Fifty Shreds of Gorak

By Lemmy Gorak

Memoir, anecdote and meaningful other.

First Dates: An honest and humorous account of my adolescent 'relationships' with the models in mail-order catalogues.
Lamb 197: A lost Cumbrian lamb re-unites with its mother, leading to realisations about the relationship I have with my own.
The Fabricheads: Dark imaginations of a town (in Wales) where trepanning is practiced, leading to improved intellectual function and enlightenment for its residents.
Falling Down, Granola and the Water Bowl: After a hard day's work, I am confronted with mounting bills and suffer a cartoon mini-breakdown.
He Played Eight: Mortifying infant embarrassment when forced to sing in class.
Pretty Things: In a refuge I stayed in as a child, I sit and watch three women tattoo each other's hands, before another woman enters. I become transfixed by her, as she tip-toes barefoot with dancer-like prowess through the room.
Nan Love: My nan had recently had a fall and I'd gone to visit her, but as I hugged her, I felt something soft and malleable in my hand…
Knit Love Not War: After learning to knit, I have an idea to create a more peaceful world through 'Knit and Natter' parties.
Islands in the Stream: A fanciful tale about the relationship between Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. A story about love, rejection and a song ruined with cringy 'aha's'.
Grand Theft Auto: Bunking off school with friends, we break into an abandoned car and discover how flammable the stringy seat stuffing is. A fire soon gets out of hand.
Calling Orson: Growing up with a violent stepdad and an absence of love expressed from my mother, I fall for a newly acquired puppy, Orson.
Supermarket Sweep: Day 10 of Lockdown; observations of a hellish trip to the supermarket in the weirdest of times.
Wedding Photography – The Stakeout: Roped-in as an assistant wedding photographer, I find myself in a socially awkward situation.
Run with Wolves: Coming to terms with raising an 'alpha-female' puppy.
Ediz Caught Wanking: A teenage friendship is shattered by devastating embarrassment.
Terror at the Tills: Bored with pilfering from supermarkets, I create a mischievous new game.
Power & Responsibility: A farcical letter to the electricity company.
Going for Gold: A yearning for approval from my mother finds me excelling with Olympian-like focus on school sports day as she is unable to attend.
Crossroads: At an impressionable age I find myself with the wrong crowd. With pressure growing on me to pick people's pockets, I'm faced with a moral dilemma..
This Ol' House: A fabricated story about integrity and the commodification of music, based around the idea of Shakin' Stevens as an icon of authenticity.
Fray Bentos: Days before Christmas I despair of people, but then witness an act of goodwill, restoring my faith.
A Christmas Glory: Fuelled by sexual energy, I explore the concept of good and evil while watching the Queen's speech on Christmas day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lemmy Gorak
• Release date: Jul 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201125790

Lemmy Gorak

After a short time spent sleeping on London's Circle Line, as a child I toured the capital, staying in a succession of refuges, tents and narrowboats. Although traumatic, it was a time rich with experience and freedoms most don't enjoy. Left to create my own life-map, I relied on nothing but hard-wired survival skills to get me through the many schools I attended, leaving with an O Level in Art and a handful of cardboard Sports Day medals. Picking up a guitar - along with recreational drugs - I found therapy through an anarchic yet unsustainable lifestyle. After numerous shitty jobs and spells of unemployment, I cleaned up my act (a bit) and rediscovered a child-like wonder with the natural world - a connection that has ultimately been my saviour. Seduced by mountains, I headed for the wilds of Cumbria, where with a Blues Harp I busked and played in local bars, before a virus with a household name had its way and a shocking end of an unhealthy relationship left me facing homelessness. I love to amuse myself and make sense of things, and have always kept a diary and scribbled on the back of envelopes; caught in the flow. Now with head and heart aligned, I write in earnest, most mornings while it's still dark.

Book preview

First Dates

Twice a year packages would arrive bearing an array of beautiful women in the pages of the Freemans and Kays catalogues. Driven by surging teenage hormones, at the first opportunity I’d whisk them off to my room, where I’d deliberate over which of the models I was to have my sordid way with.

On the first page they’d present themselves in a line and through differing outfits, poses and facial expressions, compete for my adolescent affections. One would stand out as more sexually available than the others, but she’d be saved for my more shallow moments - or for when time was at a premium. What I was looking for was a spark, a connection, someone who spoke to me directly; someone I could commit to.

Once selected, I’d arrange our first date to be in the autumn/winter edition. We’d meet in a cobbled town centre that had out-of-focus backgrounds, where she’d wear rustic-coloured scarves, berets and matching lipstick - maintaining a sense of unrealistic glamour at all times. These were early days, but it was clear there was chemistry.

