Uncertain Heaven

By Jude Davison

From first picking up a guitar, to writing songs and discovering a connection to the universal source of creativity, Uncertain Heaven is a rock 'n roll memoir that tells the story of one man's creative path, a journey that becomes inextricably intertwined with a search for the meaning of our existence and mankind's relationship with God.

A story of record deals, songs heard by billions on syndicated television shows, the highs and lows of an indifferent music industry, the painful reality of playing 'music-by-the-yard' and the sheer joy of putting your finger up into the ethos and downloading a song.

After years of following the muse wherever she leads, and existential crisis leads the author to peel back the mysteries of life itself, follow what surely seems meant to be, only to find himself standing on the precipice at his own potential demise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jude Davison
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201085797

Book preview

Satan’s Choice

God. Let's just start right in the deep end, shall we? Does God exist? If so, what is the point of our existence and our relationship with God? When I was fourteen years old a friend began taking me to his church's Friday night youth club. The church was one of those North American evangelical versions, not at all like my English Protestant upbringing. I didn’t realise that at first but it didn’t seem to matter much to me at the time. The youth club was a time for socialising, burning off teenage energy and working up a really good sweat playing floor hockey in the gym. I loved playing sports and floor hockey was fast, intense, and great fun. There was also one girl that used to go to the Friday night gatherings. She was friendly and cute. I was smitten. Scoring goals was the only sure-fire way I knew to position myself onto her radar, but once we got playing I soon forgot any other ulterior motives and was completely engulfed in the physicality and vigor of running, shooting, and being part of a team. Nothing felt better than connecting a series of great passes and the individual skill that resulted in that rubber puck hitting the back of the netting. Sure, there was a little prayer meeting at the end of the evening, some smooth-faced soft-spoken minister sharing the words of Jesus. Telling us about the eternal spirit of the Lord, Jesus Christ the redeemer of our sins; Heaven, a very real place; and Satan, the overlord of this earthly garden who was constantly on the make for lost souls just like me. But swear your allegiance to God and you could be saved. Born again. I just wondered what position Satan would have been if he played floor hockey - forward or defense? Satan shoots, Jesus saves.

Growing up I was always an athletic kid adept at most sports I tried my hand at. When I was around twelve I became quite renowned for my soccer prowess. I was a top goal-scoring center forward for multiple rep teams and I was always the fastest and most agile runner. Beyond soccer I had also won numerous ribbons and trophies for swimming, tennis and basketball. It seemed that whatever I tried my sporting hand at, I could do, and do well. Badminton, table tennis and even bowling - I had trophies for all. My Dad was a keen sportsman and passed along his love of athletics to his two sons by encouraging us to play sports and patiently hitting tennis balls back and forth on Sunday mornings while we slowly gained the rudiments and coordination of the game. It didn't take too long before I became adept with the tennis racket and could soon beat my father at his own beloved game. Growing up, my brother and I had a healthy sporting rivalry that would last through to our adult lives. It was never enough to just knock the ball back and forth, we always had to play a set or two and challenge each other. Tell mum who had won that day. She always asked. Sometimes my brother won, but mostly it was me. He was a more natural player, with a flair for strokes and real finesse with his shots, but I trumped him in focus and determination. Like everything I did, I was a determined little bugger. One sport I didn't excel at, though, was ice hockey. But there was a reason for this. Being born in the northeastern port of Hartlepool England I didn't grow up with a hockey stick in my hands. Ice skating on frozen rivers wouldn't happen until we immigrated to Canada in 1975. In England, snow was scarce and mostly something we saw on Christmas cards or once in a blue moon. When it did snow in England it only lasted a day or two. Just long enough to slow the pace of life down a little, maybe build a meagre snowman and certainly throw a few snowballs at someone's front door before scarpering off around the corner - a wintery variation of the 'knocky-nine-doors' we used to play to annoy the hapless neighbors. A childhood game where we'd ring someone's front door bell then run like hell and hide while irritated, bewildered adults would squint their eyes to see who could possibly be on their doorstep at such an un-godly hour. For us it was all about the thrill of unraveling the seams of the adult authoritarian world, rattle their cages without getting caught. Just being a kid, really. But despite the very rare opportunity to go sledding, the snowless winters of England meant that ours was a life of playing football in the back lanes of our terraced houses with a borrowed tennis ball for a footie and somebody's back gate for goal posts. We would gleefully emulate the stars of the day - Billy Bremner, Jackie Charlton or Peter Lorimar, while we developed our rudimentary passing and shooting skills. If you could control and maneuver a small tennis ball over uneven cobble-stoned backstreets then a size five leather football rolling smoothly over proper turf would be a doddle.

