I’ve been that soldier (Part 2)

Just after 8am, sitting at my desk here and my brain is in overdrive. That’s the problem with people like me, a mind that refuses to just shut up and relax. So, what’s keeping my mind active this morning?

A few nights ago, I wrote a true story. It was on my mind for some time and I felt (and still do), that it needed to be put out there. Some will agree, some will not. If you’re reading this, you will probably have read it, so you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you didn’t, move on, there’s nothing to see.

The following day, it was shared by a major online website and went a little bit “viral”. That’s the purpose of these blogs, to voice an opinion, engage in debate, tell a story or state fact. I was thrilled and still am, that somebody took the time to read my blog and then consider it worth sharing, on a major site, for more people to see.

One of the downsides to a major “scoop” of having your piece shared nationally, is how other people will interpret it. I think that the actual message I was trying to get accross, was lost and I’d like to attempt to re-affirm what I was trying to say.

Please remember, that I was working for a major international company at the time. I signed a confidentiality clause with them, as part of my employment and subsequent leaving, not to disclose any information about them, their processes or any other matter. There were also, other people involved at the time, some people still work there, some have moved on, like I have. All of those people have a right to their anonymity and I have no right to even consider referring to them or identiying them.

Did I have access to a solicitor and if not, why not? Of course I did, but as I knew that I was innocent, I didn’t feel that there was any need to have him present. He was however, just a phone call away and was well aware of the proceedings. If I needed him, he would have advised me and would have been there very quickly. The company I was working for, complied with the Gardaí fully, as I did. We had nothing to hide.

Now, that all that stuff is put to bed, please remember and take on board, my original point.

My blog was inspired by recent media hysteria (that’s what I call it anyway) against bike riders. Pedestrians, horse riders, farmers or indeed anybody else that uses the road for non driving purposes, be well advised, your day will come. A paper never refuses ink and at some stage, it will be you that makes the headlines.

Some of the comments that people make in reference to these stories, are so inciteful, dangerous and hateful, that they don’t really deserve comment. It happened to me a few months ago, with a video I shared on social media. I got some great messages from people, commending me, for highlighting a problem, that obviously exists. I also received the other type of message that wasn’t quite so positive. “I’d wipe you out you lycra clad bastard”, “if I was in that car, I would have creased you with the door, you bastard”. One of my favourites was this one, from a gentleman that owns / runs a skip hire company in the UK. “Why don’t you pr1cks use the trails, that her majesty’s government and the British taxpayer provides for you and stay the f*ck off our roads”. Obviously this man excelled in geography classes.

If people are prepared to say stuff like this on social media, be rest assured, they will be just as erratic and dangerous on the road. Whether you are a bike rider, you’re driving to work or taking your children from school, you will possibly meet these maniacs and the result is and can be catasprophic.

The point of my blog was an attempt to explain what happens in the event of a serious event. In my case, I was innocent and was proven to be. I would not wish the experience on my worst enemy.

Some people cope with stressful situations differently. That was how I coped. Not very well as you can see and once again, I’ll repeat, in a situation where I was innocent.

Imagine sitting in that interview room guilty? Imagine having lost the temper behind the wheel and having taken a life? Imagine hearing charges being read to you? All because you dislike cyclists or other non driving road users, that held you up for a few moments and you went for a gap that wasn’t there.

That’s the point in my blog, nothing else and it’s important to  keep it in context.

 

 

I’ve been that soldier

The following story needs to be told. It has sat in my mind for a few years now, as I waited for the time to tell it. It is a true story and it happened as described. For confidential purposes and the anonymity of others, I will not mention any names, but those people will back up my account.

Some years ago, I had a job as a delivery driver. It was okay, not my favourite job ever, but it paid the bills and conditions were good. Part of my role, was to work the occasional Sunday. One Sunday, I arrived at work, to be confronted by an extremely worried looking manager. “An accusation’s been made”, he began. “A child was knocked off a bike last Thursday evening. The driver involved, left the scene of the accident. The child is ok, thank god, but it was one of our vans”. My heart skipped a beat. Getting involved in an accident is one thing, but to leave the scene, that’s a criminal offence.

