THE NIGHT I MET JEFF WAYNE OF WAR OF THE WORLD'S FAME
I brought the tickets to Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds a few months after I heard they were available.
Having listened to the music since I was 8 years old, I knew all the words off-by-heart and would relish any chance to sing along to the words and listen to the music performed live.
I had no expectations to see Jeff Wayne there in person. I didn’t imagine in a million years that he would actually conduct the 46-piece ULLAdubULLA Strings orchestra and The Black Smoke Band.
I paid for the tickets on-line and printed the ticket out at home. I had 6 months of waiting. The concert fell on the same weekend as Andy Clarke’s Stag party in London and my niece’s 16th birthday on the Friday before.
At £55 a ticket, I wasn’t in the mood to pay for a friend and anyway, no one wanted to come, that is except my sister, who having heard the music all her life, would have given her right arm to come too.
The months turned into weeks and the weeks turned into the next weekend.
My niece held a wonderful 16th birthday party and I managed to meet all her friends and a lot more people I never knew too.
I got up to London by 10am the following day and met all my friends from school to celebrate Andy’s Stag party at St Katherine Docks, and then a speedboat ride along the Thames.
Wicked.
(You Tube videos can be seen at andyclarkestagdo2009)
I got back to Brighton in the afternoon, and straight back home to enjoy a wonderful meal lovingly prepared by Karina, in the company of our magnificent daughter Elizabeth.
After of which I prepared myself to leave again for the concert.
I got to the venue in plenty of time and enjoyed a cigarette on the beach, watching a topless lady with a perfectly toned body emerge from the sea to slowly and methodically wipe herself dry.
I would have offered to take her to the concert until I saw her up close and clocked the most wrinkled face in the world (for a lady of her condition!)
I showed my ticket, brought a CD of a live performance the night before and found my seat without any problems.
I was allocated seat 74. From the isle the seats were numbered 72-73-74-75-76.
I sat myself down first among 5 empty seats. Next a lady came along and I got up to let her pass, and told her I’d rather step out into the isle and let her and her hugely fat husband find their seats.
So I found myself sandwiched between a fatty and an empty seat.
When no one had claimed their seats, I gave it until 3 minutes past 8 O’clock before I seated myself on seat 73.
Then show began.
Everyone who’s seen the concert knows how brilliant it is.
But when they introduced Jeff Wayne, I couldn’t believe my ears.
I had to double check with the person in front of me that it was actually Jeff Wayne who would be conducting the music.
I made the decision there and then, that I would meet Jeff Wayne before the night was out.
I said to a guy in the gent’s toilet during the interval.
“This is brilliant. The best show ever. Totally exceeded my expectations.”
“Yeah, I agree, brilliant.” He replied with the brightest smile in the world.
“I didn’t realise Jeff Wayne was actually conducting it in person. I’m totally blown away. I’m on a mission to meet him. And I will, trust me.”
The experience blew me away. I sang along to all the words with the passion and emotion of when I used to sing along alone.
I had plenty of space to cry, punch the air and rock to the greatest music alive. And the visuals are literally out of this world.
As soon as the concert finished and the applause died down I sprinted from the hall, around the Grand Hotel to the rear of the Brighton Centre.
I got my information from the truck drivers. They pointed me in the right direction as they prepared to load the trucks and head off to the next venue.
I found the entrance to the after show party at the bottom of the lifts.
A steward was guarding the entrance and wasn’t allowing even the invited guests up until his colleague relived him.
I asked if I could go up but he said ‘no’ because I had no ticket.
I mingled with the other people waiting to go up. They all either held a pass ticket or had one stuck on their chests. I explained my mission to everyone present.
‘I’ve based a political party called SOS, on the music of War of the Worlds. That’s why it is very important I saw him tonight, the one night of the year that Jeff Wayne and I were in the same building.’
I knew there had to be a way in. I tried to check behind the curtain to see if I could slip through without the steward seeing, but that was a no goer. I asked VIP’s walking past if they could mention me to Jeff Wayne that I was waiting downstairs to be invited up. The guest’s promised they’ll pass on the message.
One particular gentleman said to me that the Jeff Wayne Music office was very good at replying to e-mails.
I laughed at him, as if that will satisfy me and asked how he knew.
There was a sly smile on his face, which suggested he was closer to Jeff Wayne, more than I could ever imagine. Possibly even his business partner or something like that.
I pushed him further on how he knew him, but he was giving nothing away.
It was at this point that I noticed another security guard showing two girls the way to the staff entrance.
“We’re here for the catering.” They said.
And so was I.
I followed them into the staff entrance, and further to the lift. A staff member stopped the lift doors from closing, to let the two girls in and I slipped in too.
“Catering” I said, acting as if I’m with the girls.
We stopped at the next floor and I saw directions for each actor’s dressing rooms. I followed the girls straight into the party. Broke off, got myself a beer and sat at the furthest table from the entrance.
Slowly but surely all the cast members trickled into the room. They were all there and I paid special attention to The Black Rock Band members, old men who told me they were the same musicians who played on the first tour 30 years ago.
I cracked a joke with the cute and gorgeous Jennifer Ellison, who sang the parson’s wife role and bumped into the guy downstairs whom I suspected of knowing Jeff Wayne more than he was letting on.
He caught my eye and cracked open a smile.
“Well done, for getting in.” He said as he shook my hand.
“Thanks.” I replied with a huge smile of excitement.
I was here to meet Jeff Wayne and all I had to do now was wait until he turned up.
I had already clocked the steward who was guarding the lifts down-stairs, poke his head around and every time he did, I tried my best to hide from his vision.
I felt as if I was in the clear and helped myself to the second drink of the evening, a can of coke.
I cracked a joke with a few people about the band members signing an old War of the World’s album cover. Exchanged friendly glances with other cast members, and sat down to have a rest and plan my next move.
