Here comes a true story: like all true stories, it’s shockingly unbelievable. I’ll tell you this in two ‘bites’ – starting with what happened LAST and moving on to what went down half an hour before….
Ramsgate is an old town, and old towns have old stories. As time goes on, you hear all the ones people want you to hear: great moments, town heroes, wartime memories, etc. There’s some you don’t hear so much, these days and I’m talking about the heady mix of bullshit and bitter that used to fly around the pubs during the eighties: legends like Jim Scarridge, a man known as ‘The Blade’.
It’s October 1989 and I’m in my second month at St. George’s School on Westwood Road in Broadstairs. I haven’t been beaten up or bullied yet and the entire secondary school experience is still relatively new and exciting. There are so many amazing bikes, so many new potential friends and so many GIRLS….but I’m not interested in racing bikes, making new friends OR asking out girls (which is very fortunate as I’m going to turn out to be TERRIBLE at those things).
WARNING: Do try anything you see here at home or at work. If you ever get into a situation where you’re thinking about duplicating events you’ve read about on Bloke Called Dave, you should IMMEDIATELY contact a health professional and attempt to get past those rude cretins who work on reception at such places in order to keep you out. You know, the ones who speak to you as if you’ve only phoned up for an appointment in order to psychologically p*ss on their cornflakes.
We’re having a really enjoyable family afternoon at The Maize Maze on the Quex Park Complex in Birchington when I slowly begin to realize that I’m getting into a bit of psychological trouble…
This is my son, Sebastian. He’s a cute, squishy little monster…..but sometimes he does things that are just a bit out of left field. Here’s one recent example…
Are you lonely? Does it ever feel almost like you’re living outside your own life? According to a fairly recent school of thought, you might be doing just that. Robin Williams once famously said: “I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people that make you feel all alone.”
I found a letter in my attic the other day: it was written by myself, aged either five or six. The spelling wasn’t great, but when corrected it basically read: Dear Geoffrey from Rainbow, I am worried about you because I watch you every day and you are my friend and I have to tell you that there is a man inside Bungle did you know this do not say anything to Bungle in case he gets angry and the man comes out I never want you to die. Love from David Stone from Ramsgate.
I can remember the first and the last time I ever went in there: the first as an 8-year-old kid and the second as a 22-year-old man gaffer-taped to a wheelie chair.
I grew up in a family of smokers who smoked in between smokes. My mum was the lesser of the these: she only smoked Superkings and bought them in packs of twenty at the local shop. When she couldn’t get Superkings, she would smoke other brands but the fact that she needed to get them from the shop did at least mean she didn’t smoke constantly.