UTOPIAN DREAM

On the thirtieth of March 1987 I walked across the city centre to sign on at the unemployment benefit office. It took twenty-five minutes to cover the distance each way. My feet were still not use to so much walking. By the end of the day I had large blisters covering the sole of my left foot. At the benefit office I was told that the DHSS had ordered my benefit to be withheld. No reason was given. I was simply told to call in and see them. The DHSS offices were near my local supermarket, which was some way off my return route home. On my way back to my flat I picked up my new computer lead, and all my money from the building society, amounting to one thousand nine hundred and eighty-one pounds in cash. I decided not to go to the DHSS as my feet hurt too much. I put the money under the bottom draw of my bedside cabinet, and since I still did not have my cheque guarantee card, I decided that I would close my bank account also. After being so long in prison, I had a strong aversion for a complex lifestyle which would ultimately induce stress. I was therefore determined to keep everything simple.

By now my digs were beginning to bug me. Digs was the appropriate word, for it was as quiet as the grave, like a mausoleum in fact. I heard nothing and saw virtually no one. I found the antiseptic surroundings off-putting. It appeared to be the twenty-first century's answer to surplus human beings. It reminded me of that method of burial where the corpse is sealed in a wall, and left to decompose over a few years, then removed to make way for another. At least in prison I had felt wanted. With the windows closed and listening hard, the only thing I could hear was the whistling of water taps, the gurgling of the central heating system, the crackling of water pipes and plastic window frames as they expanded and contracted, the faint cursing and the crying from tenants in adjacent flats, and the distant beat of reggae music often many-floors away. At night whilst lying in bed, I would be startled by the slightest sound, an obvious hangover from my life in prison. It was a problem that was to plague me for about eight months.

I became alarmed one day when one female tenant I spoke to in the launderette, told me that her flat had been broken into three times in three years. The door had simply been battered down, whilst apparently none of her neighbours noticed a thing.

"It became obvious to me that the people who were doing it were people that I knew," she said.

My probation officer told me that it was usual for the door to be battered off its hinges rather than waste time attacking the locks. Fortunately the door to my flat had strong hinges. I finally took out home contents insurance in September after a lot of dithering by the insurance company, five and a half months after moving in. As for my cash, it was to remain in my flat until June, at which point the worry at the possibility of it being stolen, became stronger than my dislike for banking bureaucracy.

Over a period of months I chatted up an Irish woman who lived on the same floor as myself. Her name was Rebecca 0'Brian. It was hard going. During the moments we met in the lift or in the street, I tried to win her over. It was not to be. Apparently she trusted no one. I was surprised and possibly alarmed when she told me that she never answered her door. Although she had a spy hole in the door, she would not even go up to it and look through it. Her girlfriend who lived next door, would have to telephone her in advance to let her know that she was coming around to see her. In the city at least, there was now no trust between humans, just suspicion, and in some women I was to meet, outright hatred bordering on paranoia.

During the first few months, a number of men came to my door looking for people whom I knew had never occupied my flat. At the back of my mind I suspected an ulterior motive. I suspected that they were homosexuals, judging by the stains on the mattress. It slowly dawned on me that many of the tenants in my block had been referred to the housing association by their GP or social worker. Some appeared little more capable than my former wife. They were the victims of the government's policy of putting mental patients back into the community. They would have been happier in prison, I felt sure. It also occurred to me that many of the tenants had been in prison. This increased my sense of insecurity, particularly as I was more aware than most of how prison fails to reform an habitual offender. In the end, as with Rebecca, I refused to answer my door to anyone who did not have an appointment. Whether my unwelcome visitors were villains casing the joint, or DHSS fraud investigators, I simply do not know. The only person to visit me therefore was to be my probation officer, whom I would see every two weeks whilst on parole.

I became terribly lonely. The housing association's booklet spoke of cheese and wine parties for the tenants when the place was first opened. When I moved in, the only cheese was my mother's EEC handout. I later bought a bottle of Riesling, whisky, white rum, vodka, cider, cordials and cans of lager. They remained unused, since my probation officer drank only tea. Despite invites, my friends would not come around. They were apparently drinking acquaintances and no more. Real friendship was sadly lacking, and love non-existent. The cell mentality adopted by many of the tenants including myself, I found disquieting. That was not the sort of life I wanted to live. Eventually the pressure became so great that I made a conscious decision to talk to myself. Within a few months I was to develop quite long intelligent conversations with myself, in imaginary situations with people I had met in real life. It seemed to be the only way of releasing the frustration I felt at not being able to communicate with the people around me. The advantage of doing this was that it helped me to work out how to make initial contact with women in pubs.

Whether a psychiatrist, would have approved, I do not know. Whilst others may count sheep, I would continue my conversations at length whilst lying in bed at night. Occasionally I would talk out aloud to myself whilst out shopping, which proved embarrassing at times. I became worried that when the time came I would not be able to stop doing it. As for talking to my mates, they either would not listen, were not available, or the places we would meet in were simply too noisy to hold a conversation in. As for subjects to talk about, my empty life presented few topics of interest. My lack of achievement produced little impetus to get really involved with people, but I never gave up. My will to find a girlfriend however, was in direct conflict with my growing urge to leave the country. I wondered which would ultimately win.

On the last day of March my probation officer came around at 10 am, and stayed for just over an hour, as usual. We had a good friendly chat, mainly about my mental condition. I was glad that he never gave me any earache about getting a job. During the conversation Cyril told me that I should go and see my GP regarding my fits, neurosis and the mini stroke I had in Risley. I told Cyril that I would definitely see my GP when my new medical card arrived. That day I closed my old bank account, having become exasperated at not getting a cheque guarantee card.

Later that day I called in at my local DHSS office for the first time. As I did not have too far to walk, my left foot was not unduly punished. I picked up my interview number from reception, then sat in the waiting room for half an hour, until my number came up on the wall indicator. I gave the interviewer my name and address, after which she went away to find my details. After five minutes she returned and informed me that the discrepancy, whatever it was, had already been cleared up and that my benefit giro was in the post. That came as a relief, as I thought they were going to ask me about my savings. How could I tell them that I had spent almost two thousand pounds in one day. Although my total savings were less than the maximum allowed (3000 pounds), enabling me to qualify for supplementary benefit, I felt in no mood to reclaim the tax on the interest it earned. I well remember Bill's first claim for benefit. His savings were just below the limit when he claimed for it. Against my advice he told them everything, whereupon they refused to cough up his entitlement. Whilst at the DHSS office I asked about my rent and rates. I wanted to know who paid them. I was told that my rent and general rates would be paid direct by the DHSS. My water rates, electricity and heating would be paid by myself out of my benefit. I went away content. What I did not realise was that I had been given some duff information.

I had intended calling into Tesco's supermarket on the way home, but I did not, After my contact with the DHSS, I had lost the urge to spend any money. I hated the organisation and always would. It reflected the negative mind of government, making unemployment acceptable, thereby stifling any political incentive to produce a better society.

For the next four days from Wednesday to Saturday, I decorated my flat with cans of water washable emulsion, which I had bought years before for my bungalow on Anglesey. My first attempt on the shower ceiling proved a bit of a disaster. I thought I had scraped all of the loose paint off, but a few hours after repainting it I noticed that the old paint had started to peel. I was far from pleased. At that rate of progress I would never finish the job. I decided to paint the rest of the flat, leaving the shower room until last. The living room, kitchen and hall presented no problems. I painted the ceilings, walls, window sills and door frames, and actually obtained enjoyment in doing so. Finally came the dreaded shower room ceiling. I scraped all the new paint off and as much of the old paint as possible, really giving the surface hell. There were paint chippings everywhere, and unfortunately I did not have a vacuum cleaner, only a carpet sweeper. I therefore decided to borrow one. I knew Amanda had one, but there was no reply when I knocked. Finally I was able to borrow a cylinder type vacuum cleaner from Kim, an attractive young woman who worked in nearby night clubs. She appeared to be the only level headed person I had met in the tower block. Her boyfriend was watching television. She bemoaned the fact that her flat needed decorating, but her boyfriend was not interested. How I wished I could change places with him. I would have given it three coats at least. Kim told me about the other people on the landing. Her girlfriend Belinda who was cohabiting in the flat next door with a cockateel, was a student studying English at the local college. As for Amanda, Kim told me that she was a bit of a birdbrain. It was a warning I was to ignore at my peril.

Opposite my flat lived a coloured guy called Brian. He got visits at all hours of the day and night, on average about fifteen per day, including visits from four women with prams. I could not figure out how he maintained his popularity. He was obviously not rich, otherwise he would not be living there. I concluded that he was either pushing drugs, or was a super stud. His main vice however was to play his jungle music at all hours of the day and night. I could even hear it whilst in bed, the beat of the reggae thudding through the building, sometimes at three or five o'clock in the morning. There were many people on the landing who wished he would move on. There were ten flats on the landing, the occupants of which were too quiet for Kim to know much about.

