Find What You Love and Let it Kill You

With COVID-19 gripping the world in various forms of hysteria and with our training commitments trickling slowly towards a foreseeable and hopefully temporary state of limbo, it has allowed me to take a deep breath and revisit so many things that I had put on-hold; never quite knowing when or if, I would actually ever revisit them.

Hopefully by now, those who follow Go Noisy, will know that we are different than most CP/Firearms Training Providers. I wouldn't be so arrogant to say that we are the best...we are merely unique; unique in our style, unique in our approach and unique in that we have the operational experience to back up what we are teaching.

We are different; different in our attitude towards training, different in our honesty, integrity and our humility; we are human and we try to show that human side in all that we do.

The Industry is too full of pretenders, seriousness and wannabe's; too full of people tripping over themselves to show that they are consummate professionals, petrified that people will see them for what they truly are, too full of people who place "Qualifications" over "Training"; too full of people who do not give their heart and soul to passing on hard-won experience...simply because they don't have it and, instead, rely on their teaching "qualifications" to pass on their regularly regurgitated course content.

Go Noisy do not sign up to that.

Everything that we teach, is based on experience; hard fought and hard won operational experience in conflict regions that are well publicised and others that are not.

We are a conduit to pass on that knowledge...that experience...so that if you experience what we have experienced...you'll be in a better place to deal with it.

With that in mind, it will probably come as no surprise to anyone that knows us, that we have our demons...our dark places, that we have striven to manage over the years.

What you are about to read is how that all started and is Chapter 1 in a book that I have been writing since 2014 titled "Find What You Love and Let it Kill You"

This book is a work in progress, there are other chapters completed and others with merely a title and no content...only time will tell whether they remain empty or not.

My biggest concern is that, when you read this, you will form the opinion that we are not responsible enough to teach CP or Firearms Training; nothing could be further from the truth...we are MORE capable and operationally qualified to teach CP and Firearms training than most, precisely because of our experiences.

Go Noisy - more than just a Training Provider.

Foreward

I first penned these words in 2014. I was never sure about writing any of this...certainly not out loud. I started writing pages down when I realised I had a problem...not quite knowing what to do with them; occasionally reading them, rarely editing them, afraid to share them...ashamed to share them for fear of judgement, ridicule or worse, pity.

It had always been a bit of a wistful, romantic dream to write a book...have we not all felt this? I did not specifically want to write about anything I did in my career, although specific incidents throughout my career as a soldier, undercover British Intelligence Agent Handler and Private Security Contractor, do crop up within these pages but only as a means of adding context – never do I, or would I, mention Tradecraft or Mechanics.

Initially, I wrote it, not for publishing purposes but more of a cathartical exercise...to get it out my system. It was only in 2014, when I first had the idea to Walk Across America to raise awareness of PTSD amongst British and American veterans, that I considered putting it...putting myself out there...naked...naked truth...harsh truth...uncomfortable truth.

After my failed attempt to walk across America, which I still reel from, I thought about putting together a photographic diary of my journey...the people I had met...how they connected with me...the random acts of kindness of strangers that I witnessed which, ironically, was going to be the title of that diary “Random Acts of Kindness”.

Strangely though, something made me hold off doing that...something deep inside me was telling me “...think bigger Neil...be more honest Neil...put your head above the parapet...put a bulls-eye on your forehead...talk about what you feel...tell people...” and that was kind of when I decided that I needed to write this book...for my own sanity...for my own absolution.

The problem was, I didn’t know where to start?

As I was sitting in Business Class on the plane on the 29th July 2015, on my way to Cape Cod, MA, to start my Walk Across America...contemplating the magnitude of what I was about to attempt...it came to me...it surprised me how easily it came to me and I wondered why it had never shown itself to me before this time...?

I got out my laptop...politely asked the stewardess to keep bringing me Whisky and water until my eyes glazed over...and I started writing Chapter 1 “Him”.

It all started with “Him”.

I wanted this book...this story to have more substance...to be more than just another “...When I was in the Army...” book...

