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Song For Today: 30th September 2020

30/9/2020

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September 30th, 2020

I dedicate my song today to a family friend, Danielle O'Shea. Danielle celebrates her birthday today. Danielle lives in County Carlow, Ireland with her husband, Paddy, and their children in their farming homestead. Also, we celebrate the birthday of Mick Foley. Enjoy your special day, Danielle, and Mick.

My song today is ‘You Don’t Mess About with Jim’. This a 1972 single by Jim Croce from his album of the same name. The song was also Croce's debut single when it was released in June 1972 on ‘ABC Records’. The record eventually peaked at Number 8 on the ‘Billboard Hot 100’ chart, and Billboard ranked it as being Number 68 song for 1972.

The lyrics are set at an underground pool hall on 42nd Street in New York City. ‘Big’ Jim Walker is a pool hustler who is not too bright but is respected because of his tough reputation, his considerable strength and size, and his skill at pool. Big Jim has formed a gang of ‘bad-folk followers’ who regularly gather at night in the pool hall. Their recurring word of advice to anyone thinking about crossing ‘Big Jim’ is as follows: 
“You don't tug on Superman’s cape;
You don't spit into the wind.
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger 
And you don't mess around with Jim.”

A fellow pool player named Willie "Slim" McCoy comes from South Alabama to the pool hall to get his money back from Jim after being hustled out of it the previous week. When Jim comes into the pool hall, McCoy ambushes and kills him, stabbing him in ‘about a hundred places’, to the point where ‘the only part that wasn't bloody was the soles of the big man's feet’. McCoy gets his money back as well as the respect formerly granted to Jim, and the regulars at the pool hall have now a new allegiance. Their advice to anyone thinking of crossing the new ‘top dog’ is, “You don’t mess around with ‘Slim’”.

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In 1971, I became a Probation Officer in West Yorkshire and was working in the Huddersfield Probation Office. At the time, drug-taking was not anything like the problem it presents to the police and society today. The worse problem in 1971 that produced unacceptable behaviour and led to an increase in criminal offending and a non-peaceful and aggressive lifestyle, was the growing addiction to alcohol. 

For the first few years of my earlier period in the Probation Service, I would have a good number of alcoholic offenders on my books. Apart from myself, the only other person who did not mind working with the alcoholic client was an older colleague called Joyce Patterson, who sadly died about one month ago. Joyce and her friend, Irene Daniels (also deceased) took me under their wing and taught me a great deal about human nature. Both Joyce and Irene were as streetwise as they came and neither of them suffered fools gladly or took any nonsense from anyone.

Joyce was a woman of small height and slim stature. She was in her fifties (twenty years older than me) and had never married. She lived alone in her Dewsbury flat, with her cat for company. She enjoyed classical music immensely and loved reading Agatha Christie and all detective novels. Her favourite television programme was ‘Miss Marple’ stories. Joyce was probably one of the most popular, the most polite, and the most amiable of colleagues I ever worked with in my life. She was industrious and diligent in all that she undertook, and her working day was a few hours longer than anyone else’s in the office. She had no car and travelled everywhere by public transport. She was always one of the last Probation Officers to leave the building on an evening unless of course one of the ‘Miss Marple’ stories by Agatha Christie or ‘Morse’ happened to be showing on television that night. Joyce had lived a sheltered existence and her most cultured of lives fitted in perfectly with the old-fashioned image of a confirmed spinster. 

Joyce would often get annoyed but rarely lowered herself or raised her voice angrily. She never lost her temper like you or I are prone to, and I never heard her swear or use any vulgar term unbefitting of ‘a lady’. Whereas almost everyone will include a ‘bloody’ in their spoken sentence occasionally when annoyed, and some might even stretch as far as a ‘f… it!’ if they become enraged, the strongest word Joyce would ever use at the height of her angriest would be ‘Rats!’ Whenever anyone heard Joyce exclaimed ‘Rats!’ with a simultaneous stamp of her right foot, anyone who knew her, would get out of her way because she was on the warpath.

From all the clients who came into the Huddersfield Probation Office during the 1970s/80s, the most unpredictable and potentially the most dangerous was a man called Harold. Harold came from a large family of Irish travellers who had settled in the Huddersfield area during the 1960s. There were over twelve siblings in the family who had been parented by an alcoholic and aggressive father who’d served more time in prison than out in the community, and a mother who would not think twice about stabbing anybody who exchanged angry words with her. 

All of Harold’s family had a fiery temper and could explode into violence at a moment’s notice. All the family was heavy drinkers, and most of them (usually the male siblings) had served prison sentences for theft, burglary, or violent behaviour. Despite constant family disputes between each other, the family stuck together whenever it came to any problems that one of them had with the rest of the world. Few people with an ounce of sense would ever choose to make the family their enemy.  The most amiable member among the large family was Harold. 

Harold was in his late thirties. He had never married and had the build of a giant-sized man who stood six feet four inches tall. He possessed shoulders wide and strong enough to wrestle a mad bull to the ground. Given his alcoholic intake, Harold never showed any sign of developing a ‘beer belly, and he displayed a more muscular stomach than one might see on a teetotal fitness-fanatic and weight-lifting champion. Harold did not hold withy conventional exercise to keep his body honed though, and he only time Harold would have ever entered a gym was to rob it of any copper fittings it held that could be sold on to a scrap yard! In fact, the only weight that Harold ever lifted was the lead he stripped from church roofs during the dark hours of the night, or the bags of coal he once stole from a local coal yard to keep the home fire burning when he was in his late teens. Other things lifted by Harold would include unfortunate landlords who refused to serve him another pint or other pub customers who dared to challenge his actions when he was drunk.

Harold had a Jekyll and Hyde personality. He was the most affable and friendliest of people one could ever come meet; ‘whenever he was sober’, but were you unfortunate to be in his presence when he was drunk, you would be less than wise to either speak to him when not spoken to, or to engage with him in any way, or to even dare look at him sideways! Anyone who was foolish enough to imagine they could forcibly bring big Harold down was himself headed for the biggest beating they’d ever had in their life! 

Once Harold had drunk one pint, he would not stop drinking; and probably could not even if he wanted to. Once started, few things would stop Harold from drinking more. These would include a lack of consciousness once he’d drunk himself to a standstill and fell to the floor, or the unlikely event of the pub running out of beer, or the police being called by the landlord and arriving in large numbers to arrest Harold for yet another offence. The most common offences Harold ever committed were ‘Disturbing the Peace’ (which meant fighting with every customer in the pub who dared to look at him sideways) or ‘Physical Assault’(which meant breaking the arm, busting the nose, or biting off the ear of some customer who’d offended him) or ‘Criminal Damage’ (which literally meant breaking every table and chair in the pub, and smashing every glass to smithereens when the landlord refused to serve him another pint), or ‘Theft’ (usually lead stolen from church roofs or anything copper that could be sold on to a scrap yard.

Whenever the local police were called, the cops knew what to expect and they came well prepared. They knew if Harold had been drinking that he would never be arrested voluntarily or come quietly. The police never tried to arrest Harold with fewer than a police posse of six of Huddersfield’s burliest constables with their truncheons at the ready as soon as they entered the pub and approached Harold. The local police knew what to expect and feared arresting a drunken Harold on a citizen’s call out. Even when the local constabulary arrived in large numbers in a ‘Black Maria’ to take Harold’s prostrate and handcuffed body away in, the police posse knew that at least one or two of them would be attending the hospital before their shift was through, with either a bust nose or a broken arm or leg. In fact, the police posse would consider themselves lucky to have one of its crew escape with no more than a broken limb during the course of their duty. Most of the arresting police officers feared having their ear bitten off in the inevitable brawl to take Harold in and lock him up in the cells until he could be produced before a court when he’d sobered up. I never learned what it was about chewing ears that Harold liked, but I once had it jokingly suggested to me that the family would often chew on tripe, pig’s trotters, and pigs' ears when they were growing up.

Not only did the police fear arresting Harold when he was drunk, but he was also feared by every Probation Officer whoever supervised him (and we all had him under our supervision at one time or another during our career). By far the most common of Harold’s problem behaviour related to his excessive violence whenever under the influence of alcohol. We never knew whether to expect him drunk or sober when he next reported to the Probation Office. One week Harold might arrive at the Probation Service Office in the mid-afternoon, drunk as a skunk and threatening to wreck the building or burn it down if his supervising officer refused to give him a few pounds out of the emergency cash fund. 

On such occasions, upon seeing Harold drunk, the receptionist would instantly call the local police to have him removed from the building. Everyone in the Probation Office knew not to see or to try and talk sense to a drunken Harold if they valued their personal safety. On other occasions, when he hadn’t touched a drop since the previous night, Harold would arrive at the Probation Office smiling and cheerful, as though he had decided to go on a morning outing to see how many new friends he could make before the pubs opened at 11:30 am. Probation Officers who supervised Harold would soon suss out that the best time of day to have Harold report to them was between 9:00 am and 11:00 am on a morning. Only new Probation Officers just out of training would ever arrange an afternoon or early evening appointment for Harold at the Probation Office; or more dangerous still, dare to risk a home visit! 

The Huddersfield Probation Office employed around two dozen Probation Officers on the payroll. The Probation staff came in all sizes and from all walks of life, and their combined experience of dealing with dangerous clients was extensive.  And yet, only one person in the Huddersfield Probation Office had the slightest chance of quietening Harold down and persuading him to go home peaceably and to ‘sleep it off’ if ever he arrived inebriated or drunk and determined to do damage. That person was Joyce Patterson, whom we all prayed was in the office if ever Harold arrived drunk, unexpectedly, and threatening violence and mayhem if the emergency cash box was not immediately opened for a handout. 

The change of atmosphere from one of total bedlam to one of gradual serenity in the Probation Officer needed to be observed to be believed. As soon as Joyce approached an aggressive and blind drunk Harold, he would immediately stop frothing at the mouth and start to quieten down. Within five minutes, Joyce would be gently escorting him to the front door like a cowboy leading a broken-in stallion to the stable for an afternoon nap. In her usually quiet voice, Joyce would ask Harold to come back the following day ‘sober’, and then she would see him. 

Joyce, however, was never one to be in for a penny if she could extract a pound. Before showing Harold the door and encouraging him to leave the building, Joyce would insist that he first apologise to the receptionist for the foul and aggressive abuse he had flung her way upon arrival, as well as apologise any other Probation colleague Harold might have offended. To see such a ‘big, aggressive man’ be controlled by such a ‘small, and polite woman’ was a wonder in psychological dynamics to behold.

None of Joyce’s work colleagues ever did learn why Harold responded to her in the compliant way he did. It was something nobody else on the face of the earth ever managed to do whenever Harold was drunk; not even his siblings or parents. We often wondered if there was some long-hidden secret between the two which gave Joyce some leverage of influence and power of persuasion over this giant of a man that enabled her to blackmail him into quietness and civility when he was drunk. 

Experienced probation officers who have served a few decades or more in their jobs usually develop a grapevine of criminal contacts that sometimes feed them information about another Probation supervisee. Such information can be either passed on to the police or another official body or in some instances, the information may be confidentially stored and retained by the officer concerned, to be brought out like an emergency umbrella on a ‘rainy day’. Such information in the hands of any streetwise Probation Officer was as explosive as a stick of dynamite in one hand and a lit match in the other, and could be used as an influential tool of ‘persuasion’ and ‘moral coercion’ at best, and downright ‘blackmail’ at worse!  

Could our calm and charming colleague, Joyce, ever have lent herself to such underhanded methods? Never! Surely not?

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 29th September 2020

29/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to four people; one dedication is for sad reasons, to commiserate with the mother of an infant whose baby died shortly after she was born, way back on September 29th, 1967, and three other people who celebrate their birthday today.

First, I ask that we spare a thought and a prayer today for Janice Jagger on the anniversary of her infant called Rachel. Rachel only lived a very short time after her birth and died on September 29th, 1967. However distant the event is on the calendar, the sadness and hurt of such an event remains forever etched on a mother’s heart. We all feel for you today, Janice. God bless you, Janice, and your husband, Colin, and your extended family. May little Rachel rest in peace, knowing that she was deeply loved and will never be forgotten by you.

On a happier note, three of my Facebook friends celebrate their birthday today. First to be congratulated is  Julia Simpson who lives in Leeds, West Yorkshire. The next birthday celebrant is Marina Cree who lives in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, and finally, we wish a happy birthday to Sheila Lemon who lives in the south of England. Enjoy your special day, ladies, and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is, ‘As Tears Go By’. This song was written by Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and Rolling Stones’ manager Andrew Loog Oldham. Marianne Faithful recorded and released it as a single in the United Kingdom in 1964. Her song peaked at Number 9 on both the ‘UK and Irish Singles Charts’. Later, the Rolling Stones recorded their own version, which was included on their American album ‘December’s Children (And Everybody’s), which reached Number 6 in the ‘Billboard Hot 100’ singles chart. ‘As Tears Go By’ was one of the first original compositions by Jagger and Richards.

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While I like this song, I always found it a very sad record to listen to. It reminds me too much of the saddest two-year period of my life after my first marriage ended in separation, followed by an acrimonious divorce. When my first marriage ended, my ex-wife (who was an infant teacher at the same school where our two sons were taught) prevented me from seeing them or having a contact of any description with them for two years, despite the domestic court having granted me weekly access with my young sons who were then aged 7 years and 5 years old. 

During this sad period, all the birthday and Christmas cards and presents I sent to the children would be ‘returned to sender’ and any phone calls I made, or letters sent were ‘blocked’ by the children’s mother. I would sometimes go up and stand at the wall of their playground during their early morning break time, hoping to get a glance at them as they played. Once the children’s mother realised what I was doing, she stopped them playing in the playground during their morning, noon, and afternoon break times.

For over two years, I spent a considerable amount of money that could have been better used than on solicitor’s fees, as I tried to persuade the children’s mother to comply with the court’s access order. However, despite the risk of having a prison sentence that had been attached to the 'access order' imposed, if she defaulted, by failing to facilitate my access, it made no difference. My only response available to break the deadlock would have involved me petitioning the Court to implement its default sentence, but there was no way that I would initiate any process which committed the children’s mother to prison. 

For the two years I had no contact with my two children, not one night went by when I did not cry myself to sleep. It is that sad time in my life that this song (that I will never sing again) reminds me of.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today; 28th September 2020

28/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Liz Stubley who lives in Oxenhope, Keighley. West Yorkshire, Noreen Finn who lives in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, Ireland, and Tom Kennedy who also lives in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary. These three people celebrate their birthday today. Enjoy your special day and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is, ‘The Dance’. This song was written and composed by Tony Arata, and recorded by American country singer, Garth Brook as the tenth and final track from his self-entitled debut album. It is considered by many to be Brooks' signature song

At the opening of the music video, Brooks explains that the song is written with a double meaning; both as a love song about the end of a passionate relationship, and a story of someone dying because of something he believes in, after a moment of glory.

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I cannot imagine a life without music, dance, and song. Every year since early childhood until the present day, these three aspects have been as important to me as breathing. They represent the aesthetic oxygen that fills my lungs with air as tasty as nectar and the veins of blood that flow through my very being with the pulse of life itself. I had a speech impediment until my fourth year of life, but my mother told me that it never prevented me from babbling out some tuneful words.

At the age of 11 years, I incurred a serious traffic accident that threatened my life for two months, and which left me with a damaged spine that stopped me walking for three years. I had fifty operations on my broken legs during the following two years, even though I was unable to stand independently or walk on them. The wagon that knocked me down and ran over me, wrapped my twisted body around the main drive shaft (crushing every rib in my chest, except two of the 24 ribs), and leaving me with mangled legs and a lifetime of pain. One of my legs finished up being three inches shorter than the other one.

Between the ages of 9 years of age and 11 years, I would go Old Time Dancing weekly at the ‘Keir Hardy Hall’ in Liversedge. I was never sure whether it was the dance steps I enjoyed learning which maintained my interest or placing my arms tenderly around the waists of a pretty girl? I took to dancing and won a few dancing medals, and had just moved on to learning ballroom dancing when the wagon ran over me and changed my life. After I learned to hobble and walk again, the discrepancy in the length of my legs essentially meant that never again would I be able to gracefully glide around the floor with the poise and balance expected of a proficient ballroom dancer. Fortunately for me, by the time I could walk and get around again, Rock and Roll had hit the scene, and ‘bopping’ was the craze of the ballroom floor. Bopping would remain the dance of my romantic teens; even into my old age. Given that there were no standard movements, rock and roll enabled an individual to develop their own steps, and I am pleased to say that I learned to bop with the best of them.

All my life, I have loved all manner and style of music and song from pop to jazz, to soul, to country and western, and also to opera. I came to enjoy classical music immensely in my late twenties and still find it the most suitable kind of music to wind down and relax to. Whatever the music type, I loved it. It mattered not whether it was the crazy and wild pounding of the piano by a demented Little Richard singing ‘Great Balls of Fire’ or the classical balance, clarity, and transparency which are the hallmarks of Mozart’s music, or that angelic sound of choral masculinity echoing from a Welsh Choir in the valley, or the bold brashness of the Brass bands I would hear weekly in the park when the Forde family went on our Sunday afternoon walk; all were music to my ears!

All my life, I grew up with a mother of seven children who sang all day long as she performed a mountain of daily chores. Singing made mum happy to be alive, and even though she could not remember the correct words of any song all the way through, she happily made up her own to fill the gaps. As for holding a note, forget it. Mum’s hands, which were cut and callused with a lifetime’s hard work could hold a hot lump of coal longer than a musical note! I once berated her for not being able to sing for toffee, before she told me that God gave everyone the right to sing who had a song to sing, whether or not they were considered to be a ‘good singer’.

My mother then told me the answer to one of life’s puzzles; why birds sing. Mum said it was because ‘they have a song to sing’. She added, “We all have a song to sing, Billy”. Despite mum never having been taught beyond an elementary education level in Ireland before she left school, where wisdom was concerned, she had it by the bucket load! She was essentially telling me two of life’s fundamental truths; that we all have a song to sing and that the song of our life represents the talents we display and have to offer others. All talents were of equal worth in mum’s philosophy. She told me that some people are natural-born singers, others paint, sculpt, some act on stage or screen while others have the talent of being a good friend and companion or are endowed with a warm heart, a listening ear, or are generous and compassionate in abundance. Even ‘being there’ by standing alongside another person in their hour of need, is a talent worthy of display.

According to my mother’s beliefs and philosophy, we are each placed on this earth by the good Lord to love one another and to discover and display our talents for the benefit of self and others! Mum reminded me that my dad had two talents; his ability to play football and his nature to be a hard worker and family provider. In his own way, my dear father also shared mum’s philosophy, and he would advocate "Whatever you do, do as well as you can, and do with a good heart."

Between the ages of nine and twenty-one years of age, I was a good singer and won many prizes for displaying my talent in numerous contests. For a few months after I arrived in Canada, I sang professionally in a night club, thinking myself to have been the best discovery since sliced bread. I gave up my ‘singing career’ when I accepted that though I was good enough a singer to earn a living from the profession, I was not the ‘best singer’ on the circuit. Ironically, (although I was not consciously aware of it at the time) this egotistical attitude of mine was in direct opposition to the attitude my dear mother held on the subject of one’s singing ability. Between the ages of 21 and 74, I never sang in public again; with one exception, when I attempted a karaoke number while ‘under the influence’ one Saturday night in Scarborough. On that evening, I forgot my lines and died of shame.

Throughout my years of ‘public singing famine’, I smoked heavily, and had two heart attacks in my 60th year; the second of which rendered me unconscious for three days, and which almost killed me off. At the age of 74 (4 years ago), I was finding it hard to breathe without puffing whenever I exerted the least little bit of energy like stair climbing. My mobility had reduced significantly over the years after my arthritis gradually deteriorated in my fifties, and obliged me into early retirement at the age of 53 on the grounds of ill-health and being unable to walk more than thirty yards without stopping for a rest. Then, in my 70th year of life, I developed a terminal blood cancer which lowered the oxygenation in my lungs even further, and before long, after 18 months of chemotherapy, three years of monthly blood transfusions, two bouts of pneumonia, half a dozen cancer operations and the development of a Lymphoma, my lung capacity had reduced by twenty percent.

