MAKING IT LOOK EASY

When someone does something competently, it gives the effect that what they're doing is easy. So easy that others can think: I can do that! Only when they try it do they gain insight into the enormous amount of time and effort that's gone into making it look easy.

I started illustrating children's books a few years ago. People - grown-ups and children alike - say that I make drawing look easy. And I tell them that I drew lots, and lots, and lots before I become good at it. It's easy for me, so easy that it's starting to become boring - while this is still a big dream of many people: wow! illustrating children's books...

My son is an actor and theatre-maker. He tells me of the processes he goes through when working on a production, revealing to me the fears, doubts, nervousness, repetitions, discussions, critique, evaluations and re-evaluations that all take place before we as audience see the results and think: that looks easy... I could do that.

I experienced the hard truth of this when I attempted to sing my Mezrab song for a large audience at the Tolhuistuin. All the speakers make it look so easy... I thought: I can do that.

I couldn't! 

MOUNTAINS TOO HIGH - Part 2

So was that a missed opportunity? Sure. Was it an important opportunity? No. Niether was it something to be ashamed of or discouraged by. I'm actually more determined now to become a competent storyteller, now that I know where the limits of my present abilities lie.

This experience has made me re-evaluate everything I want to do with storytelling and my songwriting - and why I want to do it. I won't go into that just now, but I can say that storytelling is an important element...the most important element... in my succes as a songwriter. I can write songs, no problem there, but my problem lies in singing them. I can sing them to myself, to a small group of friends, but I'm not good at singing them to an audience I don't know. And that's because I don't have that special ability to CONNECT with an audience and talk TO them as if they were one. If I can learn to do that, then I'll enjoy singing my songs, to anybody and everybody, and therein lies the key to my success.

It's easier to just sing while keeping a distance from the audience than it is to connect - that's what I've done in the past, and that's why I feel so uncomfortable. You can't keep a distance when telling a story - you HAVE to connect... so I HAVE to be, first and foremost, a storyteller - a storyteller who also tells stories in song. STORYTELLER!- not singer/songwriter, musician, popstar, recording artist... simply a storyteller. So that's my goal. I know I can write songs, I know I can write stories... I want to be able to tell them.

In the course of the coming months I'll be busy with my development as a storyteller, and I'll make sure I share my experiences  here...because this is also a story, in the making.

AND... to make up for not having played live on the 17th as I promised... here's the song again, how it should be sung - without nerves.

MOUNTAINS TOO HIGH - Part 1

I was at the Mezrab event yesterday evening, with my guitar - ready to play my Mezrab song to the masses. There must have been 80 or more people, a beautiful evening, a great occassion.

I'd been practising all day, I needed to make sure the lyrics were embedded in my head so I wouldn't forget them in the anxiety of the moment. Even had a good intro-story worked out that was meant to get me in the mood and make contact with the audience before I sang - and to tell them a little about me, my music, and what this whole storytelling thing has done for me in the last few weeks.

I was waiting for Criss to turn up, she'd be there after the first pauze, so I arranged with Sahand that I play in the second session. He suggested I just do one verse and chorus at the beginning to warm people up and I agreed. Seemed like a good idea, and it was, because I ended up not doing the whole song......... that would have been a disaster!

I'll admit I was nervous, had been a little all day, but I've been nervous before and managed to deal with it. And I really wanted to do this so I was certain I'd deal with it this time. I haven't played my songs live for many years, and I knew I was being pretty ambitious to want to sing at this venue, but I'd been prep-talking myself all day...  "it's going to be okay, once you get up there, and just see them as a group of friends, and you sang for 80 people at your school and it worked, and this is not an audition, and just focus on wanting to sing for those nice people..."