I didn’t even get to have a sip of coke when I saw a burly security guard walking my way.
“I’ll have to ask you to leave please”
“Oh, damnations. Who grassed me up?” I asked
And with a guarded look he said the cameras picked me up.
I explained to him that I was waiting for Jeff Wayne to arrive, to which he smiled.
“You haven’t recognised him yet then?”
I could believe it. Just like me to be in the same room as my hero and not know he was there.
I got up to look for myself and saw him behind and group of people signing an autograph for a guest.
The first he saw of me was being escorted my two burly security guards towards him. I was wearing blue jeans, white trainers, and a tee-shirt declaring “Who’s the Daddy” printed on it.
“It’s a pleasure and dream-come-true to meet you Mr Wayne” I said.
He nodded with a friendly smile and shook my hand.
I continued, “I’ve based a political party on your music”.
Jeff Wayne gave me a puzzled look.
“I’ve been listening to your music since a kid and absolutely love it. I’m a writer and political performer who’s based my political party on two songs in particular, ‘The Spirit of Man’ and ‘Brave New World’.”
‘Oh Nathaniel no, there must be more to life, there has to be a way we can restore to life the love we used to know.’
‘If one man can stand tall, there will be hope for us all, somewhere, somewhere in the spirit of man.’
‘But if mankind is to survive the people left alive will have to start a new, and it’s going to start with me and you.’
He asked how long I’ve been doing it? And I replied “Since 1997, it’s a lifetime mission.”
He smiled; he liked that.
He asked why I didn’t stand in an election and get people to vote for me?
I explained that my SOS party was a political performance, intended to entertain, rather than get involved with the murky world of politics. (But if people vote for me, it would be a bonus).
I came straight to the point.
“Mr Wayne, I need you to do the music for my SOS song which goes something like this.
I’m the radical revolutionary man of the millennium.
I’m the radical revolutionary man of the man millieum, millennium, millennium, millennium.
Eliminate war, eliminate poverty, eliminate child-abuse, SOS, oh yes its SOS
Come on eradicate war, eradicate poverty, eradicate child-abuse, vote for SOS, vote for SOS.
I told him how I wanted to use his music in my political performances and speeches. To collaborate on a musical of a hero who stands tall, in a brave new world, where with a handful of men, re-rights the wrongs of mankind and starts all over again.”
He asked my name and I said “Matthew Taylor”. And he asked me the name of my political party, to which I replied “SOS Party”.
(Just by googling Matthew, Taylor, SOS, party, you’ll get loads of information. Otherwise go direct to www.sosparty.co.uk.)
It was a dream-come-true. I had sung my song, to the one man in the world who could turn it into the best song in the world
He told me to send him an email.
He never said ‘no’ and that was good enough for me.
The fact two security guards were standing either side of me, did cause an awkward silence.
“Oh, I’m sorry My Wayne, I had to slip past security to see you. I hope you don’t mind.”
A flicker of concern crossed his face.
To be fair I had trespassed on his party and should leave forth-with.
Though I tried my luck one last time and said to the guards.
“Hey guys, if Mr Wayne says it’s alright to stay, can I stay?” and looked at Jeff Wayne to save me.
Jeff went to shrug his shoulders as if saying ‘nothing to do with me’, but the security guard decided for him and insisted I go.
Never mind, I had work in the morning and I had achieved my mission, but I would have still loved to stick around.
I shook hands with Jeff again, congratulated him on a brilliant show and said my good-byes.
I punched the air in delight as the security guards lead me away.
I had met Jeff Wayne and watched the best show in the World. Enjoyed a brilliant Stag party with all my friends at London and a wonderful 16th birthday party with my family.
Meeting Jeff Wayne was the cherry on the cake of a weekend to remember.
And this is the email I sent him.
Sent: Monday 23 June
To: info@jeffwaynemusic.com
Mr Wayne has authorized the safe passage of this message, after inviting me to email, following a conversation we had at the after-show party at Brighton, UK on Sunday 28th June 2009.
My name is Matthew Taylor, Leader of the SOS Party. (www.sosparty.co.uk)
Hi Mr Wayne,
I’m sorry about invading your after-show party at Brighton on Sunday 28th June, but I just had to see you.
As I said, my SOS Party is directly based on your songs “Oh Nathaniel” and “A Brave New World”, and the whole album in general.
You planted the idea of a superior species living on another planet, flying around in space ships, and I loath the leaders of the world who have for the last couple of centuries have been wasting our money on war, poverty and child-abuse, when we should have been spending it on space travel instead.
It was a dream come true to see the show. I’ve been a regular listener for 30 years. I was aged 8 when I first heard your music, and have been listening ever since.
I was in tears with passion and awe, at the spectacle before my eyes, and when I realized you was here in person (Of which I wasn’t expecting), I knew I had to see you.
Nothing in the world would have stopped me from seeing you.
Because Mr Wayne, with God in my heart, and your words in my mind, I have embarked on a journey which was destined to bring me to you.
I kid you not Mr Wayne, the future of Mankind hangs in the balance, and the world depends on our collaboration.
People need to hear the SOS Song and the SOS Song has to be the best song in the world. You are the only man on this planet who can do it.
You are my last best hope for victory!
The purpose of my mission is to ask for your help in producing my SOS song. I hope you remembered the chorus I sang you.
‘I’m the radical revolutionary man of the millennium, millennium, millennium.
Eliminate war, eliminate poverty, eliminate child-abuse. SOS, come on it’s SOS.’
Etc etc, I hope you remember. You can listen to the best I can deliver at my website.
My political message is simple and to the point.
The SOS Party fights Evil. The only political movement that calls for the elimination of war, poverty and child-abuse.
It’s written Mr Wayne. What do you think? Will you do it? It’ll be huge, trust me.
My direct number is, office number is, and postal address is Brighton.
I look forward to your reply and thanks a billion for your music.