The back streets would soon come alive with all the local lads gathered in the age-old tradition of the beautiful game. Everyone sent by their Mam to ‘get away outside and play’, to get some dubious fresh air, or more than likely to get out from under the feet of tired adults craving some Sunday afternoon solace. Nevertheless, we would all gather in the backstreets and before long a ball would appear and we'd line up against the brick wall as team leaders handpicked their squads. One by one we waited patiently for our turn to come around. A football playground hierarchy. The best players naturally chosen first while the chafe, the little kids, the slow ones, the rubbish, indignantly waited like football hand-me-downs for their turn to join a team. Already we were becoming versed in the social pecking order of life and a sense of how our just-blossoming self-esteem could be so easily crushed at a tender age. All the kids in our neighborhood had nicknames derived from some social tic or other or simply by the bastardisation of their surnames. Steven Metcalf was 'Mettie', Kevin Taylor became 'Tallie' and we also had a kid that lived around the corner on Suggitt Street who got called 'Soapy', the origins of which I can't recall or likely never knew. We never questioned these though, and they would become the monikers that would define us and our place in the pre-pubescent world of running wild on the streets of Hartlepool. My brother was always a slightly chunky kid growing up, never quite shedding the baby fat until he hit his teens and so got called 'Billy' after the overweight comic strip character, Billy Bunter. And so, by association, I simply became known as 'Little Bill'. After a while you'd almost forget what your mates’ real names were. It was just a gang of us local lads - Mettie, Tallie, and the Bills going 'round to Soapy's house to see if he could come out and play footie.

I remember my brother and I occasionally being sent to stay at my Nan's house on Saturday nights. I know, now that I am a parent myself, that my folks would have been most likely offloading us onto the grandparents for a night out on their own at the pictures or the dance or possibly for a night of wanton sex. Sex? Nah, I'm pretty sure my parents didn't do that; my folks were as British as Tetley Tea, fish and chips, Morecambe and Wise, they didn't go for things like having sex. Well, a couple of times, obviously. It's always a little strange to imagine your parents having sex; I know my own kids grimace whenever the subject comes up in our house. But then again when you really think about it, sex is a strange thing isn't it? All that humping and pumping on a Sunday morning? Naked flesh, hairy flabby bodies, striking animalistic poses. Not sexy in the least, but best leave that subject to another book. When we arrived, my Nan would round up some spare change from the multiples of purses she seemed to have stashed all over the place and send me over to the Co-op to buy some orange squash. The tradition was always the same. Some corporation tap water with a good dosh of uber-orange liquid mixed in to make a suitable, and we thought, smashing, drink. Orange squash. Nary a real orange near it, never mind in it, but it tasted alright and was a proper treat. We never had that at home. 

Later in the day, I'd be sent down the road to 'Wilds' fishie for haddock and chips. 'Tell them Mrs. Collins sent you' Nan would always remind us, and that way we always got an extra piece of fish, free.  My Nan was a true Scot and crafty and thrifty as they come. Fish and chips in the north east was about as authentic as you could get it, wrapped up in proper newspaper piled high with extra scraps of batter for us kids. Salt and vinegar, brown sauce or red, a piece of white bread spread thick with butter to make a chip sandwich. Pure fatty heaven.