Then, one day I read in a newspaper article how regular daily singing practice was beneficial to improving one’s lung and breathing capacity, besides increasing the level of oxygen in one’s blood count (oxygenation). So, with having nothing to lose, I started my daily singing practice and have been singing for a few hours daily ever since. I sing a song on my daily Facebook page and have now been doing so for the past three years. I measure my temperature, blood pressure reading, lung capacity, and oxygenation levels four times every day. After one year of daily singing practice, my lung capacity and blood oxygenation levels improved twenty percent; moving me from being a man with a level bordering COPD level to that of ‘normality’ once more. I may be presently terminally ill and dying with three different body cancers, but believe me, I am in rude health in psychological, mental, and emotional terms. I even have my own YouTube video song channel which has over 750 recorded singing videos of me singing, and which can be freely subscribed to: https://www.youtube.com/c/WilliamForde
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What is more, I love my daily singing practice. It brings me much joy and makes me an infinitely happier person than I otherwise would be. I sing today, not out of any vanity or because I think myself to be good (or even worthy of being considered a decent ‘has been’), but because it brings me greater health and happiness, besides having helped me to bury a few skeletons in my closet of the past. It is also a very positive addition to my daily routine during this lockdown experience that the Covid-19 pandemic has subjected the country to since March 2020.

All my prior accidents, illnesses, and operations have helped me become the person I am today and has not taken one jot of what remains good of me, away from me. I have a high pain threshold because of the constant and significantly high-level of pain my body has had to cope and readjust to since the age of 11 years. My high pain threshold has enabled my 77-year-old body to withstand six life-saving operations to remove cancer from my forehead, face, neck, and throat over the past 18 months, as well as receive 40 sessions of deep radiotherapy.

In 2010, I married the love of my life, Sheila, and despite having acquired three different body cancers since (including a terminal blood cancer), and a lymphoma, I have never been happier in my life. I have lived the best of lives. I feel greatly loved and I am blessed with a smashing wife, good friends, and a close family network. I would not exchange the life I enjoy today with the experiences of any other man or woman in the world. Life is a pleasure, and life is also filled with pain, but both are necessary experiences if you want to live it to the full as I have done and am still doing. To live implies a willingness to experience ‘pain and pleasure’, for it is only through one’s pain and pleasure that one truly experiences the dance of life. Believe me, life is one dance nobody should ‘sit out’.
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Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 27th October 2020

27/9/2020

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I jointly dedicate my song today to my great-niece, Emily Knapton, who lives in Batley, West Yorkshire, and Lilian Lockhart who lives in Rome, and Linda Hirst. All three celebrate their birthday today. Have a smashing day, ladies.

My song today is, ‘We are the World’. This song was recorded as a charity single by the supergroup ‘USA Africa’ in 1985. It was written by Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson for the album ‘We Are the World’. With sales in excess of 20 million copies, it is the eighth best-selling physical single of all time. The song was released on March 7, 1985.
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There is no truth more self-evident than a society proclaiming, “Our children are our future”. Any society which does not respect its old or ignores its ill and infirmed, tolerates poverty of its people, promotes its most powerful, and fails to protect its children is a society with no moral compass, bound to stray from the path of humanity and basic decency. Such a materialistic society is liable to be swallowed up by the speculative greed of its more avaricious members and is doomed to ultimate failure.

The ultimate shame and the downfall of materialistic society is its inability to treasure, care for, admire, adore, cherish, value, revere, respect, uphold, uplift, protect, shield, defend, safeguard, treasure and love her children. I praise and respect all the cultures of this world that naturally harbour and actively manifest these instincts. If a nation or a population of people fails to recognise the true value of its young, then it does not deserve to ever grow old. Any nation which fails to recognise the worth of its children is also liable to forget the past sacrifices its older citizens made and effectively devalues the life of both young and old at a single stroke.

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Even the Governments of the most democratic of nations (like Great Britain), existing during the most devastating of times (like the current Covid-19 pandemic) will risk the autocratic measures and diktats it issues to maintain control of its people, reducing the basic freedoms of those very same individuals. When a country’s profit and economic performance becomes paramount and takes precedence to the mental and physical health of its people, then defective government comes into existence, and indecision of our rule makers and politicians is allowed to flourish, as ordinary citizens are restricted in a straitjacket choice of either being locked up for failure to comply with the daily edicts or have themselves locked down. Whatever choice we make in such circumstances, it nevertheless represents the trampling of our basic freedoms.

When a country arrives at the stage where life-threatening illnesses can no longer be treated in our hospitals: where the nearest a person can get to a doctor (who is taking cover 24/7) is the sound of their voice on a phone line: where sick people cannot be visited in their old folk’s home or on their hospital ward by their relatives, even at their end of life stages: and where families are prevented from visiting each other’s homes or attending any social gathering and family event like Christenings, birthday celebrations, marriages, babies being born with fathers in attendance, deaths, or even funerals; when such a state of affairs are allowed to exist, then so are the basic freedoms of that individual! Once the true message of Christmas has been lost, you might as well cancel Christmas altogether!

Whenever any Government of the day loses sight of the things most worthy of cherishing, the anchor of a decent person’s values becomes disconnected from the mother ship, and both Government of the day and its people are on an inevitable course of divergence as they each decide to go their own way. When this happens, the seeds for persistent rebellion are sown and anarchy finds a home in the hearts of the disenfranchised, disrespected and disgusted citizen.

My message to all governments around the world is please do not push the patience and toleration levels of your people too far unless you are prepared to pay the ultimate price. I would remind all governments that the prosperity of a people is not measured in banks, financial markets, or its flourishing economy, but in its principles and goodness and generosity of heart. I would remind all governments that the common man and woman want to live in a society which regard their young as being its future, and which enables the elderly to retain their dignity until the day they die. Fail to invest in the young and there is no future, and humanity will inflict a deadly blow upon itself. Take away the dignity of the elderly in the evening of their final day and you take away the very freedoms most of them fought a World War for. Imagine for one moment that one’s life is meaningful without one’s freedom, and you do not live in the world of the average man and woman.

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If we value our children as being our future, what should we teach them? What are the finest values and the best lessons of life to inculcate them with at their most innocent and impressionable of ages? Societies with a glowing future do not teach its children to be rich but instead educates them to be happy, true to their word, sincere, forgiving, understanding, compassionate, generous, and loving.

True, we teach them in the art of reading, writing and arithmetic, but we also teach them how to dream; for when they dream of a future, they dare to make it happen. We make them aware of their past so that they can help change the things in the society they will grow up in to provide freedom and equality of opportunity for all in the New World. We teach them that with power comes responsibility, with positivism comes progress; and within the practice of compassion and care lies the core of humanity. We teach them that within the wide spectrum of life, the distinction between one colour and another inside the human rainbow of genetics only becomes discernible to the human eye when the human heart creates a divide and magnifies any physical difference between one person and the next. Finally, we teach them that there is nothing that is either good or bad in this world that thinking it so will not make it so.

We all hear so many things about what a good parent should and shouldn’t do, and yet all first-time parents like any first-timer make mistakes. First-time parents are no different learning their unfamiliar role than just any trainee pilot is. The trainee pilot never earns their wings until they have flown by the seat of their pants the first time around.

Children are not homogeneous; no two are alike! Some behave like little angels and others act like little monsters. Therefore, no single method will be appropriate and efficacious across the board in bringing about the desired change in any of their inappropriate behaviour. There is a subtle art in knowing whether to apply the carrot or the stick in the range of rewards and punishments you use, but giving the child a cuddle as a natural parental function, telling him/her that you love them daily, and positively remarking on their good behaviour, is the best way of ensuring the best of responses from them, whether angel or imp.

In today’s song, the most important lines of the song is “We are the world, we are the children. We are the ones to make a better day, so let’s start giving”.
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Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 26th September 2020

26/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to John Corcoran who lives in the village of my birth, Portlaw, County Waterford, Ireland. John celebrates his birthday today. Enjoy your special day John and thank you for being my Facebook friend. Say hello to dear old Portlaw for me.

My song today is ‘Coal Miner’s Daughter’. This song was written and recorded by American country artist, Loretta Lynn. It was originally released as a single in 1970 and became a Number 1 hit on the Billboard country chart. It eventually led to the writing and successful autobiography and film starring Sissy Spacek as Loretta Lynn. The film follows the story of country music singer Loretta Lynn from her early teen years in a poor family. It sees her getting married at the age of 15 and follows her life in her rise as one of the most successful country musicians and singers. Based on Loretta Lynn's 1976 biography of the same name by George Vecsey, the film stars Sissy Spacek (as Loretta Lynn) and Tommy Lee Jones in a supporting role.

‘Coal Miner’s Daughter’ was released theatrically on March 7, 1980, and grossed $67.18 million in North America against a budget of $15 million, becoming the seventh highest-grossing film of 1980. It garnered critical acclaim and received seven nominations at the 53rd ‘Academy Awards for Best Picture’ with Spacek winning an award as the ‘Best Actress’. At the 38th ‘Golden Globe Awards, the film received four nominations and won two: one for ‘Best Motion Picture’, and Sissy Spacek won the other award for being ‘Best Actress’. The film is considered to be "culturally, historically or aesthetically significant’ by the U.S. ‘Library of Congress’ and was selected to be preserved in the ‘National Film Registry’ in 2019.

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While I was never a ‘coal miner's daughter’, my younger sisters Mary, Eileen, and Susan were. I was, however, a proud ‘coal miner’s son’, along with my younger brothers Patrick, Peter, and Michael.

I was my parent’s firstborn of seven children. I was born in Portlaw, County Waterford in the rebel part of Southern Ireland during November 1942. Although my father played football for the Irish National soccer team when I was born, in those days, soccer players received no wages, merely a return on their outlaid expenses. This was the era when a man was proud to play international football for the self-glory and honour of one’s country and not financial reward.

It was also a time in Ireland’s history when the working classes needed to make harsh choices in their struggle for daily survival. Jobs were scarce on the ground, and there seemed little prospects for any family man of any future economic improvement. Millions of Irish people decided to up-sticks from their beloved homeland and they emigrated to another country in search of greater prosperity and a more financially secure life for themselves and their families. In most cases, and in the knowledge of how hard they would initially find it to settle in a foreign country, most married men initially emigrated alone. It was only after they had settled in their new country and had managed to secure work and acquire suitable accommodation to set up a family home, did they send back for their wives and children to join them. Some men emigrated to America, some to Australia, but the overwhelming number of men came across the Irish Sea from Dublin to Liverpool, before travelling to different parts around England in search of work and a better life for themselves and their family.

In 1945, my father and I came to Bradford in West Yorkshire, where we lived with my father’s sister Eva for a couple of years. I was three years/going on four at the time. My mother and younger sisters Mary and Eileen remained living in Ireland. They planned to join me and my father after he had managed to get settled in England and secure a family base. Meanwhile, my father managed to obtain a job as a miner working on the coal face, while his sister, Eva, child-minded me during the day.

These were the days when pit accidents were still common occurrences, and the coal was hacked from the pit face by miners lying on their sides and stomachs on the cold and damp ground as they swung a pickaxe from a prostrate or a hunchbacked position. Miners would work an 8-hour shift but only ever got paid for seven hours, as their walk to the pit face at the start of their shift, along with their return walk at the end of their shift, would take half an hour each way and did not count towards their daily earnings. This lost hour daily was a constant complaint of the miners, along with the underground cloud of coal dust they worked in all day long.

My father used to tell me that there were many times when he was unable to see his workmate a few yards away because of the atmospheric screen of coal dust separating them. As for the daily breaks during their shifts, short rest periods were taken underground whenever possible, as the miners both fed or relieved themselves.

Being 1945/46, just after the ‘Second World War’ had ended, the country was still existing on food rationing, and bread and jam was the most common sandwich eaten by the miners, along with cheap fish paste, spread thinly between two bread slices, and swilled down with a flask of tea. Dad would tell me that when he got his sandwich out from his snack box, that while the bread would leave his snack box white, by the time it entered his mouth it would be turning black, and after he’d swallowed and digested it, his food would be lodged in a darkened stomach whose walls was lined with coal dust! I could never quite imagine having to eat a sandwich of jam and coal dust! As regarding miners being able to relieve themselves underground in 1945, there were no toilet facilities in those days to either urinate or defecate, and one was obliged to use the most public of toilets imaginable and available.

After my father had worked over one year with the NCB, he was eventually allocated a miner’s tied-property in Liversedge which was surrounded by fields and had a terraced-row of neighbours nearby, along with a Baptist chapel, a grocers shop, and a co-op. Being a tied-dwelling, my father and his family could live there as long as he continued to work for the National Coal Board, and he knew that if/when he ever left the employment of the NCB, we would have to relinquish the tenancy of our tied-cottage also. After obtaining the small property, dad and I left my Aunt Eva’s house in Bradford and he sent a letter back home to Ireland telling my mother that he had now secured accommodation and she and my two Irish sisters, Mary and Eileen were to join us in our new family home.

When my mother and sisters arrived in West Yorkshire, we all moved into our ‘little cottage’ as I fondly remembered it. My memory of our first family home, from where another two brothers would be born, was of it being a small country cottage with lush green fields surrounding it. My earliest memories included having to visit the outside compost toilet night and day. I also vividly remember all the hens and chickens running around the house perimeter; some who laid their eggs in the nest boxes, and others of more independent means in the pecking order, who liked to play hide and seek with me, by choosing to lay their eggs in the surrounding fields.

I also clearly recollect our first family table. It was a large tea chest positioned upside down, and from which we ate in turn. There were two small rooms in our little cottage; one where we ate and lived, and the other which held a double bed that eventually slept all seven household members. My parents would sleep at the top end of the family bed and their first five children would sleep at the bottom end. As we all slept top to tail, the bed covers would comprise of one blanket with three or four coats thrown on top for extra warmth.

On the wall in our ‘living room’ hung a tin bath which my father bathed in each night after arriving home from the pit. The children would bathe in the tin tub once weekly (on a Friday evening) in descending order of age, with myself being second in line to use the bathwater after my father had washed the coal dust from his body. Being the oldest, I got to jump in the tub immediately after my father got out. I was then followed by my sister Mary, and Eileen would follow her, and so on, down the line. Because it took a long time to boil enough pans of water to fill the tin tub, the dirty water could not be replenished by exchanging it with clean after my father had washed all the coal dust off his body. So, we all used the same water and added another pan load of hot water as it got colder and dirtier. Because I was always second in line for a Friday bath in the tin tub, I would supplement my father’s bath by pouring a pan of clean warm water over his soapy head to finish him off. Being third in line, it fell to my sister Mary to pour warm water over my head to get the soap out of my hair and eyes, and so on down the line. However, our Mary would always be trying to get one over on her big brother, and instead of pouring warm water heated on the stove over my head, she would deliberately pour cold water over me, laughing her head off when I jumped up naked with fright!

I also fondly remember going to Bradford open market on the Number 64 double-decker bus to buy half a dozen new chicks. Dad and I would make this journey three or four times a year, depending upon how many hens had been killed, plucked, and cooked for the family table during winter months. I never had it in me to kill a hen or a turkey and would squirm whenever I witnessed my father wring and snap one of their necks for the cooking pot. Dad would let me carry the chicks on the bus on the return journey from the open market, and I was always peeking inside the cardboard box air-vent cut-outs at the little yellow fluffy creatures inside.

It was my job to feed the chickens and hens every day before and after school, and I was also given the jobs of collecting the hen’s eggs from the fields around our little country cottage. As eggs were still on ration by 1950, we would sell most of ours to supplement the family income, as eating any egg that wasn’t a powdered egg was considered as a luxury for a working-class child. Naturally, some eggs would be saved for my father to eat. I remember, much to the chagrin of my sisters Mary and Eileen, that whenever my father was given a boiled egg to eat by my mother, being the child keeper and feeder of the hens and chickens in my father’s absence, I would often be rewarded with the top of the egg that was sliced off to eat. That was if I managed to persuade my mother to ‘slice’ the egg top generously with the blade of a knife instead of bashing it to bits with the back of a spoon! For most family meals though, when we did eat well, it would be a staple diet of potatoes, cabbage and bread and jam.

Near to our ‘little cottage’ was an elderly lady who had a Labrador dog. She was unable to walk the dog any longer due to her arthritic legs, and in return for me talking the dog a walk daily after I had finished school, she would give me a few pennies to buy sweets at the grocers’ shop across the road. I loved that dog to bits, and I imagined it as being ‘my dog’ whenever I walked it. It had a long strand of thin rope as a leash and was a black Labrador mix.

When I was aged nine years, my parents obtained a three-bedroomed council house on the newly built estate of Windybank, nearby. The day we moved should have been one of my happiest but ended up being was one of the saddest I can remember. I should have been happy like my parents and siblings were because we were moving into a brand new house of enormous size, where I could share a bed with my sisters Mary and Eileen in our own bedroom instead of being one of seven in a bed, sleeping head to toe. Also, now we would have two flushing toilets (one inside and one outside) and neither of which we had to share with any of our neighbours. In addition, our household bath was a new ceramic one set into the wooden floor and was not a tin tub hung on the kitchen wall! As to the hot water that filled our future baths, the heated water came out of taps instead of a boiled pan; and there was a lock on the bathroom door that enabled one to bathe in private.

Why was I sad, I hear you ask? It was because I was leaving my best friend, the black Labrador whom I had naturally renamed ‘Blackie’ unknown to its owner. When we walked to our new house one mile away, Blackie saw me and followed. I shooed him away as my parents reminded me that he was not my dog, but no matter how often I shooed Blackie away he followed me like a faithful shadow. Eventually, the only way that I could get Blackie to stop following me was to shout at him and throw small stones in his direction. As I pelted my canine friend with unfriendly words and stones (aimed to frighten and not hit), the tears streamed down my cheeks.

Even though the Forde family now lived in a new council house on a new estate merely twenty yards away from a row of six different shops which sold everything any household could want, my mother insisted that we still get the family groceries daily from Harry Hodgesons, the grocer across the road from our old house, a good half-mile away. It was my job to fetch the daily grocer’s items. Often when I went to Harry Hodgeson’s shop, I might catch sight of Blackie, but would not be able to let him see me, just in case he took it into his head to follow back to my new home. Leaving our house to collect the daily shopping, my mother would supply me with a written list which I considered made me look childish when I handed it over the counter to Harry Hodgeson. So, I would learn by heart the list of items as I walked the half-mile to the grocer’s shop and would recite each item boldly to the shopkeeper. Mum never gave me any money to pay for the shopping and would simply tell me to give Harry the list upon which she had written a few private words at the bottom of ‘Please add to what we owe and I will straighten up on Paddy’s next payday!”

Near to our ‘little cottage’ where we had been the first Forde homestead was Harry Hodgeson’s grocer's shop that was owned and managed by Harry Hodgson and his wife Marian. The early 1950s were still lean years in Great Britain, and very early on, after arriving in West Yorkshire in 1946, the very first person my mother made friends with was the local grocer and his wife. Harry became a twenty-year lifesaver to the Forde family, and for the first two decades of my life, he allowed my mother to ‘tick’ the weekly groceries to feed and keep the Forde family. For 18 years, all the food supplied to the Forde household ‘this week’ would be paid for out of my father’s pit wage he would receive ‘next week’. This practice of the food being paid for one week after the eating of it was known as living on the ‘tick’. It was common practice for every large family on Windybank Estate to ‘tick’ their weekly provisions. I bet that when poor Harry Hodgeson eventually died, his little red book with all the names of his creditors must have revealed thousands of pounds owed to him. I wonder if any debtor in the little red book honestly forgot to pay their dues to Harry’s estate?

I have two other memories of my father as a miner. I recall one year when his colleagues at the pit went on strike. My father, having a large family of seven children to feed at the time could not afford to put his principles before the feeding and protection of his family, and he was one of the few miners at his pit to cross the picket line. He always said that ‘a poor man could never afford principles that cost him money’. While this ‘scab’ action of dads did cause him some embarrassment afterward when the men returned to work, he was respected enough not to be ‘sent to Coventry’ by his working colleagues. It remains somewhat ironic that I would become the youngest trade union shop steward in Great Britain at the age of 18 years, and that my brother Patrick would be a textile shop steward for a dozen years also after me at the same textile firm in Hightown, Liversedge.

When I was first married, one summer morning, I took my two sons James and Adam to see the ‘little cottage’ where the Forde family had started family life living in West Yorkshire. I had told them often about my happy childhood years growing up there. When we got to the location where once our ‘little cottage’ had once stood, the original dwelling had been demolished, and in its place had been erected a double garage. Within the space of one morning, my cherished memories of our idyllic ‘little cottage’ surrounded by green fields and hens running around were shattered to smithereens. Seeing the garage standing there now, told me how small a property our little cottage must have been that we had lived in for five years. The nearby co-op of my youth was now a pub called the ‘Shoulder of Mutton’ and what had once been the green fields of my youth surrounding our first family home had also disappeared. The fields had since been concreted and covered up by expensive housing which no working-class family I knew could ever afford to live in or own. My return visit effectively led me to remove the rose-coloured spectacles I had worn for so long. It also told me though, that happiness and contentment in one’s childhood have much more to do with feeling loved and less to do with having lots of money, being able to eat well, or living in a big expensive house which had a bath that didn’t hang on the kitchen wall and a toilet which need not be shared with one’s neighbours!