It’s made me the man I am today!
THE END
Copyright 2009 Matthew Taylor
THE FBI INCIDENT
It all happened during the year of Our Lord 1992, whilst traveling the East Coast of the good old U.S of A. I had just said my farewells to the friends that accompanied me throughout Florida. I had one week to go before returning to England.
With about four days to go, I found myself in a dire financial situation, namely that I had ran out of money, apart from one dollar and twenty-five cents, which I kept safely secure in my back pocket, which was the amount I needed to get from Penn Station, New York to J.F.K Airport of the same city.
Four days to survive, no money and nowhere to turn. Living off complimentary peanuts placed upon the tables of the trains that I traveled on, and a box a 'cheerio cereals' that I had brought earlier.
The trains, that in America were called 'Amtrak Trains', were in many respects my hotels, for I traveled overnight journeys just to have somewhere safe and warm to sleep. This was available because I was in ownership of an Amtrak Train Pass, entitling me to unlimited travel across the width and breadth of the Eastern Coast. It was my savior. One day I would arrive in Washington to take the overnight train to Chicago, the following night from Chicago to Montreal and so on.
Which brings me onto a tantrum to the story; a little story in it's self.
The Amtrak Pass cost about £250 for three months unlimited travel. This was a lot of money to me, especially considering my financial state as I prepared to leave 'Kiwago Summer Camp' and embark on three months of travel. Suffice to say the sums didn't add up, I was in trouble, my back was against the wall, and drastic action was required.
So while reading the Camp America Leaflet on the 'Do's and Don'ts of Traveling in U.S.A', I was excited to come across an advert advertising the aforementioned Amtrak Pass. And as I had nothing to lose, I wrote out a cheque for £250, knowing full well I had no money in my bank, and sent it away. It was a long shot, and had no real expectations of receiving anything back in return.
Though low and behold two weeks later an Amtrak Pass arrived in the post, closely followed by a letter from the management of Camp America, informing me that the cheque had bounced, and that if it wasn't paid in full, as soon as possible, that is, by return of post, my return flight back to England would be cancelled.
This last sentence literally sent a shiver down my spine.
I had to do something, but the one thing that I should have done, was the one thing I couldn't do, I hadn't the money to pay.
Reverting to the belief of the Human Spirit, helping those that need help, I wrote back enclosing a £50 postal order attached to a pleading/begging letter, promising that as soon as I returned to England, I'll repay the remaining £200 within a week.
I left the Summer Camp before I received their reply, thus as my final days in America drew to a close, I still never knew for sure whether I had a flight ticket out. My state of mind wasn't at it's best.
All accumulating early, one sunny day, as I arrived in the capital, Washington D.C. The plan was to spend the day sightseeing before returning to the Train Station to catch an overnight train, to Buffalo.
Walking along the street, I felt the need to release, what I thought was a little, tidy, innocent fart. The consequences of letting loose such an irrelevant little innocent fart, never crossed my mind, I'd been letting loose such little, innocent farts all my life.
Oh, how wrong I was, how guilty the fart. And considering that at this stage, I had been eating nothing else but peanuts and cheerios, what was about to follow should really have been predicted.
For to my absolute horror, the little innocent fart was replaced instead with a bucket full of diarrhoea or liquid shit, if you like to call it that, gushing into my underpants, spoiling my pants beyond comprehension.
With my buttocks squelching against each other, with the smell of utter shit hammering against my scent glands, paranoia stabbing daggers into me, each time I passed another person, I walked on, with my head held high, my mind in turmoil, I walked on, desperately wondering, what the hell to do.
I had to do something and I had to do it fast.
I made a feeble attempt at wrapping my jumper around my waist to hide the smell, though as you would guess, it made not a damn bit of difference.
It was just at this point I was walking past the J. Edgar Hoover Building, otherwise known as the F.B.I Building. A solution sprung to mind.
Walking through the outer glass doors, into the foyer, approaching the metal detector entrance gates, nearing the four or five huge black security guards, who watched me with suspicious eyes, and folded arms, pondering what impending enquiry I would ask; I summoned the nerve and asked,
"Good morning guys, would you mind if I could use your toilets please, I'd only be a moment and it'd really be appreciated?" followed by the best smile I could muster, under the circumstances.
Now, I don't know whether they could smell what kind of trouble I was in, or whether it was my British charm, either way they let me in.
Once in the privacy of the toilet, I stripped, removed the spoiled underpants and stuffed them behind the toilet's cistern, cleaned myself up, regained my composure and ultimately left the building.
"Thanks guys, I really needed that".
"You're welcome, have a nice day now".
Little did they know what ghastly crime I had just perpetrated, and I still wonder how long it took before they did discover it. Though I don't wonder about it too much.
I got back to England, though regrettably 'Camp America' never got their £200.
© Copyright 2007 Matthew Taylor
THE ORDER
While at the Bassingbourn ATR, in Cambridgeshire, during my phase one training of my army career, I smoked.
It was soon evident that if I wanted to pass my training I would have to stop. The stress it was having on my lungs was having a detrimental effect on my ability to pass all the fitness tests I had to pass.
My concern and my wish to stop smoking were overheard by a corporal.
We were standing in formation outside the armoury one day and while waiting for something or another, the corporal in question, (who alas I can’t remember his name, said to me):
“Taylor, I hear you want to stop smoking?”
“Yes, Corporal” I replied in traditional army fashion.
“Well, I’ll help you. I order you to stop smoking”
“Yes, Corporal” was my predictable answer.
The squad laughed and no more was thought about it.
But I wanted to show them what a good soldier I am. Willing to carry out an order asked of me. Including an order to stop smoking.
So, from that moment onwards I didn’t smoke for the rest of my training. I passed all my fitness tests and made it to the end.
By God, I was a soldier.
The corporal later said to me that he had no authority to order me to stop smoking and it was only said in jest.
