The Hood: To Hell & Back

2019 Quietstrength. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/20/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-0929-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-0930-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-0928-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

This book is dedicated to:

Chapter 1 Heal the World

Chapter 2 Childhood

Chapter 3 The Way You Make Me Feel

Chapter 4 Off the Wall

Chapter 5 I Will Walk 1,000 Miles

Chapter 6 Bad

Chapter 7 The Good Life

Chapter 8 In Sickness and in Health

Chapter 9 Suicide Is Painless

Chapter 10 She’s Out of My Life

Chapter 11 My Pursuit of Happiness

Chapter 12 Will You Be There

Chapter 13 You Are Not Alone

Chapter 14 Not Afraid

Chapter 15 Back to the Future

Chapter 16 Déjà Vu

Chapter 17 Invincible

Chapter 18 Home

Chapter 19 This Is It

Chapter 20 Man in the Mirror

Chapter 21 Inspired Ideas

About the Book

About the Author

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:

1. God, for always being there in my darkest hours of real need and teaching me the rules of life in his Ten Commandments.

2. Cheyenne, my beautiful, loyal and adorable lassie collie, who was the only friend I had in my deepest despair and has been loyally at my side for well over a decade, through the good, the bad and the ugly in my roller-coaster life. She is much more than a pet to me; she is and always will be my best friend.

3. Michelle and Iona, my two gorgeous daughters, who taught this old dog what hope, friendship and love really mean. They showed me for once that the only person I need to prove myself to is myself.

4. my parents and family, whose genuine yet tough love gave me strength to get through the worst times.

5. Sharon Bard, my guardian angel, who never deserted me and truly saved my life.

6. my ex-wife, Carol, and all my girlfriends, who were all true friends and lovers and helped me overcome my shyness.

7. the Yukon and North Shore homeless shelter staff, who for well over a year kept me off the streets.

8. the Richmond Hospital psych ward staff, who cured not only my psychosis but also its very real cause, my prescription drug addiction.

9. all the friends I lost on my way, including my Scottish rippers, Ally and Martin; the best athlete I have ever met, Rob; my Canadian bodybuilding champion, Ray; my beloved feline friends, Cayman, Arran and Rori; and last but certainly not least, my gorgeous childhood golden retriever, Vharie.

10. all my really good friends (way too many to mention here, but know who they are) who did the impossible: get past my walls, earn my trust and motivate me to push the envelope in everything I do.

11. Michael Jackson and the Jackson 5: Michael’s music is the soundtrack to my life and still is my voice when I’m at my lowest and can’t find the light or the words.

12. every songwriter, musician and dancer who has touched my life. For as far back as I can remember, music and its human expression through dance has always been my port from all the storms I have faced.

13. all my sports coaches and sponsors, who made it possible for me to follow and even realize some of my athletic dreams.

14. all the great doctors and medical professionals, who brought me back from the brink so many times.

15. the cities and towns of Aberdeen and Stonehaven in Scotland and Vancouver and Whistler in Canada

16. AuthorHouse and all their staff, who accepted The Hood manuscript and gave me the avenue and inspiration to share my true story with the world.

17. every unsung hero who has touched and/or helped me throughout my life.

From my mother:

You have made it through the rain and now the sun is coming out tomorrow. We are proud of you. You are an Austin, and you are about to begin a new life and finally put the past behind you.

From Iona and Michelle

The important thing about my dad is he is loving! My dad is the best dad in the whole universe.

I love how he is always confident and persuades us to get into more sports.

My dad loves to talk so much, I bet he could get on the world record book for it.

My dad loves to bike, ski, snowboard and do his martial arts.

He is crazy about music and is a great dancer.

But the most important thing about my dad is he is loving!

CHAPTER 1

HEAL THE WORLD

A s I lie by the side of a beautiful pool in gorgeous Tenerife, part of the Spanish Canary Islands just off Morocco in Africa, I reflect on what would be best described as my chaotic past decade, and indeed my seriously messed-up life story. At this very moment, what I would guess to be a 10-year-boy goes dancing past me, rocking out to his dad’s MP3 player with not a care in the world. I find myself totally immersed in the innocence of childhood and pray he never loses that wonder of youth.

As if by magic, the voice of Michael Jackson, my lifelong idol, comes on my own player with one of my all-time favourite songs of his: Will You Be There. It immediately transports me back three months to when I was doubled over in writhing agony in a hospital bed in Vancouver General Hospital. It was the middle of the night on my 45th birthday, and I was all alone and listening to exactly the same song.