All that talk got me to the Tolhuistuin and onto the stage, but I was suppressing the nervousness. This can work, it's worked before, but there were a number of factors that made it difficult for me. With such a big audience I couldn't sing and play at my normal volume or nobody would be able to hear me. I can sing louder but I can't play guitar loud, I'm not that good a guitar player. And when I try to play loud my technique gets sloppy and the sound is not musical, and I'm not busy with singing the song anymore but with trying to play the guitar, and I'm aware that it sounds bad and I'm not making contact with the audience, and my hands are starting to shake so I'm missing the strings... this is what happened yesterday evening, and it all happened in the space of the first bars of the song and by the time I got to singing I forgot the bloody words... the FIRST words. Great start! I stopped, started again, managed to get through to the chorus and closed the song. Whew!

Criss turned up a little later. I told her I was playing after the break. Sahand didn't call me up during the second session, I think he sensed my doubts. All through the second set I noticed that my nervousness was turning to terror... I need to blow this off. But how does that seem when I've walked in with a guitar and not done anything? I talked to Sahand in the second pauze, told him I didn't think it wise to go up there and make a mess of things - I obviously wasn't ready. He was understanding and didn't find it strange - it's a big crowd if you're not used to it, it's overwhelming, and even he can't play his instrument in this setting. So that was it, I put my guitar back in the case and just listened to the stories the rest of the night. And felt the stress and anxiousness seep away out of my body - soooooo glad I hadn't invited lots of friends to come and see me perform.

There were some really good storytellers that evening - but I'm not there yet.

Europe Project

So the plan is this:

I finally make an album of all my old songs with my friend Geert. Geert is the keeper of my songs, he knows them better than I do - he's also the bass-player and producer. When the album is made, we hold a big concert for up to 200 people from our combined network, and use this to generate initial interest in the album, and initiate our first sales. That should start the ball rolling.

Next year I travel around Europe, in a camperbus, singing wherever people want to listen, promoting the album, selling CDs, hearing new stories, and writing new songs for the second album we'll make when I return.
I don't know yet how I'm going to finance the trip, but if I can generate 1000 or more CD sales in the course of the year, it'll finance the following album and "tour". And so on.

So I become a travelling minstrel, with the simple goal of singing and writing and selling the album. Along the way I'll keep a journal via this blog, and apply my various creative talents on the way for extra funds. I'll return with enough songs for album number two, and enough experiences to write up as a book.

And if that's not an enviable dream, I don't know what is.

Special Day

This is a special day, though nothing much has changed since yesterday - except my perception.

Two days ago I was I was wrestling with a whole barrage of emotions, desires, plans, dreams, hopes, conflicts, priorities, choices, concerns and the commitments and practicalities of conventional life... the daily stuff.

My feet have been itchy for a long time - years - such a desire to travel and leave all this behind. And lately a dream has been brewing in my heart - my head has been working overtime trying to bring some order and reality to it. Two days ago I had work piling up I didn't know if I wanted to do or not. Finances were causing me concern and there were so many things I'd rather be doing that I didn't get round to doing those either... overwhelmed by the possibilities.

Yesterday I had a talk with someone regarding my business... my "official" business. My picture-book business. This person is my assigned management-consultant, and she's there to advise and evaluate my progress to see if I'm fulfilling the criteria for the business funding I'm getting in the form of "social benefit". She assured me that I should stop worrying, I'm pretty much guaranteed an extension on my benefit, and she advised me to cut out all the things that are causing me stress, which are the deadlines and commitments I've set for myself, and promised on my website.

This authoritative advice is what I needed. Now I can continue doing what I've been doing, but without the stress. But this is only part of what makes this day special.

You see, with the stress gone, I can see what I need to do - and why I need to do it. I've already made a decision that I'll embark on an adventure next year - travelling Europe as a minstrel, singing songs, writing new songs and promoting the album I'm going to make before the end of this year.

What makes this day special is the clarity I now have - that this is all going to happen - and with that clarity, I realized this morning that my adventure really begins right here, right now.

Over the next four months, along with my "business" activities, I'll be making all the preparations for my Europe adventure. And this means it's not just a dream anymore. It also means that the plans I have to blog about the journey can also begin now.