My Nan was a short stocky woman who suffered from an overactive thyroid gland, her rather thick stout neck making her seem even stockier, as did her ample bosom. I used to marvel, or perhaps tremble, at the sight of her bras drying in the airing cupboard, looking like some sort of gigantic medieval torture devices. I think I saw a girdle once or twice which just seemed like some unfathomable piece of attire, but eventually I put together what it was for and even used to help 'do her up' on occasion. A real eye-opener. I used to hear woeful tales about the hardships of growing up in my Nan's household from my own mother, who always portrayed her as a hard-headed, awkward little so-and-so. But I found her to be cheerful, fun, and quite a permissive woman, considering our generational gap. Perhaps these are the differences between being a mother and a grandmother. The reins of responsibility gone, let the grandkids be themselves, relax and have a laugh with them.

We'd all sleep in the same big bed and I can always remember the distinct smell of urine permeating the air. Nan still kept a potty under the bed for her midnight tinkles (the loo still being located outside in the backyard in those days) which could have been the cause, but I think it might have been to do with her general laisse faire attitude around her hygiene, as having a bath was cold hard work in those days. None of this glass of wine and candles stuff while you soak yourself in a deep warm tub. Let's face it this was the generation who had lived through the Second World War. They had learnt to adapt and make do with less. Rations of things we take for granted - butter, sugar, tea. Washing the clothes by hand. Baking your own bread. Shoveling the coal for the front room fire - the only source of heat in the whole house. The rest of the house would be freezing. Once you had made the run for the warmth and comfort of the eiderdown there was no way you were gonna stagger out to the freezing back alley to relieve yourself in the middle of the night. Instead you learnt how to sleepily maneuver and piss into a porcelain potty you kept under your bed and empty it in the morning. The minute Nan walked into a room it was thrown into chaos and mess. The little tornado Scottish woman. Like the Tasmanian devil in the Bugs Bunny cartoons, only with a Scottish accent. She only had to take off her coat and the place began to take on the disheveled air of untidy. Another thing about her that used to drive my own mother mad. We used to read the Sunday morning papers together, especially the Scottish ones - the Reveille, The Sunday Post, etc. All we really read were the jokes and comics, which were plentiful in these gutter press rags, and the occasional bit of trash being reported that we'd share with each other. The papers back then were also a little bit saucy featuring semi-naked women baring their youthful breasts. Soft porn on a Sunday morn. Strange that the sexless Brits loved to see tits with their daily trash, but so it was - page three girls. Titillating for a young lad, to say the least.

For some reason my Nan got a real thrill and found it endlessly amusing to hear me sing 'Hey Big Spender' at the top of my pipey little voice. Where I learnt that from I simply can't remember - must have been on the radio? These impromptu performances would develop into full-blow spectacles as I'd start to mime and act out the song, being egged on by the laughs and shrieks of my Nan - my first foray into the sordid world of music and theatre. Christmas was always a good time at my Nan's house. She was a solid cook, basic, but really tasty. Her Christmas cakes and plum pudding were simply the best. Most of the time back then I would only eat the marzipan off the top of the cake as I didn't like raisins. Instead of pudding I'd opt for sliced banana and custard. Suited me just fine. I used to get sent round to her house on New Year's Day to be her 'first foot'. Extremely superstitious was my Nan, so the New Year couldn't properly begin without a dark-haired man stepping across her threshold as her first footer. I think I was the only true-blue dark-haired male in our family, the peculiarity of being a good 'first-footer'. My brother was fair and my father being bald didn't seem to cut the mustard, so I had the dubious New Year's task. Whatever the case, I would be sent off to Duke Street, practicing my football sprints all the way down Mulgrave Road. I would knock on her door, cross the threshold and then be brought inside and made to eat a piece of cake and skull back a large glass of sherry. I remember skipping home feeling quite happy and strange. My first alcoholic buzz. Tits and alcohol - all thanks to my Nan.