The vacuum cleaner worked great, so I used it to clean all the other carpets in the flat before returning it. After I had finished painting the shower room, I fitted the new lavatory seat. It had cost me twenty pounds, a phenomenal price I thought. It was blue in colour to match the carpet. I would probably spend my days utilising my investment to the full by bog brooding, Karen would have loved it.

On Friday and Saturday night, I went down the Bar St Martin to see Ellis and Ann. On Sunday I went out alone, paying homage to the Longboat public house. Much had changed in the area since the days I had taken Karen there. It was only a short walk past the Repertory Theatre, and the Registry Office where Karen and I had got married. Most of the other buildings had since been demolished to make way for the International Convention Centre to be opened in 1991, and the National Indoor Sports Arena to be completed in 1989. Together with three more halls being built at the city's National Exhibition Centre, it represented a vote of confidence in the city's future, which I felt left out of.

Eventually I found the Longboat, standing quietly in the dark at Cambrian Wharf by the canal. The place was slightly smaller than I remembered. The narrow boat once kept on display outside, had unfortunately been removed. Looking along the canal towards the science museum, the British Telecom Tower stood firm, pointing to the sky, its hazard warning lights blinking. The scene brought back a flood of memories of happier times, now lost forever. In the months that followed, I would go out on daily walks, many of which were to take me to that spot, as I walked along the canal from the Gas Street Basin. On my way home that night I passed Arthur's Bar. Kim had told me about the place. It looked too posh for me. Many of the cars parked outside I would not even have been able to afford second hand, but ultimately that was not to deter me.

Monday, April 6th, 1987 found me in one of my extravagant moods as I bought Birdbrain a key ring, which cost me the enormous sum of three pounds. I had found her key left in her door twice so far. I fancied her, but she had a boyfriend, as I was later to discover. I slept like a log that night. It was the first time I had closed the windows in four days, owing to the smell of paint. It was always noisy outside, what with the police and ambulance sirens wailing along the main road, especially at weekends near pub closing time. The night clubs and restaurants would throw their customers out in the early hours, whilst the dray men would often turn up four hours later with supplies of ale for the public houses. I developed a strong urge to move, preferably to a higher floor on the sunward side of the building, but having done such a good job at decorating the flat, I reluctantly decided to stay put. After my first month's stay in the flat, my tinnitus gradually returned and resumed its normal level of three days whistling per week. It was not a happy tune.

The next day I visited my local health centre. I made an appointment to see my new GP, leaving him a two page letter explaining my medical history, including my treatment in prison. I thought that by doing so it would save an awful lot of time later. I was to be proved wrong. Later that day, Cyril came to see me as planned. We talked about my letter to the GP, and conditions in prison. Evidently he was not looking forward to doing two years service in the welfare department of a prison, as part of his career structure. Who would?

On Friday the tenth of April I went to see my GP, Dr.Rome. He seemed a nice chap, but had obviously been reading too many books by Freud. He thought that my problems stemmed from my childhood rather than with my in-laws. Mine stemmed from my birth as far as I could see. I wished I had never been born. He had not read my letter, since it had been put in a folder relating to someone else with the same name. He therefore read through the letter quickly, giving him inadequate time to assess the situation. There was some disagreement between us as to which drug I had been on at Risley, Prothiaden or the lithium based drug Priadel. He informed me that he would write to Dr.Shrunk and ask him for my medical records, and refer my case to a specialist. It was to prove a long wait.

On May Day I was to see Dr.Rome again as arranged. He had still not received my medical records. Eventually after numerous letters he was to get them, amounting to one letter I believe, referring to depression. My case was passed on to a psychiatrist, a Dr.Shoebright at the forensic psychiatric department of a local hospital. My first interview with him was not until August the twelfth, almost three and a half months later. He interviewed me again on September the fourteenth. He said he would arrange for me to have a brain scan, which he said would be sensitive enough to show up the affects of my mini stroke. I would also have a mobile EEG unit fitted, designed to record my fits whilst I was at home. He also wanted me to go to the Acute Day Centre two days per week. I told him that I did not want to do that. Such a programme would have interfered with the writing of my manuscript, although I never told him that. I did however agree to go there for one morning in order to learn how to do breathing exercises and meditation, in the hope that this would lick my anxiety state.

On September the twenty-third I had a computer aided tomography (CAT) brain scan at Dudley Road Hospital, the same hospital where years before my wife had undergone an EEG. From the reception I followed the winding corridors to the radiography waiting room. After half an hour's wait I was escorted along more winding corridors and through rooms containing records, to another small waiting room. Finally I was taken to the CAT scanner. Much to my surprise it turned out to be a mobile unit in the car park, an area which I had walked past an hour before. I lay down on the table, and after my head had been wedged into a firm position the scanning commenced. The table slid forward operated by a rather quick reacting pneumatic ram, which I felt was designed to stretch my spine. My head entered the hole in the doughnut ring, and then the table stopped. The machine whirred quietly for a few seconds, as the x-ray emitter carried out the first scan. The table then moved on for the next scan, and so on. The entire process was monitored in the control room at the far end of the trailer. The scanning only took about fifteen minutes, after which I was led out into the car park, from whence I walked home. I was never told whether the scan showed up anything significant, as by now I was beginning to tire of the pointless repetitive interviews, and above all the interminable waiting, which only increased my degree of inbuilt stress.

On September the thirtieth I was interviewed by two female members of staff at the Acute Day Centre, one of whom was a very attractive black therapist. They handed out the questions. I gave the answers. It turned out to be just another repetitive time wasting interview. There was no mention of breathing exercises and meditation. I had taken a cassette tape along as Dr.Shoebright suggested in order to record the programme on it, but it was to remain in my pocket unused. As I said to my GP later, I did not protest. I had learned the hard way not to seek a confrontation. As I was on parole, I had learned to keep my mouth shut and my mind in neutral. I definitely did not want to end up back in prison.

It had now been five months since I had first gone to my GP. The stress from waiting for effective treatment became intolerable. He was reluctant to prescribe me tranquillizers. In the end I went to another GP at the same health centre on October the eighth, since my own doctor was not available. He prescribed Diazepam, which lasted about ten days. I slept great during those days, and had no fits. The treatment however was too short to have any lasting effect. The medical profession and the government were very concerned that people could become addicted to tranquillizers. The government was later to issue a warning, advising that tranquillizers should be prescribed for a period of no more than a month. I was not even to get that. On October 21st I visited Dr.Rome, who prescribed sleeping pills. I told him that I did not want anti-depressants, as I had learned from my experience in Risley that they were of no help in the long run. I later learned however that the pills were anti-depressant in nature.

By now I had no faith in the medical profession. I had still not had my EEG, partly because I had been forced to cancel an appointment. I was told that the delays were caused by government spending cuts, but I was left with the impression that no one really cared. Doctors covered themselves by going through the procedures, but at no point did they really help me. They were medically qualified, but did not appear to be truly caring men of principle. The government's Scrooge mentality was to come to the fore when nurses went on strike for the first time ever in February 1988, in protest against NHS underfunding following years of tight budgetary control. Vast resources within the NHS were standing idle, as the hospital authorities were unable to attract the necessary nurses, because the government controlled wage rates were unrealistically low.

The government was underfunding the NHS by two billion pounds per annum, probably in order to fatten up the private medical sector, in the hope that one day it would end up running the NHS itself. Less than ten per cent of the population had private medical insurance. These people soon came to realise the limitations of such a service. It did not cover long term treatment for mental illness, stroke, AIDS, senile dementia, etc. Geriatric care might, be needed for the last ten years of a person's life, putting it well beyond the scope of private medical insurance. Sixty percent of NHS patients were over sixty years of age. At this time it cost about four thousand pounds to keep a person in a private hospital for one week. The government's only answer to the problem, was that old people should be prepared to sell their homes in order to receive swift medical treatment. Should complications set in, the bills were certain to be hefty.

On February 13th, 1988 Matthew Colier was to die, just up the road in Birmingham Children's Hospital, a few days after finally receiving his long fought for hole in the heart operation. One was left with the feeling that the government was deliberately underfunding the NHS, thereby causing unnecessary deaths, simply because its penny pinching mentality was now out of control. By February 1988 the British government had excess revenues of six billion pounds in its coffers. Buying votes apparently meant more to them than saving lives. I considered the government to be nothing less than mass murderers. It takes one to know one.