I started this blog on a whim the moment I discovered the Mezrab storytelling events. I wasn't quite sure of the form it should have, but now that's clear too. It's a Minstrel's journal... simple! I am the minstrel, and on this blog I share my journal, my daily experiences, my adventure - including the adventure I'm having right here right now.

It's 8am Thursday morning in Amsterdam (as I write this). The sun is up, blue sky promises a very warm day. A perfect morning for coffee on a cafe terrace to watch the city awaken, and to write in my notebook. Next year I'll be doing this often, on new terraces and cafes, in new places. But it's on days like this that Amsterdam also feels like a travel location for me - I see it through a traveler's eyes, experience it with a traveler's heart. I live just around the corner, but here, on this terrace is where I can watch life cycle by, and I feel all my concerns dissolving away into the sunlight - like the disappearing froth on my cappuccino.

A MINSTREL'S TALE

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a minstrel left his home and embarked on a journey to distant shores in search of adventure and new stories for his songs.

His first port of call was the city of Amsterdam in the lands of  Nether, and he never got farther than that, for it was there that he met his love - a dark-haired damsel of exotic beauty, cultured, artistic, experienced… and a little older than he. She was charmed by his youth and poetic way with words and shared his creative interests – they settled down together, making dreams of possible futures.

It wasn’t long before a child was conceived, which brought their dreams crashing to reality. “Oh yeay!”, thought the minstrel, “I’m going to be a dad! I’ll have to be responsible; I’ll have to put bread on the table… I’ll have to get a job!”

He was a good and decent man and took his responsibilities seriously, so he learned the language and ways of this land, and searched for work. It took a while to adapt to his new role in life, but when his son was born he felt such love as never before and regretted nothing. “If this be my destiny” he thought, “then I accept it wholly” – whereupon he made a vow to forget his wandering-days and be the best father he could be. He would do whatever he could to ensure the welfare of his son until such time that the boy was fully grown and could lead his own life… which should take about 18 years… maybe 20.

THE CONCIERGE

The minstrel found work eventually in the school his son attended. His new title of “Concierge” pleased him and brought him new friends and status, but what most pleased him was the chance to be always close to his son. He fulfilled his duties with enthusiasm but found too that he could continue his creative interests, sharing his music and song with the children and colleagues. It was a happy time.

Still, after three years he was forced to move on. His son was growing, along with the costs of living, and a concierge’s wages were too low to support a family, so he took a similar post at another school that paid better.

As the boy grew, so did the concierge’s love and admiration for him. Alas, his romance with the mother of his child faded and the two parted. It was an amicable agreement, and they continued as friends to be doting parents for their little one. The man found new lodgings by two trusted and loyal friends - who supported him in many a difficult time – and he was able to have his son to stay on a regular basis.

But this was no permanent solution, for the boy continued to grow, healthy, strong, vibrant and tall. “A prince in the making!” thought the father, and this filled him with pride for he himself was far from noble descent… a commoner through and through.

And the time dawned when it became obvious that a new abode was needed, for the boy grew taller than his father and could not, nor indeed wished to, share the same bed any longer.

THE ARTIST

The concierge was fortunate and found a suitable abode, but that fortune came also with a cost, for the rent was high and put further strain on his wages. The boy was eating as a grown man, his clothes cost more, his education became more expensive, and he required pocket-money… the concierge sought ways to supplement his income and put his drawing talents to use illustrating books in his free time. 

With this new part-time career, the concierge took the new title of artist, enjoyed a renewed passion, and the status quo returned. But content as he was with his present situation, he realized that his heart was ailing. He hadn’t written or played his music for a long time. Yes, he played for the children, he drew for the children, and he played some music with friends, but this just reminded him of where his heart truly lay. He didn’t have the time to indulge himself fully in his personal passions, and the need to earn a living was smothering his creative spirit and draining him of his life’s energy. What kept him going was his vow to be there for his son, and his reward was to see the progress his boy was making, but he became a recluse, working by day and night, with no energy or desire to see anyone else once he got home. He lived for his son and had no life of his own. He felt himself becoming old and disgruntled with his work. But he had his duty as a father – he would not betray his vow.

