On being a bully...

First things first… I’m a bully, always have been and always will be.

As a child I was horrible. Well, I can be pretty horrible now given the wrong circumstances and enough pushing. But as a child I was a nasty piece of work. Looking back I realise that I bullied anybody weaker or younger than myself, forcing them to do what I wanted regardless of what they thought of it. I once made my sister stand with a dart board propped against her leg while I threw darts at it. I missed and one of the darts stuck into her leg which, unsurprisingly, made her bleed and cry.

Yes, I was always into malicious mischief, ‘A little sod’ as my Gran often called me. And I was; I played some horrible tricks on my Gran – not impish naughtiness, vindictive, nasty, and trouble-making. Of course there were reasons for this behaviour, which I won’t go into just now, but however you look at it I was plain bad.

Of course these were the days of ‘a good smack’ and the cane was still around. Yes, bullying was rife throughout my childhood, at school and at home. It didn’t take much for one of the bigger boys to set on you, or for you to get a slap for not understanding your homework on a Sunday evening. I once had my hand blistered when it was held against a boiling school radiator for ten minutes by two other boys in gloves (Luke Doyle and Stephen Castle if you are reading this be ashamed). And of course patience was in short supply at home. If a sneer or bellow didn’t get you moving, then a slap around the head would spur you into action.

As I grew older I hid my bullying behind a joke, a jolly jape to make others laugh. But whichever way you looked at it, it was bullying pure and simple. I’d even join in with other bullies sometimes – well, there’s strength in numbers and better to be ‘in’ than ‘out’. At least that’s how it seemed at the time.

In my early twenties I was still bullying. Not physically, but with clever words and actions. By this time I was a big boy myself but I still only picked on people I knew wouldn’t retaliate. They didn’t have to be smaller than me, just more tolerant or weaker or just plain nicer; although I bullied the small as well - just how my two step daughters put up with me at times I’ll never know.

Yes getting my own way was very important to me and sometimes I really didn’t care how I did it, or what I put others through to get it.

I don’t remember having a Damascus moment. But gradually as I got older, gained experience managing people, I began to realise that pushing doesn’t ever get the best results. Oh, it gets you to where you are going to, but there are casualties along the way - far better to travel with people than to drive the train too hard and derail it.

Even so, I’m still a bully inside and sometimes I feel him trying to get out. Occasionally he escapes and I struggle to force him back in. Sometimes though, when the need arises, I let him out on purpose.

They say it takes one to know one and I agree. I can spot a bully at a hundred yards and I’ve spotted plenty in my time. These days, rather than avoid or ignore them like I used to try to do, I always try to stand up to them. Luckily I’ve not yet met a bully holding a knife, but I’ve had some hairy moments. It’s got me into some very hot water at times with bullying bosses, and recently I found myself being poked in the head by a very angry man half my age and twice my strength. I just looked him in the eye until he stopped. He knew I could see the bully in him and he could see the bully in me I think. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not brave and I hate pain just as much as the next person, but bullies make me see red because I know their pathetic games so well. After all I play them too. So now, rather than back down, I’ll play a bully at his own game.

You see the only upside of being a bully is that you know how to bully the bullies back until they stop or just go away. Not a very forgiving, turn the other cheek, attitude I grant you - but I’d rather get burnt fighting fire with fire than let a bully get away with it.

Luna and the snow...

Luna awoke to snow this morning. She’s been out in the snow before, but these flakes were larger and there were more of them. The snowflakes fascinated her as they drifted down making her head dart, her nose twitch. She sat watching for a while, trying to catch each flake with her eyes, snatch a couple with her paws.

Then down she jumped and across to the back door complaining to go out. It’s hard to explain to a white cat that snow isn’t the safest environment for it to be in. She’s become an explorer recently, roaming the gardens of other houses, peeking into windows to watch the yapping dogs and gerbils. Often she crosses the road at the front of the house and a white cat running across a snowy road isn’t a good idea.

Better to stay warm in the house and sleep. Try telling her that though.

Mr. Shouty goes shopping...

Meet Mr Shouty, a character I have dreamt up who will appear occasionally on my blog. Some of you may think you know him, but any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental. Please let me know what you think of him.

Today Mr Shouty goes shopping…

Mr. Shouty and his wife have run out of teabags, so they’ve gone to the supermarket to buy some more.

I’LL get the trolley. SORRY? What do YOU mean I don’t need one? Are YOU STUPID WOMAN? I’M TELLING YOU THAT I DO.

Mr. Shouty takes a coin out of his pocket and tries to put it in the trolley.

Now why won’t it fit? What do YOU mean it’s a ten pence piece? I’M VERY SORRY but I know the difference between a POUND and a TEN PENCE. I’M NOT COMPLETELY STUPID YOU KNOW.

Mr. Shouty tries to ram the ten pence piece into the trolley slot.

They’re ALL the same these pound coins. Fixed so that they won’t fit into the trolleys. What do YOU mean that makes no sense. THEY’RE FIXED WOMAN. FIXED I TELL YOU!