No matter what the reason. I found I had endured enough. Whilst walking to these interviews, I had twice come close to being killed. Once on a pedestrian crossing I came within a split second of being hit by an ambulance, with no siren nor flashing light on, that overtook stationary cars. On the second occasion I was almost hit by a lorry whilst crossing what I thought was a duel carriageway. At about this time I received an appointment card asking me to attend the Acute Day Centre four days per week. Such an idea I considered intolerable. I felt that I was being treated like an idiot. Exasperated, I therefore wrote to Dr.Shoebright:

In truth I felt like tearing up my medical card, but for some reason clung onto it. I had nothing to do with the medical profession from then on. At about this time a female schizophrenic jumped off the balcony of her boyfriend's flat, to her death. They were both outpatients at the Acute Day Centre, where they had met. After hearing about this incident, I felt certain that I had made the right decision. I needed a girlfriend who could help me, not drench me with her problems. I avoided confrontations wherever possible. It was not easy, and required an enormous amount of willpower at times. Had my personality been slightly different, I feel certain that I could have ended up back in prison on another murder charge. I found it hard to believe that society could be so indifferent to my needs.

I eventually realised that I would only get better through my own efforts. Each night I did twenty-five press ups and a similar number of trunk curls. I walked everywhere, and made a point of going out at least once a day, usually for walks along the canal. Whenever I felt under deep stress, I would do some heavy breathing, which seemed to do the trick. It took a couple of months before I could see a marked difference in my mental state, but I was under no illusion. I was always aware that if I gave up, then my condition would regress, as it did in January 88 when I stopped exercising after pulling a muscle. I took cod liver oil every day and an aspirin tablet every other day, in order to stave off the possibility of another stroke. I had no pains in my temples after that. I also took multi-vitamin tablets in the hope of improving my thinking. Certainly my brain did not complain about this treatment, but my sporadic fits continued.

As a result of clenching my teeth during my mild fits, my front crown and its accompanying core incisor sheared off on May 27th, 1987. It was six weeks before the repair was complete. On February 11th, 1988 as a result of my neurosis I split my left crown, the replacement for which took one week, at the same dental surgery as before. My teeth were also radiographed. It would apparently be a long time before my neurosis finally dissipated. Its haunting effect would never be forgotten.

That evening on Friday, April the tenth, I buried my disgust for the yuppie clique, and with my UB40 well out of sight, went to Arthur's Bar. It was a very small, dark and crowded place. I now knew how a sardine felt in a can. The place was not exactly over decorated. As in most places, it was difficult to chat up women there owing to the noise. If there is one thing I hate, its having to shout sweet nothings into a woman's ear. That was not the way that one could accurately put over one's personality. Invariably it led to a bitchy look that told me that contact was lost. During my first year I went to Arthur's Bar at least once each weekend, as it was so close, but that was not the only reason. There in the darkness one night I saw a woman whom I fell in love with instantly. I had never believed in love at first sight until then. She was Helen of Troy personified. The first night I saw Helen she wore a figure hugging black dress with a low back exposing a deep sun tan, which she later told me she got in Las Palmas. It took me many weeks to pluck up the courage to speak to her, but as with most women I met, she simply did not want to know, as she started talking rapidly to her three girlfriends, Veona, Fiona and Marie as soon as I approached. She told me that she worked at a bank and came from Sutton. She did however talk in a quiet civilised manner, which only helped to increase my infatuation.

I suppose my age, and the fact that I invariably went out on my own, were off-putting. It was not my fault that my balding mates were sedentary, and set in their ways to the extent that they would rarely go anywhere new. Helen did have one slight disadvantage. She had a strong resemblance to the actress Helen Worth (Gail Tilsley) in the soap opera Coronation Street, from whom she no doubt derived her alias. It did not however stop me from becoming love sick, as I constantly looked at her discreetly week after week. Eventually I asked her to go out with me. She accused me of being naive. I got the message. Deeply disappointed, I moved on.

Eventually the yuppies moved on from Arthur's Bar to my new local called Brannigans (not to be confused with Brannigans Ballroom, which came along later). Much money had obviously been spent on Brannigans. The front half consisted of a restaurant come wine bar, whilst the rear half contained the bit that I was interested in, namely the drinking trough. The room was about twenty by seventeen metres square, in the middle of which was a bar five metres square. Above the rear entrance was a smaller bar, whilst at opposite ends of the main room were, mounted high on the wall, three colour monitors displaying video discs. It represented the ultimate in bar entertainment at that time. It was a place where one could see a lady clutch her screaming multiple orgasm, whilst watching the laser beams dance to Peter Llyich Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. I must admit that it added a touch of class to the neighbourhood, but the women were no friendlier. As I walked back home on those cold lonely nights, I had some inkling of how Napoleon must have felt during his retreat from Moscow. Both Brannigans and Arthur's Bar were very popular, some people travelling twenty miles to see them. The James Brindley and Longboat canal side pubs, plus the bar at the Repertory theatre, increased the area's popularity. They we're however, no substitute for real companionship.

Birmingham did not have disco pubs where you could dance, neither were there singles' bars. The city centre was dominated by the under twenty-ones, and the Paramount was no different. Of all the pubs I went to, this one really brought me out of my shell. Without a doubt it was the smartest pub in the city centre. Like Cagneys it was a mirror and lights pub, but on a larger scale. In fact it looked better than most night clubs, including the one above it. The brightness and the cheerful decor brought out the humour buried deep within me. Looking back on it, perhaps too much humour. The Paramount was known as a poser's pub, where the women flaunted there assets. There is no doubt in my mind that I prefer dolls and tarts. Talking to them made me feel at least ten years younger, and no doubt had the opposite effect on them. I must have chatted up at least forty women in there, getting absolutely nowhere.

"We'll never get a fella if yea stand next to us," said one doll.

This I interpreted as, the men will think that I'm their father.

"Where are your mates?"

This was a very common question which made me cringe. Either it meant that I should go and join them, or it inferred that since I was with no one then I must be a weirdo or rapist. The latter I knew to be a false assumption. Years before, whilst living in Birmingham, I remember lying in bed one night when I suddenly heard a piercing scream. It appeared to come from the flat opposite. I could have investigated or telephoned the police, but did not. The scream was cut off abruptly, as if the person had been rendered unconscious. I thought no more of it, finally dropping off to sleep. A day or so later, upon returning from work, I noticed blood on the landing outside this particular flat. I later saw the occupant, an attractive negro by the name of Caesar. Both his hands were heavily bandaged. My rent collector later told me that Caesar had a habit of taking women back to his small flatlet, doping them on cannabis and raping them, despite the fact that he had a regular girlfriend. A few days after the rape, he had all of his mates sat around on the landing, about a dozen of them. I think it was an attempt to intimidate witnesses. I was never interviewed by the police. Soon after that incident he moved on.

Usually women were less direct in their contempt for men. There were about ten stages of rejection employed as I attempted to make contact:

1. The female group would cluster closer together and start talking rapidly to one another, thereby preventing me from getting a word in. This could be overcome by watching them closely until they became exhausted. Starting a stop watch would also have a demoralising effect on them.

2. The group would turn away and look at the floor or a piece of furniture. This can be overcome by remarking upon the cleanliness of the carpet, or the quality of the workmanship that went into making the table for instance.

"One day antique dealers will be fighting over that," is a comment sure to crack the ice. Well, anywhere that is except Brum.

3. One tactic commonly employed was for the women to pick up their handbags and march off to the loo, to discuss further obstructive tactics.

4. The most off-putting were the birds that acted cold, refusing to smile or give their name, and answering only in monosyllables.

5. The most common tactic however was to tell lies. Invariably they would not give their real name, then stand there smugly thinking, we know something you don't. There is no doubt in my mind that my little black book could have been easily filled with false names, addresses and telephone numbers.

6. Some women were however honest and more direct. Either they told you politely that they did not want to talk to you. In which case you ignored the remark, or they told you to go away, piss off or fuck off, depending upon their intelligence and degree of urgency.

7. A more effective method of pest removal was to accidentally spill someone else's drink over the poor guy, as happened to me.

8. I was threatened with head butts.

9. As a last resort the doorman would be called over. He would naturally side with the woman, even if she was two sheets to the wind and drinking the dregs from all the glasses, as happened to me on one occasion.

"The women in here are really unfriendly. Where do you go to find a woman?" A man once asked me.

"I don't know, I've tried everything," I replied, and to this day I still do not know the answer. Women's lib has fucked up society.