The years passed and the boy became a young man – tall, handsome and bearded. He was also richly blessed with creative talent, having inherited the best of both his parents. As his studies came to an end and his social interests grew, he was rarely at home. The artist realized that the time was coming for a change and a choice. He could continue so, with his job and life as it was, becoming ever more disgruntled, bitter, old and lonely – sitting alone in the evenings waiting to see if his son would return… or he could choose now to begin again on the path he’d left twenty years earlier.

He was afraid - his youthful vigour and innocent, naive trust in the world had suffered under the weight of social and societal conformations and commitments. But it was time to make another pact with himself – he would follow his heart and re-awaken the minstrel slumbering within.

THE RETURN OF THE MINSTREL

At an age when most men were entering the autumn of their lives, the artist refused to let the summer fade; and at a time when all the kingdom was falling on hard times of economic crisis, he let himself be inspired by his son, whose life was filled with youthful abandon, music, dance, writing and theatre. The artist took a daring step onto a new path towards his own youthful dreams… and quit his day job.

He exercised his wasting body and became strong and vibrant again; and he sought to bring his talents together in ways that could provide him with an independent income. He took to writing his own children’s stories, illustrating them himself and turning them into products he could sell in the new “digital” marketplace. However, this would prove to be only a steppingstone to the true passion… and that he found in a small café were people gathered to hear true tales from the “Storytellers”.

The man had found his pot of gold – but this was not gold to fill your pockets with, these were riches of life, of communication, of bonding with other people, other races and cultures. Riches of understanding and sharing. The man realized more than ever that it was stories that brought people together, forging respect and comradeship in a time when lust for personal gain and power were the order of the day.

The man had found his path, now he needed to walk it. He’d found a new quest too. Along with his children’s books he would write stories for grown-ups, true stories from his own life and experiences. And he’d tell them wherever people gathered to hear them. And he’d help others to tell their stories, freeing them from their fears for public embarrassment and judgement. And he’d write songs again, telling his stories in the universal language of music.

He wrote his first song in ten years, he was eager to sing. He had so many stories to tell, so many songs to share. But how could he do this? He was still shackled to his financial commitments. His books would take time to sell, his funds were low, and he’d given up his security and any hope of a decent pension. He was balancing on the edge of financial hardship.

The minstrel had returned, but he stood at a fork in the road. One path led to a story he did not wish to tell: one of fear and distrust, discarded dreams and broken courage. One of a return to a boring job to pay his bills and his rent.

The second path led to the adventure of making his first album. A path of unknown dangers and risks – but also one of excitement and rewards greater than any pot of gold.

The minstrel stood a while, hoping fate would walk by and help him to make the choice for his heart. And then he took a step towards his future…

