The Dreamer's Road

By Damian Joyce

The Dreamer's Road (Part 1) tells the story of Jack Jordan.
A bright and adventurous boy, struggling to realise his dreams and his potential growing up in a 1980's repressed, Thatcherite Britain. His solution: expand his horizons and flourish.
This book tells the tale of a young man’s journey to emotional, intellectual and sexual freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Damian Joyce
• Release date: Sep 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301247561

Damian Joyce

Damian Joyce is an English-born musician and writer currently residing in Los Angeles, California.Born and raised in Lancashire, the eldest of five children, his early life was incident packed and turbulent due to his mischievous sense of adventure. This was despite the best efforts of a loving and supportive family.In order to quench his thirst for exploration, and to spare his loved ones further (first-hand) anguish, he left England, aged 19, landing in Northern Spain in 1988. Armed with his guitar, 30 English Pounds, a lust for life, and a street-wise sensibilty beyond his years, he would spend the next ten years singing his way around the world. He spent months in places as far reaching as South Africa, Australia and the Island of Bali, to name a few. The accumulation of knowledge gained from his adventures was eventually chronicled in the form of his first self-penned album which he entitled 'No Fixed Abode'. Released in 1998, it quickly garnered critical acclaim and the attention of music industry giants EMI, who invited Damian to America. He spent 18 years there, performing mainly in Los Angeles and Las Vegas, whilst also writing music for TV and Film.His second album of original material 'The Wilderness' was released in 2009. Upon it's completion Damian decided that the time was right for a new challenge and he set about the task of writing his first novel.'The Dreamer's Road' (Part 1) tells the story of Jack Jordan. A bright and adventurous boy, struggling to realise his dreams and his potential growing up in a 1980's repressed, Thatcherite Britain. His solution; to expand his horizons and flourish . Based upon the early period of his own life, the book is consequently a true and erudite story. On the back of the success of 'Part 1', 'The Dreamer's Road' (Part 2) was published in 2016 and continues the story of his life.This came after the release of Damian's third album entitled 'RAW', featuring his good friend and legendary keyboardist Keith Emerson. It was Keith's final recording before his tragic death. it is produced by the prolific Brian Kehew (The Who).

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE – Landmarks

I don’t know at exactly what age or during which Spanish holiday it was…. but I realised that I had to escape. I know that it was definitely amidst the hazy years of my drinking prime, so roughly between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. Perhaps a little young to be at the pinnacle of such a career but such was our generation. We couldn't and wouldn't wait to investigate life’s guilty pleasures; alcohol, sex and drugs, anything that could be inhaled, snorted or eaten. Marijuana, glue, gas, mushrooms (the magic kind). It was the working-class; rough, tough and highly-irresponsible. Young lads were drunk, high, fighting and fornicating in the school-yards by day and in the streets, parks and pubs by night. Young lasses weren't much different, they also had unplanned pregnancies to deal with in some cases.

There was little to no educational material explaining the insanity of our self-abuse and you were labelled a 'mummy's boy' and ridiculed had you not partaken in at least a couple of the fore-mentioned activities. ‘Punk-rock’ had taught us to spit in the face of authority should it attempt to deny us and ‘New-Wave’ music had followed that, offering our anarchy a more aesthetically pleasing disguise but carrying the same message. It was all pretty fucked-up.

Consequently, when the historically momentous landmarks of our sixteenth and eighteenth birthdays arrived, they served as little more than legal acceptance of our hedonism. To treat them as mere formalities though, felt like the height of hypocrisy in our twisted, self-serving, little minds. After all, by legalising sex and alcohol at a certain age, the powers that be were removing an element of excitement from our enjoyment (the risk of potential prosecution being far more appealing than the persecution one received for futile attempts to abstain). So for this they must pay. We would celebrate both events as if there were no tomorrow and vow to re-double our efforts in both fields for the rest of time.

I spent my sexually liberating sixteenth birthday at the house. The family home was just over the borderline with the larger town of Accrington, in a place called Oswaldtwistle. It was named after legendary land-hoarder St. Oswald. He’d popped in for a cup of tea on his way down from Northumberland and deemed the place worthy of his moniker. Our town’s history also decreed that following World War Two we had participated in a friendly ‘Twin-towns’ programme, and we had been paired with a place called Falkenberg in Sweden. An exchange program had been initiated between the two towns involving students from the prominent high-schools in both. My slightly younger sister was part of the scheme and had visited Falkenberg six months earlier. Along with her fellow classmates, she had been welcomed into the Swedes homes and been given a taste of Scandinavian culture. Now it was time for us to return the compliment.