But still, an order is an order.
Alas, once the training was over and we were allowed to let our hair down at the passing out party, I started again.
© Copyright 2007 Matthew Taylor
WHEN I WAS A MALE ESCORT
I was working during the day as a door-to-door salesman, selling ‘Golfing Packages’, to golfers.
The art of the job was to find a golfing man, and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
They never refused…
I replied to an advert in the Friday Ad advertising for a male escort, and got invited to an interview at an address in Portslade’s Old Village.
The pimp called Mike, introduced Diana the prostitute, spread out on a double bed in the front room.
Covered by only a red sheet she bemoaned the pleasures of having achieved her first orgasm, only hours ago.
She looked 50 years at least!
Mike, a maths teacher during the day was helping her out as a favour.
Like I said, she was over the moon when I walked in (not because I was going to shag her) but because during her most recent job, ‘a threesome’, she had an orgasm for the first time in her life from the skills of her beautiful girlfriend, she couldn’t have been happier.
Alas she was the ugliest prostitute I had ever seen.
The sheer memory of which, strikes a shiver down my spine.
Skinny as a rake with droopy tits, hair of a witch and a face I don’t even dare to recall.
And to my utter horror, I was told by Mike that I had to shag her as part of the interview.
It wasn’t a prospect I was looking forward to. But a whore has got to do what a whore has got to.
And as long as Mike wasn’t in the room, I was prepared to ‘whore’ it.
We agreed that he’ll leave the room and watch us shag from up-stairs on the spy-video camera, making sure I was up for the job.
The interview progressed, We smoked, we laughed and discussed the terms and conditions of the job.
I was to be on call from 6pm Saturday and Sunday.
Mike was to market me as the ‘Hunk’ of ‘7-2-Late Escorts’.
Everything was ready to go because he was convinced I was committed to shagging ugly old women for money.
All there was left to do was do the deed and I could get on my way.
Interview done, the job is yours.
Thankfully Diana was tired and said we’ll skip the shag until another day.
So come Saturday, I was showered, dressed and smelling good.
Ready to go, sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.
It just so happened that my best mate, Alec and his Australian mate Andy called round at 3pm and invited me out for a drink.
And before I knew it I was on my third pint, when the call came through.
“Call this number and ask for John. He wants you to shag his wife”, Mike said.
“Hello John, my name is Matthew and I understand you have a job for me”, I asked.
“I want you to come here so I can measure your cock” John said.
Continuing “My wife wants an 8 inch dick and if you’re not exactly 8 inches I’m showing you the door.”
Alas I had to be truthful and tell him I wasn’t up to measure and the call ended.
I had run out of credit on my mobile and Diana and Mike started to call me to find out what was happening.
Bad reception disrupted our call and I have no way of explaining what happened.
That was the last I heard from them.
And that was the closest I got to being a male escort.
But I wasn’t too bothered about falling at the first hurdle of becoming a male escort.
I was with my mates, with a beer in hand…
© Copyright 2008 Matthew Taylor
MY BRUSH WITH THE RUSSIAN MAFIA.
As Karina says- ‘It’s a recipe for disaster leaving Matt alone all day with internet connection.’
I replied to one of those emails that asked for your bank details.
Saying that they’ll deposit an amount of money into my bank account, allow me to keep 10% as a handling fee, and send rest by cash to a specified address in Russia, St Petersburg.
After giving them my details, I discovered to my great surprise, £3500 in my bank account the following day.
I went straight to the bank to withdraw the money in cash. Then all I had to do was cross the road, take my 10% and send the rest to Russia with love...
But a greater wisdom of some degree swept through me and instead I decided to caution on the safe-side by taking my 10% out in cash, as per planned, and the rest as a banker’s cheque.
But to my horror Western Union money transfer wouldn’t accept banker’s cheques.
Only cash.
So off I went to the bank again.
The bank teller said that she needed to see her manager and will be a few minutes.
After 5 minutes I asked what the delay was and she said the manager was in a meeting.
I waited 2 minutes longer and left.
With my 10% cash in my pocket, I walked to the guitar shop and brought myself an electric fender guitar, before catching the bus home to say sorry to the Russians about losing her 90%.
I emailed the Russians to up-date them on the situation.
They weren’t happy, not happy at all. Telling me to go back to the bank and get it.
But decided not to bother after I got a call from the bank manager.
He wanted to know why £3500 had been illegally withdrawn from a customers account and deposited into mine?
I explained to him that it was a financial donation to my SOS Political Party.
Luckily I remembered that I had once posted my bank details on the MAD Magazine internet message board asking people to give me money supporting my political dream of eliminating war, poverty and child-abuse, righting the wrongs of Mankind.
‘I’m a victim of bank fraud here’ I reminded him.
He told me that I was liable to repay the missing 10%.
And I explained that I had already spent it and couldn’t give it back.
I kept crying victim until the matter was closed.
With mutual agreement, I wasn’t to darken their doors for a century or more.
The long and short of it was this:
I got away with it.
My brush with the Russian Mafia.
Karina discovered the plot when she came around a Russian wives agency website, on the laptop. This was their cover, for their illegal activities.
I sent one more email to them, angry after the realisation that, if I had sent the money, I would have been the idiot who had to pay it back.
I thought we were friends!!! The Russians and I.
I haven’t heard from them since.
I lived in fear over the coming days. Whenever the phone rang and the line went dead, I thought- the Russians. When-ever there was a knock at the door, is it the Russians? And every night I trebled checked the locks, fearing the Russians.
But it had got to be worth it, I got an electric fender guitar out of it.
© Copyright 2008 Matthew Taylor
THE RUGBY TACKLE
I had finished my phase one training at Bassingbourn ATR, in Cambridgeshire, where they taught me to be a soldier.