The majority of Brummie women that I came across tended to be as hard as the chains that the women of the city once made at the turn of the century. I got the feeling that they were either unemployed, resented being dominated by men at work, or had either been molested in the past, or been given VD, which might explain why many of then travelled miles outside their own neighbourhood, just to get a drink. Many were obviously wannabe prostitutes. During that first year of freedom I can only recall two women chatting me up first. One of these later became paranoid about me. Maybe the fact that she worked for the Extra Building Society had something to do with it, since company's have all sorts of information on their computers these days.

I was a man who preferred long shaggy haired blondes in the main, and there were certainly plenty to choose from. Unfortunately they did not like balding geriatric geezers. The female regulars in the Paramount were far from being the gentle sex. As my visits continued I became the man the bitchy batty broads loved to hate. Their insults I laughed off, which only made them more angry, some to the point of paranoia. They apparently had little else to think about. These wacky women had no hobbies nor interests, and resented those that did. Many were unemployed or in dead end jobs. They wallowed in their own abject misery. Only the blacks appeared to really know how to enjoy life in that city, which is probably why many of my male friends were coloured. Trying to overcome my tarts moronic mentality I eventually decided was futile, but I was determined not to let it get me down. I had a frightening vision that eventually I would give up going out altogether, spending my evenings curled up in front of the goggle box, slowly turning into a resigned cabbage. In my opinion Moslems have the right attitude to women.

In September 1987, I went to three evening classes in the hope that I would find someone compatible. I was surprised to learn that in a city of one million people, the organisers were having difficulty getting a minimum number of people to join each class. I enrolled for astrology, origami and renaissance dancing, the latter I found very interesting, but since my memory was poor I found it difficult to do, as the steps became more complicated. On the first evening that a young woman joined the class, her car was broken into whilst parked outside the school. Although one of the culprits was caught, it did perhaps justify the fear that some women had about going out in the evening.

Each of the three classes I went on had only six participants. Evidently television had killed off the desire for people to meet others face to face. I never found the woman of my dreams at those classes, and after about six weeks had stopped going to all three.

There was no doubt in my mind, that the local authority through adult classes, sport and leisure centres, museums, parks and special events like the jazz, boating and film festivals, firework displays, carnivals and of course the Formula 3000 Super Prix, was attempting at a cost of forty million pounds per year, to give the city a friendlier image. During that year I attended the Canalcade, walking from the Gas Street Basin and along the Birmingham & Fazeley Canal to Aston University Science Park, and the Super Prix, which you could understand and see more of by watching on television. It was at the track side that I finally bought my ear plugs. They came in handy whilst my neighbours were pumping up the volume at night. As for the Birmingham Prix, I watched it on TV in stereo, having the window open at the time. Neither event appeared to be well attended, underlining the apathy that existed within the city. As Bill said to me later, the narrow boats on the canal are no substitute for the yachts at Monaco.

The next step in obtaining a fair maiden was through computer dating. It cost me seventy-five pounds for a year's membership, plus two pounds for each computer run. Within three months I had exhausted the computer's memory for the Birmingham area. I would always write rather than telephone someone out of the blue, and I never bothered anyone who was not interested. The results that I got were by and large hostile. A few days after posting the letter I would telephone the woman.

"Can I speak to Brenda please?" I would say.

"She's not in," a voice would reply.

"When will she be in," I would ask.

"I don't know, she's gone away," the catty bitch at the other end would say.

"Where's she gone," I would frantically ask.

"Haven't got a clue," would be the reply.

After a few of these calls to various women, I got the distinct impression that the person I wanted to talk to, I had been talking to. There was no doubt in my mind that many Brummie women enjoyed pissing men around. One woman, whom I only had a telephone number for, would only meet me in a pub car park. I got the distinct impression that she was on the game. We did not meet. Eventually I got my word processor to take the strain, which probably gave women the feeling that there was a long queue at my door. After three months of getting absolutely nowhere, I told the dating computer to blow a fuse. I simply could not take any more. In any case I had a better idea.

I decided to answer advertisements in singles magazines. I answered about a dozen of them. One woman that replied to my computerised letter I met in late October 87. She managed the computer department for a venture capital company in snooty Solihull. Evidently she understood computerised letters better than most women. She had studied psychology, but when we met she spoke most of the time about computers, less than half of which I understood. She told me that she was looking for a husband. She had a nice car and her own home. She was divorced, mature and not bad looking. I was however not looking for marriage. At one stage she told me that she had once applied for a job at Park Lane Mental Hospital. I had to keep my mouth firmly shut at that point. Being a trained psychologist, she understood men more than most women, and so was not afraid of this kind of dating. I went out with her three times. On the first occasion I took her to the Paramount, where I showed her my photos of the hurricane damage in Brighton, where I had been two weeks before. My photographs were not the only thing she noticed, for my lust for younger women became obvious to her at this very first meeting. I think she was older than me, having lied about her age. On the second occasion we went to Arthur's Bar, where my woman in black now looked at us discreetly. On the third occasion we finally went back to my place. She found my word processor far more interesting than romantic records or cool refreshing drinks. After she had relayed my computerised letter, I suggested to her that we lie on the bed for a bit.

'Yes all right, but I'm not going to bed with you," she replied.

I could hardly conceal my excitement. We lay on the bed together, and I was gentle with her. Ultimately we performed all the foreplay that one could without actual intercourse. Like a gentleman I stuck to my word, We lay in one another's arms, satisfied if not completely sated.

"Would you like to stay the night next weekend?" I asked softly.

"Yes, all right then." she replied.

That week I could think of little else except, finally after five years, getting my leg over. The day before I was due to see her I received a letter. In it my Coventry Climax informed me that she would not see me again. After tinkering away on my word processor, she told me that we had nothing in common. Well that was that. The end of a fantasy. She was the only woman who came anywhere near to understanding me, and I will always remember her with affection.

This was the age of the singles magazine. I therefore put in an advertisement, I naturally lied about my age. Thirty-three instead of thirty-nine. At no stage during my attempts at intercourse with the opposite sex did I tell them that I was unemployed, much less a double dirty Den. I received three replies to my body promotion. The first was from a fork lift operator. Apparently she had sent her letter to the wrong box number, which I dully returned. The second included a photograph, as requested. She was very beautiful. I sent her one of my computerised letters. By now I had realised just how scared women were of meeting men for the first time. I therefore included the name and telephone number of my Coventry Climax, with the intention that she should phone her up in order to suss me out. The plan misfired. She wrote back stating that she did not like me boasting about my 'sexual prowess.' When it comes to women, you just cannot win!

Two months later I got the third letter, all six pages of it. This was by no means unusual. I had received many such letters through computer dating. In it they would tell you just about everything, from their failed marriage and lovely children, to their interests in travel, discos and aerobics. I got the feeling that they were really looking for an agony aunt. Nevertheless I did answer this letter, not just with a computerised sheet, but also some hand written dribble expounding my total failure so far, with women. I naturally included Coventry Climax's telephone number, explaining with great sensitivity that in no way should it be taken as a boast. Two days later I telephoned her, and much to my surprise she decided to see me. I would meet her at 8-30 pm outside the Rotunda. I felt ecstatic. An hour before we were due to meet, I telephoned her to let her know that I would be there. She then stated that she was not going to see me, and was not prepared to explain why. There was no getting around her. I wrote to her, but the relationship was over, assuming that it had begun. In my wardrobe I now had a collection of letters from over twenty women. I had become very disillusioned. I could well understand why men became gay, and why many women got raped.

There is no doubt in my mind that I could have written a book on how to fail with women, but in those early months I still had much of this to experience. Resuming the reminiscences described in my diary, I see that on Saturday the eleventh of April 1987 I spent thirty pounds on food and consumables. I hate to think how I could have survived without my savings, later supplemented by one thousand pounds from my mother. On average my shopping bill was to come to twenty pounds per week. My electricity, laundry, water rates and heating was to cost another seven pounds per week, leaving me with just four pounds to buy clothes, insurance, TV licence, repairs and travel tickets. In reality I spent at least fourteen pounds per week on going out in the evening. During my first year out of prison I spent two thousand pounds of my savings on things other than my word processor. During that time I did not go on holiday, nor was I extravagant with my money in other ways. The government had seen to it that there was simply no way that anyone could live on supplementary benefit alone.

Returning from the supermarket I noticed that in the car parks and streets that surrounded the shopping centre and tower block where I lived, small red flashing lights inside the windscreen denoted that the car burglar alarm system was in operation. These alarms would go off quite frequently during warm days. No one appeared to take any notice of them. As for me, I was not interested in getting a car, even though I had the money, I did not really like cars. They cost the Earth to purchase, then there was road tax, insurance, annual Ministry of Transport test, repairs, fines, parking fees, depreciation, not to mention petrol, oil, servicing and of course the car wash. I could never stand the stress from all that. Should I ever be forced to get a job, I was determined that I would not get a car. Where I was living I did not even find the need to use a bus, even if it did have a Daimler engine.