Through Your Own Eyes

THROUGH YOUR OWN EYES 

I remember him, he was looking for himself

Running from or running to, he never really knew

Searching through the people that he came across by chance

Hoping for a life to come and take him by the hand

And when he left us, he couldn't say goodbye

And I remember, there were tears in his eyes

And I remember me, I was looking for myself

My dream was in my pocket, my guitar was on my shoulder

Inspired by a schoolbook and a moment in the cold

I was drinking up the sunshine like it was liquid gold

And when I left there, I couldn't say goodbye

But I remember, there was laughter in my eyes

I remember you, you are looking for yourself

Do you think you'll ever find you, sitting on your shelf

Dreaming of your heaven while living in your hell

Maybe you're happy there, but I can never tell

And I can't lead you out, but I can give you some advice

Don't see life the way they tell you 

See it through your own eyes

Break My Head

BREAK MY HEAD

My input really makes no sense

My presence mostly makes you tense

My best is never good enough for you

All the truths bent into lies

I can't be good I can't be wise

I break my head trying to get through to you

If I could only find a word that's right

Find a spark to set your heart alight

Turn your head around enough to notice me

There's nothing that I wouldn't do for you

Well I could even write a song for you

I might even make you fall in love with me

I wonder why I waste my time

Like turning water into wine

I must be dumb to take what I go through

The ways that you can put me down

If I couldn't swim I'd surely drown

I break my head trying to get through to you

If I could only find a word that's right

Find a spark to set your heart alight

Turn your head around enough to notice me

There's nothing that I wouldn't do for you

Well I could even write a song for you

I might even make you fall in love with me

Feed the dog that bites my hand

I'm not even sure I understand

I break my head trying to get through

Trying to get through

Trying to get through

Get through to you

One Man

ONE MAN

Resting on wings of a butterfly

Nothing so fragile, or right

Carried on winds soft as a sigh

Causing a change with its flight

Nothing is imprisoned in scripture

Neither nor written in stone

Nothing is out of the picture

Nothing ever happens alone

One man cares for another man

Lends him an ear or a word

Everyone does only what he can

But one man can change the world

Just when we thought it was over

Laying down arms and our fear

Just when we turned our attention

A deadlier foe appeared

And just when we thought it was growing

It turned on itself from within

And more than one voice started sowing

The seeds of a better begin

One man cares for another man

Lends him an ear or a word

Everyone does only what he can

And one man changes the world

Too young for the army of flowers

Too far from the wall when it fell

But I've learned that we don't live in towers

And we don't write our stories ourselves

One thought set the heart on its journey

One word of consent made the call

A butterfly beat her wings on the wind

And tethered one life to them all

One man cares for another man

Lends him an ear or a word

Everyone does only what he can

And one man can change the world

An Album?... Why Not?

My friend Geert has been trying to get me back involved with all my old songs. They've not died, he's kept them alive, but I've ignored them for ten years. I'm going to make him happy. I've decided we're going to finally make that album - this year - in his studio - in his attic. Keep it simple, authentic, acoustic - and complete. I need to do this, I want to do this - new songs are calling to be written...

What Do You Want To Be - when you grow up?

When I was little, the big question was: "what do you want to be when you grow up?" Every kid gets this, as if what they say has any bearing on the path they'll take in the future. Most people don't end up being what they wanted to be.


I drew a lot: "Oh your going to be an artist for sure!"
I made things - toys and games - "Oh you'll be an inventor definitely!"


I wanted to be a policeman... or an Indian, riding the wild plains on horseback, living with nature in the wilderness... Never wanted to be a cowboy.


In my teens I discovered photography - wanted to be a photographer. When I told my career's officer he said "I don't have any information on that - do you want to be anything else?" My career's advice lasted 2 minutes. Good school!!! But there was no info, no advice, no-one knew what a photographer did - had to find it all out myself, without internet.


I went to college - commercial photography course - I flunked on theory - wasn't my thing. Never did become a real photographer, but it was my passion most of my life.


As was music. At 22 I joined a band - wanted to be a rockstar. But I didn't have the commitment, nor the ego, nor the x-factor.


At 24 I lived on a Greek island for three months, writing and singing songs... I was a songwriter. The following year I did the same, this time I took my sax along, played in a piano bar... I was a jazz musician.


Ten years ago I rediscovered drawing - making pictures for stories I told to my son. He was 9 years old back then. I gave up photography completely, I wanted to be a children's book illustrator. At the time I was a concierge, I never wanted to be a concierge.


In the last five years I discovered the internet, internet marketing, affiliate marketing, professional blogging. Now that's something! I could be a writer... I always wanted to be a writer.


So I started my first blog and became an unpaid writer. I didn't become a successful affiliate marketer, but I did become a children's book illustrator - a "professional" nota bene.