I had spent two months at Rheindahlen Military complex, 1RMP in Germany, where I spent my time working in a real police station, before phase two of my training, where at the Royal Military Police Training School (RMPTS), in Chichester, England, they taught me to be a policeman.
It is at the RMPTS, that my story takes place.
I started my police training on Monday 7th September 1998, and it was a week into it that my story happens.
We had been allocated our squad. I was in Foxtrot Squadron, made up of 30 people.
One day we were at the park. We were there with another squadron who were further along the training schedule than we were.
Our sergeants were racing each squadron against each other.
“Run to the tree and back, last man in makes their whole squadron race it again”.
Low and behold as we raced back to the finishing line I found myself the last man, a yard behind the person in front of me.
I remember looking at the two squadrons waiting at the finish. Praying I got in before the other man, preventing another race to the tree and back.
I thought to myself there and then. “I will not be last”.
So I put in an extra spurt of energy and with only 10 yards to the finishing line, I rugby tackled the guy to the ground.
He went down like a ton of bricks and I picked myself up and sprinted to the finishing line.
Everyone looked at me with their jaws dropped.
I just shrugged my shoulders and said that “I’ll never be last”…
And I never was.
© Copyright 2007 Matthew Taylor
98%
I want to recount to you a story that took place while at RMPTS (Royal Military Police Training School), Chichester on or about March 1999.
It’s a story honouring my intelligence and superiority over my colleges, an opportunity to boost my ego.
As part of the training to become a Military Policeman we had to pass two tests based on the subject of Law and Police Procedures. In general a month of learning definitions.
Such as the definition of Theft for example:
A person is guilty of Theft if he dishonesty appropriates property belonging to another, with the intention of permently depriving the other of it. Thieve and steal shall be construed accordingly.
Of which we must learn word for word, knowing what section it is namely Section 9 and where the section is from, namely from the Army Act 1955. Plus knowing what the points to prove were.
On the first test the majority of the class scored below standard. This inflamed the instructors to such an extent that extra study was enforced upon us.
The Sergeant of our platoon (Sgt Lycett) even offered us a deal.
‘If everyone scores over 80% on the second test all be allowed out on the following Saturday’
This was incentive enough.
So when the day of the test came expectation was high.
After an hour wait the results were called out to the class. The name and their percentage score.
I sat patiently waiting for my name to be called out. Though once he (SSgt ?????) finished, my name still hadn’t been called.
Before I could enquirer he called my name.
‘LCpl Taylor’
I tentatively raised my hand above my head.
‘Come to the front of the class, bring a chair and stand on it facing the class’
What the hell was happening I thought?
The Staff Sergeant continued, ‘I understand there is a deal on the table. A deal that if everyone passed you would all be allowed out down town. That if only one failed the rest would suffer. Well let me tell you Taylor, you are the one who failed. You scored 75% in your test. Well done, you are the reason why you all aren’t going down town.’
I was dumbstruck, horrified and shamed.
‘Sorry guys’ was all I could say to the class as I hung my head in shame.
Though to my surprise the Staff sergeant continued.
‘No Taylor I was only kidding. In actual fact you scored 98%, the highest in the class, getting only one question wrong. What section is the ‘Aiders and Abettors Act’?’
‘Section 7, I think Staff’
‘Well why didn’t you write that’?
So near but so far.
I hope you have enjoyed reading my story and I hope you stick with me and read another. Because another will be coming your way. Another true story from the archives of Matthew D Taylor.
© Copyright 2007 Matthew Taylor
THE BAD MAN
Aged 12, I used to walk along to Clare Watson's house, and ask if she wanted to come out to play. It was a 40-minute walk, she lived on Church Road.
On this particular night, I was walking back, after being rejected by Clare for what seemed like, the hundredth time. A man approached me and asked if I wanted to earn some money.
"How much", I asked?
"About £12", he replied
Great I thought, for it was just enough to pay for the 'chemistry set', which I had set my heart upon.
"What do you want me to do, Mister?" I asked
"Just post some letters for me" he replied
A bit particular I thought, why couldn't he do it himself? Hey but who cares, £12 is £12, £12 is my chemistry set.
"Yeah ok Mister, sure, I'll post your letters for you"
"Well just follow me, and I'll show you where I want them posted"
So off I went, following this guy, quite a youngish guy, early 20's maybe, but rather brutish looking, a bit like a rugby player, just a normal looking guy.
We walked up the road and stopped out side a church; it was here that he said that it's behind the back.
So we walked behind the church, nice and quite, a place where we wouldn't be disturbed. He sat down on a step, in front of a gate that lead into a back garden. I stood about 4 meters away, the way we came in, behind me.
"So where do you want me to post the letters Mister?" I asked
"Yeah sure kid, but before hand why don't you go through this gate and wait for me."
"Why?"
"You'll find out in a minute kid"
"No tell me now, why?"
"I just want to play with myself ok"
This was not normal, I didn't know what this guy was on about, but this didn't feel right, it felt exceptionally wrong.
"Just play with my self, you understand don't you kid?" he continued
"You know kid-" he did something then that sent me running. With his hand he did a jerk off motion, above his groin.
I still didn't fully understand what he meant, but I understood that it had something to do with his, you know what! I wasn't sticking around to find out.
I ran.
Ran straight to the nearest phone box, phoned the Police and waited. After 10 minutes, I got fed up of waiting and walked home.
Though here's a little story, of what happened while I waited.
I must have looked pretty distressed because an old man came up to me and asked what had happened.
I told him everything, he told me to sit tight, and that'll he'll go and investigate. The old man began walking and never stopped. He was out of there, gone, never to be seen again. Bless his old cotton socks.
When I got home I told Mum, in fact if I remember correctly, the Police were already they're waiting for me.
Mum was horrified, terrified, angry, and livid, the list could go on forever. She was screaming at the Police to do something, their reply was that they couldn't, because he never touched me, never laid a hand upon me.