In my late forties, I had my first book published. Since then, I have had 64 books published. I have enjoyed writing many of my stories for children, young persons, and adults, but the book which gave me the most pleasure to write was ‘Tales from the Allotments’. This book was written as a testament to the miners of Great Britain and I dedicated it to my father. The story is ‘timeless’ and is set in the last century. It tells of a mining village where the sole employment to be had for twenty miles is the colliery. When the pit becomes economically non-profitable to its owner and is subsequently closed, and every man in the village is made redundant, the village becomes a living graveyard. Initially, the miners wallow in their own misery and become deeply depressed. Many up-sticks and move to new parts in search of new employment and a new place to live; some experience broken marriages, some take to the drink and a life of idleness, and some decide to stay living in the only place they have known and loved. The lucky miners in the village are the ones who have an allotment where they relocate their energy and rediscover an inbred sense of community, close comradeship, and friendly rivalry. This book can be purchased in either e-book format or hard copy from www.smashwords.com and www.amazon.com with all book-sale profits going to charitable causes in perpetuity (£200,000 given to charity from book sale profits between 1990-2002).

During the 1990s, after Norma Major (wife to the Prime Minister), had read from one of my books to school children in her husband’s constituency of Huntingdon, I was invited to ‘Number 10’ for an afternoon visit. I was there two hours with my ex-wife and was given a guided tour of the premises by Norma Major and John Major personally. (The Prime Minister joined us during the last ten minutes of the tour). We were shown the Banquet Room where foreign dignitaries are frequently entertained by the Prime Minister of the day, and I sat at the desk of Sir Robert Walpole, the 18th-century British politician who is generally regarded as having been the de facto first Prime Minister of Great Britain.

After the Prime Minister joined us, he showed us into the ‘Cabinet Room’ where important ‘business of State’ is discussed and decided around the large oval-shaped table. Only one chair around the table has arms, the which the Prime Minister sits in. John Major smiled as he invited me to sit down in his chair. I naturally obliged, knowing that I would never get a second opportunity to do so.

Our afternoon visit was concluded by having afternoon tea in their private upstairs apartment with the Prime Minister and Norma. Tea comprised of a modest cup of tea and biscuits, and a bun (baked by Norma’s own hands of course). The month was February, the year was 1992 and the weather was cold. The country had witnessed the eventual decimation of the coal mines with the start of pit closures under the former Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher; a policy which John Major continued with when he also took up Office.

The Prime Minister was a very likeable and affable person who can place a stranger immediately at their ease. When he speaks with you, he makes you feel as though you are the only person other than himself in the room. I liked him very much as a person but not as a politician. Politically, I considered him to be a washout, and someone who had not served the North of England well at all with his continued closure of our mines and the inevitable loss of many mining communities.

As we drank tea and chatted politely, John Major asked me. “Are you and your wife warm enough, Bill?” Although my father had died one year earlier, he would have turned in his grave had I not defended the mining communities at the only opportunity I would ever get to have face-to-face with the man who was still closing them down. I replied politely, “ I am warm enough, Prime Minister, but the rest of the people in the North aren’t, especially since Margaret Thatcher started to close down the pits; a policy that your government has continued with!” In fairness to John Major, he took my criticism on the chin, but his wife, Norma, nearly choked on her cup of tea. After that visit, there was a distinct ‘cooling-off’ between Norma Major and myself. I had previously exchanged half a dozen letters of correspondence with Norma Major prior to my invited visit to Downing Street. During such correspondence between us, she had always started off her letter with the informal introduction ‘Dear Bill’. I also received a signed Christmas Card from Norma and the Prime Minister in December prior to my visit. However, after my visit, and my criticism of her husband’s policy in continuing to close down the mines, I only ever received one more letter from Norma which commenced, ‘Dear Mr, Forde’. I knew then that her change from her informal ‘Dear Bill’ to the more formal address of ‘Dear Mr. Forde’ indicated that there would be no further Christmas cards being received from ‘Number 10’.

A few years later I received the M.B.E. in the New Year’s Honour’s List for my charitable and literary work, along with my contribution over the years to the West Yorkshire Community (I had been the youngest Trade union shop steward in Great Britain at the age of 18 years). Who knows, perhaps, I might have initially in line for a higher gong before Norma took the huff after my criticism of her husband’s policies to his face, as I scoffed down one of her home-made buns in their Downing Street apartment during that cold February afternoon?
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Love and peace Bill xxx


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Song For Today: 25th September 2020

25/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Sally Codman who lives in Mirfield, West Yorkshire with her husband Nigel Codman. Today’s song is also dedicated to Michelle Stuart who lives in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, Ireland. Sally and Michelle celebrate their birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Sally and Michelle, and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is ‘Loving Her Was Easier Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again’. This song was written, composed, first recorded, and first released by Kris Kristofferson. It was also recorded and released by Roger Miller, who included it on his album ‘The Best of Roger Miller’ and who released it as a single in July 1971. Ten years later, it was recorded by ‘Tompall and the Glaser Brothers’ for the album ‘Loving Her Was Easier’. It has also been covered by Mark Chesnutt: Billie Jo Spears: Nana Mouskouri: Willie Nelson, and many others.

Kris Kristofferson recorded the song on his 1971 album for ‘Monument Records, The Silver-Tongued Devil and I’. Kristofferson's rendition of the song was not promoted to country music radio. It reached Number 26 on the ‘Billboard Hot 100’ chart, and it also got to Number 4 on ‘Hot Adult Contemporary Tracks’. In Canada, it reached Number 21 on the RPM ‘Top Singles Chart' and Number 8 on that same publication's ‘Adult Contemporary’ list.

In the song, the narrator describes a lover in somewhat nostalgic terms, using images drawn from nature and references to inter-personal intimacy.

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Occasionally in my life, I have heard of men and women using the phrase, ‘I tried to love him/her but………’. I can tell you with certainty that where loving somebody is concerned, ‘trying’ does not come into it. ‘Loving’ someone just happens. There is nothing easier in life than letting good things happen to oneself, and both loving’ and ‘being loved in return’ is up there with the best of things that could ever happen.

There are some people in life who have tried ‘to prevent themselves from loving another’, especially when personal and social circumstances like being promised or married to another makes extra romantic attachments highly inappropriate to engage in. Such irregular relationships can involve a great deal of physical and mental resistance, along with much psychological torture and emotional struggle.

Between 1970 and 1995 I was employed as a Probation Officer in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire. Sometime during the 1970s, I had occasion to work with a woman whom most men might objectively describe as being ‘a woman and a half’. The woman concerned was in her thirties, and she was a beautiful person inside and out. She possessed every individual asset that one could ever find in a sibling, friend, lover, partner, wife, or lifelong soulmate. She was sensitive to the needs of others, considerate and emotionally measured in all she said and did. She was also generous to the core, truthful, faithful, respectful to everyone’s need, and highly popular with her peers. She was also committed 100% to everything she ever undertook.

The woman concerned was not a Probation client, but someone with whom many Probation Officers at the time might occasionally contact in a professional capacity, or the agency she worked for. They do say that ‘nobody is perfect’ and if this woman had one flaw, I would say that it was a tendency to come across as being ‘too special a woman for men to ignore’. While she did not flaunt her attractiveness of face and body, she nevertheless remained a woman who could not stop men ‘falling in love with her’. Although of single status, and never having married, she did not consciously attempt to attract any man, and yet any reluctance in this area on her part merely resulted in more men being attracted to her and remaining more determined than ever to secure a favourable response to their advances. In fact, she was acutely embarrassed by all the attention she would receive from male admirers.

Over the years, she was sought by men of single and married status, both handsome and in powerful employment positions. In short, like the theme of today’s song, her suitors found that ‘Loving her was easier than anything they’d ever do again’.

However, this lovely person harboured a secret which had tormented her since her teenage years; a secret that explained why not one man had ever persuaded her to relinquish her single status and marry him. It was to be a secret that I was to discover towards the end of the 1970s.

At the time I was operating my ‘Relaxation and Assertion Training Groups’ in Huddersfield and around West Yorkshire with great success. I ran my groups not only in Probation Offices but also in the community at large. I operated these groups for over twenty years. These groups would be comprised of people with and without offending records and included ordinary members of the public as well as many professional workers. The group mixture would include both sexes, and members would be known by their first name only and never by status unless they chose to reveal such personal details. Groups might comprise of offenders, non-offenders, the uneducated, teachers, parolees, prisoners, and psychologists.

Having been the founder of ‘Anger Management’ during the early 1970s, the groups I ran attracted mass membership. Apart from the groups I ran in the community, I was also regularly asked to contribute to the course teaching and learning of trainee probation officers, trainee police cadets, trainee fire officers, trainee teachers, trainee nurses, trainee psychologists, and other professionals who wanted to improve their relaxation teaching methods or benefit from becoming more appropriately assertive in their behaviour.

From the hundreds of groups that I operated for over two decades, my success rate was high enough to attract more membership than I was ever able to comfortably accommodate in any group I ever ran. I never operated groups of less than one dozen members, and I would usually run groups with thirty members in it. I once took a relaxation group session of over one hundred and fifty people in a venue in Bolton.

The overall aims of my groups would teach members how to relax, sleep better, come off medication, reduce high blood pressure, lower stress levels, control anger states, break certain addictions, improve self-confidence, and become more appropriately assertive in their response pattern and individual behaviours. The lady who is the subject of today’s story, attended one of my community groups as she wanted to learn how to improve her teaching of relaxation methods.

After certain groups ended, dependant on the time of day or where they were convened, I would often hang around and speak with some of the group members, have a bite to eat with them or enjoy a coffee or a drink.

One day, after the group in which the woman in question attended had ended its session, we spoke afterwards over a coffee. During the group sessions, the woman was a member of, she would frequently offer her opinion on some aspect under discussion but never divulged any personal information about her own lifestyle and circumstances to other group members. During our private conversation over a coffee after one group session, she told me that she had lived with a partner for the past ten years, but added that this was not something that she dared to publicise. When I asked her to tell me about the lucky man, she smiled in an embarrassing way and said, ‘ Not a man; she’s a woman, Bill. I’ve never been into men in my life!”

By telling me that she was ‘gay’ and had lived the secret life of a lesbian with a partner ten years her senior for the past decade, I did not think she was seeking my approval but simply providing me with a reason why she had never volunteered anything too personal about her own private and home life in the group sessions.

She told me that she was the only child born to professional and well-to-do parents in their sixties who lived in Somerset, and she had never told her parents about her sexuality or acquainted them with her living arrangements up north. She indicated that while she would not have worried about her mother learning of her true sexual disposition, she would never have the heart to tell her father (with whom she'd always been extremely close) that his 'little girl' was a lesbian.

We were still in the late 1970s, and while changing times did lead many homosexuals to ‘come out of the closet’, I never personally knew of any lesbians who did ‘come out’ at the time, apart from the lady in question to me. She did acknowledge feeling better for having told someone about her sexual status although it was a number of years down the line before she felt confident enough to tell the world that she was a lesbian. I did not learn if she ever told her parents.
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Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 24th September 2020

24/9/2020

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Today, my song is dedicated to three people and is a song that commiserates the loss of one person’s life and celebrates the birthday of another two people.

Today in East Yorkshire, 89-year-old Jack Spence from Hull will be cremated. Jack is the father of Jacqueline Jarvis who lives in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary. Jacqueline is Jack’s only surviving child but because of her own ill-health combined with current Covid-19 restrictions, she will not be able to attend her father’s funeral and be a part of his final send-off. This geographical distance between father and daughter tomorrow will not lessen Jacqueline’s degree of hurt and sense of loss; merely exacerbate it. Jacqueline told me on the phone when we spoke last night that her father spent many years in the Merchant Navy, sharing his cabin with other seafaring men of numerous nationalities. Were he to select his own song, his daughter, Jacqueline tells me, it would be a song related to the water, or the sea, upon which many happy years were spent by him. In days of old when seafarers died at sea, they were sent to their final resting place ‘beneath still waters’. RIP, Jack, and please know that today, your daughter, Jacqueline, is with you in spirit and love. 

On a much happier note, it gives me much pleasure to also dedicate my song today to two Facebook friends who are celebrating their birthday, today. Happy birthday, Aaron Walsh who lives in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, and happy birthday Maria Dowley. Thank you both for being my Facebook friend and enjoy your special day.

My song today is ‘Beneath Still Waters’. This song was written by Dallas Frazier in 1967 and first recorded in the same year by George Jones, who released it on his 1968 album ‘My Country’. In 1970 it was recorded and released as a single by Diana Trask. In March 1981, Emmylou Harris scored her fourth Number 1 hit on the country chart with her version of the song, which was the second single from her album ‘Blue Kentucky Girl’. 

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Between 1963 and 1965 I lived in Canada a few years, during which time I was able to visit several states in the USA. It was during this couple of years of my American experience that I came to love country and western singing. I instantly loved country songs because they related to the everyday experiences of men and women in relationships and the emotional problems that we all face in some measure from time to time, whereas much of British pop music in the early 1960s (before the Beatles and the Mersey sound came onto the scene) was essentially about cheering us up and guessing the price of that ‘doggie in the window’. I have remained in love with the country and western singers and their songs ever since.

My last year in Canada was spent working in a hotel in Toronto called the ‘Glenview Terrace Hotel’ as a desk clerk and receptionist. I worked on alternate shifts. On the night shift, there was a skeleton staff that comprised of myself and one other worker; a Bellhop in his late 50s called Ron. The Bellhop job involved showing guests to their room, carrying their cases, and dealing with any miscellaneous errands. Although Ron’s job provided him with a third less hourly rate than what I was being paid for my elevated position of responsibility, in any week we ever worked together, Ron always earned more than double than I did when his tips were taken into account.

Ron was a three-times married man, an alcoholic, and an addicted gambler on the horses. One of his wives had sadly died, and he was paying alimony payments to his other two ex-wives which necessitated him taking another two part-time jobs to avoid being sentenced to a prison term if he ever fell into default. The Americans and Canadians have always been stricter with husbands who default on their alimony payments (maintenance payments) than British courts are. Ron was therefore left to live on his wits to keep one step ahead of the bailiffs and two ex-wives chasing late alimony payments. Fortunately, he was unable to father children so, he at least avoided child maintenance support. Whenever he had to, Ron ran faster than a number of his chosen horses who had let him down badly over the years. 

Ron also needed to make additional money above his alimony commitments to pay for his flat accommodation, weekly food, and general upkeep. He had been an alcoholic for about twenty years and an addictive gambler on the horses most of his adult life but had changed his drinking and gambling pattern in later years since he had started working at the hotel. The changes to his addictive drinking and gambling pattern were made to suit his situation, as well as enabling him to maintain his financial commitments, keep his employment, and continue his addiction to drinking alcohol and placing bets on horse racing. Being both an alcoholic and an addictive horse gambler necessitated Ron holding down three jobs, one full-time job at the hotel, and two part-time positions of employment in retail stores downtown on a weekend and three mornings. Over the years, Ron had changed his pattern of drinking to enable him to keep his jobs, but which still facilitated him going on ‘a bender’ and getting drunk for one week non-stop periodically. He also changed his betting pattern on the horses to one which enabled him to get an even bigger buzz out of placing a bet on the horses. 

Regarding his alcoholism, Ron established a pattern of remaining 100% teetotal during his working week in exchange for getting blind drunk for one week whenever he went fishing up in the mountains. Ron never did not stop gambling on horse racing. Instead, he stopped having small bets daily on the horses, and saved up all of his money until he had amassed $1000, Then, once he had amassed a gambling stake of $1000, he would select a horse he fancied with shortened odds, and place the lot on it ‘to win’!  

If Ron’s horse won, he would stock up with enough alcohol and spirits to keep him drinking heavily for a week. He would then arrange to have a week off work and book his rail tickets to take him to his favourite spot a few hundred miles away in some of the most beautiful land he knew where his kind of fishing could be done without ever seeing another person for the entire week. 

During his weekly periodical fishing and drinking breaks in the mountain valley, Ron would be in his heaven. All-day would be spent by him under the clear blue skies, swigging his alcohol in between casting his line into the clear waters of the river. Ron would drink and fish all day long until darkness descended, and the fish stopped biting. Ron hardly ate whenever he was on ‘a bender’ and he would usually place all the fish back he had caught back into the water, with the exception of the smallest, which he’d cook over an open fire and eat for supper. When the red evening sky got too dark for him to fish any longer and the day cooled down, Ron would warm himself by the fire, and he would drink himself to sleep as he lay in the open air under the starry sky. When Ron returned home from his fishing excursion, he would have another three days off work ‘drying out’ before he returned to his employment, in a teetotal state. 

Until he next won big on the horses and booked another fishing and drinking holiday up in the mountains, Ron would abstain from drinking and no gambling would take place. Again, he would work all the hours that God sent him as he started to save up his $1000 stake for the next big horse bet, as well as keeping his two ex-wives and his landlord, and his three employers happy.

Ron had calculated early on that ‘working’ any regular job would never be enough to provide him with his periodical lifestyle of ‘fasting before the feast’. He knew that he needed additional sources of income to make his overall strategy work. While saving up, Ron would engage in anything that might earn him a few bucks extra. It did not seem to worry him how irregular or illegal his additional income earners were, and he was never overconcerned about keeping such activities within the letter of the law. 

The ‘Glenview Terrace Hotel’ where we worked, was the closest hotel to the airport. The next nearest hotel in Toronto was two miles downtown. The airport often got fog-bound throughout the year, and when this occurred, the ‘Glenview Terrace Hotel’ would be full to the brim with hundreds of airport passengers bound for the USA and other destinations, but who were stranded overnight. On such nights, Ron could make one month’s wages in tips as he worked eight hours non-stop showing overnight guests to their rooms, carrying their cases, and supplying them with ‘other services’.

The hotel we worked at was in ‘a dry area’ of Toronto where it was illegal to sell or serve alcohol. All the other hotels downtown was located outside the ‘dry area’ and they were therefore legally able to serve alcohol. If ever guests booked into our hotel late on an evening after the restaurant closed, the three things they wanted for the night and would ask Ron to supply ‘on the quiet’, were alcohol, specific types of food sending out for or good eating places recommended, or the pleasure of discreet female company. 

Ron had worked at the hotel long enough to have established reliable contacts and many sources who would prove mutually lucrative. He would recommend certain eating establishments that stayed open late if the guests booked into the hotel after the restaurant had closed at 8:00 pm in an evening. The guest would give Ron a tip for the information provided, and after Ron had booked them a table at the eating establishment and they had eaten there, Ron would receive a second tip from the restaurant owner for having directed the extra business their way. Ron also bought bottles of whiskey and rye during his ‘saving up period’. These spirit and alcohol purchases were not for his own consumption, but to sell to needy hotel guests. Once the hotel guests learned that they had booked into a hotel in a ‘dry area’ and did not want to travel way downtown for a drink, they would ask Ron where they could buy liquor. Ron sold his whiskey stock at inflated prices and would invariably receive double what he had initially outlaid, plus the customary tip for having provided ‘an extra service’. As regarding the ‘women of the night’ Ron was able to procure, I can only assume that he had connections with several women who were prepared to oblige the occasional hotel guest with what they wanted ‘for a price’. Again, the ‘service supplier’ would give Ron a small cut of her money earned, and the hotel guest and receiver of the female service requested would also tip Ron for having arranged the business transaction behind closed doors. Ron would tell me jokingly that he always preferred his commission from his ‘ladies of the night’ in greenbacks (dollars) and never in kind! In many ways, I held a grudging admiration for how Ron was able to keep his complicated world turning in perpetual motion as he juggled all his commitments, his addictions, and his means of making money without dropping the balls.

On quiet evenings and nights at the hotel, Ron and I would talk and smoke amid non-stop cups of coffee. During one quiet night at the hotel, Ron told me about the ‘love of his life’. I cannot recall her name or whether she was his second or third wife he married, but I can vividly remember his account of their first meeting. He told me that he had been spending a week in his favourite isolated fishing spot when during his second or third day there, he came across a woman who was bathing in a nearby stream. The woman was also camped out in the area and neither she nor Ron expected to come across another human during their stay. Ron indicated that she was a beautiful woman who was five years younger than him. Ron stumbled across her as he walked down around a nearby stream towards his favourite fishing location one morning, and without knowing that she was there until he had suddenly come upon her, he had no opportunity to warn her of his presence or avert his eyes. 

Ron told me that the female bather had long dark hair and was naked from her head to her toes as she luxuriated in the cool stream water as she leaned her womanly body over some boulders. Upon noticing she was no longer alone and had a male intruder observing her, instead of being startled, Ron indicated that she casually carried on bathing and made no movement to grab some clothes nearby to cover her lady parts. Ron told me that he didn’t know where to put himself and automatically turned around to preserve the bather’s modesty. Ron then indicated to me, ‘She was beautiful, Bill, but modest, she wasn’t!” The female bather reportedly suddenly stood up in her birthday suit, and in a nonchalant voice, she asked Ron to pass her a nearby towel to dry herself down.