I wanted it to be about what has been with me since my father died...a darkness...a darkness that used to consume me and occasionally still does...a darkness that, over time, I have learned to control...to manage...a darkness that has shown itself to me on so many occasions throughout my life and now...in hindsight...it would seem that it was something that I chased...actively sought out...felt compelled to face off in a quest to fuel my growing narcissism and my insatiable appetite for a glorious, violent and noisy death in some shit-hole somewhere, so that I could be with my Dad again.

I like to believe that everything that happens to us...good and bad...happens in order to lead us to a place...a place that we had no concept of years before and that only becomes clear...only shows itself to us...once we actually reach that place...

The “Place” doesn’t have to be a physical place...it can be a thought...it can be a mindset...it can be an inner peace...it can be spiritual...it can be a person...it can be anything you fucking want it to be.

My life has been littered with little breadcrumb trails for me to follow that will, hopefully, eventually lead me to “My” place.

Surprisingly, I’m still following this trail of breadcrumbs and, up until a couple of years ago, hadn’t quite figured out what, where or who my “Place” was.

However, that’s becoming clearer to me now...irrespective of the wake of heartbreak and pain it is going to cause, I know who and where my “Place” is.

Ironically and in keeping with my car-crash of a life...the “who” my Place is...might just elude me...I think I may have missed that boat and that is devastating to me...just devastating, as the “who” also provides me with a calm mind-set, inner peace, contentment, spirituality and love...always love.

The "where" has already revealed itself to me and I'm there now.

Everything in this book is written in the 3rd person...I just found it easier that way...more anonymous and it seemed to read better than constantly saying “I”.

I’ve always disliked autobiographies...not quite sure why.

I should warn all of you that this book contains strong language, vulgar language, language and terminology that some may find offensive in the worst possible way and I make no apologies for that.

My intent is not to deliberately shock or offend...believe me...it’s not...it is merely to truthfully and accurately convey what I felt...what was going through my head at that time...to write this story...in a more politically correct prose just wouldn’t work...when I write...I write drunk and angry.

I wouldn’t be able to accurately describe the anger...the fear...the loss of control...the darkness...I would be failing to be truthful...I would be giving into fear...and I don’t do that...

“Fear Nothing Experience Everything” right...?

So please...I’m asking you to just turn off your filters...concentrate on the story...immerse yourself in the madness of my mind...and hopefully, in amongst the madness, the vulgarity, the anger...you may find a surprising clarity...you may find an honesty...an honesty that crawls inside you and opens you up...and...maybe...just maybe...you may find yourself reading these pages and thinking...

“...Fuuuuuuuuuck...this is ME...!!!”

And if that does happen, then at least we can both say that we are not alone. Everything and anything is possible, right?

“...Find What You Love and Let it Kill You...” 

CHAPTER 1 - “HIM”

He was born in 1966. The worst year for a Scotsman to be born. He always knew he was different.

He never liked using the word “strange” although the semantics in terminology came later in his life, when he would describe himself as “eccentric”.

He constantly wondered if other people...his friends...his family...had “other selves” to? Or was it just him?

He never asked.

Too scared of their reaction he supposed.

His biological father had fucked off when he was a baby...allegedly mumbling something about not being his father, although the resemblance between him and his Father Number 1 was pretty fucking undeniable.

He never knew him and never wanted to know him. Fuck him.

Father Number 2 was a whole different ball game. What a man!

What a fucking man!

He loved Father Number 2 with an intensity that only a boy who loves his father would understand.

Father Number 2 adopted him when he was six.

Father Number 2 died on him when he was nine.

The boy died inside...just fell to his knees and gave up.

His life creamed in and he never quite recovered from that. He didn’t go off the rails, do drugs, rob chemists or tie fireworks to cats’ arses...he just died inside...wept inside...all the time.

Months after Father Number 2’s death, he would sneak into Father Number 2’s wardrobe in his mum’s bedroom and sniff his clothes in a stupid and desperate attempt to try to inhale him back to life.

Capstan, non-filtered cigarettes and Old Spice after-shave...

If they made scented candles with that smell, he would have bought the entire fucking factory.

Father Number 2 died in 1975, the night of the Miss World contest...he’s never been able to watch one since.

