles and they thought they would drown. But we were in a cavern the size of St Paul’s Cathedral! It was a nightmarish idea that it would gradually fill up with water but not a reality. I didn’t lose heart; I was convinced that I would be OK. I was with my big brother – the best caver in the country – who had informed the rescue team of our intentions beforehand and I had confidence in my own abilities. In tricky situations I can maintain my composure and respect the expertise of those who know more than I do. My brother and I made chocolate drinks by melting chocolate in a tobacco tin over a candle in order to cheer people up and I led the singing. Like rugby players, potholers have a repertoire of bawdy songs with phrases such as “winky-wanky bird”. It’s surprising what you remember.
We were there for well over a day until the rescuers found us. When I eventually emerged from the cave, a familiar face greeted me: a girl from college. Fortunately there’s always a good-looking girl to cheer you up.
A Weighty Matter
On another watery occasion I was not with a group: I was Scuba diving off Anglesey. I’d read the manual but I lacked experience. Over the side I went, down into the sea, down and down until I reached the bottom. But why couldn’t I move? I realized I had too many weights. I could have panicked at this point but I remained rational. Should I fling off some of the equipment I’d invested so much money in? If I jettisoned the weights would I be able to retrieve them later? Why was I even allowing this consideration to jeopardize my safety? There I was, on the bed of the ocean, unable to move, having this debate with myself.
Meanwhile the situation was resolving itself: after a while I realized I was becoming more buoyant; my feet weren’t so heavily on the floor. I soon sussed out that although compressed air must weigh a lot, things would get lighter as time went on: all I had to do was consume it. I didn’t need to chuck off the weights and I would be more careful with them in future. This tricky situation was the consequence of my extreme reluctance to join clubs but fortunately I dealt with it.
Carpe Diem
Pete didn’t just take musical risks. We were staying in a cottage near Porth Beach. He knew not to swim near the river but he went snorkelling on his own. When I went to call him for our meal I found him gasping and spluttering. He had swum into a plastic bag and put himself into danger. But this carpe diem attitude permeated his life. If the water looked inviting he would jump in, fully clothed if necessary.
Linda Johnson. (2)
Fire And Water
I once nearly perished by fire – twice by water. I had taken the lead during an Enduro race and was first to refuel. Satisfaction turned to horror as I realized that the over-zealous man in charge of the fuel in the transit van had started to fill my tank up whilst the bike engine was still going. Not only that – he was allowing it to overflow! That alone was enough to set things alight, even if the engine had been off – which it wasn’t. I was shouting, “No! NO!”
Eighty gallons of fuel exploded – blowing me off my bike. I got the full brunt of it because I was the first to refuel – none had been used yet. I was on fire; my bike was on fire; the transit van went six foot in the air; three other vehicles besides were on fire. I managed to drag my bike and myself into a nearby trout stream. Amazingly no-one was hurt. But this is why I hate relying on others: they can make stupid, dangerous mistakes. “I might have known it would be you,” was all Brammer could say.
Once at Criccieth I was surfing in a fibreglass canoe when some idiots in a big old-fashioned heavy double wood and canvas canoe lumbered up over the top of me. I was unable to shift it and thought I’d bought it. The big canoe was the right way up; I was upside down and pinned on the bottom. But fortunately my brother Roger came running towards the boat, kicking it off and other people joined in the rescue.
Another time on the River Dane with Ralph and a group of kids, I went over to rescue one of them who had capsized his canoe. Unfortunately all his mates were trying to do the same. There was no way through this logjam of rescuers so I resolved the dangerous situation by swimming with him under his canoe.
On the first occasion the help was constructive; on the second it was obstructive but this is what you deal with if you take risks.
Taking Risks
In doing dangerous sports and in dealing with threatening situations I have always known I was risking death. To me death hasn’t been the issue. I’ve minimized the odds by calculating risk; I’ve taken the risk if the payback was worth it. It’s a delicate balance. But the scenario has never included the idea of serious, life-changing injury. If I’d thought there was a real possibility of being an amputee in a wheelchair, it would have stopped me doing it. So why could I contemplate death but not injury? What was the psychology? I suppose your survival confidence persuades you that you will escape both injury and death. Experience, physical fitness and training in a variety of techniques can convince you that bad things won’t happen, especially if you add good luck and good judgment into the equation. Other factors involved in survival are your state of mind, your cardiovascular system and the size of your lungs. And the fight or flight hormone adrenalin. So in entering the arena of extreme situations you create an invincible mindset and this might be foolhardy and delusional but paradoxically, it also helps you survive.
Just Walking The Dog
Hooded Menace
These dangerous or edgy challenges were all chosen and to a certain degree controlled by me but some situations are unpredictable, irrational and shocking. You don’t expect to be in danger whilst walking your dog. One evening I took Dobro out to a business park just off a very busy road. There are woodland areas and open spaces for people to enjoy and it’s well used by dog owners. We’re all on nodding terms. I was in a bad mood because I’d just had a row with Zoe. She never walked the dog – originally bought for her – it was always down to me. I noticed a hoodie riding about on a bike very slowly. He passed me so many times that I felt compelled to acknowledge him. The youth averted his face. There was a woman walking her dog I recognized from previous occasions.
The next day, I had stopped at some traffic lights. Someone from a car behind got out and gestured to me to pull into the area by the post office
. There was a second woman in the car she was driving: the woman I had seen walking her dog. She was in a condition of trauma judging by her general demeanour. Then I noticed she was black and blue and her hair was matted with blood.
Her daughter explained that her mother had been attacked at the business park the previous evening. She had seen me and recognized my very distinctive green and white camper van. Had I seen anything? A man had dragged her mother into the bushes and rained blows on her head with a rock. Her dog – off its lead – had returned and sat on her to protect her. The man ran off.
The poor woman eventually made it back to her car and drove it with the horn permanently on, such was her distress. Site security phoned the police who were now looking for witnesses. After my conversation with the victim’s daughter, I contacted the police to offer my information about the youth behaving suspiciously and was shocked that they were not in any hurry to speak to me. But something else shocked me more: the realization that if things had been different that evening, it would have been Zoe walking our dog. She could easily have been the victim. I felt very emotional about this and about the woman and about her dog protecting her, and it occurred to me that Dobro would have torn him limb from limb if he had attacked Zoe.
The police arrested the youth and he was sent down. I have no doubts about what I would have done to the bastard.
Ain't Bad for a Pink Page 25