Begin 2012, I gave up my concierge job, bought a six-week program to get back in shape, got back in shape, built a website about it and set myself up as a "personal motivator" for people who want to transform their bodies. Unfortunately this didn't transform into money so I decided to go for what works and I became an entrepreneur and digital publisher of my own children's picture books. I thought that's what I wanted to be. I thought I'd found my calling - I should have known better.


About a month ago I discovered the Mezrab and storytelling. It captured my heart completely. And through this I realize that it's not about what you want to be, but what you want to do.


I've done a lot of things I wanted to do - and I've done a lot of things I never wanted to do. But the question now is: what do I WANT to do NOW?
And it's not "illustrating children's books" - though I do want to draw;
And it's not "internet marketing" - though I do want to write and blog;
And it's not "be a rockstar" - though I do want to sing.


If I wanted to BE anything now,I'd be a storyteller, a minstrel, a writer of songs that tell stories.


And I will be that, because that's what I want to do.
This blog sets the stage. I've written a new song, the first in ten years: The Mezrab Song.
I feel inspired, I feel joyous.

Mezrab Song Live

I wrote to Sahand at the Mezrab asking if I could sing my new song on the 17th in the Tolhuistuin. He was enthusiastic so I guess it's on. Now I practise and practise until I I've got all the lyrics in my head. I'm nervously excited - I haven't sang live for a number of years - but I am looking forward to it.

PAYBACK - SWEET REVENGE

I was 14, independent and responsible... and naive enough to be adventurous. We lived in a safe street in a safe-ish town in a time when the innocence of childhood could still be relevant. We played in the streets, we camped in the fields, we role-played our dreams and ambitions - and summers were always long and, generally, always hot.


I had a friend in the street called Grahame, also 14. Lived with his mother and sister, no father. He was adventurous like me; he had a shed that he used as his private hide-away; he had a secret cave in the drainage pit in the garden; he had a stash of men's magazines... his mother knew, but she gave him a lot of freedom.


This was small-town. So small it wasn't a town, I suppose a village, but really a new-estate build on some fields that had yet to become a village. Anyone asks me I say near Liverpool, but it's just as near Manchester and it's not either of them. It was a good place to grow up - lots of open fields, for us the wilderness. There were few cars around, only some people had telephones. Holidays, if you got them, were camping trips to Wales. Wales was considered a different country.


Grahame was from Wales. He suggested that summer, when we were 14, that we go there on a camping trip, without our parents - now that would be an adventure. His mother allowed it, my parents agreed too. Dad gave me ten pounds for the week and we set off with our two tents and camping-gear, caught a bus into town, then a bus into a bigger town, and then a bus to Wales. I bought a floppy army-type hat for the occassion.


This was our big adventure, we'd really live it up, freedom, beach... maybe girls... we were young, naive, enthusiastic, positive - and not a little careless.


We headed for Rhyl. Rhyl is the Ibiza of Northwest Britain. Now with only 10 pounds each for the week, we didn't want to waste our money on camping sites, so we found some wasteground behind the beach and asked the hippies there if it was safe to camp - they'd know. This was a time when common-ground was still for commoners and squatting was still legal, so no-one was going to drive a couple of kids away. We pitched our tents, one for us and one for the gear - we were organized - and we headed for the town to see what Rhyl had to offer two excited 14 year-olds. Nothing! 


We were too old for the fairground rides and too young for the bars. Prowling the beach was out because this was the summer I remember when it wasn't hot all the time. There were girls, but those around our age were with their parents. So we walked... and walked. Then we took a bus-tour - one of those double-dekker tourist busses with an open roof. We sat upstairs and the wind blew my hat away. That was annoying. By the end of the day I'd lost my 10 pounds too - now that was a bummer!




We were resourceful though and we didn't want to ring our parents on the first day. Graham's money wouldn't last us both for the week so we tried our hand at shoplifting. Just once though - being chased down the street by the shop-owner for a packet of Eccles cakes wasn't really worth the risk.