I cannot recall why the woman was in that isolated spot when she and Ron first met, but the upshot of Ron’s story was that their chance meeting proved to be ‘love at first sight’.  Conversation between the couple was instantly relaxed and soon revealed that they had each experienced broken relationships in the past. The more they were together the remainder of that week, the more they seemed to be perfectly matched. They got on like a house on fire and night after night they grew closer and closer. By the end of the week, Ron and the woman were an item in every sense, and within the month, they had moved into shared accommodation and were living as a couple. They were married within the year and all seemed to go well as Ron and his new bride settled down to everyday life together; with one exception. 

Because Ron naturally wanted this marriage to go well, he made all efforts to curb his drinking at the start of their relationship. Within six months of their marriage, his initial reduction in alcohol consumption started to gradually increase. He started to gout alone for a drink until it had reached previous proportions. As his drinking increased, so did his wife’s plea for him to stop, each time he stayed out late and returned home drunk. After his wife complained that they never spent time together anymore in their home, Ron stopped going out for his evening drink and leaving his wife at home alone. But because he still needed a drink, he started drinking more at home instead. His wife continued begging him to stop, but try as he may, he just couldn’t! despite his love for her. I will never forget him telling me that he was the lucky one to have found her. He said, “She stayed with me when she should have left me, Bill. I can only presume that she must have loved me more than I loved her!”

Ron’s story had the saddest of conclusions. As time went on, Ron’s drinking was starting to distance the couple’s affections for each other, and because she missed the closeness they had experienced during the first year of their marriage, and not being able to get Ron to stop drinking, she started having the odd drink on an evening to become ‘closer to him’ once more. The upshot was that never having been a drinker, she also became an alcoholic within a few years. Before the couple had been married five years, his wife died. 

After the loss of his one true love, Ron went off the rails and was an emotional drunken wreck for a long while. He blamed himself for his wife taking to the drink also to keep their marriage together and was wracked with guilt. His drinking worsened and he lost his job, followed by his accommodation when he could not meet his monthly rent. For six months he was destitute and living on the streets, eating out of garbage cans, and begging passers-by for a handout. 

Then one day he decided to try an ‘AA Meeting in Toronto’ where he came across a very large-sized man who was also an alcoholic. This man was a clean-shaven well-groomed individual who was so moved by the account of Ron’s tragic love story that he helped him straighten himself out when Ron most needed it. He told Ron that he was in the fortunate position to be able to offer him a job, which would not provide him with a high standard of living; nevertheless, it would bring him back off the streets and keep the wolf from his door. As well as offering Ron a job, he was also able to offer Ron a single room in a hotel for a peppercorn rent, until he was able to secure alternative accommodation for himself.

The man who became Ron’s benefactor was the owner of the ‘Glenview Terrace Hotel’ where we both worked. I could count on both hands the number of times I had ever seen the hotel owner during my year of employment there, and on the few occasions when I did, it was to see him enter the hotel restaurant section during the early evening; never for a meal and always to drink copious cups of black coffee. I noticed that he never spoke to Ron should they pass each other, but merely acknowledge his employee’s presence with a nod of the head. Although I considered this to be very strange behaviour to witness from a man who had previously saved Ron from a life as a hobo on the streets, Ron indicated that it was through ‘embarrassment’ that the owner did not speak to him. Seemingly, the owner returned to his alcoholic way of life before Ron did, and started drinking more than ever he had done previously. Naturally, his attendance at the ‘AA’ meetings stopped before Ron’s did. Ron was under the impression that the hotel owner (never having seen Ron drunk since they had first met) presumed that Ron had remained teetotal ever since. Conversation between the employer and the employee thereafter remained brief and cordial. Also, it was not in Ron’s interest for his employer to know that he was a binge drinker, nor was it in the interest of either party to indicate to others in the hotel ‘where’ or ‘how’ they first met! It started to make sense to me why Ron had been able to get the ‘okay’ from the hotel owner to have a week’s leave to go fishing at the drop of a hat when he had proved a stickler when I had asked for time off a few times. Still, one can get way with some things if one’s employer is an absent alcoholic who you rarely need to interact with.

Being thirty years older than me, Ron will have died many years ago. I have often wondered if he and the love of his life ever met again in the afterlife. I hope so. It would be nice to think of them fishing together or even bathing together beneath still waters.

Love and peace Bill xxx

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Song For Today: 23rd September 2020

23/9/2020

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As I have no known birthdays of Facebook friends today, I dedicate today’s song to anyone whose birthday is celebrated today. If you are a Facebook friend of mine and have not made your birthday public in advance, and would like to be included in a birthday dedication song the next time around, simply message me. Bill x.

My song today is ‘Hippy Hippy Shake’. This song was written and recorded by Chan Romero in 1959. That same year, it reached Number 3 in Australia. Romero was 17 years old when he wrote the song.

A live version of ‘Hippy Hippy Shake’ was recorded in July 1963 by the Beatles. ‘The Swinging Blue Jeans’ also recorded the song, along with an Italian rocker called ‘Little Tony’ who found moderate success in the United Kingdom and Italy. May others also covered the song.

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Before I went to live in Canada for a few years in 1963, the dancing style of my late teens involved rock and rolling (or bopping as we called it). There was a brief interlude during this period when the Twist had its moments on the dance floor. By the time I had returned to the UK, although ‘bopping’ was still popular, a new form of dance now occupied the dance halls. This new way of dancing was known as the ‘Shake’.

The ‘Shake’ was a fad dance of the mid-1960s and was characteristic of ‘tense jerkiness’ of limbs and head shaking, The ‘Shake’ had no particular danced moves or steps, and essentially heralded the age of ‘individualism’ on the dance floor. It had superseded the ‘Twist’ in popularity by 1965, and while ‘Rock and Roll’ never died out, neither did the ‘Shake’. I always saw the ‘Shake’ as being an individualistic dance, with no steps, and lots of legs trembling, arms arbitrarily gesticulating, and severe head shaking. Senior citizens watching on as their grandchildren danced away, could be forgiven for thinking that the young floor dancers had either entered a demented state or were on the verge of throwing an epileptic fit!

The one good thing about the shake, however, was that males or females could either dance in pairs, in circles of three or four, or in larger groups. Dancers without a partner often danced alone, and whatever formation one took, nobody looked out of place doing the ‘Shake’. Indeed, to do the ‘Shake’ was tantamount to ‘doing one’s own thing’ on the dance floor. Having no formal steps whatsoever, anyone could ‘Shake’, and people of all ages did so at dances, wedding parties, social events, and family gatherings. There is not one young person country-wide who has not died through sheer embarrassment whenever they have watched their ‘old’ parents, dodgy aunts and 60-year-old uncles who pretend to be 20-year-old lotharios take the floor at evening wedding receptions and other family functions when they have either had too much to drink, or are past caring, or don’t stop to think that anyone may be watching them?

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 22nd September 2020

22/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Claire Walsh (the daughter of Tony and Lily Walsh). Tony Walsh, who sadly died a few months ago was my best friend since our teenage years. Claire comes from Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, Ireland, and she celebrates her birthday today. Today’s second birthday celebrant is Jayne Green who lives in Thrybergh, Rotherham. Enjoy your special day Claire and Jayne.

My song today is ‘D.I.V.O.R.C.E.’ This American country music song was written by Bobby Braddock and Curly Putman. It was made famous by Tammy Wynette. This single was from the album of the same name and was a number one country hit in 1968 and earned Tammy a Grammy nomination for ‘Best Female Country Vocal Performance’.

Recorded in 1968, ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E’ is a woman's perspective on the impending collapse of her marriage. The lyrics indicate that the soon-to-be-divorcee spells out words such as ‘ divorce, ‘Joe’ (the name of the woman's four-year-old son), ‘ hell; and ’custody’ to shield the young, carefree boy from the cruel, harsh realities of the world and the ultimate breakup of his mother and father.

Country music historian, Bill Malone wrote that Wynette's own tumultuous life (five marriages) "encompassed the jagged reality so many women have faced." Wolff, meanwhile, hailed the song as "tear-jerking as any country song before or since. It approaches parody but stops just short thanks to the sincerity of Tammy's quivering voice." 

"D-I-V-O-R-C-E" was released in May 1968 and was one of Wynette's fastest-climbing songs to that time. It reached Number 1 on the ‘Billboard Hot Country Singles’ and was also a minor hit, stopping at Number 63 on the ‘Billboard Hot 100’ chart. In 1975, the song reached Number 12 on the British pop chart while her other song, ‘Stand by Your Man’ made the Number 1 spot.

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Everyone who enters marriage, does it in good faith, and with both the intention and the hope that the relationship will be happy and lifelong. Nobody contemplates getting divorced as they approach marriage but unfortunately it happens all too often today.

Here are a few important statistics (the latest available figures, 2017):
42% of marriages end in divorce.
45-49 is the most common age bracket for divorce.
62% of divorces are on the petition of the wife.
In 59% of divorces, it was the first divorce for both partners.
In 18% of cases, one party had been divorced previously.
In 8% of cases, both parties had been divorced previously.
Fewer than 40% of marriages ever reach their twenty-years wedding anniversary.

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Like many people, I too have experienced divorce and it is a horrible experience for all concerned, especially for wronged and innocent parties, and any children of the marriage union. There are more reasons for marriage breakdowns than statisticians can count, but I have always felt that poor communication: unrealistic expectations: marrying too young: lack of equality in the relationship: lack of commitment: inability to compromise on opposing viewpoints and principles: lack of sensitivity: a reluctance to apologise when wrong: an unwillingness to forgive and forget: not maintaining necessary politeness by saying ‘goodnight’ and ‘good morning’ to each other daily: mutual respect: never going to bed on an argument: and maintaining tactile comfort and contact such as cuddling and holding hands to be an important foundation of faith in the relationship and a cornerstone of its strength.

Although the above list is not exclusive, I do genuinely believe that all the aspects mentioned are far more important than how much money the couple has to spend as a family unit, what type of house they live in, what kind of jobs they have, or how sexually satisfying their bedroom relationship is? 

Today’s song does remind me of that old parenting trick of spelling out words that mothers and fathers hope their young children will not understand or are not yet able to spell or comprehend the word's meaning. This is a common method that parents frequently resort to whenever they want to ‘speak behind their young child’s back’ while continuing to remain in their full view! 

Not only did I used that trick on my very young children as a parent, but I have also used it on inanimate objects such as our smart-home ‘Alexa’ device which carries out all manner of robotic functions like turning on one’s favourite radio channel, or playing a song of one’s choice, besides providing all manner of information like the weather forecast or the precise time of day, and giving explanation and answers to all types of queries on verbal command. 

My wife Sheila has installed this system in most rooms of the house, and, for the most part, I find ‘Alexa’ extremely helpful and energy saving. The device sometimes, however, takes on a life of its own and will ‘pick up a word’ in one of our conversations, and instantly anticipate a command it then proceeds to act upon. For example, were I to say to Sheila, “Where did you get that Humpy Dumpy figure?”, ‘Alexa’ may interrupt our conversation and start reciting the Humpty Dumpy nursery rhyme (just like a child might rudely interrupt its parent’s private discussion). ‘Alexa’ can get it wrong also as the device acts on 'phonic verbal commands' only. For example, were I to say to Sheila or a house guest “ We should do that 'whether' they come today or not”, ‘Alexa’ might pick up on the phonic sound of the word ‘whether’, and presuming it to be the word ‘weather’ proceed to give me the weather forecast for today! This leads me to occasionally spell out ‘important words’ to prevent the infernal machine butting into my conversation with others. “What do you think about that, Alexa?” 

The best laugh I ever had though was when a real live person made a house visit to see me who was called ‘Alexa’ and I had to switch off the damn device after ten minutes as it would not let us converse without constant interruption every time it heard its name. 

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 21st September 2020

21/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to my niece, Janie Foster who lives in Fareham, Hampshire with her husband Chris Foster, and her three children. Janie is my favourite niece (but don’t tell all my other nieces), She is the daughter of my brother, Peter Forde, and his wife, Linda Forde. Janie celebrates her birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Janie. Much love from Uncle Billy and Sheila xx

I also dedicate my song today to the birthday celebrant, Kevin Power who lives in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, Ireland. Enjoy your special day, Kevin, and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is, ‘I Recall a Gypsy Woman’. This song was written by Bob McDill and Allen Reynolds and was originally recorded by Don Williams in 1973. In 1976, at the height of the country and western boom in Britain, his version charted at Number 13 on the ‘UK Singles Chart’; the best position that Don Williams ever achieved on this chart.

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I have only ever known one woman who might have been described as being ‘a gipsy woman’, and she was a person in her 50s when I was in my 40s. I was living in Mirfield, West Yorkshire at the time (about 25 miles away from where I live now in Haworth). 

One Christmas Eve, a woman traveller knocked on my door in Mirfield. She was selling tea towels and a few other items at an inflated price to what they could have been bought for at any local store. The woman was dressed in clothes that had seen better days, and her hands were calloused and slightly dirtied beneath her fingernails with hard work. When she spoke, her deep Irish accent and overall appearance essentially told me that she was a traveller of the highways, someone we would previously have called, ‘a gypsy’.

Now, let me declare here and now that I am the firstborn of seven children to an Irish mother, who herself was born the oldest of seven children. I was also born in Portlaw, County Waterford, Ireland, and have retained both my Irish citizenship, along with most Irish traditions and customs all my life. 

When my mother was two months pregnant with me, she was unmarried at the time and had not yet started to show in her belly the fetus she was harbouring. She had just learned about the consequences of her courting indiscretion and realised that she was pregnant when she heard a knock on the door. My grandparents were out at the time, as were the rest of the household, and my mother was doing some household chores in their absence. My mother opened the door and saw that the house caller was a peg-selling Romany traveller selling her wares.

Now, let me explain two things. First, Southern Ireland is built upon the bedrock of superstition and rebellious resistance, with its people exercising a strict observance of Roman Catholic religion and blind adherence to custom and folklore. Secondly, there is something about true Romany travellers that few none-Irish folks are likely to know, but which every Irish person is aware of from childhood onwards. If a Romany traveller knocks on your door and is selling goods, your life will never be quite the same again whether you buy their wares or send them away empty-handed. Purchase some of their goods and your household will be blessed for seven years, but do not buy and your household will be automatically cursed with seven years bad luck. The more grateful the Romany traveller is upon leaving your house, the greater will be the blessing they bestow upon you and your family, but the more disappointed they are, the darker and more distressing will be their curse of damnation upon you and all of your household!

Knowing this, all travellers of the road have always received a warm welcome whenever they knock on the door of any Irish person. Should they knock on my door selling their wares, I will either buy something from them or give them some money for themselves. If they happen to sound Irish in their speech and proclaim themselves to be of true Romany origin, I will be instantly prepared to ‘temporarily forget the strict observance of the Roman Catholic faith’ and agree to have my fortune told, if the service is on offer, in exchange for a few coins.

I gave my Mirfield home visitor a few pounds as a Christmas gift and wished her seasonal greetings. She left saying, “Bless this house and all who dwell here!” and I knew as she disappeared from sight that I could look forward to having an enjoyable Christmas and a fortuitous year ahead. 

The year after, the same lady traveller returned to my door on Christmas Eve and I gave her £2 like I had done the previous year. Again, she left me in good heart with her blessing. For the next seven years, the same lady would return to my Mirfield home on Christmas Eve and I never let her leave without giving her some money, wishing her seasonal greetings and receiving her blessing.

About six months after her visit, my wife decided that she wanted to separate. Our children had now grown and had left home, and my wife decided that our relationship had reached its ‘end of shelf life’. While I was initially reluctant to separate after 28 years of married life, our parting was the right thing for both of us as it turned out, and we remain on friendly terms as ex-partners and the parents of two of our children. The matrimonial house was sold, and divorce proceedings were commenced as my ex-wife and myself moved elsewhere to live. 

Initially, I began to wonder if my marriage separation represented that ‘ill-fortune’ had befallen me after the Romany traveller’s last Christmas Eve visit to our Mirfield home. I started to consider if I had been less than generous enough in the amount of my Christmas money that I gave my Romany visitor. I wondered if instead of the £2 Christmas money, I should have given her a £5 note instead, and thought if I had been more generous of purse, perhaps my marriage might not have ended?
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About four years after my separation and subsequent divorce, I met my wife Sheila, and I have never been happier in my life. Upon meeting Sheila and marrying her, I now realise that the travelling Romany house visitor to my Mirfield home had indeed blessed me when we last met. Sheila and I live in Haworth (25 miles away from my Mirfield home). 

I am approaching 78 years old in a month’s time and I guess that my Christmas Eve home visitor would now be deceased. I have often wondered if she ever returned to my old Mirfield home after I had left it, and if she did, how the new occupants dealt with her on her Christmas Eve visit, selling her wares? I did notice whenever I had occasion to pass by my old home in Mirfield that the people we sold the house to only lived there less than 18 months before selling it on again. Perhaps, they responded less kindly than was advisable to the Christmas Eve Romany traveller when she next visited and had sent her packing empty-handed with a flea in her ear as she cursed them to hell and back?

Since I met and married my wife, Sheila, I have never been happier in my life, so knew that the traveller had indeed blessed me the last time we met. A few months after marrying Sheila, I contracted terminal blood cancer, and over the past eight years, I have had an additional three cancers, two nine-month courses of chemotherapy, three years of monthly blood transfusions, ten cancer operations (six operations within the past 18 months and 40 sessions of radiotherapy). I am also awaiting another hospital consultation to have another suspected cancer checked out.

Some might indeed think initially that my Christmas Eve visitor of 15 years ago might have cursed me, but given my positive responses to all my operations and hospital procedures since I married Sheila, I know that I am indeed blessed. 

God bless my Irish sounding traveller wherever she may be; and if her current resting place is at the other side of the green sod, God rest her soul, and let me tread ever so lightly should I occasion to walk by it.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 20th September 2020

20/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to my friend Maureen May who lives in Wyke, Bradford, and my friend Susan Susan M.Boon who lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. Both Maureen and Susan celebrate their birthday today. Enjoy your special day, ladies.

My song today is, ‘The Night Hank Williams Came to Town’ which the country singer, Johnny Cash sung in the 1960s. At the time when Johnny Cash was forging a singing career out for himself, the top singer on the country scene of the day was his idol, Hank Williams.

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I was born in 1942 and this was an era where we all grew up with an idol. Our idols might be singers, footballers, film stars, or fictitious characters out of adventure novels. For my part, as a child aged seven or eight, my idols included the fictional characters Robin Hood, Ivanhoe, Sir Lancelot, William Tell: The Lone Ranger: Hopalong Cassidy, Sitting Bull, Roy Rogers, and Billy The Kid. My singing idols were Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Bing Crosby, Vera Lynne, Mario Lanza, Caruso, Doris Day, Johnnie Ray, and Josef Locke. My film idols were John Wayne, Maureen O’Hara, Rita Haworth, Margaret Lockwood, and Kim Novak. My sports idols were Stanley Matthews and athlete, Roger Bannister, and Jessie Owens. My historical idols were Nelson, Napoleon, Oliver Cromwell, and Robert the Bruce.

As I grew from childhood, every boy had some person who was either real or fictional whom they idolised, hero-worshipped, or tried to be like. Even my father held up the film star, John Wayne, as being a person worthy of emulation, and someone he regularly quoted to his wife and children. Dad saw every movie John Wayne appeared in and could even repeat all his lines verbatim spoken in the film. All of my father’s most-quoted lines would have originated from some character in a John Wayne film which had been spoken by the man himself. I grew up with hearing quotations from dad like, “A man’s a man” and ‘’Never apologise; it’s a sign of weakness!” and “The first is first and the second is nobody!” (From the film ’She Wore A Yellow Ribbon’ and ‘Custer’s Last Stand’). When dad came home from a day’s work at the pit, as soon as he came through the door, he would taunt my dear mum with the words, “Get the Tea on, woman!” (From the film, ‘The Quiet Man’).

I worked as a Probation Officer in Huddersfield between 1970 and 1995; during which my growing involvement with Yorkshire schoolchildren eventually led me to deal with the issue of 'having idols'. 

In 1990 I had my first children’s book published and by the time I had retired as a Probation Officer in 1995 on the grounds of ill health, I was an established children’s author with dozens of publications behind my name. Between 1990 and 2003, I would visit one school daily somewhere in Yorkshire, where I would hold a story-telling assembly for the whole school. On 840 occasions, I was accompanied by a famous person who was of national or international recognition and celebrity. 

During all 2,000 assemblies I held in Yorkshire schools between 1990 and 2003, I would emphasise one major theme or aspect that I knew adversely affected young children’s lives and which they often found difficult to deal with. The issue could be bullying, discrimination, bereavement, separation, loss, homelessness, parental divorce, etc. However, after the Miner’s Strike (1984-85), I regularly spoke about the issue of child ‘idolisation’ and ‘celebrity’, either during or after holding my school storytelling assemblies.