An internal investigation was immediately launched. As a result of the investigation, it was determined that it couldn’t possibly have been any of us, as we weren’t even in the town at the time. Everybody breathed a sigh of relief. It would be bad news for somebody, but we were off the hook. “We employ a better calibre of person than somebody that would leave a child lying on a road”, the manager remarked.

About a week later, my phone rang. It was another manager. “Expect a call from the Gardaí and bring your driving licence to work tomorrow. Be prepared for an interview with them, as they are investigating the recent accusation”, she said. My world caved in, I was innocent, I had done nothing wrong. That night, the call came from the Gardaí and an appointment was arranged for interview the following day.

My prior dealings with the Gardaí was the occasional stamping of a passport form, the ould stamp for the car tax and in the adoption process, we needed lots of documents signed and stamped. The following day, I was escorted to an interview room. I don’t think I have ever felt so alone and so scared in my entire life. I was up since 3am, just unable to sleep with the worry. “Had they found more evidence? Did I hit somebody and not realise it? What the hell is happening?

“You have the right to remain silent ……………..”, those immortal words that we hear on TV, as my rights were read to me. The Garda stepped out for a few moments, and I took stock of my surroundings. Just me, white walls, a recording device, similar to an old hifi unit on my left. A bare table, another chair for the Garda and a video camera above the door, trained on me. I gave a full account of my movements on that day, had my statement read back to me. I signed it, the Garda signed it and I was free to leave. There would be a full investigation, he assured me and at the end, the Superintendant or a detective would decide whether or not to issue further proceedings. It could take up to 6 months as due process had to be followed at all times.

I left the Garda station that day, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. I’ll be honest here. I sat in my car and cried my eyes out. I arrived home, unable to eat or sleep. For the next 6 months, I would be subject to a Garda investigation. I don’t know if any of the readers here have ever experienced such a process. You actually begin to doubt yourself, you start to think it’s not really happening. You cry a lot, you worry a lot, you feel very agitated and depressed. You know you’re innocent, but you begin to think that you may be guilty. Your mind goes into overdrive and any moment of happiness, is immediately dispelled by what “they” might find out.

I will always remember Christmas night that year. Sitting beside the fire, Caroline half asleep, Kian playing with his new toys, waiting for Mrs Brown to start. “Will I be in jail this time next year”, I thought.

A new year began and most moments of my waking life were consumed with worry. January, February, March and then, my phone rang. It was the investigating Garda. “Is there anything that you wish to change on your statement?”, he asked. I replied that no, I was standing over what I had said. A further meeting was arranged for that same night in the same Garda station, the same interview room. 9pm, when I arrived, as requested. Everything was read back to me, was I happy with all of it and then some legal stuff, that went over my head.”I’m happy that you have no case to answer”, he said, that’s all I heard. “I’ll be recommending that no further investigation is necessary and the case is closed”, he added.

I left the Garda station that night, in tears again. This time, pure relief and joy. I was innocent, proven to be innocent and totally free to carry on with my life again. I phoned home and I can still hear the relief and happiness from the lads here. At work the following morning, I got the heartiest of handshakes from management and staff alike. My ordeal was over, my nightmare was over. I was free and I never want to see a Garda station again.

So, why am I writing all this down? Here’s why.

Lots has been written on social media about the latest scourge on our roads, the bike rider. I’m a bike rider and a motorist, so I try to see both sides of the arguament.

(1) They don’t pay tax and insurance. Wrong, bike riders have cars too and DO pay tax.

(2) They refuse to use the bike lanes. If they don’t, there are good reasons, lots of them. Ask?

(3)They take up the road. It’s totally legal to cycle two abreast.

(4) They run red lights. Some do. Anybody wearing their club kit will NEVER do that.

I could go on and on, with the same old spiel that you have heard thousands of times before. It has now gotten to the ridiculous stage, as the same old nonsense is trotted out.

Read the above again. That’s the reality of a Garda investigation. Remember, I was innocent and thankfully was proven to be.

So, I will ask you this. Do you want to sit in that Garda station guilty? Do you want to have your rights read to you? Do you want your day in court with a very serious charge to answer?

Your excuse, that they were riding too far out on the road, they were holding me up, I hate lycra, they are f*cking eejits, they think they own the road.

None of this stuff will cut any ice with a Garda investigation. You will follow the process as described above and it will take over every momentof your day.

I know, I’ve been there. I’ve been that soldier.