He was staying with Father Number 2’s older daughter and her husband that night.

His parents were at a dinner dance somewhere. He was with his older sister.

This utterly benign and pointless programme was a source of much hilarity that evening.

He barely remembers the details; but he thinks it involved Miss Ecuador’s facial hair...there was much giggling...much adult “talk” in front of the kids, which he and his sister fucking loved; being included in this adult-style demolition of the unfortunate Miss Ecuador.

Curled under their duvets an hour later, he and his sister were still giggling.

The phone rang.

They thought they heard the older ones laughing; but a strange wailing laugh this time.... that made him and his sister laugh more.

He fell asleep happy.

He woke up happy.

He got out of bed happy.

He went through to the kitchen happy.

Nobody else was happy.

In that moment, his life came crashing down...crashing down with a tonnage that he wasn’t prepared for...he hated God...hated the cunt. God had taken away this man...his father...Father Number 2.

In his head:

“...Father Number 1 is still out there somewhere...take that prick...leave me with father Number 2...please God...why him?”

God didn’t listen...he fucking hated God. God had dry-humped him...pulled out and jizzed all over him.

Father Number 2 had had a massive heart attack whilst dancing with his mother...right there on the fucking dance floor...he was 55 years old.

He couldn’t breathe...he couldn’t cope...he was nine...two fathers in nine years is a fucking poor indictment of parenthood...he was lost...he remained lost for the rest of his life.

Father Number 2 was gone and his life stopped being worth anything. Forty years later, he misses him the same...

Feels the same loss...

Feels the same emptiness...

He can still see his face...

He can still see his smoke-stained teeth smiling down at him... He can still feel the warmth of his arms around him...

He can still smell the Capstan and Old Spice...

He can still remember Father Number 2 wrapping him up in his overcoat at the bus stop coming back from the football...that coat...that thick knee-length overcoat...the one he used to sneak into his mum’s bedroom to sniff...to smell...to breathe in....that lovely fucking overcoat.

His Dad hadn’t said goodbye to him...

He had never seen so many people at a funeral.

Not that he had been to many by the time he was nine; his Granny had died shortly before Father Number 2 had died on him...but fuck...all those people.

The road to the crematorium was lined with so many men...men in long overcoats just like his Dads’...he found himself looking for his Dad amongst them...knowing he wasn’t there...looking anyway.

Men with heads bowed...solemn...looking as sad as he felt...more men lining the road through the cemetery...overcoats...tears.

Him...face pressed up against the window of the hearse...peering out through bloodshot, red teary eyes...everything blurred...looking at the faces of all these strangers, openly crying to.

Him...not understanding.

Them...solemnly...sadly...respectfully...as if not wanting to make eye contact with those inside the hearse...looking back at him...seeing a boy with bloodshot, red teary eyes...face pressed up against the window.

Them...understanding.

His Dad was loved by so many people; people he didn’t know.

“...they couldn’t have loved him the same as I loved him...” he thought, as he scanned the faces of all those sad, over-coat wearing men.

He slid back into the cold leather seat of the hearse, beside his Mum and his sister and stared straight ahead...crying...he couldn’t stop crying...it just wouldn’t fucking stop...feet not touching the floor...no seatbelt on...no seatbelt fitted...the 70’s...

He watched his Dad’s coffin slide gently and silently into the furnace...the furnace door closing after it....he watched...he listened...through a small window in the furnace door, he watched the flames get bigger and bigger...hotter and hotter...his Dad was in there...his Dad was gone...

He hadn’t said goodbye to him...

Later....

“...why are they all laughing...?”

He was back home...not that it would ever be the same home again...ever. He was up stairs in his bedroom...alone...

“...why is everyone laughing...?”

The laughing was full-on belly laughing...happy laughing...drunken laughing...joyful laughing...shared laughter of shared times...of times past...his Dad’s time.

Stories were being regaled...embellished for effect...everyone knowing that and telepathically agreeing that, on this occasion, no one gave a fuck.

Father Number 2 was a funny man...a loved man...a man born to be social...a missed man...a dead man...Father Number 2 was dead and as that thought continued to demolition derby through his mind...he listened to everyone laughing downstairs.