That afternoon Councillor Sir Stanley Yapp and party were attacked just down the road in the plush Holiday Inn by Spurs supporters, who had apparently claimed to be part of a brokers convention. In the city centre a fifteen year old Spurs supporter was stabbed and kicked in the street. For some people, Birmingham could be hell, like the young blind people mugged at a bus stop, or the off duty policeman beaten up in a wine bar after making the mistake of telling people truthfully what he did for a living.

That evening, ignorant of the day's news, I went into Arthur's Bar in Gas Street. There was hardly anyone there. You would have thought a war had taken place judging by the free fire zone that the general public had created that evening. Such was the influence the news media had. It was easy to realise how the constant sensationalistic reporting of crime had influenced people's lives. The news media at this time was answerable to virtually no one. In 1987 there were 1269 complaints to the Press Council regarding inaccurate or outright fiction in newspapers, but the council had no executive powers to fine or dismiss culprits. Rupert Murdoch's Sun and News of the World topped the list of offending daily and Sunday newspapers. My own experiences led me to believe that news should not be broadcast on radio or television, only on teletext. There is nothing that most people can do about what they hear on the news, so why tell them it umpteen times a day. It merely reflects the company's inability to find anything more entertaining. By portraying news in print only, it would encourage people to read, and be less paranoid.

There was a lot of talk at this time about violence on TV being a cause of crime. Whilst the vast majority of the population would not be influenced, a substantial percentage would. Watching emotive subjects on TV did bring the symptoms of my mental illness to the surface on several occasions, just as reading it in a newspaper would do. I think that to be influenced by the media, a person has to have something socially or psychologically wrong in the first place. This can stem from a lack of human interaction resulting from watching too much television. Were there no television from 4-30 pm to 7 pm and none after 11 pm, nor on Saturdays and Sundays, it would encourage better homework and greater family bonds leading to better adjusted people.

The assumption that television has little effect on people may not remain valid forever. The technology in television in the 1980's was quite crude. Whilst the end of the 1980's would see the introduction of direct broadcast satellites, with all the problems of international control that it represents. The real problems will arise when high definition, three dimensional images become possible on large flat screens. Even so, as I found at Risley, an awful scene does not affect you so much until you smell it. Without a doubt, the reporting of crime and programmes on how to combat it, causes people to react out of all proportion to the danger, resulting in more harm to the community than crime itself could. I never met anyone in prison who said his criminal actions had been influenced by TV or the newspapers, but I certainly met people who had been talked into criminal acts by others.

The pub I remember more than any other was the Brasshouse, which opened on Broad street in 1987. I was to go there almost every Friday and Saturday night for decades, until the start of the pandemic lockdown in 2020. The DJ's played R&B, reggae and blues. It was a pub for mature people, catering for both blacks and whites. After the lockdown came the high energy costs and rain, rain, rain. People didn't go out. The evening bus service was cut, and I developed arthritis as a result of lack of expose to sunshine. I use to walk home in the early hours, which took 25 minutes, but that was now impossible, whilst paying over five pounds for a pint of lager was exorbitant. I went out less than eight times in three years. By this time the pubs had changed. The staff had changed and so had the atmosphere. I felt that having survived the pandemic, the nation was still dying. It was depressing to witness.

One morning whilst having my haircut I noticed a policeman recruiting the staff for a self defence course. I could not help thinking that the best way to avoid trouble is to be firm but restrained. Self defence courses are just another means of whipping up hysteria. The policeman would have been better employed in preventing crime through proper community policing. I could not help thinking that the dreaded poll tax was simply a means of keeping the hard up off the electoral register, as they attempted to avoid payment. I felt that it was also designed to provide an excuse for the introduction of identity cards, plus regular visits by the police to each person's home. In other words community policing. In an open and accountable system of government where democracy works, I support such a policy. Under Mrs. GG I looked upon the poll tax as a police state through the back door.

Sunday was a glorious sunny day, which was a most unusual occurrence that year. Evidently due to the greenhouse effect the overall temperature of Northern Europe and the North Atlantic Ocean was increasing year by year, resulting in greater cloud coverage. Some days were so overcast and dark that I had to have my living room light on at midday. This particular day was an exception which I was determined to enjoy. From my flat I could see the dinghies sailing on Edgbaston Reservoir. As a young lad I use to sail similar boats on a water filled gravel pit, so I was obviously curious to see the action. Around the lake, which existed primarily to supply water to the nearby canal system, people were jogging or walking the dog. Others were rowing. It took a total of two hours to walk to the reservoir, go around it and return home. It was very refreshing after experiencing days of repressive confinement in the tower block. I wished I had brought my camera, but I had no film in it.

Upon my return I decided to try out my slide projector, and see what damage the years of cold and damp had done to my fifteen hundred photographic slides. It did not take me long to get the slide projector working. Seeing those slides brought back many memories, like the day I had taken Ellis down to the Cotswolds for the day, nine years before. I had met him at a party in my flatlet in Aston in April 1977, and somehow we had remained friends ever since.

Every Sunday I would go down to the launderette on the ground floor. There always appeared to be twice as many women there than men, reinforcing my belief that men were the dirtier sex, since the building accommodated equal numbers of both. I found it easier to talk to women in there than in a public house. For one thing it was quieter, and for another we had something in common, soap suds and high rise living. I did not get anywhere though. Sitting there watching the spin drier whiz around, I felt like a sedentary senile citizen.

The next day I made my fortnightly trek to the benefit office to sign on, thereby proving my grudging existence to officialdom. I booked an eyesight test and later tried out my typewriter. I discovered that my typing speed was ten words per minute, using two fingers. How long would it take to type at four times that speed I wondered. Five months later, after completing my written manuscript I was to swallow by British pride and delving deeply into my miserly savings, buy a Japanese made, South Korean assembled, Alan Sugar supplied, Boots sold, word processor plus diskettes, stationary and additional software costing a total of five hundred and forty pounds. Within a week of receiving it, I received a letter from my local Jobcentre calling me in for a restart interview. I eventually got out of it by explaining to them my mental history in a letter. As far as I could see, I was doing myself more good than a pathetic government sponsored job creation scheme could ever do.

At thirty minutes past midnight there was a knock on the door. I was in bed wearing my pyjamas, but nevertheless went to see who it was. I could not see anything through the spy hole, until she moved her bloody forehead out of the way. The lens distorted her face into a grotesque shape, but even so, I knew that I had never seen her before. She looked harmless so I opened the door a bit, and peered out, I could not believe my eyes. She was scantily dressed, with little more than a blanket over her otherwise naked body. She was holding a banana. She apparently knew me and introduced herself as Sandra.

"There's a party in Amanda's flat," she said suggestively, then giving me a banana, skipped off in that direction.

Looking at the banana, I decided that I needed no more encouragement. I quickly got dressed. Grabbed my keys and a condom. No, two condoms, I thought, then rushed up the corridor, my brain overloaded with images of free love. I had never been a believer in casual sex until then. I knocked impatiently on the door, perhaps too impatiently. I knocked and knocked and knocked. Finally the door opened. It was Birdbrain, briefly clad. She deflated my ego in seconds when she told me that there was no party. She and her friend Sandra had apparently been spending the evening decorating the walls of the flat with charcoal drawings. I thought I was hearing things. After talking to her for about five minutes I returned to my flat alone, carrying a second banana. According to Tesco's prices I was now forty pence better off. I did not get much sleep that night, thinking of bananas. Had they abused them?

I had tinnitus that day and the next. Cyril had visited me as usual. We talked about life in the countryside. When they were off on their travels, his wife would often point out some quaint place in idyllic surroundings.

"It's a long way to Sainsbury's Supermarket," he would reply, no doubt thinking of the expense and upheaval in moving.

I drowned my tinnitus on Tuesday by listening to some of my eighty LPs, Deep Purple, Stray, Alex Harvey, Jimi Hendrix and Emerson, Lake and Palmer in particular. It was a primitive means of noise cancelling, but it worked, cheering me up in the process. I got depressed at times thinking of Karen. For six months or more I had been thinking of going up to Anglesey on the third anniversary of the killings, to pay my respects, but I was not certain whether I would be determined enough to go through with it. The long and winding road that leads to your door, were words that kept recurring in my mind. I wanted to talk to someone, but there was no one that I knew well enough to confide in. That evening I listened to records by Carly Simon and Francoise Hardy. How long could I put up with this pointless existence, I wondered.