Please, Please, share the roads.

 

Wanting to be Bruce

It’s February 1982, the place is Paris, France. We’re on a school trip. The driver puts “a cassette tape”into the player. A hush descends over the coach load of 16 and 17 year olds and for the first time in my life, I have a hero in my life. The harmonica intro to “The River” leaves me spellbound and enthralled.

Fast forward a generation, I look around me and I see young boys and girls, with their own heroes. In this house, we have a little boy, who wants to be Han Solo. The Omniplex in Clonmel, vibrated in shock at Han’s demise, a few months ago, after JJ Abrams did the unthinkable. He has never quite accepted the fact that Han might not be back and clings to the hope that he might make a return in some other guise, in the upcoming new film. Other children want to be Wayne Rooney, Sean Kelly, Bruce Lee, the list is endless. Me, I always wanted to be Bruce.

Slane Castle, June 1st, 1985. I stood on the hill, in blistering sunshine along with another 120,000 people. The enormous speaker system roared into action. “1…2…1.2.3.4”,  A man sitting beside me gave me his binoculars . I focused in and there he was, a few meters from my face, my hero, Bruce.

The great and the good write about musicians, film makers and artists. They tell us whether the latest offering is good or bad. I pay no attention to these people. Most of them wouldn’t know one end of a piano from the next. As for the difference between a Fender Telecaster and Stratocaster, not much point in going there. “Bruce, is the spokesperson for the blue collared worker”, we’re assured. Yeah lads, whatever ye think, sure a paper never refuses ink.

I have never taken his lyrics too seriously. What’s the point, will it really change anything? Remember Ronald Reagan using Born in The USA as his campaign tune, a song that spoke about all that was wrong about America. Has much changed in the last 30 years? Not much I’d say.

To me, Bruce is just rock n roll. Playing music, loving it and never getting tired of it. Walking on stage with some of your buddies, cranking it up, blasting it out for a few hours, go home (or back to a hotel) and do it all again next day.

Modern TV is full of this reality nonsense. “You’re a star”, “The Voice” (quick question now, who won it this year??, no googling), “Britain’s got talent” and of course “X factor”. The young and not so young, the gullible and really gullible walk out onto a stage in front of some “experts”, believing that their dreams can come true, if they can just hold a tune for a minute or so.

A “star” is born in a garage. Some of the best bands on the planet, cut their teeth playing in a garage. They don’t bother with the x factor or whatever they’ll call it this year. Pissing off the neighbours practicing, loading gear into a Transit Van, sleeping beside that gear, with the smell of stale booze and cigarette smoke reeking from it. Making sure you buy diesel,new strings and drumsticks from the proceeds of your first paid gig. Money, stardom, millions, it will never happen for most.

I remember my first £20, from my first paid gig. £20, I thought all my birthdays had all come together.

So, where am I going with all of this? I’m jumping around quite a bit and I’m even confusing myself.

A few weeks ago, I played a gig. It’s a regular gig, in one of those really nice pubs that Ireland is famous for. At the end of the night, the owner asked me for the microphone. He publicly thanked me, for a great night. Normally, I don’t listen to praise. My belief is that “a pat on the back, is one foot from a kick in the arse”, so I usually leave it in one ear and out the other. I drove home that night, on a high. I had a few quid in my pocket, but there was more to this than a few quid.

Last week, I played a gig in Carrick. Carrick is tough, let me tell you that. There are great people down there and if you make the effort, they will support you. It was an incredible night and the owner asked me if I’d play on for a while. That same feeling on the way home, a high that you cannot explain.

I smoked cigarettes for years, so I know what they do, I drank for years, so I know what that does. Nowadays, I do neither. As you get older, you get a lot more focused on your health and you give yourself every chance possible.

This “high” that I’m talking about, is the elation that music and the ability to play it, brings to me. You have loads of bad nights, loads of mediocre nights, but the good nights, although not quite as plentiful, are unreal. Music is a drug and I love everything to do with it. Could I imagine a weekend in my life not playing music? No, I could not, is the simple answer. It’s possibly the most important medium that has ever entered my life.

Every now and again, as I head home, as I enjoy this strange feeling of elation, I can come as close as possible to emulating my hero.

Yep, here I am, 52 years of age, still wanting to be Bruce.