They even knew who he was. I went for a drive with them, showed them where it all happened. They knew the guy, they even pointed out where he lived. It was the house over the road from where I made the phone call. He would have sat there waiting for lone boys to walk by before pouncing.
My Mum knocked up such a fuss, she wrote to Margaret Thatcher and The Queen, demanding something to happen. The Police put her mind to rest a bit, they told her that he wouldn't be walking anywhere for the next couple of months. This particular policeman and his friends had cornered him at night, kicked the living day lights out of him.
And yes, I suffered nightmares, horrible nightmares.
When I recounted this story to my friends, I said that the man came to grab me, but I punched him square in the stomach, brought him to his knees, that was when I ran away.
Though I believe they all knew the truth.
© Copyright 2007 Matthew Taylor
BARCELONA 2000
While drinking in the our local, the Market Inn Pub, Brighton, someone came up with the idea of going away every year for a 'Boy's Drinking Weekend'. Barcelona was to be the destination.
On April 28th 2000, after months of waiting, it was time to go.
GETTING UP
The signal was my alarm clock, buzzing away, stirring me from my slumber, away from the Land of Dreams. 0407 hrs it read, not too bad I thought, considering I had set it for 0400 hrs.
Trying not to wake anyone, I crept about the flat organizing those last minute matters, which would ultimately made all the difference. Namely, making sure the toothbrush, the alarm clock, deodorant and passport were packed.
Once I was happy, which ultimately I was, I set forth to embark upon the journey to Barcelona, the adventure had begun.
THE DRIVE
The drive down to Dusseldorf sped by without any incident. It wasn't difficult to find the Airport; the parking wasn't a problem either.
Yes, I arrived at the wrong terminal, though I blame the 'travel booking girl' for that piece of mis-information.
Having booked in the wait was on. To pass the time I brought two books, 'Others' by James Herbert and 'The Phantom Menace' by Terry Brooks, of-which I read the first couple of chapters from each. I drank some coffee and smoked some cigarettes, before I knew it, it was time to board.
THE FLIGHT
As with the drive to Dusseldorf, the flight to Barcelona passed off without incident. Though one thing I will mention, there was an exceptionally attractive air- stewardess, serving on the plane. I had seen this particular girl walk through the Airport Terminal previously, so you can imagine my delight when I saw her again, welcoming me on. As you read further, you'll discover that exceptionally attractive women, play a pivotal role in the Barcelona 2000 weekend.
The first glance I got of Barcelona was from the plane, as the pilot made his final approach. The first thing that struck me was its size. The Mark of Man had spread its tentacles of domination, far and wide across Mother Nature's skin. The City was a sprawling collection of mighty architecture, interspersed with large areas dedicated to industry, a very impressive sight in-deed, I was even able to make out some distinctive areas, that once seen from the sky, was later able to seen on foot, specifically the Harbour.
Having said that my first impression of Barcelona from the air surpassed my expectations, my first impression of Barcelona once on ground didn't. All I saw as I walked out of the airport onto Spanish soil was an expansive car park. I just couldn't wait to get to the bosom of the city.
THE WAIT
Alas I had to wait 5 hours before that wish came true. And what a wait, I've never endured anything like it before. It was torture; there were times when I didn't think I could carry on. Roaming from one Terminal to another, just because I had nothing better to do, reading a chapter here and there. Smoking, drinking beer and coffee. At one point while at the bar, I had a drunk smelly Spaniard, chatting away to me, I had no idea what he was on about, so I did my best to dissuade him, by simply reading my book and ignoring him, an exercise that worked to no avail.
Another peculiar exchange took place as I was sat at a table drinking a coffee; a woman came up to the table and placed a card and a lighter on it then left. The lighter was in a shape of a woman, wearing a blue bikini. The card read:
I am deaf and dumb,
I sell these lighters to survive
Can you spare 500 Pesetas and purchase one.
Or words to that effect, the woman did this on all the tables; she then walked around, picking them all up again. In my case, she picked up the card, 500 Pesetas, and no lighter; in other cases she picked up the card and a lighter.
No harassment, just a civilized and respectable exchange. I was very impressed, for its something you'll never see happen in England.
The only bonus of spending 5 hours waiting was looking at all the exceptionally attractive women, for that was what kept me going.
But as it always does, time ticks away, drawing closer the moment when the boys arrive.
THE BOYS ARRIVE
1700 hrs they appeared, and what a relief it was to see them, for if the truth be known; I was on the verge of panicking. What if they don't come? What if they've already arrived and I've missed them? Where am I going to sleep tonight? I'm going to have to book myself into a hotel? The hotel is going to cost me a fortune. Where the hell are the boys? Are they coming?
Suffice to say, a hundred questions were spinning around my head, a hundred questions that disappeared in a flash, as I saw the boys walk through the glass doors, onto to elevator, waving to me in recognition. It was the happiest moment of my life!
INTO THE HEART OF BARCELONA
After the preliminary greetings, the handshakes, the hugs, we left the dreaded Terminal (well dreadful to me), and caught the bus to the heart of Barcelona. A place called Catalunya, to be precise. Looking out for the Urqinaona Hotel, our home for the weekend.
Andy did his research well, for we found it with ease.
When in our rooms, Peadar and I in one, Phil and Andy in another, we gave ourselves half an hour to get ready, before exploring.
So about 1900 hrs, all four of us, left the hotel, the adventure was underway.
FOOD
The first port of call was the 'Hard Rock Café', food. And we got food; none of us could finish all what we had on our plates. A fine feast, served by an exceptionally attractive woman (EAW), a waitress called Liz, an American living in Spain. Those waitress uniforms, damn they look good.
DRINK
Once the food was consumed, the drinking started in earnest. A pattern that dominated the weekend. Beer, lots of beer.