As teenage adolescents we’d heard rumours about Swedish girls. They were beautiful, physically mature and sexually uninhibited. Hence their arrival had been much anticipated. Though not all the girls lived up to the ‘blond bombshell’ billing passed down to us by our mischievous elders, the gods had been kind to me. The student assigned to my sister’s personal care, and consequently our household for the trips duration, was a stunning brunette.

I’d noticed Erika’s obvious physical attributes and broad-minded wandering eye at the previous evenings 'Welcome Disco'. I thought that she had noticed me too and I'd cockily concluded that it was simply a matter of time and opportunity before the inevitable occurred.

My own physical appearance seemed to be generally regarded as attractive to women. I was a little taller than average and athletic in my build. I had brown hair with a ‘new-romantic’ style side-parting that was the trend at the time, and bright blue eyes. I suffered from the typical teenage awkwardness when socially interacting with the opposite sex, but for some reason Erika’s less than perfect command of the English language gave me extra confidence. I probably thought that she would be more susceptible to my bullshit.

The window of opportunity presented itself that Saturday, my sixteenth birthday, as my Mum and Dad had taken my siblings to church; a ‘chore’ from which I had been excused a week earlier having exclaimed; I don’t believe in God! As a fellow non-believer, Erika had been left at home, alone with me.

Apparently my initial cockiness had not been misplaced and our attraction was indeed mutual. As we sat on the bed and I stared into Erika’s hazel-brown eyes, I realized that they were conquering any potential language barrier between us. In fact they were a practically a language unto themselves, pulling me towards her, then begging me to undress her; her pigeon-English simply adding an element of innocence to her sex-appeal. As the international language of kissing progressed to my conforming with her eyes every demand, the tales of my predecessors proved prophetic indeed; she had the naked body of a Scandinavian goddess. Due to my age and limited sexual experience, I had only witnessed such beauty of the female form in magazines, but this was real and was inviting me to devour it. The lack of linguistic communication again played a positive role in the connecting of our different cultures, as it seemed to remove inhibitions. It was as if we were free to explore without the fear of judgement and familiarity that often accompanied sexual encounters with locals. It was a heavenly experience and though I had originally planned birthday celebrations at the local pub, being balls-deep inside my sister’s beautiful Swedish exchange student Erika had me sub-consciously singing Happy Birthday to me! and seriously questioning my declaration of atheism from the previous week; there was indeed a God.

I hadn't intended to cause trouble and if I was guilty of anything, it was the age-old crime of 'penis conquering brain'. And surely I could even be excused of that taking into consideration the extraordinary beauty that had been my temptation. I had suggested to Erika that we keep our promiscuity a secret. Obviously I'd be telling my mates and she'd be telling hers but we should keep those in the know to a minimum. But word soon got out and back to my sister who went ape-shit, as did my Mum and Dad, though they insisted on keeping the matter 'in-house'. They certainly didn’t want to disrupt the whole exchange program.

My twenty-one months younger sister Katie was a good girl, a conformist, a teacher’s pet. I suppose, in my rebellious mind, she also represented 'establishment' and we fought like cat and dog. Consequently, though it was a sub-conscious act on my part, my liaison with Erika probably had a mischievous element attached to it, and the fact that we did ‘the deed’ in my sister’s bedroom was undoubtedly the 'cote-de-grace' of the whole affair. For her part Erika appeared quite oblivious to all the mayhem. God bless her.

A couple of years later, as my alcoholically vindicating eighteenth birthday approached, I mulled over the pros and cons of throwing a traditional party. Family, friends, lovers, past, present and potential. All gathered on what would supposedly be my first ever day of drinking alcohol. I imagined the hilarity should my parents feign astonishment as I professionally polished off a gallon or two of ale without so much as a stagger or slurred word. They’d known about my drinking habits for a long time of course and would be far too honest to even attempt to pull off an act that would have to be Academy Award worthy in order to succeed. Not everyone possessed my parent’s integrity however, and that particular Oscar statuette would find itself a deserving recipient on the day in question.