He sat on the stairs and listened...he cried, turned around and walked back up the stairs to his bedroom...alone...dead inside...laughter floating up to his room...he cried.

He fell asleep sad.

He woke up sad.

He got out of bed sad.

He went down to the kitchen sad.

The house was sad...it cried...the house mourned his Dad.

He...it...never fully recovered; the house died that day to...nothing was ever the same again...for anyone left living in it.

He learned more from Father Number 2 in those three wonderful years than he did from any other man throughout the remainder of his life.

Potential Father Number 3’s were rare...he remembers one particular candidate liked to bring boxes of Quality Street over every time he came to shag his mother, as if this was meant to keep him occupied as the carnal deed was done? Ease the sting...

“...enjoy the chocolates son...”

...smiling...looking down...followed by a playful rub of the hair as Potential Father Number 3 and his mother left the room.

Him...smiling back....

“...I’m not your fucking son you cunt...you fucking cunt...fuck off...just fuck off...”

And that was when he first met “Him” his other self...his Floating Self.

He looked up...stunned by the voice...and there he was...smiling down at him...but a smile he didn’t recognise in himself...this was a different Him.

Floating Self was free...unhindered...unburdened...unrestricted in thought and vocabulary...Floating Self used adult words...articulated in an adult way...Floating Self set him free...opened up his mind to what he really wanted to say...how he really felt...

“...you’re not my fucking Dad ok? Now fuck off...leave us alone...you prick...”

Smiling up at potential Father Number 3...tucking into the Quality Street like Oliver fucking Twist...

“Please Sir? Can I have some more?”

“...Oooh hohohoho...you like the toffee ones eh son...?”

Potential Father Number 3 trying to bond...build rapport...create common ground...failing to do all three...

He wanted to grab the wooden tortoise on the fireplace, the one where you lifted of the tortoise's shell to get a cigarette, that his dead Dad kept his Capstan in and fucking gouge it into potential Father Number 3’s fucking eye socket...

“...I’m...” gouge! “...NOT...” gouge! “...your...” gouge! “...fu...” gouge! “...cking” gouge! “...son...” gouge!

Smiling up at him...hating him...dying inside...crying inside...missing his Dad...hating his mother but not knowing why.

So he muddled his way through childhood...through the minefield of primary and secondary school, ignoring fucking everything he was taught. He knew what he was meant to do.

Along came Father Number 3...

It happened in the kitchen....

“...So....”

His Mum had called him and his sister into the small kitchen...

The kitchen with the window that looked out onto the drive...

The drive that his dead Dad had paid him pocket money to keep swept and free of weeds...

The drive that he had accidentally spray painted his Dad’s car whilst spraying his bike...

The drive where, when his Dad seen what he did...seen him crying...seen that he was scared...scared that his Mum would bring out the dog’s lead...walked up to him...knelt down...smiled...warm loving smile...and wrapped his big arms around him and....chuckling...told him it was no big deal...

THAT kitchen....

THAT window...

THAT drive...

“...was this really where this was gonna go down...?” he thought.

“...so...”

His Mum continued...nervous...

“...what would you think if potential Father Number 3 and I get married...?”

Silence...

He just looked at her...looked at his sister...hating his life...hating his Mum and now knowing why.

“...does it matter what we think...?” he asked...face blank...voice neutral...monotone...

“...well...you see it would give us...”

He turned and walked out the kitchen...

Away from THAT window that overlooked THAT drive...

Not hearing the rest of his mother’s cowardice...but knowing that she was saying something...

Father Number 3 moved in...in to his dead Dad’s house...

“....He’s a fucking prick...” ...Him to his Mum...15-love...

“...shut your fucking mouth...” ...Father Number 3 to him...15-all

“...fuck off...you fat cunt...”...Him to Father Number 3......30-15

“...I’ll beat the crap out of you...” Father Number 3 to him...a weak return...40-15

“...aye...you’ll fuckin’ try...fat-boy...” Him to Father Number 3...Game...Set and fuckin’ Match....

...and so continued his constant battles with Father Number 3.