On Saturday nights when my brother and I were on one of our sleepovers, Nan would often take one of her sleeping pills a little too early and nod off in front of us. We'd let her sleep, slumped in the armchair, while we watched Match of the Day, staying up well past our regular bedtime. Not something we could get away with at home. What a thrill it was when the opening theme music came on 'da da da dah da da da da dah', then all the best bits of football action from the division one games with all those amazing goals replayed before our very eyes. What inspiration. In those days, and maybe even now, every English kid dreamed of being a football star. Scoring goals for top teams - Liverpool, Leeds, Man City. Brilliant. Playing the beautiful game before it was even called that. The next morning my brother and I would hurry off to Grey Fields, the local sports complex, to play a game of 'three pots-in' imitating our heroes from the night before. We'd always deck ourselves out in our full football kits and come home muddied and happy. Yes, football was hard-wired into our genes; ice hockey would have to wait until later in life. The only ice I ever saw then was on the knee-ripping gravel of the 'boy’s' playground of Jesmond Road Junior School. It was on those rare freezing January mornings when the mold on the bedroom wallpaper had frozen solid, and you woke up to see your breath in the air before you scrambled to change as quickly as you could from pajamas to school greys. After gulping down a milky cup of tea and a bowl of Weetabix off we'd run to school, stomping the puddles of ice along the way. Then we'd gather in the school yard with our friends long before the school bell had rung. Kids would line up and take turns, just like we had been taught to go into morning assembly or the school library. Back then schools were the height of orderliness with the constant threat of the cane looming over us keeping us on guard and in line. A trip to the headmaster’s was always bound to end in tears, with the sting of the bamboo cane welting up on our soft childish palms, red and angry. The English school system wasn't exactly draconian, but it's fair to say that fear and authority ruled the day aided by a good dose of corporeal punishment for our so-called crimes. Once we'd taken a good few turns each our icy slide would become slick and smooth getting faster and longer with each kid's efforts. Baring our white skinny knees to the elements in the grey flannel shorts we were made to wear, we'd try to outdo each other by going farther and faster without falling with each progressive turn. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened and some poor kid ended up with torn and bloody knees, hobbling off to find the school nurse and the game would come to its own natural conclusion.

There was a definite hierarchy to the playground. Who was the fastest runner, the best footballer, and perhaps most importantly, who was the best fighter. In our class, we actually had a list, in order from number one all the way down to the bottom of the heap. I was number eight. Although nobody knew on what basis this list was devised, we never duked it out and I don't remember seeing a single fight in junior school. But I remember one day I made a remark to some kid, over nothing probably, just off the cuff bluff and bluster. I think I must have thrown in the phrase 'or else' without thinking. My mistake. He was lower down on the best fighter list than me and without really realising what I'd said I'd thrown down the gauntlet. He called my bluff and I soon found myself faced with having to defend my place in the pecking order and turn up for my first after school fight. It was all arranged. Whispers spread around the classroom like wildfire that there was gonna be a fight after school. Me against him on a grassy common not too far from the school grounds. Why we were going to fight I have no idea, but pride was on the table so there I was with a crowd of eager ten-year-old blood-thirsty witnesses gathered round to watch. It seemed senseless to me to just start fighting over nothing. There was no anger, no retribution. I actually felt nothing at all and would have just rather gone home for my tea. Perhaps in some similar way this is what some of the young men must have felt like during the war. Sitting in the trenches waiting to shoot at an unknown enemy. What are we doing here? Why are we fighting each other? Because they speak a different language than we do? They look different? I believe I've always been a pacifist. I believe I come by it honestly. On a grand scale war doesn't make any sense. Sure, you might want to take revenge for some personal atrocity done to your family or friends. An eye for an eye. That would feel personal. Most of the time that's not what war is about. The machinations of some political agenda, leaders sitting in their bell towers playing war games with people's lives. Nationalism? Patriotism? War hasn't the slightest thing to do with you and me. Millions and millions of lives sacrificed, never mind the millions of those left at home also affected. So what, the borders can be moved an inch or so on the map again? Someone's political agenda could be realised? OK, so it might be the only thing I'm naively optimistic about. But there I was, facing number eleven on the best fighter list, tap dancing my way around trying to not go through with it. The other kids were getting restless. They'd come to see some violence, some blood. 'C'arn, are ya gonna fight or what?' What was I going to do? As I stood there I was torn with conflicting feelings of wanting to save face versus having to fight for no reason at all. Although I was only ten, already confusing mixed-up thoughts were swimming in my brain. Masculinity, violence, what it meant to be a proper 'man'. What did it mean if I didn't want to fight? That wasn't even something I could put into a rational thought back then as I stood, fists clenched, waiting to punch this other kid. All I knew was I'd stupidly thrown down the challenge and now there I was. This wouldn't be the last time in life I would paint myself into some ridiculous corner. But the feeling that was starting to win out, was the feeling that I just wanted to go home, tell my Mum everything and have a good cry. Which is what I did. Wimp. Loser. Cry baby. Mummy's boy. It took a long while before I recovered from the dark insecure thoughts that swam around my brain questioning what it meant to be a boy growing up in a man's world and how I would take my place as a man in that world. But I didn't fight, and life went on.