For much of my childhood years, my father had worked down the coal mines as a collier. I was working as a Probation Officer in Huddersfield during the miners’ strike of 1984-85. This strike was a major industrial action in an attempt to prevent colliery closures. The strike was led by Arthur Scargill of the ‘National Union of Mineworkers (NUM) against the ‘National Coal Board’ (NCB), a government agency. Opposition to the strike was led by the Conservative government of Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, who wanted to reduce the power of the trade unions and to close uneconomic pits. The NUM was deeply divided over the action and many mineworkers, especially in the Midlands, worked through the dispute. In most respects, the strike deeply divided opinion in the country and revealed a political and social divide between the north and the south of England, and between the political opinions of the Conservatives, and the Socialist political parties. One half of the country generally supported the Prime Minister’s side of the dispute and saw the striking miners as undemocratic trouble makers, whereas most people in the north of England saw the miners as working-class heroes and the Prime Minister and the ‘National Coal Board’ as provoking a confrontation in order to close down the coal mines across the country.

Having been brought up in a working-class home in the English north, and being the son of a miner in my youth, my loyalties naturally lay with the cause of the miners, although in truth, I had little time for the miner’s Trade Union leader, the militant Arthur Scargill.

Among my list of published books, I had even written one book which recognised the long-established contribution to this country the miners had played over the centuries. The book is the one book from all my 64 published books which I enjoyed writing the most. It is called, ‘Tales From The Allotments’ and can be purchased from www.amazon.com or www.smashwords.com in either e-book format or hard copy, with all profits going to charitable causes in perpetuity (£200,000 given to charity between 1990-2002).

During the height of my popularity as a Yorkshire children’s author during the 1990s, after every storytelling assembly I held, I usually spent at least half an hour selling books to children and signing autographs. Each school visit would attract hundreds of little autograph hunters wanting me to sign my name on a book of mine they had either bought that day or had purchased during a previous school visit of mine. 

There were approximately 200 Yorkshire schools that I visited annually, of which half could always be guaranteed to pre-order 100 copies of my next book. Being the bread and butter supporters of my charitable book projects, and the largest contributors to the £200,000 profits from sales I made for charity during that decade, I never hurried my visits and would often remain a few hours in the school and pop into each classroom after the morning assembly I had just held.

When the miner’s strike was on, and whenever I visited a school in a mining area of Yorkshire, if a young child asked for my autograph I would suggest that they get the autograph of a much more important person in their lives than I was; their father. I would go out of my way to emphasise the importance of the role that miners had played in this and other countries of the world for centuries. 

I continued with this practice in all subsequent years of reminding children that if they chose to idolise anyone, there was no better person than their father or mother to ‘look up to’. If they were the children of miners, I would tell them that their father’s autograph would prove to be far more important in their lives than mine could ever be! Such was no altruistic message on my part, as I believe that assertion to be true.

I would advise everyone not to make any person in their life an idol (outside a parent or family member), however worthy of an individual that person might appear to be. I reminded them to regard all others as being every bit as good and as important as themselves and to regard oneself as being equal to all others. 
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This advice, I believe to be wise for all of us to follow; child or adult. Do this and respect will live in you and in all whom you regard.

Love and peace Bill xxx



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Song For Today: 19th September 2020

19/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to four people who are celebrating their birthday today. They are Lace Arnold who lives in Chatham, Medway, North Kent. The second birthday celebrant is Margot Grace who lives in Piltown, County Kilkenny, Ireland. The third person who is celebrating their birthday today is Mary Barrett who lives in County Waterford, Ireland, and finally, we wish a happy birthday to Sian Siân Donnelly who lives in Bexhill, East Sussex. Enjoy your special day and thank you for being my Facebook friend. 

My song today is ‘Killing Time’.  This song was written by H. Jayden Nicholas and American country music artist, Clint Black. It was initially recorded by Clint Black and was released in July 1989 as the second single and title track from his debut album. The song was his second number-one hit on the U.S. Billboard magazine ‘Hot Country Singles’ chart and the Canadian RPM’ Country Tracks’ chart. When Billboard published its year-end ‘Hot Country Singles’ chart for 1989, ‘Killin' Time’ was the Number 2 song of the year, one spot behind Clint Black’s ‘A Better Man’". The successes of ‘A Better Man’ and “Killin' Time” were instrumental in Clint Black winning the ‘Country Music Association’s Horizon Award’ in 1989. 

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I was 47 years old when this song was first recorded, and I had just finished writing my first book, ‘Everyone and Everything’. Little did I realise at the time, but the following ten years would be the busiest decade of my life, and ‘’killing time’ would not be on the cards for me. In fact, my days between 8:00 am and 10:00 pm daily, Monday-Sunday was constantly occupied, and my adrenalin level, along with my satisfaction level was high enough to sustain me for a full decade, before two heart attacks forced me to call a halt. 

My first children’s book was written for primary school children and it dealt with ten different types of discrimination. That book was a tremendous success and Kirklees Schools and the Kirklees churches bought three thousand copies in the month of November alone, and the ‘Children in Need’ charity benefited by over £10.000. My employers paid for the publication of the book (which had as one of its aims, the promotion of the Probation Service’s image in the local schools: much as the local police used to do via school visits).

Little was I aware at the time, that this first book I wrote would be the start of sixty-four (64) book publications I would have over the following twenty-five years. 
My first dozen book publications were funded by different charitable organizations who were impressed by the success of my writing, along with my ability to attract numerous famous people to read from them in Yorkshire schools. Having the then ‘Chief Inspector of Schools for Ofsted’ (Chris Woodhead) describe one of the books I wrote (and from which he read from in a Yorkshire school), as being ‘high-quality literature’ in a press interview he gave afterward went a long way towards enhancing my credibility within Yorkshire Schools, their teachers and with the school children’s parents. Then, when the late Princess Diana personally requested that I send her copies of my books ‘Douglas the Dragon’ and ‘Sleezy the Fox’ for her to read to her sons, princes William and Harry at their bedtimes, my reputation as an up-and-coming author was further established. Then, when I received a personal telephone call from the President of South Africa, Nelson Mandela, at my home in December 2000 (six months after he had left office), and Mr. Mandela kindly praised the writing of three of my books that contained stories about South Africa, Jamaica, and India, my reputation as a children’s author was firmly established within and outside Yorkshire and even reached the shores of Jamaica. 

The praise of Nelson Mandela was reported globally by the ‘News 24 Television’ channel and was seen by the Jamaicans. The Jamaicans idolised Nelson Mandela, and within the coming months, I was invited to write some books which could be sold in Jamaica to raise money for school resources in Falmouth (the old slave capital of the world during an earlier century). To facilitate raising much-needed cash for the thirty-two Falmouth schools, I established and managed a ‘Trans-Atlantic Pen Pal Project’ between all the thirty-two schools in Falmouth, Jamaica, and thirty-two Yorkshire schools. The aim of that project was to increase awareness of each other’s culture with a view of reducing racism between black and white pupils. Many tens of thousands of pounds were raised from the sale of my Jamaican and South African books and I was even privileged to have my books placed on the educational curriculum in Falmouth. For over two years, I liaised with the Jamaican Minister for Education and Youth Culture’, the Mayor of Trelawney (known as the Custos), and other high-powered educational officials in Jamaica.

The decade 1990-2000 witnessed me raising over £200,000 from the profits of all my book sales. Every penny profit went to charitable causes and all profit from the future sale of any of my books will continue to raise money for charitable causes in perpetuity. Today, we use every penny profit from book sales by giving away free books to children, churches, and schools. Early on after writing my first book, I decided to allow all book profits to go to charity. That decision effectively prevented me from having my books published by an independent source as they all wanted me to travel the country widely to promote my book and that conflicted with what I really wanted to do. My way around this obstruction was to arrange and fund my own publications by raising funding cash through other ventures, as well as persuading private printing works to produce my work at cost, and by persuading local artists (who wanted their work publicised through the sales of thousands of books) to illustrate my book covers and inside pages for free (working materials cost provided to them only). The more media publicity I got, the easier it became to get a stable of a dozen excellent book illustration artists to work freely for a charitable cause.

I then needed to persuade the Yorkshire schools in their hundreds to place orders for school libraries one year ‘in advance’ of my next book publication. I did this by making the sale of my books wholly ‘exclusive’ to Yorkshire schools and by making them unobtainable to anyone who was not prepared to order in advance of publication. By my sixteenth book publication, advanced orders on every book I wrote and published exceeded five thousand copies. I could have sold more copies, but I deliberately wanted to keep the supply less than the number of books wanted. This ploy itself had the desired effect of increasing the demand. Tell anyone that you have a published book that cannot be purchased outside an exclusive number of people and their ‘would like to buy the book’ automatically becomes ‘I must have the book!’ It is in the nature of all humans to want that more which they are told that they cannot have! 

I then persuaded 840 national and international stars, celebrities, and famous names to visit Yorkshire schools and read from my books to assemblies of school children. I wanted the school children to ‘feel special’ on the days of my assemblies by bringing them a famous person to read to them; someone they could see in the newspapers, or on the television, or on professional fields of sport, or even in films! Without going into too much detail, celebrity readers came from royalty, government ministers, space travel, Antarctic explorers, authors, filmstars, stage actors, television presenters, sport, bishops and a few Archbishops, Chief Constables, and celebrities from all manner of public life. Having such big names read for me five days every week for ten years of school terms guaranteed and provided me with more publicity in the press and on the radio and local tv than millions of pounds could have purchased. From 840 + national and international famous names who I invited to read over a twelve-year period, only two declined. 

The longer and more celebrated my list of my readers became, the more willing new famous readers were to visit Yorkshire schools to read to school assemblies from my books at their own expense! The great Norman Wisdom even travelled specially from The Isle of Mann to read for me and spent eight hours in my company. The first man ever to travel to both the North and the South Poles (Antarctic explorer Robert Swan) flew from Switzerland and back to read to children in a Huddersfield school. Anita Roddick, the late Body Shop owner, and environmentalist came from the South of England and marched over 1000 disabled children through the streets of Huddersfield from the Railway Station to the Town Hall, to promote the ‘Our World’ book of mine. We needed the consent of the local police constabulary to hold up the traffic through the centre of town for half an hour.

By 20O2, my full workload as an author: charity worker: Probation Officer: Trans-Atlantic worker with Jamaican schools: plus all group Relaxation Programmes run by me in the Community, hospitals, prisons, mental health institutions, and upon training courses for police, probation officers, fire officers, nurses, teachers, and psychologists: daily school visits made to tell stories to assembled children: talks given in the evenings to many groups in the community: and the additional research I did to enhance my behaviour modification work gave me two serious heart attacks within the space of one week. My second heart attack left me unconscious for three days and my family was told by the medics that I was not expected to regain consciousness and would die.

While I did not ever have to ‘kill time’ at any stage during the most stressed decade I ever knew, my extensive workload almost managed to ‘kill me’! And in all truth, there is not one thing I managed to do that I ever regretted, and were I to relive my life to press, I would happily do it all over again!

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 18th September 2020

18/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to all people who are ‘problem drinkers’ or alcoholics.

My song today is ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’. This song was written by Kris Kristofferson and was recorded in 1969 by Ray Stevens before becoming a number one hit on the ‘Billboard US Country’ chart for Johnny Cash. 

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‘Alcoholism’ is a deadly condition that can be just as addictive a lifestyle as other types of addictions. In some ways, ‘alcoholism’ is much harder to detect than some other addictions as it can be concealed easier beneath a cloak of ‘respectability’. It is also harder to detect if the alcoholic drinks vodka which cannot be detected on the drinker’s breath or benefits from the wrongful perception of others who may consider them as having no more than ‘a bit of a drinking problem’. The latter misconception can effectively (in the eyes of others) relegate the real condition of the ‘alcoholic’ to one of a more socially acceptable level. 

There are many alcoholics who hold down good salaried occupations and manage to disguise their problem within the likable aspects of a pleasant disposition and social popularity. They can become the person that work colleagues kindly refer to as, ‘the soul of the party, and a person who is not afraid to let their hair down’.
I once supervised a mature Probation Officer student for a six-month placement back in the 1970s. He was an affable man, married with three children, and in his late 40s. He never physically displayed any problems with his appearance, speech, or mannerisms apart from two areas I observed. He would often come into work later than other work colleagues but would then frequently stay back later at the end of the working day to make up for his later start. 

More suspicious, however, was his records that I was obliged to check as his supervisor. I started to notice inexplicable gaps; particularly in his sentence construction. There was nothing that might be considered as being ‘obviously wrong’ to indicate anything more sinister, but nevertheless, there were too many inconsistencies. He would miss out words in a sentence and forget about some punctuation. While such relapse might seem nothing to overconcern oneself about, it was inconsistent with his high educational standards, and middle-class upbringing, and university background. Also, my mature student never joined the others in the staff room at lunchtime and would absent himself for an hour each noon, on the pretence of liking to have a walk or to grab a nice cup of coffee and a sandwich. 

The upshot was that he was eventually seen at mid-day in a pub on the outskirts of Huddersfield as drunk as a skunk; having pleaded ill with a bad migraine and stating he was going home early. After making a few more inquiries, it became apparent he had a drinking problem, and I was obliged to inform his university lecturer of any observed problematic behaviour. The instant response of the student’s course lecturer was, “I thought that might have been the case!”. When asked why I had not been informed beforehand as his ‘Probation Work Placement Supervisor’, all I received in reply was having the ‘confidentially clause’ of ‘professional practice’ recited. 
I had a face-to-face interview with the mature student about his excessive drinking, and he came clean about his problem of sometimes drinking too much, but on no account did he consider himself to be ‘alcoholic’. The bottom line was that the frequency of his drinking had worsened over the previous three years after his wife had been diagnosed with a muscular disorder that left her wheelchair-bound. He said that he had found the added stress of changing occupation late in life and returning to university study was just too much, especially on top of being constantly worried about his wife’s deteriorating condition. He also indicated that he initially started having the odd drink at home in the evening after a stressful day, but gradually found himself having one in the pub at lunchtime or before he went home at the end of his working day.

My mature student placement eventually secured a post as a Probation Officer in Rochdale and reportedly attended the 'AA Meetings' with his new employer’s knowledge (presumably having been prepared to consider himself as being ‘alcoholic’). Again, the university lecturer had failed to inform his new employer of the student’s ‘drinking problem’ on grounds of breaching ‘confidentiality’, and it was left to me to inform his new employer. I informed the student that I had done so, and he said that he understood, and apologised for the uncomfortable position he had placed me in.

I have known too many people whose lives have been ruined by drink and who have lost their partners, marriages, careers, houses, families, and friends. I have even worked with a few alcoholic clients in Huddersfield who finished up living in doss houses, or sheltering in derelict properties, squatting in private premises they broke into when the owners were on holiday. or sleeping rough on the streets, park benches, and in shop doorways. Occasionally, the problem has been closer to my own family.

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As a new Probation Officer entrant to the Probation Service in 1971, most of my colleagues avoided working with alcoholics whenever they could, and so I volunteered over a two-year period to have around a dozen vagrants and alcoholics on my client list. Most of these individuals were not what I would call ‘criminally inclined’, and most were ‘guilty of being subject to poverty, addicted to alcohol and homeless’.  Every now and then, they would commit some minor offence which brought them in conflict with the local police. Some would steal to survive or find themselves in trouble with the law for brawling in the pub or in the street when drunk, Some might break into derelict properties to bed down for the night and cause some criminal damage while effecting illegal entry. 

Every Probation Officer is placed on a staff rota to undertake the ‘Duty Officer’ role. The role of ‘Duty Officer was a nightmare duty that all Probation Officers disliked having to do. The Duty Officer function would last a full day (8 hours) and would be allocated to a Probation Officer ‘in addition’ to their other regular Probation Officer office interviews, court undertakings, preparation of reports, home visits, and other duties and functions. The ‘Duty Officer’ would see every miscellaneous client who called into the Probation Office that day, plus any statutory client who was reporting to their own supervising officer but who found upon arrival that their own Probation Officer was not there. Their own Probation Officer might be ill, visiting a prison, or otherwise unavoidably detained, and so it was the responsibility of the Duty Officer of the day to cover for their absent colleague and to do whatever was required. The Duty Probation Officer would also have to deal with every phone contact of people leaving messages for other absent colleagues.

In addition to their designated function as being a national service, every Probation Office in the land is also used by all and sundry as a ‘Citizen’s Advice Bureau’ and an extension to the ‘Social Service’s Department’. The Duty Officer is expected to be an expert on all matters, and know all things, and provide whatever is required. They are expected to know of contacts where the unemployed visitor could get a job, or where a destitute and homeless person could rent a flat, or how to go about leaving a wife-beating partner without involving the police or getting killed in the process, or how to sue the police for wrongful arrest etc. etc. 
The ‘Duty Officer’ is also the only Probation Officer of the day who has access to ‘a petty cash fund’ which is only supposed to be used in the event of ‘emergencies’. Unfortunately, for the first six months of my Probation Officer career, I foolishly assessed many situations as being worthy of the title ‘EMERGENCY’ which unfortunately my employers and some of my colleagues did not. I refer to situations such as ‘starvation: wearing threadbare clothes: walking in holed shoes with no socks on one’s feet: long term homelessness: long-term unemployment: having had one’s DHSS or Social Security Benefits suspended for some irregularity. I foolishly viewed all these situations as representing a genuine ‘emergency’ for the person who was experiencing them!

I once interviewed a homeless man who had no decent footwear and I finished up giving him the shoes I had been wearing. I went home that day in trainers I would use at work whenever playing table tennis at the lunch break in the staffroom. 

Most alcoholics and homeless persons in any town or city know about the Probation Service’s ‘emergency cash fund’, especially if they have had previous contact under Probation Officer supervision. Such persons ‘in the know’ invariably make it a ploy to be the last visitor to the local Probation Office on a Friday afternoon before the Duty Officer of the day goes home. It was always five minutes before leaving time (at 4:55 pm on a Friday afternoon) when some destitute person with addiction would call into the Probation Office and spin the greatest sob story one ever heard in order to extract some cash from the ‘emergency cash fund’. If the fund (which was replenished with twenty or thirty pounds every Monday morning), had anything left in it on a Friday afternoon (which had never once been known), the visitor with the sob story would probably be given it. However, if the fund was empty, and the Probation Duty Officer wanted to get home safely in one piece that day before 7:00 pm, many a Probation Officer would dip into their own pocket to provide a handout.

You see, if there was no money in the ‘emergency fund’ to be given to the Friday afternoon visitor, and they refused to leave without getting some, the only legal alternative opened to the Duty Officer was to call the local police and have the troublesome or threatening person forcibly ejected from the premises or arrested. This was always a riskier position for the Duty Officer to be in on a Friday afternoon where all other Probation Officers in the building would have gone home earlier to miss the heavy traffic. 

Needless to say that all of the ‘experienced’ Probation Officers (Monday-Thursday inclusively when other colleagues would be in the building to 7:00 pm often) rarely used their own money to give away to the needy, and a few stricter colleagues would even see it as a distinct failure to even part with any money from the Office’s ‘emergency cash fund’, however full the emergency fund was at the time! As for me, I was a typical greenhorn who would fall for any old line or hardship tale of woe. 
The Friday afternoon visitors soon came to recognise that the Probation Duty Officers came in all shapes and sizes; some who were sympathetic to hearing a tale of woe and bitter hardship, and others who couldn’t care a shit, whatever heart-rendering story they told (unless it was Friday afternoon just before the empty office closed for the weekend). Most late Friday afternoon visitors were ‘alcoholic’ or were clients who displayed problematic behaviour, and especially with a drink inside them. 
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Perhaps the reason why I had a soft spot for the ‘alcoholic’ was that my own father never touched the stuff apart from drinking a Christmas glass of sherry; and the reason he was teetotal all of his life was because his father was an alcoholic.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 17th September 2020

17/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Amanda Forde who lives in Batley, West Yorkshire, and is married to my nephew Michael Forde (the son of my brother Michael and his wife, Denise Forde). Amanda celebrates her birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Amanda. Uncle Billy and Sheila xx

My song today is ‘Someone You Loved’. This song was recorded by Scottish singer-songwriter Lewis Capaldi.  It was released as a download on 8 November 2018. 
"Someone You Loved" was a commercial success, peaking at number one on the ‘UK Singles Chart’. The song became Capaldi's first Number 1 single and spent seven consecutive weeks atop of the chart. It also peaked at number one on the ‘Irish Singles Chart’ in March 2019. In the United States, ‘Someone You Loved was a ‘sleeper hit’, topping the Billboard Hot 100’ in its 24th week on the chart. It was nominated for ‘Song of the Year’ at the 62nd ‘Grammy Awards’. It also received an award for ‘Song of the Year’ at the 2020 ‘Brits Awards’. It apparently took Capaldi six months to write the song. 