My eighteenth birthday fell on a gloriously sunny Sunday in the middle of August. On the weekends the social centre of Oswaldtwistle & its adjoining hamlet named Church was the local cricket club. A place where the towns folk could gather, catch up on the week’s events and have a relaxing drink in the open air. If they were lucky the sun might even shine. I'd played, and drank, for Church & Oswaldtwistle Cricket Club from the age of ten. I was a valued member and considered this my home away from home.

For players and supporters alike, the highlight of any given season was the home fixture against nearby and somewhat frowned upon rivals Accrington. It was destiny surely, that in this particular year the game fell smack/bang on my eighteenth birthday; so much for the proposed family party.

You're all welcome to join me at the cricket! I joyously announced at family dinner when questioned on the subject. Everybody knew what that meant;

I had become more of a supporter than a player in recent times and ‘Match Days’ had become a ritual. On the Sunday morning in question, there would be a half-hour window of opportunity between my rise from drunken slumber, thanks to Saturday night’s shenanigans, and my arrival at the local pub for 12pm opening. Should they not be attending the match, if anyone had a present to give or congratulations to administer, this would be their only chance. Not forgetting that ten minutes of this time would be spent in the shower, where I would be regaining consciousness and hopelessly attempting to piece together the events of the night before.

When I awoke on the day itself Mum and Dad were at morning mass, and due to my having 'flown the coup' months earlier, my younger brothers and sisters were surprised by my presence in the family home. I had stayed overnight due to the occasion and the house’s close proximity to my local pub. By unwittingly catching everyone off guard, I avoided any head-splitting hoopla and thankfully escaped the heartfelt but woefully performed family rendition of 'Happy Birthday'; ordinarily, Mum would lead, Dad would sheepishly follow and my siblings would be rounded-up to bolster the drone. A repeat verse was mercifully speeded up but one still had to endure the finale; on the last 'to', a sonically painful attempt was made by all, in falsetto, to reach a higher harmony note. The fact that everybody attempted this, rendering the harmony redundant, was ignored, before a slide back down the scale for the final elongated 'you' ended the agony.

Not today though. Today was extra special and I was to be spared. So with fortune on my side I was able to exit the homestead five minutes before midday without duress, save my pounding headache.

Perfect timing; as my left foot hit the first step, the big oak doors opened revealing Big Al, the pub landlord.

Mornin’ Al.

Mornin' Jordy!

That's my name, Jack Jordan in full. I didn't break stride as I followed Al through the short entrance hall and across the threshold that revealed my other home from home, 'The Anchor'. Though it was officially a hotel, I’d never heard of anyone staying there and to me it was simply a typical northern English pub.

I’d first set foot in The Anchor as a thirteen year-old and as the youngest member of a street gang that specialised in illegal activities. In between legal games of football on the field behind our houses, we would smoke, take drugs, fight rival gangs, and of course, drink. Along with smoking, under-age drinking was the most commonly and easily practised of misdemeanours.

Back then, the floor of the pub was made of stone-slabs, the walls were cigarette-tar stained and the place was widely regarded as a dump and a den of iniquity. Five years later, on the day of my eighteenth birthday, a transformation had taken place. Regulars now had carpet under their feet and patterned paper on the walls. Feeling out of place amidst the plush surroundings, my former gang members had found a new hovel to inhabit elsewhere. Thanks to the love and support of my parents and my own love of sports and music, I’d managed to escape some of the sordid habits of my past and elevate my standards in unison with my local pub. So it was with some form of pride that I entered its hallway these days. And as it opened out into the main lounge and bar area, I imagined myself a star football player exiting the players’ tunnel of a stadium, to be greeted by the roar and spectacle of 80.000 worshipping fans.

Oy, Dreamer! Where's te bin? (Where have you been?) Was my actual welcome.

"Hey up Tony. What's te on abaaat? (What are you talking about?)

Tony repeated the question.

Where's te bin? I'zz had aaf gallon already. (Where have you been? I've drunk half a gallon of ale already)

Thou'll be aaf pissed then (you will be half drunk then) was my standard reply.

Considering Al had opened the pub doors for me, I presumed that I was his first customer.

"Did Big Al let you int back duer Tony, or arte still here from last neet? (Did he let you in through the back-door Tony, or are you still here from last night?)

Now thad would be tellin’..

Ha, like I give a shit you knob-head.