The prospect of life on the dole for me and millions of other capable people, filled me with dread and hatred. The unemployment figures had fallen for the sixth month running, followed closely by falling crime figures. It was a relationship which the government was loath to admit when the figures were announced in early 1988. Meanwhile the pollsters predicted that Mrs. GG's regime would win their third general election in a row. I did not believe the government's unemployment figures. I was certain that they bore no relation to reality. Despite scandals amongst her own MP's, the Conning Party was to retain its hold on power in Whitehall after the next general election, not so much as a result of the presentation of a confident and safe future by the advertising companies, but by the ineffectiveness of the opposition parties. To many people the Labour Party supported nuclear disarmament amounting to unilateral surrender. Few of the electorate wanted to fight another major war in the trenches using conventional weapons. As for jobs, the opposition were going to create employment for one or two million people, leaving two million still on the dole, but few of the electorate could see where those jobs were going to come from. All of the electorate realised that it could only come about through higher taxation, since no more nationalised industries would be sold off. Those industries that had, would be repurchased by Labour at the original price, which was sure to upset a few million people straight away. They had obviously not been taught how to make friends and influence people.

The pathetic jokes about Mrs. GG during the campaign, instead of keeping things serious, reaffirmed in people's minds that the loony left still existed. The loony left's razzmatazz was gleaned from American politics, where the ideological difference between Republican and Democrat is negligible, since anything remotely leftist was eradicated during the McCarthy era. American politics therefore, is largely based upon personalities and track record, but British politics is not, since ideological differences exist and therefore matter, at least it did then. The British electorate tended to be more serious, some to the point of despondency. Many of whom were considered working class but did not vote, which is why when the Conning Party reformed the electoral boundaries, they did not go further and make failing to vote a criminal offence. In short the loony left screwed it up. They had only themselves to blame.

As for the third force, the alliance of the two centre parties. Many of the electorate could not understand the importance of establishing a modern constitution. Being reminded of the absence of proportional representation in British politics, merely encouraged people to vote for the two major parties, rather than see their vote wasted on an apparently hopeless cause. The loony left did not believe in proportional representation. Their arrogant view, that they would win the election outright, stifled any thought of an electoral pact with the centre parties. Had either method existed at the general election, then a coalition of left and centre parties could have put back the humanity which was lacking in the present government's social policies. On June 11th, 1987, Mrs. GG was returned to power with a majority of over a hundred seats in the House of Commons. I sat up until 2 am that night, watching the results come in. I got drunk. The next day Cyril came around wearing a red star badge and black tie. He was an active labour supporter, who incidentally supported the government's plans to replace the present system of local authority general rates, based on the value of a person's property, with a flat rate poll tax. He evidently believed that for all people to be equal, they should be taxed equally. Clearly it was not necessary for MI5 to infiltrate and undermine the left wing parties, since their grass root members were doing an excellent job of that without assistance from HMG. As long as the left wing parties and trade unions remained divided, reform would not take place, making them look outdated and uninviting to the electorate. The left was likely to remain in the political wilderness for a very long time.

There was no doubt in my mind that the root cause of social decline in Great Britain was crime generated by unemployment, created by government policy or lack of one. No political party in Great Britain believed in the creation of a full employment society, a target that had been largely achieved in Norway, a non EEC nation, whilst the government in Singapore had shown how to defeat crime and raise living standards substantially in a relatively short period of time. I had spent a lot of time in prison wondering how it could be achieved in the UK. Here then is my Utopian Dream, which in my darkest hour maintained that essential glimmer of hope. Hope for a better society for all.

In a nation's economy the controlling factors in running a profitable business and therefore determining employment, were the tax and overhead costs, reliability of utilities and communications, degree of automation, research and development, relevant job training, quality of personnel selection, limits to export opportunities and political ideology, which in the case of Great Britain consisted of an international political commitment to free trade and EEC regulations. All EEC trade barriers finally coming down in 1992, except in the service sector. Full employment was going to be unobtainable, since the size of markets was restricted by population, job security, spending power, political ideology, tradition and technology. It was important to maintain a high standard of technology in order to maintain a competitive edge, both on performance, price and to create of new markets. There was only five billion people living on the planet in 1987, of whom perhaps only a fifth could afford or were allowed to buy the goods that UKGB and other similar countries could produce. The global economy was not expanding as fast as higher production levels through automation were dictating. As agriculture, manufacturing and service industries became more efficient, unemployment levels would rise. Unemployment would create more unemployment as the home market shrunk further, since there would be fewer people with money to spend, because welfare benefits were too low to stimulate the economy.

It was clear to me that either the global economy expanded, or social change had to be brought about in order to create a full employment society. The British Government's policy of encouraging investment abroad in countries where a tradition of sound financial aptitude was seriously lacking, left the major banks with bad debts amounting to billions of pounds. I had little sympathy for these banks who invested money like water, failing to manage their depositors' money where capable management did not exist. As for the United States, its policy of increasing militarisation through a six hundred ship navy, star wars and the like, coupled with its ever growing debts, left it in no position to win hearts and minds by economic means. A Marshall Plan for the third world was out.

Social change therefore, seemed to be the only way of creating a full employment and hence a safer society. The ways in which this could be achieved was not new. There were three ways of looking at the problem, all of which a developed country would no doubt have to incorporate to some degree. A government could create employment by reducing imports, reduce the hours an individual worked, or alternatively create a leisure society. Whilst automation and the use of dumb robots remains confined to manufacturing industry, the creation of work, in the service sector appears to be the best solution to achieving full employment. As computers become more intelligent, enabling their use as expert systems in the service industries, a full employment society is unlikely to be created by these job creation methods alone.

Reducing high value imports that can be easily manufactured at home is a policy which few governments pursue. Apart from a mortgage and a car, imported home entertainment and computer systems is what many people spend their money on most. Why was it that comparable products to those imported from half way across the world were not made in the UKGB? It is a matter too important to be left to entrepreneurs. A government's belief that you can reduce imports simply by lowering interest rates is in my opinion a very simplistic view of economics. British companies do not mass produce entertainment systems in the main. Many are designed in this country but manufactured abroad, or they have simply given up due to the cost cutting competition. The rewards are not there. When it comes to incentives, how do you reward entrepreneurs in the UK. Compared to California, what use is a villa and yacht in Britain's miserable climate. There is also the tradition of paying directors too much salary, bonuses and pensions, even when the company is in debt and not making a profit. The government and the police turn a blind eye. There is also the failure of government to manage seed companies. The Scottish inventor John Logie Baird for instance, invented a potential 1400 line colour 3D television shortly before he died in 1946. When one looks at analogue TV in the 1980's, it beggars the question, how did it all go wrong? UK companies would not manufacture this TV because they failed to appreciate how competitive it could be made through mass production. With his death, much of the technical knowledge was lost. And all because the government does not manage the economy. Many entrepreneurs, particularly in the USA, will not invest in this country, because our constitution is so out of date.

Spending huge sums of tax payers money for the purpose of creating jobs is a foreboding prospect when one realises that to create employment for one person in a high tech industry could cost around twenty thousand pounds at this time (1987). That's twenty billion pounds for each million people unemployed. It would probably work out cheaper for the taxpayer, to reduce a person's working hours. Since with the introduction of humanoid robots equipped with artificial intelligence, androids, most work carried out by human beings would be of secondary importance. At this stage employment would be considered of social rather than economic necessity, with the pursuit of leisure being the primary justification for man's existence. It is difficult to postulate how smoothly the transition to a leisure orientated society will be. It is also difficult to predict when it will take place, since political as well as technological factors are involved. Although it maybe possible, given enough government support, to start mass producing humanoid robots around the year 2020, the technology may prove to be as elusive as that necessary to achieve nuclear fusion. Social political factors may put off the day until 2050. One thing however is certain, it will happen, given time. Indeed, robots are already producing other robots in dark factories.

A more developed vision of the future exists in the 'My Ideas' section of this web site. How government's create full employment in a leisure orientated society, and why you need it, and why time is rapidly running out, can also be found there.

Meanwhile, as I pondered over my dream of a Utopian society, my life in Birmingham struggled on. On April 16th, 1987 I finally went and had my eyesight tested for a pair of shades. I was very pleased with the way it was conducted. None of your two minute examinations here. Both eyes were tested individually, the test lenses resulted in me even being able to read the bottom line of letters on the illuminated test screen. Evidently the optician also had floaters in his eyes, a common occurrence apparently. It was reassuring to know that my case was not serious, even though there was no cure. It was a pity that I could not have been told that in prison, as it would have saved a lot of worry. My eyesight was not bad enough to warrant contact lenses. The eye test was free. A few months later the government was to abandon such concessions, as it continued hacking away at Great Britain's welfare state. After the test I then selected a pair of metal frames, into which I decided to have photo chromatic lenses which darken in bright sunlight. I was surprised when I was asked to collect them the next day.

