Welcome to my blog, or as is more commonly known, my ego in electronic form.
So, what's this all about, right?
It's all about my attempt to save the world through writing.
But before I tell you all about that, here's a joke.
A man walked into a pub; ouch, it was an iron pub.
That's about the level of my humor, and the kind of stuff I like to write about, which is the good old British sense of being able to laugh in the face of adversity when the bombs are falling all around, and your trousers are falling around your ankles.
Right, back to saving the world.
Writing is the reason you probably ended up here, or more likely, you clicked on the wrong link.
If not, I'll tell you a bit more about myself than the bio on Amazon where you may have been checking out my books, Foot in the Door, or The 29th Day, and wanting to know what the hell goes through my brain when I'm writing.
"I'm an alien," as Sting said, "I'm a legal alien." Though in my case, I'm an Englishman in Japan, not New York. And I've been in Japan since August the 24th, 1995.
Oh, what a day that was. I couldn't wait to get here, hurry off to my first Karate training session in the land of the rising yen. Then the aeroplane landed, someone opened the door, and I felt like someone had reached down my throat, and yanked my stomach out.
Not a pleasant image perhaps, but don't worry, it only got worse.
And speaking of stomachs, I was a cesarean baby. Someone once asked me if that made me feel any different. "Not really," I said. "But when I leave the house, I always go out through the window."
Another old classic, not mine, and I'm not sure who the joke belongs to, for if I did, you'd know too.
Back to the cesarean bit.
1969 was a glorious year for me. Born prematurely, almost not making it, I suppose I decided to take a chance on giving it a go here on planet earth to give joy, laughter, get pushed down the stairs inside a suitcase, locked in the boot of the car, and enjoy many other fun family games, like, "Why are we moving again?"
Oh, family, yes, I almost forgot.
Like most people, my mother married a Polish chap, who went on to die in a motorbike accident leaving her with seven children. My father, who worked with said Polish chap, then stepped into the fray, I showed up some time later, and as if by magic, seven years later, he was taken away, and put into storage by the divorce fairy, to be rolled out once a week for private viewings.
My father, before the leukemia fairy came to take him away for good some years ago, was a great story teller, who had the ability of making people laugh about anything, be it a story about a man who walked into a pub with a 56,000 ton replica of the Titanic under his arm, to the death of a beloved family pet by firing squad.
The last part was actually a story about my uncle, and was related by my aunt at his funeral regarding a note he'd left on the kitchen table for his mother when he'd gone off to school. A farmer since he was old enough to work, this event happened when he was about fourteen. As on most farms, I assume, they had a cat. This cat, however, was far from a beloved pet which would sit by the fire, as a sweet grey haired old lady in a rocking chair took a moment from her knitting to look down and smile at her feline companion.
No, because this little ball of fur lived in the barn, and had a terrible case of diarrhea, which, after a few days, drove my uncle to despair. Unable to stand it any longer, he took the cat outside, and shot it. He then left the aforementioned note for his mother, which read, "Dear mother, I shot the cat, see you later."
Even when things got bad towards the end for my father, he still found things to laugh about. A man who claimed to be five foot four, he was the spitting image of Sean Connery, although, he himself would say, that he was more like Sean Connery's left leg. So, one day, whilst lying in a hospital bed, looking on, as a group of doctors stood nearby talking, my father started to fear that he was about to get the news that the end was nearer than he thought. After a few minutes of panic, and all of the feelings that go with it, one of the doctors came over, and said, "We all agree, you look just like Sean Connery."
The only thing I have of my father's now, is the pocket watch which he left to me. I keep it with me every day, and I know that he's up there watching over me. And after all of these years, since he left this earth, and left that on keepsake, which reminds me of him, our time together, and our time apart, I'd just like to tell him, "The bloody thing doesn't work now!"
So, fast forward at the speed of light, past all of the house moving, new schools, new school bullies, fractured scull from a large rock landing on my head during one of those fun games where kids recreate WWII by hurling lumps of mud at one another, to the fun of working in a factory.
Long story short, I had tired of the constant moving by the time I was about fifteen and a half, and was somehow able to avoid going back to school, and enter technical college. I studied foundry skills at the start, learning how to make engine parts out of molten metal, and other interesting stuff. That led to something even better called the Youth Training Scheme, which meant I only had to go to college once a week, and could work in a factory the other four day and earn money! Twenty seven pounds a week!
But the factory was a great source of information, because people in a factory have a habit of enjoying two things more than working, which are smoking, and chatting. Shy by nature, and being too young to have any stories of my own, I would listen to such marvelous tales of the man who'd had washing up liquid put in his sandwiches as a joke, or other little pranks, like the old boy whose bicycle used to have the nuts of its front wheel loosened, and its satchel filled with heavy lumps of metal by, wait for it, the foreman.
Three years later, I'd said goodbye to the factory, and hello to the Royal Air Force, which would prove to be the best source stories yet. The reason for this being that it was a place where people from all over came together in one place. The Scotts lad in basic training, whom his best friend told him just before we we went off to our passing out parade, that he had a crease in his trousers. After being assured that there was a crease, though he couldn't see it himself, he plugged in a steam iron, and proceeded to iron the crease out. I remember the look of agony on his face to this day, as the scorching steam went through the material onto his upper thigh. Ah, the good old days.
During my six years service, I found something far more interesting than fixing aeroplanes, which led to my coming to Japan, the mysterious art of Karate. Not all that mysterious as it turns out, although, for one member of our group, a vet, who once burnt a goat to death by accident, it proved to be just that. The best compliment I ever heard him receive during training was, quote, "Yes, you're getting better, but please try to stop sounding like an asthmatic dog."
Japan was a dream, Karate masters of worldwide renown were waiting for me to pitch up outside their door, and say, "Master, will you teach me?"
The dream, and the reality turned out to be somewhat different.
Work became a priority, leaving little time for training. And work in Japan, like for the majority of foreigners here, means teaching English conversation. I did work as a cook in a Filipino hostess bar for a few months, but that's another story.
If you've read this far, and you've read Foot in the Door, you'll come to realize that what I write about is drawn from my own life, because I believe that life is way more interesting than fiction.
Although I'm just getting started with this blog, if you have any questions about Foot in the Door, like where the different stories in the book come from, please email me, and I'll try to make up a list of FAQ.
jasonbruce1969@gmail.com
Cheers, Jason Bruce.