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I remember working with a young woman during the late 1970s in my role as a Probation Officer and group worker in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire. I cannot recall her name, only that she was aged in her twenties, was very attractive, and had spent most of her childhood and teenage years in Care of the Local Authorities. She had been made the subject of a Probation Order for an offence of shoplifting and had only been briefly employed in two jobs since she had been 18 years old. One of her jobs had been in a pub serving customers, and her other employment was working as a hotel cleaner in Northumbria. She left both work positions because of her relationships with two men, each of whom she said she had fallen in love with and planned to marry.

I remember her telling me that she had been placed with many foster parents over the years; most of whom she had run away from at the first opportunity. She also stated that she had been sexually abused by two of her Residential Home care workers during her early teens; a situation which she described as being 'par for the course' for most children in Care.  She said that she continued having a sexual relationship with a local authority residential care worker for two years after coming out of Care at the age of 18-years-old. He was stated to be the Manager of a Local Authority Residential Home, who reportedly ‘sexually took advantage of her’ (her words not mine) two weeks after being received there as a resident at the age of 16 years. She said that their secret relationship continued at the Residential Home over a twelve-month period, stopped for six months, and then continued one year later after she had bumped into him in the area of Almondbury in Huddersfield, two months after leaving Care as an 18-year-old.

Before too many discussions at my office, several things became self-evident. It seemed apparent that at the top of the young woman’s wish list, she wanted to meet somebody who she loved, and who she would marry and settle down with. After achieving this objective, she was perfectly convinced that everything in the garden would be rosy and she would be happy forevermore. Secondly, it was clear that she was unable to distinguish between ‘sex’ and ‘love’, along with not being able to know if they really wanted to ‘marry her’, when all they truly desired was to ‘bed her’. I forgot how many times she must have said to me, “I don’t ask for much out of life, Mr Forde. All I want is ‘someone to love me’ and me them.”

Today’s song reminds me of her. I have known of many men in life who too freely say, ’I love you’ to a woman they have not known long when what they really mean is, ‘I want you’.  I have also known some women who mistake ‘sexual compatibility’ for ‘love’. Often, the mere experience of being intimate with a man who makes them feel safe and secure is seen by them as being the sole requirement necessary to convince themselves that they have found ‘true love’. The simple truth is that ‘true love’ is never that simple to know or is that easy to fathom.  Love is one of the most complicated of human emotions and ‘being in love’, the most inexplicable kinds of bliss which robs the head of all rational thought and the body of moderate emotion. We don't choose to fall in love; ‘it happens’, and when it does, it can be with a man or woman with whom we might share moments of happiness, but who is incapable of keeping us happy as a long term partner or lifelong soulmate. 
The type of person, who, in my view, finds it the mist difficult to find ‘true love’ is the person who does not mix and socialise with others easily. Lacking in confidence is probably the greatest ‘put off’ to any potential suitor in the love stakes. These unconfident individuals are the ones who are most likely to find it difficult to find somebody to love, and who will love them in return. They often lack the social skills to either be at ease in another’s company or to place others at ease in their own presence. This invariably leads them to ‘trying too hard’ to be liked by the other person when out on a date, and being perceived as being ‘too willing to please’. 

I would seriously recommend such introverted and non-assertive people seeking ‘love’ to become the member of as many different groups as they can, but only after they have gained enough confidence to stride out with purpose. In this regard, they could do far worse than investing their time in membership of a ‘Social Skills and Assertive Training’ programme, plus learning some Relaxation techniques such as breathing and posture exercises. Not only are they likely to meet somebody like themselves on such a programme, but this experience could give them the ‘jump-start’ they need to find out a lot more about themselves and their behaviour, as well as learning how to change inappropriate perceptions and responses by self and others.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 16th September 2020

16/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to all those individuals who are currently unhappy with their lives, for whatever reason, and who cannot envisage any significant improvement in their lot in the immediate future.

My song today is ‘The End of the World’. Karen Anne Carpenter was an American singer and drummer who was part of the duo the ‘Carpenters’ alongside her brother Richard. Karen Carpenter had the eating disorder, anorexia nervosa, which was little known at the time. She was briefly married in the early 1980s. Karen died at age 32 from heart failure caused by complications related to her illness. Her death led to increased visibility and awareness of eating disorders. Her work continues to attract praise, including being listed in Rolling Stone's ‘100 Greatest Singers of All Time’. 

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I believe that it is good to be alive; and yet I know that this belief of mine does not sit easily with the dispositions displayed, the situations experienced, and the views held by so many others today. 

I have always believed that there are more good people in the world than there are bad. I have always believed that doing a bad thing does not necessarily make the person doing it a ‘bad person’, and that ‘good people’ sometimes do ‘bad things’. I have always believed that ‘courage’ is usually ascribed to the wrong type of person and that those individuals who are truly courageous are the people who are frightened of a forthcoming event or experience and not those who face it fearlessly and with seeming bravery. I have always believed that it is during our weakest moments that our greatest strengths are revealed. I similarly believe that it is during the darkest moments of present trials and tribulations that we can become more enlightened as to the way forward. I believe that there is nothing in this world that is either ‘good’ or ‘bad’ that thinking it so, will not make it so. Never forget this; especially whenever thinking about the merits or demerits of oneself.

During my life, I have known too many people who became depressed and despaired so much about one condition or another, that eventually their daily existence was taken over by physical debility, mental instability, preoccupation with suicidal thoughts, body harm and self-mutilation, substance abuse, alcohol addiction, or other illnesses. Indeed, my own immediate and extended family have not been immune to the experiences of a mental breakdown, alcoholism, drug addiction, eating disorders, and even suicide.

We all know of someone who has suffered from one of the above conditions or debilitating circumstances. Indeed, the current Pandemic virus which has stricken the world during 2020 is a current example of how despair can take root so easily and spread so widely with a sudden and dramatic change in one’s living pattern. Since March 2020, we have witnessed some of the most appalling circumstances that were simple previously unimaginable by any peacetime nation. 

Who among us would ever have thought that fathers would be banned from being with the mothers of their babies when she gave birth? Or that newly-weds would not be able to have more than half a dozen at their wedding, and be obliged to have the most modest of wedding reception afterwards? Who would have ever imagined that the bride would not be able to have her elderly father walk down the church aisle with her on her wedding day because he was having to shield due to Government guidelines? We never thought that we would be unable to visit mum or dad in their Old Folk’s Residential Home, even at their end of life because of Covid-19 policy; or that we would be prevented from visiting any friend or relative in hospital, even if they were dying. During the present Covid-19 pandemic, we would be informed of a relative’s death by a nurse or doctor in a hospital Covid-19 Ward or by a Residential Home worker by telephone instead of in person? Not having been able to visit our dying in hospital, or be at their bedside to hold their hand when they took their last breath, bereaved families were then prevented from giving their loved ones a proper final 'send-off'. Funeral services were severely limited in number and ceremonial function, and the bereaved were even unable to stand by their graveside as they were buried! Who among us ever thought we would be unable to hug our loved ones, or have them in our homes, especially if we or they were in the ‘high risk and vulnerable category’? 

I have seen only one of my sons and my daughter once since Christmas, 2019; each for half an hour as they stood masked outside my front door. I have a son who was living in Australia for the past ten years and who I have not seen for over five years. My son is presently roaming Europe, pining to see his parents and family, especially his father who has had a terminal blood cancer for 8 years and has had six cancer operations during the past 18 months. God only knows when I will be able to safely see him again. At no time since the introduction of slavery have people experienced such limitations and severe restrictions imposed on their movement and behaviour!

Throughout this pandemic crisis, people have died, marriages have broken up, the suicide rate has increased, along with alcoholic consumption. Over the coming months, millions of people will lose their employment, see their businesses collapse, have their homes repossessed and witness their level of debt rise to unsustainable levels. There is even the prospect of the traditional Christmas being reduced to six people only indoors or outdoors! 

Then, there are those people who have suffered at the hands of criminals who have robbed vulnerable pensioners of their life’s savings in their old age, thousands of scams occurring daily,  young children who have been sexually abused in their early years of innocence, or family members who have been maimed or killed by the manslaughter or murder of another. There are parents whose painful memories and sense of bereavement and loss will remain lifelong because another person wilfully took the life of one of their children by intent or reckless accident.

Finally, not forgetting all those individuals who are grieving the loss of a soulmate who died, or the unwanted divorce they could not prevent, or the breakup of a once-loving relationship between a couple. Such loss, especially where it involves feelings of guilt, remorse, and rejection can take years and years to come to terms with emotionally. 

Today's song, ‘The End of the World' is one of these songs that could represent the hurt and loss experienced above.

Love and peace. Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 15th September 2020

15/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Dolores Lonergan who lives in Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary in Ireland, and Sophie Richardson who lives in Crigglestone, Wakefield, West Yorkshire. Both Dolores and Sophie celebrate their birthday today. Enjoy your special day, ladies, and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is, ‘I Can See Clearly Now’ which was originally recorded by Johnny Nash as a single from his album of the same name. It achieved success in the United States and the United Kingdom when it was released in 1972, reaching Number 1 on the US ‘Billboard Hot 100’ and ‘Cash Box’ charts. It has been covered by many artists throughout the years, including a hit version by Lee Towers in 1982, and another hit version by Jimmy Cliff in 1993, who re-recorded the song for the motion picture soundtrack of ‘Cool Runnings’, where it also reached the top 20 at Number 18 on the ‘Billboard Hot 100’ chart.

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This song was first released in 1972 when I had just commenced my career as a Probation Officer in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire. 
Ever since early childhood, I had this ‘feeling’ inside me that I had been born for a special purpose.  My mother had told me that ‘I was special’, ever since I could understand the meaning of her words. She had been initially informed of my ‘specialness’ by a peg-selling traveller in the Irish village of my birth, two months after my conception! 

When my mother was two months pregnant with me in Portlaw, County Waterford, Ireland (I would be her firstborn of seven children), she had a visitor to my grandparent’s house one afternoon who changed my life; despite the fact that my mother showed no visible signs of her pregnancy.
The house visitor was a peg-selling traveller of Romany origin. Now, let me explain. In Ireland, it is considered extremely unlucky if one refuses to buy any wares from a travelling Romany who makes a house call. Indeed, Irish superstition says that one will be either ‘cursed to damnation’ or ‘blessed with good fortune’ following such a visit. The Irish believe three things about their Romany travellers. Allow the Romany traveller to leave your house without the purchase of their modest wares and you will have 7 years bad luck. However, buy from them, and your household will be blessed for 7 years. However, should the traveller be of true Romany origin, they possess the ability to prophesise your future.

After my mother had purchased a few wooden pegs from the Romany, the traveller smiled and said, “If you cross my palm with a silver shilling, missus, I’ll tell you about the child you are expecting.” Being a mere two months pregnant, and not yet visibly displaying her maiden indiscretion, my mother was somewhat taken aback; but she was naturally intrigued to learn more. Mum had not even told her husband-to-be or her own parents of the child she was carrying, Indeed, my mother had only found out that she was pregnant one day earlier.

My mother opened her purse which held a small amount to purchase necessary food for the remainder of the week and placed a silver shilling in the hand of the Romany traveller. The Romany took hold of my mother’s hand, opened her palm, and stared at it pensively for a few minutes as she stroked it gently with her finger. Then, after a minute or so she said to my mother, “Your firstborn will be a son, missus, and he will be a ‘special’ child”.

The Romany then made to leave, but the term ‘firstborn’ had whetted my mother’s appetite to hear more and she asked, “How many children will I have?” The Romany smiled and replied, “Before I can tell you that, missus, you will have to cross my palm with another shilling. So, being already in for a shilling, my mother decided to outlay her second shilling and learn how magnificent her history of motherhood would be. 

The Romany traveller opened her hand again and after looking closely at her palm once more told her, “I can see that you will have seven surviving children, missus”. Having decided that there was no more money to be had, the Romany traveller left the house where I would be born seven months later.

Not one day passed between my childhood and leaving home to live in Canada for a few years at the age of 21 years when my mother failed to tell me that I was a ‘special’ child. Hearing my mother speak those words, I naturally knew them to be truthful. From the first day I learned that I was a ‘special child’,  everything unusual or exceptional I did thereafter, any significant achievement I attained, or any inexplicable experience I encountered and navigated against the odds, was only possible because I was, indeed, ‘special’. 

Thus my ‘specialness’ was first announced to my mother by a peg-selling Romany traveller in Ireland for the price of one shilling. It was reinforced every day of my life thereafter by my mother reminding me of my ‘specialness’, and any subsequent significant life experience of mine simply confirmed my ‘specialness’. It was only natural that in time, I came to believe that I was indeed ‘special’. 

For the first twenty-five years of my life, I believed I was ‘special’. I then spent the next twenty-five years learning that while I had indeed been born a ‘special’ child with a ‘special purpose in my life’, so has every other person who is born into this world! I have spent the past twenty-five years telling every person I communicate with daily that they are also ‘special’ and have ‘a special purpose’ in their life.

Each of us possesses a talent that embraces our ‘specialness’, which, when used, displays our ‘special purpose in life’. It is up to us individually to discover what our unique talent is and to use it as often as we can to improve the lives of others. I eventually discovered in my thirties, what my own ‘special purpose in life’ was. 

This was after I had encountered many inexplicable experiences; and after changing occupations many times, and after recognising that I had enabled many people to establish healthier, happier, and more hopeful lives. 

I was in my early thirties before it dawned on me that my own talent and strength lay in my ‘belief system’; my belief in God, my belief in self, and my belief in the goodness of others. The strength of my own conviction and personal beliefs essentially made me ‘a hope giver’. When I look back on the number of things I have managed to achieve in my life, I know with certainty that what I have done could not have been done without the presence and power of the belief I held that ‘it was possible’. I can now see that whatever clothes I wore, whatever words I spoke, or whichever philosophies, principles and working methods I espoused, it was essentially ‘being myself’ that made it all possible. I had somehow been able to transfer my own positive beliefs to the belief systems of others as a consequence of my involvement with them.

My life had become one of learning to put into effect the words which Shakespeare’s character Polonius spoke to his son, Laertes, in the play Hamlet:  “This above all to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” 

When I examine everything I have ever experienced in my life, what I have overcome, and the things I achieved, however else anyone may think it had come about, I know what made it happen! I know what my ‘special purpose in life’ was. It became as clear as crystal to me. I had become a ‘dispenser of hope’ during my journey and travels through life, and this talent of mine had enabled many people to believe in their God, believe in their families, believe in their friends, believe in their neighbours, and to believe in themselves! I now know that I spent a large part of my earlier life trying to show people how to live better, and ever since I developed a terminal blood cancer eight years ago and had a number of additional cancers since, I have tried to help many people to die better. 

Believe me when I tell you that this is no fairy tale I weave, for I know that we can all learn to live and to die better. I have also come to know that though my body may be in ill-health and much pain, that my attitude and state of mind can remain robustly positive. Over the past thirty years of finding it increasingly more difficult to walk with the passing of each year, I know that though many avenues of mobility and pain-free existence are now closed to me through old age, my inability to exercise sufficiently, and the onset of various cancers and debilitating conditions, my heart remains open to the plight and the suffering of others, and my ears to their entreaties. I know that although my life span is limited, I was, I am, and will forever be, that ‘special child’ my dear mother gave birth to, as did all our mothers! I know that the greatest power on earth is the greatest of all talent everyone possesses; the ability to love our neighbour as ourselves.

I have had 64 books of mine published over the years (books for children, young persons and also adults). The very last book I had published a few years ago (and most probably the last book I will ever write), has as its central theme, the ‘specialness’ of the firstborn of seven children. The novel is called ‘The Postman Always Knocks Twice’ and it deals extensively with my mother’s encounter in the village of my birth with the peg-selling Romany when she was two months’ pregnant. I regard that novel as being the finest of my fourteen romantic novels in my ‘Tales from Portlaw’ series of books. It is available in either e-book format or hard copy from www.smashwords.com or www.amazon.com. As with the sale of all my books ever since my first publication, every penny profit goes to charitable causes in perpetuity (over £200,000 given to charities since 1990). You can also read ‘The Postman Always Knocks Twice’ FOR FREE. by accessing the link on my website below:                                                                                  http://www.fordefables.co.uk/lsquothe-postman-always-knocks-twicersquo.html
Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 14th September 2020

14/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Clare Hurst who lives in Heckmondwike, West Yorkshire. Clare celebrates her birthday today. I hope that you enjoy your special day, Clare, and thank you for being my Facebook friend. Clare is a beautiful woman inside and out who has raised lots of money in the past for the ‘Rosemere Cancer Foundation’ by entering and winning different categories of beauty pageants. She is a Beauty Queen who is not afraid to show her legs, even if it involves running a marathon to raise money for the ‘Rosemere Cancer Foundation’.

Today’s song is ‘Dirty Old Town’. This song was written by Ewan MacColl in 1949 that was made popular by ‘The Dubliners’ and has been recorded by many others over the years including Rod Stewart: The Pogues: Roger Whittaker: Chad and Jeremy: among just a few.

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I was a born in 1942, and this was an age where the average man and woman who worked, literally got their hands and clothes dirty earning a living. My early years was an age where gas towers, textile factories, industrial mills, foundries, steelworks, glue factories, and all manner of manufacturing works provided employment for the working classes. Even the clothes on washing lines were pegged out and taken in off the line at certain hours of the day when the smoke was known to belch louder and dirtier from nearby chimneys. 

For those people who did not live in the wide-open spaces of the countryside after the ‘Agricultural Revolution’ of the early 18th century gave way to the ‘Industrial Revolution’, life changed drastically. The populace moved in their droves to the towns and cities to live, work and earn a living. Over one hundred years of industrialisation witnessed the building of huge infrastructure projects like bridges, roads, tunnels, and underground transport systems to support this mass migration from the countryside into the towns and cities. Locomotive trains and thousands of miles of rail track came into being, along with hundreds of miles of new canals to transport heavy goods on barges. New and ever-busier docks and ship-building yards launched ever-larger ships and ocean liners with rude regularity, and new pits mining much-needed coal from the face of the earth were opened up to provide fuel to advance the industrial progress and prosperity of the nation. Everything that moved which wasn’t human or animal was powered by coal, which expelled large clouds of smoke and other impurities into the atmosphere. Any coal dust which did not enter the atmosphere from the coal heaps on the pit-head were particles that had already found a new home deep inside the lungs of the miners who’d hacked it out from the pit face.

Apart from the nation’s aristocrats who occupied their country castles in splendid isolation, and the wealthy gentry who lived on large estates surrounded by thousands of acres of fresh-air land and wildlife, the country’s working classes were crowded and cramped into small houses which were fitter for demolition than dwelling in. 

As the countryside became rapidly depopulated, the urban parts of England filled exponentially, and layers of muck, dust and grime lodged alongside the daily existences of the poor folk in unhealthy companionship.  The average worker lived in some dirty old town, where the soot of centuries was carried through the air from the factory chimney to humble dwellings. There it lingered and coated the stone fronts of terraced hoses and nearby walls with the black evidence of its presence, ingrained with air impurities which had existed since the start of the ‘Industrial Revolution.’ Examine the stone which built the Cotswolds cottages down south with the stone that built the terraced houses of all dwellings north of Birmingham and observe the difference. Although built around the same decade, over a century earlier, the colour of the Cotswold stone resembles freshly baked bread, whereas the colour of any northern stone dwelling is as black as pitch. 
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Indeed, my own father who was a miner for many years of his life used to say that any coal dust which he didn’t swallow would finish up being lodged on the front of his house and wall, whereas my mother would point to the washed clothes pegged out on her washing line; remarking that they were taken off the line dirtier than when they’d been pegged there earlier in the day. My mother once told me that the origin of the saying, ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’ related to the country’s geographical divide between those who lived in the North and the South. She said that the southerners lived in ‘heavenly’ countryside filled with fresh air while northerners lived in Hell surrounded by soot and dirt.

I recall that one of the most popular films located in Northern England was set in Batley, West Yorkshire. Batley was used as the location to film the fictional town of ‘Barfield’ in the 1955 film, ‘Value for Money’ starring John Gregson and Diana Dors. The most popular saying which came from a character’s mouth in that film has always remained with me, “Where there’s muck, there’s brass!”. 
It is undoubtedly true that prior to the commercial melt-down of our steel mills and industrial base, the closure of the mines, the mass redundancy of workers in our factories and textile mills, and the decimation of our railway track, there was been little money for the working-class man and woman to make north of Watford. In fact, even during the heyday and the dizzy heights of the ‘Industrial Revolution’, it was the masters and the owners, and the stockholders and investors who reaped the profits, and never the front-line workers! 