This was our first opportunity to marvel at the spirit, sights and sounds of the city. We wondered through the many walkways, down the many alleyways, struck by awe by the sight of the commanding presence of the Cathedral, bowled over by the gothic architecture of the Palau De La Generaitat, the area in which we now found ourselves. Though one thing I'll always remember, were the sounds. For the bells rang out tunes unlike any I have heard before. The accumulating effect, lifting my heart and soul, to an exquisitely enchanting level.
Initially finding a bar was rather difficult, because most of the places we passed were restaurants, we wanted bars, and nothing else would do.
It didn't take us long to find one, then several more.
During this time of unadulterated overindulgence, the friendship that has been so strong, that’s lasted for so long, was clearly evident. As the beer flowed, the stories, hopes, dreams, our most funny exploits, our most embarrassing actions, our most courageous deeds, all came forth. We laughed, until we nearly cried, we slapped each other on the back and said "nice try". Happy and contented in each other's company.
THE GAME OF POOL
Until that is, when Andy decided we should all play 'Pool'.
Doubles was the idea, Andy and I, against Phil and Peadar, best of three. After the first game, I said "No more".
Andy Clarke, a guy you can love but never hate.
I played a bad shot, understandable considering firstly that I was drunk, secondly that I didn't care, whether the shot was good or bad, and thirdly because bad shots just happen; you never intentionally play a bad shot. And it wasn't as if it was just I playing the bad shots, Andy equaled me all the way. But the way Andy reacted, wow; you would have thought I had just pissed into his beer bottle.
He manhandled me. Told me how to play my shots and generally berated me on my potting decisions.
I wasn't having any of it. For me the whole reason of going to Barcelona, apart from seeing the boys again, was to get away from an environment of berating, being told what to do and how to do it, of being shouted at and critized for every action. I get that at work, this was play.
So I made my feelings known.
Andy and I went onto to win 2 games to 1. The whole episode has taught me one thing; never play pool with Andy Clarke again!
THE GUY WHO TRIED TO SHAG ME
Walking down the street a young lad of about 18-19 years of age, came up to me, and appeared to shag my leg. He cocked his leg over mine and thrusted his hips back and forth. What was all that about? I do not know, though it certainly has left an unpleasant memory.
While in these bars we managed to make a few friends, the barmaid of a 'heavy meta' bar that we visited was a nice woman. The Scouse and Cuban guy we met in another, was equally nice, though the Cuban was abit, of a pain in the neck to say the least.
When 0300 hrs reared it's timely head, once the bars began to empty, it was decision time as to whether to goto bed or carry on drinking. It was an easy decision to carry. The atmosphere of the City, decided it for us.
ONWARDS TO THE HARBOUR
Onwards to the Harbour we marched, or rather stumbled. Past the Mirador De Colom, an impressive column, somewhat like Nelson Column, but 100 times more beautiful, Christopher Columbus on the top rather than Nelson, located at the bottom of Rambla, a major road linking Placa De Catalunya to the harbour.
Onto the wooden walkway towards the sights, lights, laughter and screams of the nightclubs, our final destination of the night.
THE FISH
Fish everywhere, we had not seen anything like it before it in our lives. And being that all of us are from Brighton, where we are used to harbours, we were all surprised to see fish swimming through the waters. Big ones, small ones; the sight was a joy to behold.
After spending a few minutes watching the fish, we descended upon the nightclubs.
THE NIGHTCLUBS
There were 3 clubs each in a row. And we danced, danced as if there was no tomorrow. It was just like the old times, swinging what we've got, just as we did 10 years ago in the Glouster Club, Brighton. And the guest dancers, two EAW each on a pedestal, gyrating their sexy bodies to the Latin sounds, wow the sight was breathe taking. I tried to get their attention by frantically waving, but alas they never waved back, nor did they smile, but you could see in the way that they danced, they liked me!
We were very drunk by this time, we felt good, we looked good, and we danced good. By God we were good. Shame Andy never felt the same way. For the night had taken its toll. I suppose it had something to do with his age, being that bit older than us, he just couldn't keep up with the pace.
While we danced, Andy sat outside feeling his lungs with the Spanish air, and then he disappeared. We later learnt he simply walked back.
THE LONG WALK HOME
Come 0530 hrs it was our turn to do the same, thus the long walk home began. A walk that Phil had no recollection.
Safely back at the hotel we all collapsed onto our allocated beds, deep slumbered sleep immediately following.
I managed to undress and get under the sheets, though Peadar couldn't manage such a simple task. He lay fully clothed on his bed, pulled one off my sheets over himself and slept. When I did stir him to point out the error of his ways, he just looked at me in disgust and slated me for being so ridiculous.
"Shut up Matt, this is my sheet now let me have it."
"But Pad, you're laying on your sheets, now let me have mine back."
"Shut up, Maaatt, yyour, blah blah blah", he had fallen asleep!
6 hours later I awoke with a start, thinking 'I am in Barcelona aren't I'? Looking beside me and seeing Pad clutching at my sheet, confirmed that I was.
The time was 1155 hrs, time to get up. I said this to Peadar, he only got up once I convinced him that the time really was 1155 hrs, for he was sure he had only been asleep for what seemed like 10 minutes.
After the phone call to Andy to tell him the same, the game was on. Half an hour to get ready, so we can do it all again.
THE START OF A NEW DAY
Out of the hotel, went the 4 intrepid explorers, into the bright sunshine of a new Barcelonan day.
The plan was to find somewhere to have breakfast, look about the city, and of course drink some more beer. An easy task if it wasn't for the hangovers that then invaded upon Peadar and Phil. Peadar had to leave the shop to get some fresh air, worrying that he maybe sick, Phil just simply, very nearly, fell asleep at the table. Though thankfully our consumed breakfast stayed down, we were fed and watered, the adventure could continue unabated.