He knew it wasn’t easy for Father Number 3...he knew that but didn’t care.

“...think you can fill the shoes of my Dad do you...? Think you can waltz in here...shag my Mum once a week...lay down rules in MY fucking Dad’s old house? Really? Well let’s see how that works out for you...where’s that fucking tortoise...?”

Gouge! Gouge!

Father Number 3 tried to be a Dad...not HIS Dad...but just a Dad...Father Number 3 never knew how to be a Dad...had never been one...Father Number 3 resorted to catchy sayings...wise proverbs that just made him look like a bigger dick than he actually was.

He loved Father Number 3’s awkwardness...

His Mum never really loved Father Number 3...they both knew this from the outset...the marriage was a convenience...his Mum got another husband...a companion...

“...oooooh I can’t be on my own...” his Mum frequently lamented.

Father Number 3 got to move out of his mother’s house....

“...a pretty disproportionate fucking trade...” the boy had always thought.

The house mourned his Dad...the presence of Father Number 3 made the house mourn more...there was no love in the house...there was no laughter or joy in the house...no happiness...just being...just existence...his Mum got rid of his dead Dad’s overcoat, which robbed him of his only physical connection to his dead father...

From outside looking in...

“...oh my...what a lovely family...lovely house...car in the drive...husband...wife...boy...girl...Ooooh look at them in their smart school uniforms...what a testament to happily married life...”

From inside looking out...

“...fuck off...prick...wanker...stop it...fuck off...get to your room...piss off...I hate you...I hate you more....fucking die...”

He bided his time until he could leave to do what he wanted to do...he was waiting...he knew where his life was heading...he was scared...excited...there was nothing at home for him...nothing that he wanted...needed....no love...no happiness...no joy...when his Dad died, everything that was important died with him and, overnight, became unimportant...inconsequential.

He joined the Army to die...to seek out death and let it take him...he yearned for it...craved it. He was two months from his 16th Birthday...his mother signed the papers without hesitation...he always respected her for that.

He joined the Army to die...to be with his Dad...too much of a coward to kill himself...he wanted a glorious death...a death that would mean something...a death that would take away the pain of living without his Dad...

He has been searching for that his entire adult life...but he gets lucky...time after time after fucking time...bombings...IED’s...Suicide Bombers...gunfights...people die around him...his friends die around him...but it never takes him and he hates God for that...maybe death is scared of HIM...? Doesn’t want him yet...?

“...the Army? (laughing) YOU won’t handle the Army (more laughing) Don’t be so ridiculous (head shaking and laughing now)...”

This was the response he received from his Guidance Teacher at Secondary School when he told her he was joining the Army.

He met her 24 years later when he was a British Intelligence Officer, just after it had been announced that he was to receive an award in the 2006 Queens Birthday Honours List....she wasn’t fucking laugh then was she... ?

Floating Self was a constant companion in his life... Floating Self was his rhyme, rhythm and reason...

Floating Self, motivated him...chided him when he was failing...fed him when he was hungry...when he needed fuel to slog on....

Floating Self cracked the whip and laughed at him...laughed at his pain...his discomfort...this was all part of Floating Self’s plan.

Floating Self was the personal fucking trainer of his subconscious...Boot Camp for the Brain!!!

Floating Self kept The Darkness at bay...The Darkness was always there...waiting...calling out to him...beckoning him...coaxing him to join it...it would show itself “later”.

He was bullied at school...Primary and Secondary...he soaked it up...fed it to The Darkness...The Darkness was always hungry...he re-cycled it...used it...tucked it away for “later”.

“Later” happened in the queue to get into School...push....from behind...shove...giggle fucking giggle...push...shove...spit...kick (The Darkness opened one sleepy eye)...slap...push...shove...kick (The Darkness woke up...stretched...smiled) He lost time...he got temporarily substituted...

The Darkness: “...right you....yes you...off you come son...”

Him: “...ok...Darkness...go fuckin’ mental...”

He got suspended from school that day for breaking the nose and eye socket of the bully...

The Darkness had come...The Darkness had shown him the way...The Darkness was his new best and worst friend...

They would become close.