Tony Banks, aka 'The Gallon Wonder'. He was known to everyone in Oswaldtwistle as the town’s postman; famed for his heavy Lancastrian accent and his custom of drinking eight pints (a gallon) of dark mild ale very quickly. This would usually be closely followed by the delivering of his legendary parting line;

Reet, I'm off haim fo mi tay. (Alright, I'm going home for my tea)

His voice had a ridiculously high tone, considering he was almost as wide, as he was tall. He was an obvious target for mimickers because of this, though few were brave enough to do it to his face. As a postman Tony’s working and drinking hours were different from ours and he would often be the first to arrive and the first to leave.

We spent the next half-an-hour attempting to piece together the foggy details of the previous evening. Then Tony’s insistence on opening-time punctuality came to the fore again, as the third member of our 'Sunday Cricket Club' strode purposefully toward the alcoholic crease.

Fuck Off Banksy.

Jim had anticipated Tony’s disdainful glare at the wall-clock and savagely despatched it to the boundary in no uncertain terms.

Jim Wilson, the local wit, storyteller and undoubtedly the funniest man I'd met so far in my young life. He'd wasted years working as a Gas Board dispatcher before finally realising his 'calling' and getting a job as a journalist at the local newspaper, 'The Accrington Observer'.

Jim had his own timetable for life and despite Tony’s regular insistence on a 12pm start to the day's proceedings, he was always late. I often wondered if he did it just to piss him off but I came to the conclusion that he simply didn't give a shit.

Gis a pint Al. D'y want one Jordy? What about you ‘Gallon Blunder’?

Neither of us answered verbally. Tony was too busy shaking his head, still brooding over the ferocity of Jim's opening salvo. I was simply unable to speak for fear of exuding the huge amount of laughter contained within. Not wishing to add to Tony’s misery I nodded my acceptance.

Sundays revolved around sport, beer & ‘the lads’ and so the next hour would settle into a tennis-match of light-hearted banter, back & forth between ever-multiplying players. Late arrivals struggled to return Jim's quick-witted ground-strokes due to their insufficient alcoholic warm-up. And should one of their weak retorts actually make it back across the net, it was invariably met with a savage cross-court winner of a one-liner, leaving them flat-footed and embarrassingly out-classed. Attacks and counter-attacks usually focused on each other’s failings in the drinking department, or lack of prowess during encounters with the fairer sex.

That bird were a stunner last night Jordy, you should have given her one.

Which bird was that Pete?

Exactly, you don’t remember, you were probably too pissed up to get it up ha-ha.

At least I was talking to a bird Pete, you homo.

Ha-ha, you got me there. Are you ready for another pint birthday boy?

Yeah go on then Pete, I need to get a move-on. The plan today is to drink a pint for each year of my life so far, ha-ha.

Bystanders, not from our neck of the woods, might have viewed our verbal inter-actions as a bit harsh. I did occasionally wonder myself whether the secretly more sensitive among us harboured any deep-seated grudges against particular attackers. It was simply our form of British humour though. Typically northern, it was dry, sarcastic and cynical to the full. It was not for the faint-hearted and to take offense was to show sign of weakness, and risk being labelled a 'soft bastard'.

Anticipation of the big match and the drink-fuelled day ahead was building. The air was rife with laughter and cigarette smoke. I was in my element and with game-time growing ever closer we prepared our exit...

Alan, call me a cab please.

You're a taxi! Ha-ha! Was his painfully unoriginal response, belatedly echoed by one or two similarly dim-witted bar-flies. Their attempts to tail-off their embarrassing accompaniment were in vain, despite being partially covered by the enormity of Alan's self-appreciating laughter. I attempted momentarily to dissect the mentality of our landlord; how was he able to conjure up such joy from a one-liner he used so regularly? Unsuccessful in my attempted analysis, I simply thanked god for my modicum of intelligence.

The ten minute ride to the game was, as usual, a quiet affair. A chance to gather ones thoughts, whilst realizing the 'topping-up' effect; the four or five pints you'd just gulped down were having the effect of nine or ten, when added to the alcohol still in the system from the night before. The beer-buzz and throbbing headache were battling for supremacy and a fleeting moment of clarity informed me that the intake food and water would be wise. However, as drinking water was another sign of weakness, it would have to be secretly gorged from the bathroom sink during a piss-stop. And food would have to wait until my mind could stomach it. Going on an 'all-dayer’, or ‘Leo’ (Sayer) as our cockney counterparts had taught us to name it, was an operation that required thought, precision, & small amounts of cunning were one to survive with reputation intact.