Mr Shouty walks over to a trolley attendant who is collecting empty trolleys.

Can YOU explain to ME why none of these TROLLEYS will take my pound?

The attendant looks at the coin and explains that it’s a ten pence piece.

I’M SORRY YOU’RE WRONG! THAT’S A POUND, PURE AND SIMPLE.

The attendant asks to see the coin and once again calmly explains to Mr Shouty that it’s definitely a ten pence piece. The attendant gives Mr. Shouty the coin back.

WHAT! I’VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE. ARE YOU CALLING ME STUPID? YOU NEED TO START LIVING IN THE REAL WORLD. I’M NOT AN IDIOT YOU KNOW. YOU’VE FIXED THOSE TROLLEYS SO THAT I HAVE TO USE A BASKET. THAT WAY YOU DON’T HAVE TO COLLECT THE TROLLEYS AND DO ANY WORK. I’M REPORTING YOU MY MAN. YOU ARE TAKING MONEY UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. WHO DO YOU THINK PAYS YOUR WAGES? I DO! I’M SORRY, CUSTOMERS PAY YOUR WAGES AND I’M SORRY, I’M A CUSTOMER AND I DEMAND THAT YOU SHOW ME THE RESPECT I DESERVE!

The attendant walks away shaking his head and Mr Shouty looks at the coin in his sweaty, shaking hand.

RIGHT THAT’S IT, THAT’S IT. I USED TO WORK FOR THE POLICE YOU KNOW. I’M SORRY, IT’S TIME THIS STORE WAS TOLD A FEW HOME TRUTHS. I’M NOT HAVING THIS!

Mr Shouty strides into the store, scattering old ladies and children before him.

BRING ME THE MANAGER! BRING ME THE MANAGER! I WANT TO REPORT A THEFT. I’VE BEEN ROBBED BY ONE OF YOUR EMPLOYEES. HE TOOK MY POUND AND GAVE ME BACK A TEN PENCE PIECE. HE’S FIXED THE TROLLEYS SO THAT HE DOESN’T HAVE TO COLLECT THEM AND THEN HE CALLED ME STUPID AT LEAST A DOZEN TIMES. IT’S ALL HIS FAULT. IT’S ALL HIS FAULT I TELL YOU. I’M SORRY, I DEMAND THAT YOU SACK HIM OR I’LL CALL THE POLICE.

The attendant has a word with the store security guard. He approaches Mr Shouty and politely asks him to stop shouting.

SHOUTING? SHOUTING? I’M SORRY, I’M NOT SHOUTING. I’VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE. I’M SORRY, YOU CALL ME STUPID, ACCUSE ME OF LYING, STEAL MY MONEY AND THEN YOU SAY I’M SHOUTING. I’M SORRY, I’LL NEVER SHOP HERE AGAIN. COME ON WOMAN WE’RE LEAVING.

Mr Shouty storms out of the store his wife following behind him like a beaten dog. All she had wanted was a cup of tea.

Corgi tractor...

I guess my Corgi tractor must have looked something like this. I was given it one Christmas by my Auntie Sheila and Uncle Mick. They always gave good presents; a clown on a bicycle that went along a tightrope strung between two dining chairs; a William Tell crossbow brought home from their honeymoon in Torbay.

Of course my tractor led to an argument. Well, it was Christmas and I’d had hardly opened it before I couldn’t find the farmer driver. Perhaps it became lost inside the mass of discarded Christmas wrapping paper then was quickly scooped away and thrown into the beginning-to-rust galvanised dustbin that stood outside our back door. He couldn’t stand a mess, mess made him angry. I loved tractors back then. I’d always ride the tractor on the roundabout at the fair and when we’d visit my great grandfather beg to sit upon his ‘real’ tractor whenever I got the chance.

I’m sure there were once photos to go with these memories - me on my great granddad’s tractor and driving a roundabout tractor at the fair. But it seems that somewhere along the line the big blue photo album crammed full of the past has gone missing. Strange – perhaps that too was lost in some discarded Christmas wrapping paper and thrown away.

At least I have my memories and I can be pretty sure they haven’t been embellished by spin and sugar because as a family we hardly ever talked about past times, it was almost as if they had never happened. With no photographs and no speaking of the past my memories are all I have. It’s a good job that I remember so much and know how to access it - at least it is for me.

A few days after that Christmas, my farmer mysteriously turned up. He’d found it under the sofa he said, so I placed him back on my tractor and drove it around my imaginary farm until one day I lost him for good and never saw him again. Who Knows? Perhaps one day he may fall out of a pocket and I'll get him back again.

Chickens...

Repetition is often used in hypnotherapy to take the subject into a trance like state. By merely repeating the same phrase or instruction you can make your subject relax and at the point of trance suggest outcomes to them which they will then go on to make reality. Of course, you can’t get a subject to do anything that they don’t want to do but it is strange that some people will happily behave like chickens.

Yes, often we do things not because we want to, but because we are worried that not doing them will upset the status quo – therefore we want to do as suggested even though we don’t want too.