The very next day, as I recall, brought the guilty verdict in the Dr. Conrad Murray case. I intentionally cranked up the TV volume in my hospital room so that everyone could hear, especially those heartless physicians who write prescriptions just to support their lavish lifestyles. It was a doctor like that who ultimately killed my hero, Michael, as well as way too many others like him.

Was it a coincidence that I was discharged the following day, even though every one of them knew I was still in terrible pain and was going to be living on the streets again? Or was it, as I genuinely believe, the revenge of these modern-day drug dealers who call themselves physicians? Were they just trying to silence another protestor by writing out a death sentence to protect their social status and criminally negligent behaviour?

My only comfort was that maybe Michael’s death would not be in vain but would spark a revolution. In all honesty, though, I doubt it. The prescription drug cartels—or as the diplomatically correct media calls them, the pharmaceutical lobbies—are stronger than those willing to stand up and be counted. Like it or not, money talks in this modern world we live in.

This reminds me of a program about Cesar the dog whisperer. It explained so intimately that unlike the animal kingdom—which is all about love, affection and family—humanity has mapped its own course seeking greed, power, hate and vengeance. It’s almost akin to the amazing Star Wars saga, with the small but growing army of environmentalists like the Jedi against the now too-strong dark side of the Empire. I know I am not the only one who thinks this way. Everyone on this planet should see An Inconvenient Truth, featuring Al Gore, and Michael Moore’s priceless Capitalism: A Love Story.

You’ll find that I frequently refer to films and especially music. My mother introduced me to music at a very early age, and I have used it as a way to not only explain my seriously messed-up thoughts and emotions but as my favourite happy place. Much more than just another medium for entertainment, it’s like a religion or spiritual escape.

Hip hop’s the hood, Elvis’s and Kayne West’s the ghetto, or the dance world’s step up and Streetdance’s the streets—all depict a very dark place that most of us will never see. But we think we know all about such places as we walk down our local sidewalks of life and see these ever-increasing, very weird, almost inhuman street people who look like characters from Mad Max with their stolen grocery carts full of all of their earthly belongings. We see them panhandling, begging for their next meal, which really means to most of them their next fix.

When I had my millions and almost every toy known to man, my descriptions for such people ranged from the obvious—weirdos, druggies, hookers, psychos, dumpster-jumpers—to the even more judgmental, like losers, suckers, leeches and outcasts. I threw my pittance of a helping hand into their caps, and that somehow eased any guilt trip I might have taken. I took salvation in the fact that I was indeed a good Samaritan.

It wasn’t until I actually visited their world in the hardest possible way that I realized these people are not the scum of the earth but rather the ultimate survivors—the forgotten clan, if you like. I am truly amazed how so many of the people I have now met live outside under the stars, sometimes for well over a decade, and don’t die. How do they get up every day and find a Reason to Believe, to quote Springsteen? I never thought I would experience that kind of life firsthand, but trust me, I have. I’ve also faced the temptation of suicide, the easy way out.

There’s an age-old saying that, to be honest, I never understood until recently: It’s not the destination, it’s the journey. This is a critical piece of the puzzle we call life, as we live, learn and hopefully grow as people. Like Eminem’s hard-hitting lyrics that helped me make it through the worst times, I never ever thought I would ever pick up a pen and vent and write my story, as reliving it is almost as hard as doing it all over again. Still, as messed-up as my past has been, maybe writing about it will bring me some solace and even closure.

More importantly, the very few people I have opened up and told my story to have advised me to write about it to inspire others not to ever travel down the rough side of the road—and to help those still stuck there to realize that escape is possible, though incredibly hard. Even now, I desperately struggle every second of every minute of every hour of every day to come back from that experience.

As I lie here in what feels like heaven compared to the hell-and-back I’ve been through, I am reeling from yet another celebrity death. The angelic singing legend Whitney Houston is gone, another fantastic talent sucked in and spit out by our all-consuming disposable society. It was a mere two years ago that I tried to do exactly the same thing: commit suicide in a bathtub in my penthouse yuppie pad in Yaletown with a lethal cocktail of painkillers, antidepressants and sleeping pills—enough to kill a bull, according to the paramedics. Just how my lungs didn’t stop pumping oxygen to my bloodstream is a mystery to me. Maybe God wasn’t ready for me yet.