The first point of interest that we came along was outside the Cathedral. For prancing about were a group of dancers, some were dancing on an erected stage; others were practicing their dance moves on the ground. It was a nice sight, considering all the EAW's, and funnily enough, while watching television that night, on came the dancers; a camera crew had obviously been there and caught on film what we saw with our own eyes.
After milling about the square, we continued our journey down towards the harbour. Again we marveled at the architecture of Barcelona, simply indulging in the sights, smells and sounds of the city.
THE PUB CRAWL CONTINUES
It wasn't long until we came across a bar, where we immediately sat ourselves down and ordered 4 beers, clever-Peadar could even order in Spanish. What a beautiful bar it was too, we sat outside, the sun was shining, the view of the harbour before us, peaceful and contented in the company of good friends.
Then onto the harbour itself, where surprise surprise we found another bar to rest our weary bodies only to order another 4 beers. Though this bar was a little different than the rest. It was a boat!
THE RULES
It was here that we discussed our adventure and came up with some rules. Firstly we'll go away every year over the last weekend of April. Secondly that we'll only go to a place that no one has been before. Two rules that will last a lifetime. Incidentally it was here that we decided that the 2001 adventure would be at Rome.
BY THE BEACH
We continued down to the beach, where I took the pleasure of tipping my toe into the Mediterranean Sea, a pleasure that I've never enjoyed before.
While at a bar, over looking the Sea, a young boy inadvertently threw his ball high into the leafage of a nearby palm tree. Suffice to say his ball got well and truly stuck. We all laughed as we watched the boy try and shake the mighty palm tree, in a vain attempt at dislodging it. We watched further as himself, his brother and father tried throwing a bottle of water into the leaves, yearning to hit the ball back to the ground. Sadly they eventually left the scene without success. But to give credit where credit is due, they didn't half try!
THE MEAL
The day was getting late; it was time for food, and plenty of it. So we stopped at a restaurant not far from the beach, a lovely looking Spanish eating-place, we sat outside as the Spanish flow of life, speed past us.
I ordered Sea Bass along with Peadar, Phil lamb, Andy Monk-fish, and I must say that when the meals arrived I was far from impressed. Though the atmosphere was pleasant, and all in all we had a good meal.
When it came to paying the bill, I placed a 5000 Peseta note onto the tray, Peadar picked it up and then in front off everyone placed it back down saying "There you are guys, here's my share."
The problem being, everyone believed him, it took me long enough to persuade Andy and Phil otherwise.
With the meal consumed we decided it was time to head back to the hotel, get ready again for another night in the city. The walk back was just too much, so we caught the metro. We had to queue up for the ticket, Andy was getting impatient, he was trying to get us to jump over the ticket barriers, a fair assumption considering that while we waited in the queue about half a dozen people did just that.
We enjoyed one last beer before eventually returning to the hotel, the conversation that followed was about politics, and as always when we talk about politics, the discussion became heated.
Now to put the record straight, one of the contentions of the discussion was that Peadar believed it to be a duty for a citizen to vote, he became despaired with me when I said I never voted at the last election. The truth is I did, I voted for Labour and only tell people that I never because I'm ashamed I did.
Though with that aside, back to the adventure.
ANOTHER NIGHT IN THE CITY
We made it back to the hotel, where the plan was to have half an hour rest, before going out and doing it all again.
The plan would have worked well, if it wasn't for Phil and Peadar falling asleep as soon as their backs hit the bed. Phil recovered but Peadar was still laid out, we tried to reason with him to get up, to get with the program, Andy even tried wrestling him of the bed, but it was Phil's quick thinking, as he up lifted the bed, slipping Andy and Peadar onto the floor that finally got Peadar on his feet.
It was now my last night in Barcelona; the others were scheduled to leave a few days later. I was determined to go out and have a good time, simply carrying on where we left off.
MORE BEER
More beers in more bars. Peadar was failing at this point, for we had to work hard on keeping him focused. He was nearly sleeping while sitting at the table, though after a few coffees he seemed to recover.
We had a drink in one particular bar, where when Andy ordered the drinks, the barman returned with 4, litre and a half glasses shaped as boots, filled with beer. I haven't seen anything like it; I just thanked my lucky stars that it was Phil's round!
THE DEN OF INIQUITY
We were again on the main road called Rambla, making our way to the Harbour. The harbour being our favorite place. When we happened to pass a sordid den of iniquity, the entrance fee of 2000 Pesetas didn't deter us in the slightest, down the sleazy stairs we went.
My first 'Strip Show', I just didn't know what to expect. Though what I did see certainly surpassed my expectations.
A woman dressed as a nun who did the most seductive striptease I've ever seen, and who then magically brings out a vibrator from her bible, to do things to her body, that would make most women scream. It was great!
Another stripper who volunteered someone from the audience, stripped him completely on stage, and then covered his manhood with whipped cream, tied tissue around it, sticking the rest of the tissue up his bum, before leaving the stage, with the volunteer left standing. Now that was funny!
We just had to leave after the fourth striptease; it was getting too much for us, valuable drinking time was being lost.
We again visited the same nightclubs that we visited the previous night, moved our bodies about the dance floor, not a lot, I for one was feeling the drain. So we left to return earlier than before.
THE NIGHT COMES TO A CLOSE
Once back at the hotel and once after putting Peadar's bed back to its original place, we all succumbed to the inevitable and fell into the blackness of drunken sleep.
Roughly 3 hours later I was up, I woke Peadar up who kindly walked me to the bus stop where I caught the bus back to the airport. My Barcelonan adventure was coming to an end. The curtain was being drawn. I never got to say goodbye to Phil and Andy, though in a friendship like ours, there aren't ever any goodbyes.
The bus ride passed without incident, as with the flight. My car was safe and sound, in the same spot where I left it. A charge of DM 117 allowed me to drive it away.
I was back in Germany, Barcelona now only a memory, but a memory to last a lifetime.
© Copyright 2007 Matthew Taylor