Much to my amazement, I had repaired my thirty-five millimetre camera the previous day. With great difficulty I had removed the top cover, and used super glue to secure a loose mirror. The camera was twenty years old, and I really needed a new one, but I had no real need for one, as I went nowhere of interest. I did not like taking photos without a woman in the frame. Eventually I settled for taking some photos of myself in my flat. I also decided that I would definitely go up to Anglesey to see my friends in a weeks' time. This I thought, would present a good opportunity to test my repair.

The next day was the start of the Easter bank holiday weekend. I picked up my spectacles. They felt and looked great, though they did seem to add a few years to my appearance. For the first few months I did not wear them very often, mainly because I found it so difficult to remember to take them with me. They were handy for shopping, and essential for the teletext, or a good movie on TV, a rare occurrence. Finally I decided to wear them in the evening, in the hope that in the eyes of women, it made me look more affluent, distinctive and helpless. I was surprised to learn that women found me more handsome than before, but as before I still got nowhere. Whilst other men adorned themselves with gold jewellery, I wore my specks. In the cold weather they had a habit of steaming up as soon as I entered a pub, making me look even more helpless as I struggled to find the bar.

Later that day I telephoned my friends Allan and Bill, letting them know that I would be coming up to Anglesey soon. By now I was sick of the weather in Birmingham, and the depressing atmosphere it created amongst its inhabitants. The westerly winds would rise over the Welsh mountains, then condense into water vapour, forming a thick grey blanket of cloud over the city, seemingly hovering over my tower block for months. That evening after having a drink with Ellis and Ann, I went to Burberries night club. I asked a couple of women to dance with me but neither would. One of them lived in the same tower block as myself. She looked as if she was doped up on drugs, since the ginger bear she was drinking could not have produced the intoxicated state she was in. She spent most of the evening literally running away from me, and hiding in the loo. Her friend was very attractive. I struggled in vane to chat her up, but she had an intense dislike of men, or was it my Brut deodorant, which no amount of talking was going to change. They were probably outpatients at the same mental hospital, I concluded. What sort of society do we have these days, I kept wondering. My experiences made me feel depressed, creating a growing urge to get away from it all.

I went to Burberries the next night, and both women were there again, and again I got nowhere. I did however meet a nurse from the hospital just up the road, who amazingly agreed to dance with me. She came from New town where I had once lived. Any development of our relationship was quickly destroyed when her brother produced an excellent imitation of an erect penis, with his forearm and clenched fist. I felt disgusted, and ashamed to be male.

On one Thursday night in Burberries, a woman came up to me from behind.

"Can I have your autograph, you're famous aren't you?" The petite woman asked.

"No," I replied, "I'm infamous."

I naturally did not elaborate. Evidently she was a blackjack dealer at a city centre casino, and came from Quinton. This was too far away for my liking, since I had no car. She would not dance, which I found strange considering she was trying to pick me up in a night club. Usually a woman would take the initiative simply by standing too close to me and glaring. This got me very hot under the collar, as I became instantly dumb struck. If I was standing next to the dance floor they would bounce up and down as they danced towards me, doing their best to knock the drink out of my hand. Evidently I was not the only person to have lost the art of conversation.

On the Sunday I continued my quest for a bit of skirt, going to an over thirties disco held at a hotel half a mile from where I lived. On my way there I called in at the real ale bar of the Duck Inn, which Coventry Climax was to later call the Dirty Duck. Unfortunately it was not to be a reflection of her mind. Years before, I had called in at the Duck Inn where Karen, my brother and my parents had gone after our wedding. It was still the same, but the quietness brought back mixed memories. In the disco nearby, I felt out of place. All the women except one looked much too old, the exception being chatted up by a swarthy romeo, who also bought her drinks. Admitting defeat, I chatted up an Irishman. At places like that I had no difficulty in getting to know men. The only trouble was that I spoke to them purely to relieve the boredom. I never went back there. I had made enquiries about discos for the divorced or single. These were called SOLO and the NCDS (National Council for Divorced and Separated). My mother had once been a member of SOLO and found it useful. I scanned the local newspapers and What's On magazine for details. I never went to SOLO as it was too difficult to get to, but I did go to NCDS once. It made me feel very old. No motion lighting, no smoke generators, no full length mirrors and more importantly, no shaggy blonde tarts.

Finally, exactly a year after my release from prison, and still a member of the Cliff Richard's Celibate Fan Club, I decided to swallow my pride and go where all non-macho men ultimately go when they are desperate for a decent woman, the Gay Tower Ballroom. I walked there through the cold, hoping that frostbite would get to me first. It did not. I had only been there once before, and that was ten years previously. The place was still as big as I remembered it, but the dance floor had been reduced in size by placing additional tables around it. The décor was good, the group on stage (no doubt called the Lonely Hearts Club Band) was exceptionally excellent and well worth the price of admission, which was less than that of most night clubs in town. I got talking to some fellas who had been going there for ten years, and had still not found a wife. Like me, there were many men there on their own. I certainly did not feel out of place. I stayed there all evening, a total of about four hours, during which time I chatted up three groups of women. One woman I spoke to was a thirty-three year old baby, who worked for Mothercare. Unlike her engaged girlfriend, she would not dance.

"I came in here tonight looking for a woman, and you came in here tonight looking for a fella. Go on admit it," I said to Baby.

She turned her head away, unable to admit anything. The pair of them made out that they had intended to go to Brannigans that night, but had taken the wrong turn.

Meanwhile as my diary unfolded, on Monday the twentieth of April, 1987. I occupied my time reading my Flight International, then watched the movie War Games. The thought of a wasted weekend caused me to talk to myself a lot, and have several mild fits.

On the Tuesday I received a letter from the local housing authority wanting to know why they had not received my application for rent allowance. I had written to them asking about my council rates, and this letter was the reply. I rushed off to my local DHSS office to find out what was going on. At the interview a rent allowance form suddenly appeared. Evidently I should have received it when I first applied for supplementary benefit. I was not amused. I posted off the completed form that day.

The next day I found an excellent vacuum cleaner outside Birdbrain's flat. Since I only had a carpet sweeper I decided to use it, since nobody else seemed to care. I popped a note through Birdbrain's letter box, just in case it belonged to her. It worked perfectly. I left it in my flat for safe keeping. Birdbrain finally came around a week later to reclaim it. My friends had told me that it was simply her way of getting to know me. Like a fool I believed them. One evening after returning late from a symposium in London, I felt a strong urge to tell someone what a great day I had experienced. Hearing her record player going, I spoke to her through her letter flap, knowing full well that she would not have answered her door at that time of night. A few minutes later her boyfriend came around and threatened to do me in. I stood there incredulously, finally slamming the door in his face. The confrontation could so easily have ended in disaster.

I had many fits following that incident, and again when he came around for her vacuum cleaner a second time. She had left it outside her flat again, so I took it for safe keeping, leaving a message stuck to the floor stating 'vacuum cleaner treasure trail starts here'. It took me a long time to appreciate that unlike prison, many people went around with long faces, and placed a strong value on their privacy. She also suspected that because I was constantly popping her front door keys through her letter box, I had stolen her spare set of keys. She finally found them, but not before causing a lot of fuss. After that I ignored all vacuum cleaners and keys. So much for neighbourhood watch schemes.

Some months later on August 7th, 1987 I witnessed through my spy hole, two men from the flat opposite trying to break into Birdbrain's flat, I could hear them banging a door, but I was certainly not prepared to stick my neck out and see which one it was. Occasionally they would nip back into their flat, after first placing something down near my door out of my sight. I later dialled 999 and told the police, Although two uniformed policemen turned up, they did not even take a statement off me, nor apparently look for the jemmy, the marks from which were clearly visible on the door frame. Birdbrain apparently did not want to know, as the villain had failed to gain entry. When Birdbrain returned to her flat she noticed the damage, and feeling frightened, got the two men who had tried to break in to have a look and see if the burglars were still there.

Cyril came around to see me on Thursday, April 23rd, 1987. He was not allowed to talk about politics, unless I brought up the subject, which I usually did. We talked about the state of the nation during most of the meeting, the influences by which the lid is kept on the rumblings of discontent, namely television, alcohol, drugs and social security. I did not tell Cyril of my planned trip to Anglesey, as I knew he would try and talk me out of it. I did not trust him anyway. I regarded my trip as a very personal decision, which had to be performed.