Unfortunately for what many of us believe was the best female voice since Ella Fitzgerald, Whitney succeeded in her attempt to end her life. To me, it’s yet another testament to just how precious life really is. We must go out and live it to the fullest—or as another one of my fallen icons, Lance Armstrong, states in one of his thrilling autobiographies: Every second counts. Two of my favourite songs that helped me through my remaining days in the Yukon shelter, by the incomparable Hedley, are One Life and Invincible. The videos and lyrics encapsulate my every emotion and help me keep my head up despite being more than rundown.

It really pains me to see a star like Whitney rise so high, contribute so much, and then fall so fast into oblivion. All the warning signs were there: the vicious cycle of stress, distress and crisis; drug abuse; financial ruin and impending bankruptcy; and failing health. She had to brush all that off and deal with the incredible pressure of an upcoming Grammy performance and immortalization in a movie role.

Was I the only one who saw a similarity to Michael Jackson and his 50 sold-out O2 concerts and riveting but oh-so-sad movie This Is It? Somehow, no one was able to save her. Like Amy Winehouse the year before, she succumbed to a combination of legal drugs like alcohol and prescriptions and so-called illegal street drugs. Her light that shone so bright only a few decades earlier with timeless classics like I Will Always Love You and Greatest Love of All" was extinguished.

Of course, these Hollywood and Billboard stars are only the tip of the iceberg. For every one of them who dies, how many more no-names perish in the ghettos of this planet? Most of them receive no proper funeral, tombstone or memorial through biographies or multimillion-dollar movies like Walk the Line or Ray. No one will know about their daily fight to stay alive.

What is so unbelievable to me after meeting these unknown soldiers, as I like to call them, is that their stories are even more worthy of a film than these international superstars. Rather than praising and rewarding those who have the most money, awards, fame, power, corruption and greed, shouldn’t we recognize today’s truest celebrities—the ones living with practically nothing but still willing to help other human beings? They are the heroes in my book.

I have met so many men and women who deserve to have a movie made of their crazy life on this earth, as they have survived through the darkest times. Most of them are still on the streets, addicted to their drug of choice. Most have major mental-health issues.

I ask you, what has happened to our world when the car you drive, your fancy personalized licence plate, the size of your suburban house, the fashion brands you wear, how cool your phone is or how many toys you have in your garage determines how great a human being you are? I too spent the majority of my life accepting the philosophy that whoever has the most toys wins. Can we not all slow down and see how frankly insane our materialistic and utterly ridiculous success criteria are? Dear God, when are we going to realize that these status and power fantasies are not only killing us but killing our planet?

You gain a whole new perspective on life when your roof is the clouds crying all over you. Rain seeps into your very soul and keeps you awake all night. And even on clear cold nights, the intense gut pain inflicted by hunger pangs, drug withdrawal and pure fear of being attacked by fellow desperados trying to survive life on the streets is indescribable. Please spare a thought for these orphans, drug addicts, sex-trade workers, sexual-abuse victims and the critically mentally ill of this world—the truly forgotten warriors—the next time you bitch about how bad a day you had and how much you hate your job, your marriage or, worse still, your life. Maybe then the lyrics of Michael Jackson’s anthem Heal the World will resound with a new meaning for this thing we so ironically call the human race.

CHAPTER 2

CHILDHOOD

N o matter where I go, I can’t escape my past. I go to this paradise called Tenerife, one of the most idyllic places on earth, and I’m back in the very where I was at my absolute worst. I can’t even remember when it was I was last there. My only real memory is of funneling pills down my throat every chance I could, as my Crohn’s disease or IBS pain dictated. I think I either slept most of that trip or was in the kind of drug-infested daze so brilliantly described in Pink Floyd’s timeless classic Comfortably Numb. That song nails what it’s like when you get your hit, whether IV, oral liquid or pill.

The best way I can describe my youth is that I was an out-of-control, crazy, troubled kid whose only mission in life was to have fun. According to my mum, not too much has changed. Her nickname for me was and still is Peter Pan (coincidently, the same as was levelled at my idol MJ). Even now, I relate better to kids and animals than I ever will to adults. Every time I meet up with my own children—which is way too infrequently for my liking—they always ask for another stupid Dad as a kid story. I have so many to choose from.