Nothing significant in wealth disparity between the poor and the rich has changed in modern England either in the 21st century. Indeed, if anything, the income gap widens year-upon-year and shows no sign of ever-narrowing. It is the same stocks and share investors and monied people who profit today, supported by an army of suited-and-booted white-collared middle-class managers and supervisors. Recent economic studies have shown that the greater an economic collapse that any country in the world experiences, the greater the profit margins and the more money the wealthy people of that country make! Talk about the association between muck and brass, and the rich becoming wealthier upon the poverty of the poor; it doesn’t come any ‘dirtier’ than that!

Whenever I hear today’s song, I think of England’s industrial past where a worker’s life, lungs, livelihood, soul, and house stone were blackened in their struggle for survival. As a lover of British history, and someone born in the early 1940s, I still recall the poor standard of housing and low standard of living experienced by the English working-class families from the early 1900s to the 1960s. I still remember the tin baths hung on the wall between one day and another, the food rationing which existed another five years after the ending of the Second World War in 1945, the outside privy that was shared between four neighbouring households, the darned and dreary colour of clothes one wore, and the motto which hung above every commoner’s mantlepiece of ‘Mend and Make Do’. I vividly remember my Grandmother Fanning’s favourite saying (in whose Irish house I was born) about mankind’s endless relationship with ‘dirt’. If ever she was giving me a slice of soda bread and dropped it on the floor, she would simply pick it up, pretend to brush it clean with the palm of her hand and say, “ Get that down you, Billy Forde. It won’t harm you. Before you die, you’ll eat a stone (14 pounds Imperial weight) of dirt!”

I was brought up in Liversedge, West Yorkshire, and dirt was no stranger to my daily surroundings during the 1950s or that of my immediate neighbours. I was schooled in Heckmondwike (where today’s birthday celebrant, Clare lives). The most popular place where courting couples kissed and canoodled during my teenage years in Heckmondwike or nearby Cleckheaton was either up against the wall of a baker or behind some factory or old mill chimney or gas-works tower. Many a baby started their journey into life behind an old factory wall. These were the days when we all lived in some ‘dirty old town’ where all manner of ‘dirty old things went on behind the cloak of darkness.

Love and peace Bill xxx

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Song For Today: 13th September 2020

13/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to three birthday celebrants. Wishing a happy birthday to Teresa Galvin who lives in Perth, Western Australia: to Sally Kavourmas who comes from Letterkenny in Ireland: and to Mike Mick Linsky who lives in Cleckheaton, West Yorkshire. Enjoy your special day and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is ‘Hot Stuff’ which Donna Summer recorded in 1979 from her album ‘Bad Girls’. The song was later recorded by in 2018 as a remix by Ralphi Rosario and Erick Ibeza entitled ‘Hot Stuff 2018 and went on to Number 1 on the US ‘Dance Club Songs’ chart.

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This song reminds me not of the ‘taste of love’, but some rather spicier food. I used to be very friendly with a man called Balbir Kandola when I lived in Mirfield. Balbir was a devout Sikh and he was also a philanthropist. He financially helped the charitable ventures I organised between 1990 and 2000 on many occasions with his generous sponsorship of several projects.

Balbir, like many immigrants to England, arrived 'penniless', worked hard, and thrived thereafter. The industrious nature of Balbir and his family could be seen in their long hours of work. They were prepared to open their shop when other general stores were closed. The family would manage three general shops between 10:00 am to 10:00 pm daily, Monday to Sunday (inclusively), and every Bank Holiday. They would even open their stores on Christmas day between 10:00 am and noon, as well as 7:00 pm and 10:00 pm in the evening! 

Twenty years after arriving in this country in the 1970s, Balbir owned three shops, one laundrette, and at least half a dozen flats which he rented out (all in the Mirfield area). Balbir and his immediate family also occupied a large mortgaged -free house in Mirfield. Everything he purchased was through his own cash. Loans and mortgages were never a consideration for him. He also put his three children through university. 

Balbir never forgot his humble roots or the village of his birth, and he would return every year to put some new project into operation which he personally funded. Over many years he had paid for a small hospital facility and a children’s school. Back in India, he was known as a most generous benefactor to the poor, which greatly contrasted with the more disparaging image he had in the ‘white native’ populated area of Mirfield. Being a man who owned much, many people viewed him as being no more than a money-grabbing migrant shop owner who cared more for maximising his profit from the lives of poorer Mirfield citizens. If asked how he had amassed so many assets in so few years he would simply reply, ‘It just doesn’t ‘happen’, you know. It requires hard work.”

The family did not traditionally send each out Christmas cards, but the Forde household always had one delivered personally on Christmas Eve by a member of the Kandola family. Over the years I knew Balbir, never a Christmas morning went by without me paying a visit to his family house in Mirfield where I could never be allowed to leave until I had partaken of some Indian food and drink. On most occasions, I found the Indian food lovely but will never forget one Christmas morning at Balbir’s house. On this occasion, I was offered a nice bowl of curry. Now, allow me to explain, I had aged over 40 years without ever having eaten more than half a dozen curries in my life. I usually, left curry alone as I found all curries too hot for my delicate palate. Anyway, while my wife was cooking a turkey for our family Christmas dinner that we would eat mid-afternoon, Balbir’s wife, Fatmah, was preparing a nice traditional Indian curry for their family Christmas lunch, three hours before my own Christmas Day dinner. Fatmah insisted that I try a small bowl of her curry, and to avoid offending my kind guests, I accepted.

That was the hottest food that had ever entered any human mouth, and it made me jump around like a grasshopper on heat and drink tumbler after tumbler of water, much to the hilarious laughter of all the Kandola clan. Today’s song reminds me of Balbir (sadly long deceased) and their Christmas ‘Hot Stuff’ offered to me that Christmas morning. Rest in peace, old friend.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 12th September 2020

12/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Jason Law who is the son of Carol Law and Paul Law who live in Riddlesden, West Yorkshire. Paul’s mother and my wife, Sheila Forde, have been friends for many years. Jason celebrates his birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Jason. Bill and Sheila xx

My song today is ‘Stormy Weather’ which was written by Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler. Ethel Waters first sang it at ‘The Cotton Club’ night club in Harlem in 1933 and recorded it that year. The song has since been performed by such diverse artists as Frank Sinatra: Judy Garland: Etta James: Ella Fitzgerald: Dinah Washington: Clodagh Rodgers: Lena Horne and Billie Holiday, plus others.

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There have been several ‘stormy’ periods in my life, some literal and others metaphorically speaking. The worse literal storm that I faced was in December 1963, as I crossed the Atlantic Ocean on my way to Canada. I still recall being horribly as sick as a dog for three days (along with all the other ship passengers) as I kept my head down in my cabin in between one puke and the next.

The next occasion was during an Irish holiday some 15 years ago. We had decided to visit one of the islands and we boarded the small craft to take us across the four miles stretch of water. We were about one mile out when the heavens burst open, and minutes later thunder and lightning roared across the skies and the rain poured down. I have never been a good sailor, and again I was as sick as a dog, along with half a dozen of the 12 passengers in the small craft. The boat rocked so much in the waves that I swear that I thought it was on the verge of capsizing and sinking us all. 

The boat skipper gave all his passengers on the brink of throwing up a look of disgust as he sarcastically said, “It’s only a cloud spit. That’s all it is, a cloud spit!”, and merely carried on steering us towards the small island of our destination with a huge smirk on his face. Throughout the journey, he puffed away merrily on an old pipe that looked as ancient as his boat, and the pipe stem had been broken in the past. The old skipper had simply wrapped several old plasters over the broken part where the stem entered the bowl of the pipe. He was obviously a man of ‘waste not, want not’ and thought that there was no point in buying another pipe when he might get another ten years out of his trusted old comforter his grandfather had bequeathed him forty years earlier.

The boat eventually completed its usual ten-minute crossing thirty minutes after we had set off. Hampered by the stormy conditions, the craft did a marina's square dance across the water as it moved two feet forward, one to the side and one foot back. As we crossed the choppy waters and I threatened to puke up yet again, I genuinely feared going over the side and finishing up in 'Davey Jones's Locker'. As I heaved heavily, the boat swayed dangerously, threatening to end all our holidays to come. 

When we arrived at the island, the weather had calmed to being the usual ‘cloud spit’ of pouring rain, a gale force of 6, and blustery wind beating against our faces as we walked. There was one public house and about six old habitable dwellings on the island, and the boat skipper informed us that the journey back to the mainland would be in three hours’ time. For the next three hours, I laid my wretched body on a pub bench in the hallway, with a bag at hand, trying not to puke again. The following three hours appeared to be the longest I had ever experienced, and though the boat journey back was not in storm conditions, someone should have told the waves to settle down, as I was as sick as a dog another twice.

Two of my weakest characteristics would be looking down from a great height and throwing up as I sailed in choppy waters.  Both would make my stomach churn. In later years, whenever I saw a man smoking a short-stemmed pipe that looked old enough to have been dug up from an old farmer’s field during the Irish Potato Famine of 1845, I think of the old Irish boat skipper who had no intention of allowing a little force-ten ‘cloud spit’ to provide a reason as to why his daily earnings should be cancelled because of deciding to postpone his daily crossing for a dozen mad tourists who were prepared to pay £8 each to be throw up half a dozen times during the crossing.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 11th September 2020

11/9/2020

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As there are no Facebook contacts of mine who are celebrating their birthday today (that I know of), I dedicate my song today to Lily Walsh of Carrick-on-Suir, County Tipperary, Ireland. Lily was married to my best friend, Tony Walsh, who sadly died a few months ago on the 19th of June, 2020. Tony and Lily were the parents of five children, Ann Marie, Gerard, Anthony, Claire, and Lizzy Walsh. In celebration of Tony's life and in memory of our lifelong friendship, I sing the song that I sang on the day of Tony’s funeral on June 23rd, 2020, ‘Today, Tomorrow and Forever’. 

When we were teenagers and best friends, Tony and I undertook that whoever died the last, that the survivor would remain in contact with the other’s bereaved wife and family. I hope that you, Lily, and all Tony’s children and grandchildren are coping with your loss as well as possible. May God grant eternal peace to Tony and bless his bereaved family. 

For Tony, I say, "In the beginning, there was you and there was me, but once we met, there was only us. We were so close in our friendship for over sixty years that even our shadows could not be separated. In our teenage years where you went, so did I, and where I walked, you walked alongside me, blood brothers to the end".

Also today, I want to remember Helen Walsh. Helen died a short while ago and her husband Liam Walsh is related to Tony Walsh, Indeed, Liam informs me that Helen and Tony are only separated by one grave-space in the cemetery.

Following a recent heavenly birthday song, I dedicated to Helen Walsh on the anniversary of her birthday on September 9th, I received a lovely reply of appreciation from her bereaved husband, Liam Walsh, who told me of the connection between the Walshes of Carrick-On-Suire.
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Liam said to me in a message within the past 24 hours, "Helen was deeply loved by each and every one of her family. She was a friend to many less fortunate individuals in our community, and she had a caring and kindness about her that carried her through life. Always ready to help where possible, indeed, she was no stranger to grief herself, having lost her parents and 6 of her siblings, all before their time. She was one of life's gifts to all of us and we were privileged to have known and loved her. Bill, thanks again for your correspondence and encouragement to Helen, she really enjoyed your daily posts. May l wish you every blessing in your own battle. God bless you and keep you safe,  Liam.
PS,
It's a small world, Bill."

In an echo of Liam Walsh's sentiments of it being a 'small world', it certainly is! Until one day ago, I never knew that two people whom I deeply cared for were related and lived in the same Irish village. Even in their death, they remain close (only one grave-space apart). 

If God grants me and Sheila another opportunity to visit my homeland of Ireland, I will visit Tony's widow, Lily, and also Helen's widower, Liam, and I shall then say a prayer at the graveside of their lifelong spouses and soul mates. Until then, 'Today, tomorrow, and forever' I'll always be your friend.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 10th September 2020

10/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to three people who are celebrating their birthday today. The first person who is celebrating their birthday today is my 46-year-old son, Matthew Clarke, who lives in Mirfield West Yorkshire. The second birthday celebrant is Emer Croke who lives in the village of my birth; Portlaw, County Waterford in Ireland. The third birthday celebrant is Denis Lonergan who lives in County Waterford, Ireland. Enjoy your special day from Dad Bill and Friend Bill xx

My song today is ‘I Feel Like A Woman’. This song was recorded by Canadian singer-songwriter Shania Twain and was taken from her third studio album, ‘Come on Over’ (1997). It was even more successful on the ‘Hot Country Songs’ chart, reaching the top-five, and was certified Platinum by the RIAA for 1,000,000 digital downloads.

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This is probably one of the most upbeat songs I have come across over the past 23 years and is definitely one of the few ‘country’ songs that celebrate ‘womanhood’ instead of recounting the sad emotions of women who have been dumped, ditched, depressed, deserted or divorced by men in their life.

I love all country and western songs, mostly because they tell a story which is poignant to the condition of all men and women’s lives, losses, and loves. However, I find the experience extremely nice to come across this song that is entirely upbeat and positive about ‘womanhood’. This song represents what I call ‘Women’s Lib in Action’.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 9th September 2020

9/9/2020

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September 9th, 2020. 
I dedicate my song today to lately deceased, Helen Walsh, who lived in Carrick-on-Suir and is now in heaven. I wish her a heavenly birthday, and remind her husband Liam Walsh that she loved him, her children, and their grandchildren greatly.  

It was in April 2020 when Helen and I last communicated with each other. Both of us were going through a bad patch then and were waiting for hospital operations. The cancer in my forehead had spread and an extremely dangerous neck dissection operation was planned when the pandemic virus allowed me hospital admission. In Carrick-on-Suir, the pressure of Helen’s tumour on the brain had built up too high again, and she was also awaiting hospital admission. Helen and I supported each other through messages back and forth.   

Helen told me that in August 2019, she had a stroke and was later diagnosed with cancer of the lungs and lymph nodes. She was discharged from the hospital in September 2019, and by Christmas 2019 Helen was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer and was placed on palliative care only. Forever thinking about others, Helen characteristically worried more about the future of her family than her own imminent death as her very last words messaged to me in April 2020 indicated. She messaged, “I am married to Liam. We are blessed to have 6 lovely children and 13 grandchildren. I just want to see them happy again. I hope that makes sense to you Bill, and thank you for listening to me. It means a lot to me.”   

I have many Facebook contacts in Carrick-on-Suir who follow my daily songs (the next-door village to the village of Portlaw where I was born) and only saw a June entry for the death of Helen two days ago. I was so sad to have not been available to talk with Helen as her end of life approached. So was such a good woman, God rest her soul, and please provide comfort to her husband, Liam, her six children and all of her grandchildren and extensive family. Your friend in ill-heath. Bill xxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My song today is ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’. This song was recorded by Bill Withers in 1971 album, and reflects the current shadow that has fallen over the lives of her husband and family members, because of Helen’s loss.

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When this song was first released, I was starting my life in my new career as a Probation Officer serving in the ‘Huddersfield Probation and After-Care Office’ in West Yorkshire. I recall that one of my earliest clients was a married woman and the mother of two children who lived in Meltham, Huddersfield. She had left a shop one day without paying from an item which she had placed in her bag. She had sufficient money in her purse to pay for the item and she told the police that she was on anti-depressant tablet medication, and had simply forgotten to pay. 

Although she had no previous convictions and appeared to be a person of prior good character, she was obviously a highly-stressed woman and her offence was probably seen by the sentencing Magistrate’s Court as being an unconscious ‘cry for help’. She was placed on Probation supervision for 18 months, and I became her supervising officer.

She had been married less than five years and her youngest child was a son aged three years old. He had a condition that we know today as ‘autism’ and it was at the severest end of the spectrum. Although the condition of autism had been defined as being a condition of an emotionally disturbed and socially distanced state since the mid-1940s, more about its possible causes and diverse symptoms and effects were not really known about until the onset of the New Millennium.

In 1971, the condition was commonly thought by many parents to have been caused as a result of the child having been vaccinated, whereas today that view is largely discounted, and we know that there is no single root cause. This condition is a complex disorder and symptoms vary from one person to another. It appears that both genetics and environmental factors may play a role in this condition which usually affect brain development and the communication of the individual. While today, much more is known about the condition of autism, way back in 1971, many mothers of autistic children ‘blamed themselves’ for having either experienced pregnancy complications or having decided to submit their child to be vaccinated.

After their autistic son was born, family harmony became more difficult to maintain, and before long, the marital relationship began to witness constant parental arguments. The source of husband and wife arguments usually involved how best to respond to some of their son’s behaviour, which the mother generally accepted as being ‘unavoidable’ (given his autism) but which the father of the boy viewed as being ‘unacceptable’. While the boy’s mother did her best to cope with the increased pressure and stress that her son’s condition and behaviour caused, the boy’s father couldn’t handle it and became more and more emotionally distant from his son. Both man and wife still loved each other, but grew to dislike the constant pressure and arguments which coping with their autistic child produced.

The wife’s husband had served four and a half years in the Army before they had met and married. He had initially signed on for a 22-year term, and had he remained a bachelor, he would have undoubtedly gone on to make the Army his lifetime career instead of curtailing his 22-year contract and getting married instead.

Before his autistic had grown into his fourth year of life, the father had become wholly disheartened by the boy’s medical and social condition, and the upshot was that he signed up in the army once more. He essentially found it easier to remain to be both a husband and a father ‘from a distance’, and so, the way he chose ‘to stay with his wife and children’ was ‘to leave them’ for most of the year in the family house in Huddersfield. The husband signed on for another three years as a soldier and, apart from regular letters back home, plus the occasional phone call on birthdays and wedding anniversary dates, until he was discharged back into civilian life, he only returned home to see his wife and children when he was on leave.

While I would not have accepted 10-1 odds on their marriage lasting after the husband had signed back up in the Army, I was wrong. The married couple seemed to get on much better with their ‘time apart’ or ‘time out’ situation, and it seemingly made their time spent at home as a family unit more rewarding when he came home on leave. I always recall her saying how much she missed her husband’s presence in the home. and how she would automatically brighten up whenever he came back home on Army leave. 

Today’s song reminds me of this family, as well as reminding me of my late friend, Helen Walsh who celebrates her heavenly birthday today.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 8th September 2020

8/9/2020

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September 8th, 2020.
I dedicate my song today to Shane Hoganwho lives in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Shane celebrates his birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Shane, and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is, ‘Just Because I’m a Woman’. This was the second solo studio album by American singer-songwriter Dolly Parton. It was released on April 15, 1968, by ‘RCA Victor’. 

In the song, a woman admonishes her boyfriend for passing judgment on her previous sexual encounters even though he is guilty of the same behaviour. This was regarded as something of a daring statement to make at the time. It was written by Parton in response to her husband's questioning (and subsequent reaction) if she had ever been with a man before him. 

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When this song was first recorded and released, although America was witnessing the beginning of a female backlash against the unquestionable rights of men to run roughshod over the rights of women in society, equality between the sexes did not exist. Men had been raised to believe that the views of women mattered less than those of men, and that their logic held less reason than that of man’s mind, and that their actions were far less rational. Thus, women were still considered to be second-class citizens to that of their menfolk, which is a view still held by many men, American or otherwise.

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 7th September 2020

7/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to my son Adam Forde who lives in the Huddersfield area. Adam celebrates his 44th birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Adam, and know that your father is extremely proud of you and the way you have served your community since you left university all those years ago. You have always worked in the ‘Caring’ profession either as a manager or front-line worker in Care Homes. During the past six months, I know of the long shifts you have put in, and the increased danger that yourself and all Care Home workers have had to face and contend with on a daily basis as residents with the Covid-19 Virus have died in large numbers around you. You are acknowledged along with all the doctors and nurses who have staffed our hospitals, especially as all Care Home staff throughout Great Britain have effectively remained the Cinderella sibling within the NHS. Your dedication and courage of continuing to work daily under such restrictions have endeared you and all Care Workers in the country, and hopefully, you will not be so easily forgotten after this current pandemic virus has passed. I am extremely proud of you, son, as I am sure your mother and all your siblings are.

​Love you lots Dad and Sheila xxx

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Every now and then I enjoy watching one of the old movies of my childhood, as I did last night. My song today came from the film of the same name which I saw during the mid/late 50s, ‘Love is a Many Splendored Thing’. I recall the film vividly as it was in deluxe-color, and because of the tragic love story told. 

The film is set in Hong Kong in 1949/50. Mark Elliott (William Holden) is an American reporter covering the Chinese civil war. Undergoing a trial separation from his wife, he meets the beautiful Dr. Han Suyin (Jennifer Jones), a widowed Eurasian physician from mainland China. The couple 'fall in love' and their relationship meets with strong disapproval from her parents as well as Hong Kong society in general. I won't spoil the ending for any future viewer who has not yet seen this romantic film but can vouch that it is undoubtedly a film not to be missed by true romantics. I hope that I have done justice to the beautiful words of the soundtrack song through my humble rendition.