Finally, at midday Friday I went to the car rental company and hired a Rover 216. Just as she was about to telephone my employer I informed the female member of staff that I had hired a van from them a few weeks before. They checked their records, which fortunately bore me out, so there was no check on my phantom employer thankfully. The journey did not start off too well as I followed the staffs road directions, causing me to drive the wrong way up a slip road outside Digbeth Police Station, followed by a U turn across three lanes of on coming traffic. Thankfully the incident was no worse than that. Soon I was out of the West Midlands, making a long and uneventful drive along that long and winding road between the mountains of Snowdonia.

Eventually the car descended towards the coast, where it crossed over onto Anglesey. Turning off the main road I decided to see what Gwalchmai looked like these days. As I drove down the narrow lane I looked out for people that I might know, but I saw no one. The place had changed a great deal in the three years I had been away. New houses had been built, whilst the renovation of others had been completed. The cul-de-sac had at last been asphalted, whilst Sunny Dale now had a chimney added to its once all electric appearance. I drove past slowly, looking for Fluff, but I saw no sign of life. The last thing I wanted was to come face to face with my former neighbour and builder Gwilym Owen, who in my opinion was the person who should really have gone to prison for stirring things up between me and my in-laws, after telling them that I was ill treating Karen and feeding her on jam sandwiches.

I arrived at Mrs. Jones bed and breakfast place without prior arrangement. Even so, she was naturally pleased to see me. Having known me and my ex-wife for so long, being a former nurse and having a brother with mental problems, all helped in her understanding my own case. She agreed to put me up for two or three nights, as requested. Her appearance had not changed noticeably in all the years since I last saw her. She was a frail looking woman. No sooner had I moved in, and had a chat, than I was off again to see my mate Bill. It was a short drive to his bungalow. Upon my arrival I got the impression that he was engaged in a number of activities around the place, mainly on the garden. As with Mrs. Jones, he was pleased to see me.

Bill, still lived on his own in the middle of nowhere. All his family lived in the West Midlands, since he had been divorced quite a number of years. From what I was told, losing two close friends, Karen and I, had hit him badly, but he had somehow managed to rebuild his life. During his days of leisure he worked on his garden, whilst for three or four evenings each week he would dance the light fantastic with his new found friends. I was very pleased to see him. He had now been unemployed for about five years, and was no doubt an inspiration to those who think that unemployment is a sentence of death. He had numerous female partners, many of whom were retired, wealthy or both. From what he told me, they took great delight in buying him gifts. He had found the leisure society. There was no doubt that the higher circles that he moved in, presented him with a higher quality of life than I was experiencing. People on the island tended to be less screwed up, and hence more humane than most Brummies I had met.

As Bill left for his evening dance with his partner, I drove off to see Brian and his wife Ann. Brian was never short of things to talk about, and that evening was no exception. From what he and Bill told me, it appeared that my solicitor had failed to remove my belongings from Sunny Dale before it was occupied by the new owners. This may have been why some of my belongings had disappeared. My belongings had passed through four sets of people. I mulled over the problem for months before finally getting onto my solicitor about it, as mentioned earlier.

It was on that first day that I finally got to hear about the heated verbal confrontation that took place at my trial, between a witness for the defence, and my sister-in-law who was accompanied by another woman. The defence witness had seen the incident between me and my in-laws at the bus stop, which resulted in the bruise on my arm. Evidently the witness was left deeply shocked by this confrontation in the law court toilets. Just why witnesses for defence and prosecution were allowed to mix in this way, I simply failed to understand. I also heard for the first time, stories about my former father-in-law having made his mistress pregnant at one time, but apparently no one would reveal who the woman was.

During these conversations it was put to me that my mother-in-law had wanted Karen returned to her as a means of keeping an eye on her husband, Glyn. I was also told of a statement made by a former neighbour of my sister-in-law, who stated that Glyn and Helen had given my sister-in-law's husband Gwynfor Harris, the same sort of trouble that I had received. None of this had been conveyed to me in letters to Risley. My friends knew that these letters would be read by members of the staff, so they were therefore afraid that they would get into trouble if they mentioned these details to me. It was a view I found hard to understand, but then I knew about prison whilst they did not. The fear of prison even extended to the contents of letters apparently.

The next day I searched for the grave of my in-laws. Bill told me that they had not been cremated, but he could tell me nothing else regarding the location of the grave. Holyhead's grave yard was large. Each head stone had a serial number on it, but I did not know which number to look for, assuming that it was even there. Most of the graves were in order of date, so I looked for April 1984. I eventually found it. One gravestone on the far side of the cemetery.

The words on the gravestone read;

'Treasured memories of our beloved parents and grandparents, Helen and Glyn Roberts from Holyhead, who died tragically on April 26th, 1984 aged 54 and 53 years. Take them in your arms dear lord, cherish them with care, make up for all they suffered and all that seemed unfair'.

They were words, the thinking behind which, I could understand. I went into town and bought a pot plant. There were two plants in the pot that I bought. Two different colours for two people. I drove to the cliffs overlooking the local lighthouse, where I sought out inspiration as to what to write on the card. It was a sunny day, but I felt very depressed as I looked out over the misty sea.

Later that day, after finally writing out the card, I visited Bill again for the last time. We walked his neighbours gun dogs along the nearby coastal footpath, then I took a photo of him standing by my Rover 216. Eventually we said our final farewells, As for Allan, Mrs. Jones told me that he had been made redundant at Easter, so I never met him then nor since.

That evening I had half a lager in what use to be the Welsh Fusiliers, then drove to my ex-in-law's address. I knew from the electoral register kept in the local library, that Karen, Gillian and her husband George all lived at my deceased in-law's address. I drove past the house a number of times, finally parking the car down the road but within sight of the house. I sat there in the car for ages, wondering what to do. Finally I got out, and upon slamming the car door, the curtains moved in the small bedroom which I presumed Karen occupied. Someone looked out for a couple of seconds, then there was stillness. All the curtains were drawn, as if the place was still in mourning. Sitting on the garage roof was a tortoiseshell cat. It looked down at me as I attempted to stroke it. Finally it ran off. It was not Fluff. Back in the car I felt very depressed. I finally drove off back to Mrs. Jones place. I had seen no one that evening that I knew. I cried myself to sleep, and woke up the following morning still crying.

On the third anniversary of the killings, Sunday, April 26th, 1987, I took the pot of flowers to the graveside, placing them on the grass by the side of the gravestone. I tidied up the grave, removing some daffodils that were long dead. As I took a photograph of the headstone, I heard someone moving behind me. It was a middle aged woman. She had come to attend a nearby grave. She looked at the headstone I had taken a snap shot of.

"A nice day isn't it?" I remarked.

She agreed that it was indeed a nice day for visiting graves. Had she read the card enclosed with the flowers, she would have had her curiosity answered.

The card read:

Try as I might at the graveside, I felt absolutely nothing. No anger. No sorrow. No guilt. Nothing!

Later I walked along the promenade, fighting back the thoughts of Karen, with gulps of sea air. That evening I drove past their house again, and parked nearby. I was so depressed that I knew that I could not have spoken to anyone at that time. Karen use to play with the children in the house I had parked opposite. I thought about going around and asking about her, but I knew that in my present state that was impossible. There was no way that I could simply have called upon Karen, I was not even certain that she would recognise me. None of my friends had seen her in the last three years. Was she all right, I kept asking myself over and over again. I obviously did not know how my sister-in-law now felt towards me. There was no reason for her attitude to have changed since the trial. The last thing I wanted was trouble. I knew that should that happen, my parole licence would be revoked, and I certainly did not want to go back to prison for the next four months.

I sat in the car. I saw no one, only the bikes of Gillian's three kids left outside. My in-laws had apparently succeeded in death, where in life they had failed. I was now a depressed, broken man, far worse than I had been before I met Karen. The tears kept flowing as I realised that I had to get away from the place. All that I wanted was for her to know that I still cared, and yet I did not even know whether she had seen me. Finally I drove away. Months later Bill told me that the next day he had been visited by a policeman who wanted to know where I was staying. In the back of the police car was my ex-sister-in-law's husband, George. It was reassuring to know that I had been seen.

That afternoon I left Anglesey. I was too depressed to say my goodbyes properly to Mrs. Jones. I had to get off the island as my depression was getting totally out of control. As I drove for the next hour or more, the tears just kept on flowing. I had never felt such an intense depression before. With such impaired vision, its a wonder I did not crash the car. For the first time I felt very guilty. I was leaving part of myself behind, the realization of which proved very painful. I felt that I was deserting Karen, my actions running against everything that I believed in. Was she still living in the hope that I would return?

Had I the chance I would have remarried her, for I felt that we now needed one another more than ever. After three years without a word, Karen was still the woman I loved. During the first year of my release I never met a woman who came anywhere near her as far as personality was concerned. Maybe I never would. She was a star in my life, whose memory I would treasure always.