The spring/summer catalogue would see her in white translucent dresses and large floppy hats. It was a time for walking under arching tree branches in dappled light, ice-cream and heart-shaped balloons. She’d laugh continuously, as if each second of her perfect life with me was an improvement on the last. It wasn’t love, but we were building something special together.

I would take the lead and arrange another date, giving her another crack at the 11-year-old me. Her evening-wear would range from ‘smart-casual’ to little black dresses, heels and some sort of useless bag. I was too young to know what going on a date actually involved (I still don’t know), but I’d make her laugh and she would give me her best ‘see you in the lingerie section’ eyes. We’d always end up back at hers, where she’d model her underwear for me by a soft lamp.

The swimwear pages were a favourite of ours. We’d love nothing better than to laze by the pool, while she’d proudly display her pointy nipples and the embossed shape of her labia through her swimming cossie. The same models would appear in both the autumn/winter and the spring/summer editions, enabling us to take sunny winter-breaks in the depths of January - or in the summer, a deviant skip to the ‘naked women in big soft jumpers’ section. I’m surprised I haven’t developed a knitwear fetish...I haven’t, I’m fairly sure I haven’t.

Over time I’d repeat this merry dance through the seasons with all of the women from both catalogues, and although the times I spent with them were primarily driven by lust, they felt like relationships of sorts. I didn’t give them names though, I’m not a pervert.

Lamb 197

It was an emotional time and one of big change. I’d lived in Cumbria for just a few months and my new life was beginning to take shape.

As I shook the soil from the roots of the creeping buttercup, I was struck at just how idyllic the situation was. The garden I was working in backed onto open countryside, dropping off into the valley of Cockermouth, before rising again to meet the dramatic mountains of Buttermere. High cloud curled around the summits and in the lower fells, mist was released from the pine in spirals like silver morning spirits. It was perfect...yet there was still a sense of unrest in me - couldn’t I just be happy?

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a distressed lamb in the field beyond. It stood alone; its breath captured in the light as it cried out. As a Londoner my knowledge of sheep was limited, but I was in no doubt that it was calling ‘muuumm!’ I felt compelled to help in some way, and even started rehearsing the conversation with my partner in the event that I had to bring it home with me. Then from the opposite end of the field, there was movement.

There she was, Big Mother Sheep, shaggy and grey with dirt, responding to her baby’s call. She called back in a way that was un-mistakably parental, and following the direction of each other’s baaaa’s, they started to make their way towards each other. As the lamb got closer, I could see that its body had been sprayed in green paint with the numbers 197. The scene that followed was worthy of its own classical music score.

Their speed picked up and Big Mother Sheep went from a trot to an impressive run (considering its footwear), while Lamb 197’s running technique was woeful - its front legs embodying the rubber bounce of a kangaroo, as its hind legs propelled it forward like a greyhound. A broad shaft of light lit up the green of the field, and against the brooding darkness of the mountains beyond, added an almost celestial element to the scene. The moment they re-united demanded a surge from the whole orchestra, a crash of a cymbal and maybe a single strike of a kettle-drum. Lamb 197 excitedly leapt around, while Big Mother Sheep, although fairly expressionless, appeared to have a restored sense of peace and order in her world and took a shit to celebrate.

Three years have passed and Lamb 197 will have long been eaten. In this time, I’ve puzzled as to why that experience resonated with me so much. What I’ve come to realise is that the lamb’s unbridled joy when re-united with its mother, was how I hoped to feel on moving here. In the past I’ve pursued that feeling in many ways, including through relationships and drugs, and although there have undoubtedly been treasured moments of joy along the way, my endeavours have ultimately come up short. However good things might have felt momentarily, there has always been emptiness in me. I now know it is a space that could only have been filled by a Big Mother Sheep.

Accepting that has been hard, and knowing that my distress-calls can never be answered in the way that I need is harder still. It’s true that your problems follow you, but the Lake District couldn’t be a better place to have that realisation. The people here are the salt of the earth, and it’s a place where even lambs can teach you a thing or two.

Listen to the Man

The man said not to go out beyond the buoys because of the strong tides. It was probably good advice to give to tourists, but we were from London, so we nodded a thank you for his concern and stumbled drunkenly into the pedalo.

The first thing we noticed was how quickly we were able to move across the water, and with what seemed like only a few revolutions of the pedals, we were soon a good distance from the beach. It was a scorcher and yet the air blowing through us was cool and fresh - a perfect day to be at sea. We fist-bumped and complimented ourselves on our decision to take to the water. Once level with the buoys we stopped pedalling for a smoke. There was much hilarity as we were buffeted around and the splashes from the sea turned our Rizlas limp, but like true veteran stoners, we got our heads down and built one in the face of adversity.

When we looked up the situation was suddenly very different. The waters ahead were dark and choppy and behind us, the beach so distant that we couldn’t make out the people on it. It was time to turn around - but