It’s 5am and I’m trapped in no man’s land. It’s spikey, uninviting and painful. My very essence has been torn to shreds like a Siamese twin sliced apart from its soulmate. Comfort has left me for someone who cares. I’d like to cut off my arms, morph into the statue of Aphrodite and never embrace another soul.
An African nurse with a soothing voice asks if I would like her to pray for me. The concerned frown upon her round face reminds me of a Parisian clown. She gently places a hand upon my shoulder then kneels beside me and recites the lord’s prayer. My mind struggles to accept her words. They sound distorted, like they’re coming from the mouth of Charlie Brown’s teacher.
My world churns eternal regret. I inhale every rancid odour in the room like a bloodhound trailing deer. My tears are sincere but too late. I’m about to be exposed for what I am. A vulnerable, scared, little boy who knows nothing.
My bones creak like an old man playing his last game of backgammon. I don’t know if I can do this. I look up, on the wall and spot the serenity prayer,
‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to accept the difference’.
As the grandeur of winter slowly fades,
What becomes of its transient nights and forgotten days?
Sorry, broken, Xmas toys.
Gluttonous children making noise.
I zig zagged through the pitch-black silence of Barcelona’s narrow streets. This part of the city was the opposite of inviting and a galaxy away from the tourist friendly areas nearby. My nose dripped a bitter lemon mucus that threatened to disintegrate my septum and my heart beat furiously.
I’d tripped over a stinking rubbish bag, my brand-new Nike Air-Max trainers now covered in shit. A huge rat came scuttling out of the shadows and into the unknown. Continue reading “Dark Streets”
The Sultans special force were officially part of the Omani Armed Forces but independent of its military structure.
It was a complex system to say the least. SSF would be the Sultan’s own personal, independent force and our directives would come straight from the palace. However, I’d be officially classified as a civilian in a military averment but contracted to serve the SSF as an officer. As often was the case, I didn’t have a clue where I stood legally but had enough trust in those above me to just get on with the job
One particularly hot afternoon after finishing a session on the shooting range. I took off my shorts and put on a pair of jeans. I pulled them up and was starting to fasten my belt when I felt an almighty sting on the back of my knee joint. Extreme pain shot up my leg like a thousand needles being pushed in and then twisted. I was in agony, but the worst, most frightening aspect was not knowing what was stinging me.
I Instinctively grabbed a handful of what was a large, mysterious lump moving inside my jeans. I squeezed hard whilst manically trying to undo my belt and rip my jeans off, leaping up and down on one leg.
Outside an Omani painter viewed me with extreme suspicion! I eventually managed to get my jeans off. When I turned the trouser leg inside out, a small, limp, black scorpion fell to the ground.
I couldn’t leave you before, I was scared. I feared walking into the unknown without you to guide me. I had no safe house, no witness protection plan, no faith. I imagined that you’d hunt me down and torture me to within an inch of my life; expose me to the world, leave me vulnerable and alone.
What once stood tall and proud is now dirty and torn. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. My soul is broken and wonders aimlessly in an overgrown graveyard.
I’ll be here for three long weeks, alone and scared like a lost 10-year-old child.
Extreme pain will soon arrive, it will not be alone, guilt and shame accompany it every time. I’ve caused hurt and pain to people that I loved. The past is going to beat the fuck out of me and I deserve it. I know it’s coming. I’m scared. I’ve hit rock bottom and I’ve nowhere else to go.
The Bengali driver pushed his battered Nissan to its limit making it rattle and shake like a vintage rollercoaster. I was speeding down the motorway in an illegal mini-cab on route to Heathrow airport and was a little worse for wear after finishing a DJ gig. The driver had been chain-smoking since we left Brick Lane, the second-hand smoke made me feel nauseous. When I opened the window, the cold night, air, felt like a refreshing slap on my drunken face.
I’d always dreamt of playing overseas and couldn’t believe that I was on my way to Latvia to do this. My first ever DJ gig in another country was arranged by a Latvian DJ called Rudd who’d booked me to play at an event in the capital Riga. Although I was about to release my first record and was busy DJing around London, I certainly wasn’t a ‘name’ DJ and felt beyond lucky to have got the gig. I was armed with a metallic flight case full of records and a head full of sin. Continue reading “DJ Diaries 1”