Once my family immigrated to Canada in 1975 I began to become accustomed to a different culture including new sports to try my hand at like basketball and hockey. The longer I went to the Friday night youth gatherings the more comfortable I became in the church surroundings. The floor hockey was great fun, the girl was definitely cute, I scored loads of goals and my best friend at the time suggested that maybe I'd also like to join him on Sunday mornings for church service. Would the girl be going too? It didn't take me long to decide yes, and so I signed up, dusted off my brother's hand-me-down ill-fitting suit and from then on, every Sunday morning around 9:30 the church bus would stop by and take me to Sunday service. My parents didn't really know much about what I was doing or where I was going except that every week I tidied myself up on a Sunday morning and went off to my friend's church. Surely not a bad thing for a fourteen-year-old to do? Definitely worse things I could have been involved with. After an initial service and sing-along in the church they whisked off the young people into their comfortable modern basement rooms to get a little more face-to-face time with our naive curiosity. Within weeks the indoctrination began to take hold of my blank-canvas mind. I heard things about God and Jesus I never had before. I asked questions and the same smooth-faced believers had answers. I learnt about Satan and the Anti-Christ. Satan? The Anti-Christ? That was never something I'd heard about back in my good old Church of England days. Saint Luke's was my local church in Hartlepool where we used to listen to boring unfathomable sermons mumbled by the well-meaning Vicar Smyth wearing his traditional robes and dog collar. Then we'd all turn in our hymnals to 643 and sing 'Onward Christian Soldiers' to the grandiose pipe music that engulfed the church. I liked to sing in church; I liked to sing period, and for fun I had already begun to pick out my own harmony lines to the hymns we sang to the bemusement of some little old lady beside me. However, they never mentioned anything about Satan or the Anti-Christ at St. Lukes. Sure, there were hardships and miracles described in fine detail and the whole crucifixion story was pretty grim, but I'd never heard of the Devil in the same way these evangelists portrayed him. To them he was a living breathing threat to our very souls, ruling over the earth with his dark evil ways, encouraging all sorts of bad behavior – drinking, drugs, prostitution, crime and even planting backward messages onto records. Teenagers, just like me, were most at risk. I had a few of those records in my own burgeoning collection. Play them backwards and you could hear the voice of Satan speaking his rhetoric. 'God is dead. Long live Satan!' It was all revealed in the book of Revelations, naturally. Fire and brimstone stuff: the apocalypse, the four horsemen, the war to end all wars. Scary as can be. Oh yes, we were living in a sinful world all right and soon, very soon, according to a book I was lent to