Fear of rocking the boat that you are sat in is common. You see this in the workplace all the time; people following instruction they know to be wrong. It’s how dictators get otherwise normal people to do such despicable things, and it’s why so many people stay in unhappy and abusive relationships for as long as they do. It’s about conditioning – being brainwashed if you will. It’s about accepting a lot as the norm when it really isn’t and not having the will to do anything about it. After all you aren’t in control, your keeper is.

One of the simplest ways to brainwash a person is to keep repeating a lie until it becomes a fact in their minds. Of course you need to be in a position of control and power to do this; and you will have needed to lower your subject’s self-esteem over a protracted period of time. Broken their will, to your will.

You see this in many marriages where one partner controls the other simply by telling them that they are wrong and he or she is right. Shouting them down at every opportunity and getting them so confused and compliant that things they know to have happened a certain way no longer seem to have. In many cases the controller also believes the lie they have formed and are unable to differentiate between reality and a reality altered within his or her mind. When challenged they often get angry and they struggle with the two opposing realities – what actually happened and what they have created in their minds. This anger reinforces the false beliefs until the only world that is real to is the one created by their mind and at this point they no longer live in the real world.

Often people experiencing this may exhibit personality changes and thought disorder. Depending on its severity, this may be accompanied by unusual or strange behaviour or moods, as well as difficulty with normal social interaction and sometimes impairment in carrying out daily life activities like holding a reasonable conversation without flying into a rage.

These people are psychotic, which covers a number of disorders including schizophrenia, paranoia and bipolar type 1. It leads to a loss of contact with reality way beyond being a dreamer and into a very scary place where everything and everybody is against you unless they are compliant. 

I guess many of us know at least one individual like this. I know I do - and his poor victims.

Wonderful...

When I named this blog What a Wonderful Life I have to admit that a large part of my tongue was pressed firmly into my cheek. As time went on though, and I began to look around in an attempt to find inspiration, I really did find many things to wonder at. There is much to see if you look. A leaf carefully falling from a tree to the ground, pink clouds on a summer’s evening, the splash of the rain in a puddle. Everyday things that aren’t everyday at all. Real world occurrences that aren’t quite real. Then there are the things found in place where they shouldn’t be found. Like the tiny red satin ballet shoe I found in the road one day and the playing cards scattered in the snow. There are memories, passing moments, good days to remember, dreams - yes there is wonder in life.

Not all wonder is positive though.

Yesterday I was robbed. Oh, not a lot, a few hundred pounds taken by an opportunist thief from the draw of my desk in my shop when I went to the loo. Less than five minutes away from my shop within a shop and the result of a lot of work was stolen. Of course I have nobody to blame but myself. I really should have taken the money with me; and it could have been worse, my trusty laptop was in the same drawer. It was with a real sense of wonder that I looked in the draw where my money had once been. I wondered where it had gone, even looked for it, before realising that that suspicious looking chap with the beard who’d been hanging around for hours had probably taken it. That’s him in the picture, if you see him please let me know. When that realisation hit me I wondered how I could have been so stupid, I wondered how he had the nerve, I wondered what to do about it, I wondered, I wondered, I wondered.

Anyway the police were called, a statement taken, the likelihood of catching the culprit weighed up as zero and back I went to my shopkeeping wondering why I bother. I’m still wondering now.

My Grandfather's clock...

This story is either fiction, fact, or a dream. I don’t know which. Sometimes I believe a thing, live and breathe in the solid fact of it, only to be told by someone I thought that I could trust that it isn’t so. Other things that I’m sure I’ve dreamt turn all too real. Reality is a moveable feast. It all depends upon the light and where you are standing at the time. Fiction, fact or dream? I’ll allow you to decide. After all, I believe that people must have choice.

I awoke in the night to the sound or a clock ticking. Strange, we have no ticking clocks in the house, none that are wound at least. I lay listening to the tick for a while until I found myself back in sleep.

What lies. That grandfather clock was never really going to be mine despite what he said. Not that it should have been his anyway, like everything, he stole it. Money, eggs, ideas, hopes, dreams, innocence – it didn’t seem to matter to him. He took it anyway. Well, it was there for the taking. Besides, he could do what he liked. Who was going to stop him?

For a while the grandfather clock seemed to stand at the bottom of my stairs, slowly tick-tocking the minutes, chiming the hours. But then it was gone. Time to move on. He needed a change… find the money or sell. No warning. No notice. What he really meant was that it was time to run. Time to run again. Yes, a runner; a thief, bully, liar, cheat, and far, far worse. Well, there was a hefty profit in it for him, easy money. Thieves are like that. They take what they want, finding excuses and reasons for their bad behaviour. Take their money and run and run and run. Always the same, always something in it for him – a Ruby, a revenge, thirty pieces of silver. Then run.

The grandfather clock ticks on, passing from grandfather to grandson, generation to generation. But spotting his chance he took it wrapping it up in lies and making liars and thieves of those around him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I listen to my grandfather clock ticking on like a diseased heart. One day that clock will stop, and so will he.