Return to the Table of Contents

CHAPTER TWO - Background Check

As I said before, our sixteenth and eighteenth birthdays were landmarks that merely gave legal approval to habits that we had been practising for years already. There were deep-seated reasons for this social distortion but I have to go back to the start to attempt to identify its roots.

I was born in a hospital in the town of Accrington in August of 1968. Growing up I learned that Accrington was historically recognized. In the 1880’s the town produced the world’s toughest brick. Accy’s legendary red ‘Nori’s’, as they were known , served as the foundations to New York’s Empire State Building and Blackpool’s Tower no less. Also red in colour were the shirts worn by our infamous football team Accrington Stanley. In 1961 it became the first member of the English football league to declare bankruptcy & be booted out as a consequence. The team was now a laughing stock and the butt of many jokes. A national milk commercial had even implied that should wannabe soccer-stars not drink their daily quota, they risked ending up on the team.

Accrington Stanley, who are they? says one bright-eyed young footballer to the other in the ‘ad’.

Exactly, is his damning reply.

Sir Robert Peel was born and bred in the area. He was the country’s Prime Minister in the early nineteenth century and the founder of the Metropolitan Police Force as we know it today. Local landmarks Peel Park and Peel House corroborate his significance locally.

I also learned that Accrington and Oswaldtwistle had been the hub of Britain’s huge Cotton and Textile industry. In the early 1800’s it was the country’s biggest export and continued to flourish until the 1920’s when India, cottons largest importer, raised its duty. Ghandi then called for a complete boycott on the import of Lancashire cotton leading to mass closures of the mills in the area. Despite a brief resurgence when the county’s mills were enlisted to make parachutes and uniforms for the troops in the Second World War, the government had failed to act swiftly enough to protect the industry against foreign competition leading to nothing but ‘trouble at mill’.

Ironically there was a huge influx of Indians into Lancashire in the 1950’s and 60’s seeking work. But they were greeted by the empty factories their leaders had helped condemn and a disillusioned local community now seeking new jobs for themselves.

As a child I found all this information mildly interesting and surprisingly grandiose, raising my previously mediocre perception of the town of my birth. My recognition and appreciation grew considerably however when I read one of the more recognized and poignant stories in World War history. It told of the heroic men of The Accrington Pals...

During World War 1, with the threat of a German invasion moving ever closer, Lord Kitchener of the British Army sent out a request for volunteers. The Mayor of Accrington posted his plea in the local newspaper and men, brothers, workmates all signed up. Within a mere ten days they had formed a 1000 man strong battalion. They would be called The Accrington Pals. In early 1916 the men were sent to Egypt to defend the Suez Canal. This was followed by a return closer to home to combat the advancing Germans in northern France. From their offices in London, the British Army hierarchy then ordered a woefully planned advance on the German frontlines; a blatant and reprehensible disregard for human life unparalleled in the history of war.

Though the fighting had been raging for months, ‘The Battle of the Somme’ officially commenced with this advance on July 1st, 1916. 720 men of the Accrington Pals battalion were amongst the first to go ‘over the top’ and into ‘No Man’s Land’. Within thirty minutes 585 of them lay dead or seriously wounded. On the first day of the battle alone 58,000, mainly British troops, were killed or badly injured. Despite the horrendous loss of a large portion of the town’s men, the Pals battalion was back up to full strength within two weeks. The sense of loss matched by a great sense of fortitude. An unwillingness amongst the locals to allow their fellow townsmen’s deaths to be in vain. It was a tragic, yet heroic story that gave me great insight into the resolve and character of my people.

Growing up my lessons in local history helped in my understanding of my surroundings and the modern day mentality of the towns’ folk. The bleak, black shells of factory buildings in particular were a grim reminder of a once vibrant community. This was reflected in the general mood of a downtrodden but impassioned and proud people, left angry and cynical by the area’s decline.

As I assume is the case with most people, I had inherited certain characteristics from both of my parents. My father, David Arthur Jordan is a shy, intelligent man. The middle of five children, he was born amidst the rubble in the city of Manchester during World War Two. His own father, Martin, had died when Dad was a