Day two we met an older bloke somehow, and he was really friendly. Bought us some ices and something to drink. Maybe he felt sorry for us when we told him about losing my money, because he offered to take us on the fairground and pay for some rides - maybe we weren't too old for them after all. Later in the day he but us lunch, then our evening meal, and much later he was saying that he'd probably had a little too much to drink to drive back to his camping, so could he spend the night in our tent.


What can you say when he's been so generous? So we're in the tent, all three of us, I'm falling asleep when I hear Grahame muttering aloud - something about not wanting him here and why doesn't he just buzz off. I kept my mouth shut and my eyes closed. Then I heard the guy leave. I quizzed Grahame about what he'd said to the man, but he said he didn't remember saying anything and could have been talking in his sleep. I didn't believe him.


On the third day the skinheads turned up. Three loud 16 year-olds from Liverpool. They were surprisingly courteous and friendly - not at all what I expected and totally out of character for "Scouse-football-hooligan-bovverboys". They told us they'd been kicked off all the other campsites (okay, back in character), and needed an alternative - would it  okay to pitch tent here next to us. Well it's a free world, and since they asked so nicely, sure!, and yes you can put your baggage in our spare tent.


After they'd set up, they headed off to another bar to get drunk and loud again, and Grahame and I did some walking and talking... money was a problem, weather was a problem, could we go home after three days without losing face?

Evening came around and the skinheads came knocking. They were back and drunk, and one of them had a girl and could he use our tent for a half-hour. We didn't want to seem unfriendly, or uncool, so we said yes - but we wanted it back in a half-hour! No problem, he said.


Only after that half-hour he wasn't ready and he'd come out when he felt like it. Grahame was pretty persistent in his complaining - it wasn't fair, he'd said a half-hour, time is up we want our tent back... and it worked, he came out, but he wasn't happy. Anyway, we settled down to go to sleep - but then the commotion started. The skinheads were getting abusive, aggressive, calling us names, swearing at us, rattling the tent, pissing on it - one of them kicked the tent and I got it full in the face. Now it may be fine to complain about getting our tent back, but that's where the confrontation ends - even Grahame realized that - start complaining now, or go outside and ask them to please stop... we'd get our heads kicked in for sure. So we sat it out and waited for them to get bored kicking a tent.


It stopped eventually, they probably went off to be obnoxious in another bar. We decided we'd be leaving the following morning.


Morning came early, around 5 o'clock. The plan was to pack up quickly and quietly and head for the bus station. There we could wait until Grahame's uncle, who lived nearby, was awake, then we'd go there and call his mother, who had a phone, to get my dad, who had a car, to pick us up.


It was pouring with rain, which helped disguise any noise we made taking the tent down. We didn't speak any louder than a whisper, we were efficient and effective. When all our bags were packed we took the reserve tent down. The skinhead's baggage we'd have to leave in the rain, no point in waking them, they'd be sleeping until midday anyway. Time to go...


But wait... just one more thing...


Before we left, we opened all the baggage and scattered the contents around, just to get the full effect of the rain. NOTHING would be dry when the guys woke up. All their spare clothes and belongings would be drenched through - puddles of sandy water were already engulfing their gear, their bags were filling up with rainwater. They'd pissed on our tent - nature was pissing on theirs.


We ran, silently, and spent three hours shivering in the bus station. We called Grahame's uncle, then went to his house to dry out. We called home and my father came to pick us up. I told him about losing the money. He said if I'd called earlier he would have brought some more. It didn't matter. The holiday was over. We were glad to be going home. 


This is the shortest holiday I've ever had, but strangely one of the most memorable. It wasn't successful as holidays go, but it was an experience, an awakening, a test of our independence and resourcefulness. We'd had an adventure and survived, we wouldn't forget it.


And we'd had payback, revenge... and it was sweet.