We all experience ups and downs in our lives, especially where matters of the heart are concerned, and I, along with my children have not been immune to experiencing such happiness and hurt when romantic relationships have both started and ended. I do believe, however, that one will not find true love in another that we all want and need to make us feel complete unless one opens one’s heart to the possibility and makes oneself emotionally available; and we can only make ourselves 'emotionally available' if we are also prepared to make ourselves 'emotionally vulnerable'.

This lasting happiness I found with my wife Sheila, in the autumn of my life when I believed myself to be too old to find true love again. How wrong I was! 

I walked up Main Street in the Village of Haworth on December 15th, 2010 to meet a woman who was 14 years younger than me without the slightest notion or intention of our meeting being more than a friendly introduction between a man and a woman, each of whom shared a mutual interest in meditation. We found ourselves immediately relaxed in each other’s presence, and although we did not arrange to meet again until a week later, the seed of love must have planted itself in our subconscious minds. Before Christmas, 2010, each of us instinctively felt that someone new had entered our lives who would remain a loving part of it until death. Sheila and I married on my 70th birthday on November 10th, 2012, and I have lived the happiest decade of my life since that first day we met. 

All loving relationships end in hurt one way or another when the time of parting arrives, be it through separation, divorce, other circumstances, or death. Yet, I know it is better to feel the love even if the pain someday follows. I also believe in making oneself open to the possibility of love, and being 'emotionally available'(not to seek love out, but neither to invite it nor prevent it). When love comes our way, allow it to happen and accept it, and all it implies.  

One can never acquire the ultimate prize of finding true love with one's soulmate without opening up one’s heart to the possibility of being hurt at a future date. This is the human sacrifice that all lovers are obliged to pay in one form or another at some future date. 

And yet, I know that if one is to feel the essence of life, one must be prepared to live one's experiences actively, for love is not a passive but a passionate emotion. We miss out on life when we sit out the dance. If the possibility of love offers you its hand, seize the opportunity which fate has brought your way, accept it willingly, and take the floor in the dance of romantic life. It is possible to even step on your partner’s toes and yet, still impress them with other personal attributes you possess.  It is even possible that by being prepared to change some baser characteristics that we each possess in some measure, we will find ourselves more in step with our lover and may never need to change partners again!

However, 'true love' is very unlikely to tap you on the shoulder if you spend your life being 'a wallflower' on the dance/romance floor. People do not decide to ‘fall in love’; it just happens! However likely 'true love' may enter an open heart, is most unlikely to ever fall into the lap of any 'wallflower' who is sitting out life’s romantic dance. 

If there was but one wish that I could bestow upon all my five children, it is that each of them finds the type of true love and happiness I found in the autumn of my life with Sheila. All I did was to decide to take a walk in Haworth, never knowing that I would finish up in Heaven.

Enjoy your special day, Adam. Love dad and Sheila xx

Love and peace Bill xxx
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Song For Today: 6th September 2020

6/9/2020

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I dedicate my song today to Christina Walsh who lives in Dublin, Ireland. Christina celebrates her birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Christina, and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is ‘Half the Way’. This song was written by Ralph Murphy and Bobby Wood, and recorded by American country music artist, Crystal Gayle. It was released in September 1979 as the first single from the album ‘Miss the Mississippi’. After achieving major Country crossover success in 1977 with ‘Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue’, followed by a Top 20 Pop hit and Number 1 Country hit the next year (‘Talking In Your Sleep’),  Crystal Gayle attempted this new crossover piece of music.

After signing with ‘Columbia Records’ in early 1979, Crystal Gayle immediately started recording for them. ‘Half the Way’ was the first song recorded under her new record label. The song’s up-tempo sound and Soft-Rock sounding melody enabled the song to reach Billboard's Top 20 chart, peaking at Number 15 in 1979. The song also climbed to Billboard’s Magazine’s Number 2 position on the Country charts, just missing the top spot. Like Crystal Gayle's other previous recordings, the song also hit the ‘Adult Contemporary’ chart. ‘Half the Way’ is one of Gayle's better-known Adult Contemporary hits, reaching the Top 10 at Number 9. Following the success of ‘Half the Way’, Crystal Gayle never achieved another Top 40 Pop hit on her own again. 

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One of the many accusations I heard as a young man from some of my peer group and other men I worked with was how this or that woman was a known ‘p…k teaser’. The first time I heard this term and asked what it meant, I was told that it applied to any woman who led a man up the garden path to think he would get more than what he finished up with. 

It was 1960, and I was 18 years old when a mill worker told me the meaning of this derogatory phrase about the fairer sex. The time was still highly prejudiced against women, and should any female find herself pregnant outside marriage, she would be considered to have been found ‘wanting’ in her moral upbringing. Both she and her family would be shamed in the community, whereas the man’s part in her becoming pregnant would attract no greater disapproval than the sentiment, ‘Boys will be boys’. Indeed, one of the most sexist statements at the time was, “The hussy went and got herself pregnant!” as though she procreated and conceived a child unaided, and without the involvement of any man in the equation.

Ask any healthy and virile young man at the time who was out to have a good time with any young woman he dated, and they would tell you that the most frustrating thing that could happen to them was to be allowed to go ‘half the way’ in their sexual pursuit and then have ‘Halt’ called by the young woman in question when their passions were at their highest and it was impossible to put their ‘Jack’ back inside the box. 

As a Probation Officer serving the Huddersfield Courts in 1970, I can personally testify how hard it was then for any woman claiming ‘date rape’ to succeed, as it was an almost impossible task for the Crown Prosecutor to persuade any jury to convict without a third party witness to the act. In fact, the female complainants who informed the police of a rape having occurred were more likely to be disbelieved by those male detectives receiving her allegations, and most victims of this degrading crime were discouraged from pressing ahead with charges that were unlikely to result in any jury of the day convicting the defendant. It would be more than a decade later before it even became customary for one of the police constables interviewing any rape victim to be a woman officer. 

Indeed, it was still a legitimate legal defence of any defendant in any rape trial which ever took place between parties previously known to each other, for the man to claim “She led me on by allowing me to go ‘part way’, and so it was only natural for me to believe that she was up for going ‘all the way‘!

This was a period in time when the deliberating Court in any rape case accepted that any corroborating evidence which indicated that consensual sex had ever previously taken place between the courting couple, was presumption enough by the accused that the woman’s future consent would naturally be forthcoming. There appeared to be no right of the woman to say ‘yes’ and decide to have sex with her man today, and then to say ‘no’ tomorrow when the same man asked for sex again. The legal presumption argued in court by the barristers in the 1960s appeared to suggest that as far as the defendant was concerned, if he had known and dated the woman previously, once his woman had agreed to them having sex once, there was no need for him to ask her again, and every right to expect her answer to have been what he anticipated it to be!
Thank God that there has been much progressive change has occurred over the past 50 years, and yet not enough! Barristers for the defence are still allowed to question women who claim to have been raped about their sexual history, and are allowed to argue that the type of clothes the woman wore on the day of their ‘alleged rape’ enticed and encouraged the man to assume ‘what was on offer’. Paradoxically, the higher the dress hem was above the knee, the lower in character and morals were considered the woman claiming she had been raped. 

Even today, the number of convictions for rape barely represents the tip of the iceberg in relation to the number of actual rape allegations which are never proceeded with. Too many women still do not proceed to press charges for rape when there is no corroborating evidence and the case merely involves the man’s word against hers, especially in situations where sexual intercourse is not denied to have taken place by either party. There will always remain room for some doubt to exist in the mind of a male juror when the woman states it was against her will and the man claims that sex was mutually consensual, unless one holds the view that all rape allegations are justified. 

I knew of one situation while working in Huddersfield between 1970-95 as a Probation Officer, which showed me the opposite side of the coin. It concerned a man who was imprisoned for the rape of a nurse in West Yorkshire. I will not identify the precise area, in the event that there are still live family members. At the Crown Court trial, the nurse swore that she did not know her rapist who was caught in her stolen car later that same night, whereas the man claimed that they had been in a cohabitation relationship for months and any sex which took place between them that night was consensual. He stated that because of the nature of her job and other factors, they agreed to keep their relationship secret. He also told the sentencing court that he had rowed with the woman on the night in question about the lengthy hours he worked as a long-distance lorry driver, and he admitted to taking her car without consent; believing that he had as much right as her to drive it because he had paid for half of it.

About four years after the man was convicted of rape and had been subsequently sentenced to ten year’s imprisonment in H.M.P Wakefield, I had him transferred to my caseload for future contact visiting. The prisoner was due to have a Parole Report prepared on him by his Probation Officer to go before the adjudicating Parole Board. My report would be one of several reports prepared on the inmate; and along with other reports on him which were prepared by his Landing Officer and an Assistant Prison Governor, all reports would be read in conjunction before the Parole Board decided if a period of parole would be granted. The inmate also had to prepare his own written application to the Parole Board stating if he regretted his offence, and also adding reasons as to why he should be considered as being worthy to be released on Parole Licence instead of serving his full sentence(with the usual one third ‘good behaviour’ remission). 

Ever since he had been received into prison to serve his sentence for rape, he had been a model prisoner in every respect bar one; the inmate had always claimed his innocence. He claimed his innocence to his first Probation Officer; he claimed innocence to me, to his Landing Officer, to the Assistant Governor, and to all other inmates. He even claimed his innocence in his written application to the Parole Board. Whether he was innocent or guilty of having raped the nurse, mattered not one jot to the Parole Board. Having been convicted of rape and sentenced for the offence, all of the authorities involved with him thereafter were duty-bound to work with him solely on the basis that ‘he had committed the offence’, whatever anyone naturally felt to the contrary! Any inmate being considered for Parole Licence release who did not admit the offence for which they had been sentenced to prison was considered to ‘be in denial’, and was automatically deemed as being unsuitable to be released.

Like a number of policemen, private detectives, or prosecution barristers who work with criminals day in and day out, some are able to develop a nose for those who are telling the truth or who are lying. As a Probation Officer (who also had the nose to sniff out a truth-teller as opposed to a liar), after one year of monthly prison visits to the inmate at Wakefield Prison, every bone in my body told me he was a decent and truthful person. I could merely report on the facts as presented, including his persistent denial of the offence of rape. Not surprisingly, Parole Licence was not granted, and the prisoner was released (without a licence) after the customary two-thirds stage of his original sentence had been reached.

In the role of a Probation Officer, one comes across a great many shady people who know things about other shady people that the public, the police, or the courts will never get to know of, both inside and outside of prison. For want of a better description, these people are essentially a group of underworlds ‘informant’. 

During many a Probation Officer’s close bonds that naturally develop with working long-term with some clients, I would come across information from a number of client sources which essentially led me to conclude that such and such a person had been wrongly charged and convicted, or that they had been ‘fitted up’ by the police, or that they had committed dozens of offences for which they had got away with. While all discussion between Probation Officer and the client is ‘confidential’ (unless a sexual offence against children was admitted), apart from one’s case records, the information would remain ‘confidential’ to the Probation Officer concerned and his Senior Officer and would not be pI dedicate my song today to Christina Walsh who lives in Dublin, Ireland. Christina celebrates her birthday today. Enjoy your special day, Christina, and thank you for being my Facebook friend.

My song today is ‘Half the Way’. This song was written by Ralph Murphy and Bobby Wood, and recorded by American country music artist, Crystal Gayle. It was released in September 1979 as the first single from the album ‘Miss the Mississippi’. After achieving major Country crossover success in 1977 with ‘Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue’, followed by a Top 20 Pop hit and Number 1 Country hit the next year (‘Talking In Your Sleep’),  Crystal Gayle attempted this new crossover piece of music.

After signing with ‘Columbia Records’ in early 1979, Crystal Gayle immediately started recording for them. ‘Half the Way’ was the first song recorded under her new record label. The song’s up-tempo sound and Soft-Rock sounding melody enabled the song to reach Billboard's Top 20 chart, peaking at Number 15 in 1979. The song also climbed to Billboard’s Magazine’s Number 2 position on the Country charts, just missing the top spot. Like Crystal Gayle's other previous recordings, the song also hit the ‘Adult Contemporary’ chart. ‘Half the Way’ is one of Gayle's better-known Adult Contemporary hits, reaching the Top 10 at Number 9. Following the success of ‘Half the Way’, Crystal Gayle never achieved another Top 40 Pop hit on her own again. 

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One of the many accusations I heard as a young man from some of my peer group and other men I worked with was how this or that woman was a known ‘p…k teaser’. The first time I heard this term and asked what it meant, I was told that it applied to any woman who led a man up the garden path to think he would get more than what he finished up with. 

It was 1960, and I was 18 years old when a mill worker told me the meaning of this derogatory phrase about the fairer sex. The time was still highly prejudiced against women, and should any female find herself pregnant outside marriage, she would be considered to have been found ‘wanting’ in her moral upbringing. Both she and her family would be shamed in the community, whereas the man’s part in her becoming pregnant would attract no greater disapproval than the sentiment, ‘Boys will be boys’. Indeed, one of the most sexist statements at the time was, “The hussy went and got herself pregnant!” as though she procreated and conceived a child unaided, and without the involvement of any man in the equation.

Ask any healthy and virile young man at the time who was out to have a good time with any young woman he dated, and they would tell you that the most frustrating thing that could happen to them was to be allowed to go ‘half the way’ in their sexual pursuit and then have ‘Halt’ called by the young woman in question when their passions were at their highest and it was impossible to put their ‘Jack’ back inside the box. 

As a Probation Officer serving the Huddersfield Courts in 1970, I can personally testify how hard it was then for any woman claiming ‘date rape’ to succeed, as it was an almost impossible task for the Crown Prosecutor to persuade any jury to convict without a third party witness to the act. In fact, the female complainants who informed the police of a rape having occurred were more likely to be disbelieved by those male detectives receiving her allegations, and most victims of this degrading crime were discouraged from pressing ahead with charges that were unlikely to result in any jury of the day convicting the defendant. It would be more than a decade later before it even became customary for one of the police constables interviewing any rape victim to be a woman officer. 

Indeed, it was still a legitimate legal defence of any defendant in any rape trial which ever took place between parties previously known to each other, for the man to claim “She led me on by allowing me to go ‘part way’, and so it was only natural for me to believe that she was up for going ‘all the way‘!

This was a period in time when the deliberating Court in any rape case accepted that any corroborating evidence which indicated that consensual sex had ever previously taken place between the courting couple, was presumption enough by the accused that the woman’s future consent would naturally be forthcoming. There appeared to be no right of the woman to say ‘yes’ and decide to have sex with her man today, and then to say ‘no’ tomorrow when the same man asked for sex again. The legal presumption argued in court by the barristers in the 1960s appeared to suggest that as far as the defendant was concerned, if he had known and dated the woman previously, once his woman had agreed to them having sex once, there was no need for him to ask her again, and every right to expect her answer to have been what he anticipated it to be!
Thank God that there has been much progressive change has occurred over the past 50 years, and yet not enough! Barristers for the defence are still allowed to question women who claim to have been raped about their sexual history, and are allowed to argue that the type of clothes the woman wore on the day of their ‘alleged rape’ enticed and encouraged the man to assume ‘what was on offer’. Paradoxically, the higher the dress hem was above the knee, the lower in character and morals were considered the woman claiming she had been raped. 

Even today, the number of convictions for rape barely represents the tip of the iceberg in relation to the number of actual rape allegations which are never proceeded with. Too many women still do not proceed to press charges for rape when there is no corroborating evidence and the case merely involves the man’s word against hers, especially in situations where sexual intercourse is not denied to have taken place by either party. There will always remain room for some doubt to exist in the mind of a male juror when the woman states it was against her will and the man claims that sex was mutually consensual, unless one holds the view that all rape allegations are justified. 

I knew of one situation while working in Huddersfield between 1970-95 as a Probation Officer, which showed me the opposite side of the coin. It concerned a man who was imprisoned for the rape of a nurse in West Yorkshire. I will not identify the precise area, in the event that there are still live family members. At the Crown Court trial, the nurse swore that she did not know her rapist who was caught in her stolen car later that same night, whereas the man claimed that they had been in a cohabitation relationship for months and any sex which took place between them that night was consensual. He stated that because of the nature of her job and other factors, they agreed to keep their relationship secret. He also told the sentencing court that he had rowed with the woman on the night in question about the lengthy hours he worked as a long-distance lorry driver, and he admitted to taking her car without consent; believing that he had as much right as her to drive it because he had paid for half of it.

About four years after the man was convicted of rape and had been subsequently sentenced to ten year’s imprisonment in H.M.P Wakefield, I had him transferred to my caseload for future contact visiting. The prisoner was due to have a Parole Report prepared on him by his Probation Officer to go before the adjudicating Parole Board. My report would be one of several reports prepared on the inmate; and along with other reports on him which were prepared by his Landing Officer and an Assistant Prison Governor, all reports would be read in conjunction before the Parole Board decided if a period of parole would be granted. The inmate also had to prepare his own written application to the Parole Board stating if he regretted his offence, and also adding reasons as to why he should be considered as being worthy to be released on Parole Licence instead of serving his full sentence(with the usual one third ‘good behaviour’ remission). 

Ever since he had been received into prison to serve his sentence for rape, he had been a model prisoner in every respect bar one; the inmate had always claimed his innocence. He claimed his innocence to his first Probation Officer; he claimed innocence to me, to his Landing Officer, to the Assistant Governor, and to all other inmates. He even claimed his innocence in his written application to the Parole Board. Whether he was innocent or guilty of having raped the nurse, mattered not one jot to the Parole Board. Having been convicted of rape and sentenced for the offence, all of the authorities involved with him thereafter were duty-bound to work with him solely on the basis that ‘he had committed the offence’, whatever anyone naturally felt to the contrary! Any inmate being considered for Parole Licence release who did not admit the offence for which they had been sentenced to prison was considered to ‘be in denial’, and was automatically deemed as being unsuitable to be released.

Like a number of policemen, private detectives, or prosecution barristers who work with criminals day in and day out, some are able to develop a nose for those who are telling the truth or who are lying. As a Probation Officer (who also had the nose to sniff out a truth-teller as opposed to a liar), after one year of monthly prison visits to the inmate at Wakefield Prison, every bone in my body told me he was a decent and truthful person. I could merely report on the facts as presented, including his persistent denial of the offence of rape. Not surprisingly, Parole Licence was not granted, and the prisoner was released (without a licence) after the customary two-thirds stage of his original sentence had been reached.

In the role of a Probation Officer, one comes across a great many shady people who know things about other shady people that the public, the police, or the courts will never get to know of, both inside and outside of prison. For want of a better description, these people are essentially a group of underworlds ‘informant’. 

During many a Probation Officer’s close bonds that naturally develop with working long-term with some clients, I would come across information from a number of client sources which essentially led me to conclude that such and such a person had been wrongly charged and convicted, or that they had been ‘fitted up’ by the police, or that they had committed dozens of offences for which they had got away with. While all discussion between Probation Officer and the client is ‘confidential’ (unless a sexual offence against children was admitted), apart from one’s case records, the information would remain ‘confidential’ to the Probation Officer concerned and his Senior Officer and would not be passed outside the Probation Service.
Without going into detail, over the following year I received through three other criminal contacts I had supervised as a Probation Officer(each of whom could be considered as being independent of each other) sufficient indication that the prisoner who’d been convicted for rape, and the nurse who claimed no prior knowledge of her rapist, had undoubtedly been in a relationship for at least six months, prior to the alleged offence. If it could be proven, it might amount to representing sufficient grounds for an appeal. After consultation with my Senior Officer, and his senior also, I documented what I believed the situation to be to the solicitor and barrister who had initially represented the man at his court hearing. In the solicitor’s reply to me, I was told that the inmate would be automatically released at the two-thirds stage of his sentence anyway and that unless we could provide names of the three independent individuals, plus their willingness to swear sworn statements before an Appeal Court, it would be of little assistance. There was also the fact that the three individuals whose separate accounts appeared to substantiate the prisoner’s assertions, were themselves parties who had criminal records. Upon release, the inmate who was Scottish returned to the area where he had grown up and we lost contact.

I do not say that there are more or fewer rapists than there really are, but I do believe that there are many men and women serving prison sentences for many different types of offences they did not commit but were convicted and sentenced for.
To provide balance to any scales of justice in the matter of alleged rape charges, however, I nevertheless believe that while juries in rape trials continue to be comprised of prejudicial men, and while most judges in the Crown Courts tend to be male, and whilst too many males in society remain sufficiently conditioned to believe it to be wrong for any woman to go ‘halfway’ before saying ‘no farther,’ that women claiming to have been raped will never get a hearing that they fully deserve to receive. Also, their case for greater equality between the sexes will never be helped when police, courts and the general public still believe in the concept of there being p…k teasers who willingly go ‘half the way’ and then complaining when they have not gone the full hog.

Love and peace Bill xx

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