I’m still just a big kid at heart, and I make no apology for that. I genuinely believe the answers we seek will come from the brilliance of youth, as kids are closer to what God intended us to be. We all become twisted by our new existence into unrecognizable selfish monsters who are only concerned about one thing: ourselves! I also believe that we are only as old as we feel—a concept perfectly depicted in songs like Young at Heart by the Bluebells and Forever Young by Jay-Z.

If I was born today, I am sure I would be popping ADHD pills. Actually, I think I should be taking them now, as attention is definitely not my strong suit. I get so easily distracted by everything and anything. All my life, if I wasn’t risking my health and wellness in some way or another, getting my buzz of adrenalin and challenging myself beyond belief, I was bored silly.

When I was growing up, we lived in a small city in Scotland called Aberdeen, home of Annie Lennox and Emily Sande; North Sea oil; and more than its fair share of inventors. I was the second of three boys. This had advantages and disadvantages. My older brother took most of the parental discipline, as I flew under the radar. I found this to be a great strategy very early on in life, and it probably helped save my life later on.

On the other hand, I always felt like the forgotten red-headed stepchild who got all my brother’s hand-me-downs. They never really fit me, as we are totally different builds. Looking back at photos from then, I think I invented the baggy skate, surf and boarder look by total accident. It sure wasn’t trendy then. If you look at old pictures of Larry Bird or Jimmy Connors, you’ll remember those exceptionally bad tight shorts that were in style. Most of mine were down to my knees.

The crucial exception was my most hated and most used pair: my grey school uniform shorts, which were always bought new and simply sucked to wear, especially when you are around 13 and on the cusp of morphing into manhood. Thanks to those horrendous uniforms, you still looked the same as you did when you were 5.

My rock, both then and now, was always my four-legged furry angels—my beautiful dogs. They truly were God’s biggest and best blessing. When I was around 2 years old, my dad agreed to look after a golden retriever for a friend who had just moved into an apartment that did not allow dogs. No surprise, the supposed two weeks of dog-sitting turned into a lifetime, as we all fell head over heels for this gorgeous golden, especially me. I couldn’t understand how this magical bond we have with dogs worked, but who cares?

She really was my and Dad’s dog, as we were the ones who walked her every day. I never complained; it was my private time alone with her. There are no words for the genuinely deep, warming, unconditional love we had for each other. Every time I was down from another rough day, she was my go-to friend. I guess it was similar to kids who use a pacifier, blanket or imaginary friend to access their happy place and deal with life’s burdens. For many adults, drugs fill that purpose.

I hated being away from my pal for family holidays. Almost every summer, we took a trip to stay with my old man’s mum in the tiny yet picturesque town of West Kilbride, quite simply the most boring place on earth when you’re a kid. When we returned and our dog was released from the kennels, she would always make a beeline for me and knock me over with her affectionate joy. I will take to my grave walking up Law Hill and looking over to the lovely Isle of Arran and on clear days, over to the Eilsa Andrew, and just sitting with my best friend in complete peace and freedom. I remember training her in the massive local parks, getting her to stay until she was almost a dot on the horizon, and then whistling to her and watching her come at full gallop. I dearly miss that dog. She was my very first experience of total and complete unconditional love.

Sometimes I wish I could get along with people (especially girls) as well as I do with pretty much any dog. I think we have yet to truly tap into dogs’ potential. Dogs are now proving to be able to find things the electronic gadgets we boast about can’t—like diseases, drugs, explosives and ammunition. Even more importantly, they give us the unconditional love we all seek, and their friendship is a powerful remedy for all types of human diseases and weaknesses. To me, it is absolutely no coincidence that DOG spelt backwards is GOD.

My love for my childhood dog was so strong, I still to this day have a picture of my adorable Vharie by my bedside, and I say goodnight to her each and every night. Despite all the crazy highs and lows of my silly life, the day I lost my best friend is still my hardest, roughest and saddest day. I was 15 years old, and I have never felt such an immense loss and been so lost. I swore that I would never have another dog, as I could never bear the deep pain of losing something so near and dear to my heart and soul ever again. But of course, never say never.

I was introduced to music at a very early age, mainly by my mother, and I immediately connected with it as a way to express and deal with my emotions. One of my anthems was Billy Don’t Be a Hero by Black Lace (I actually saw them perform that very song here in Tenerife decades later). I always wanted to be that hero, and I did some stupid things to impress my friends and prove my courage. I think that’s why I pursued sports and became the biggest jock of all time. Win or die trying was my way to prove my manhood—to myself more than anyone else.

My older brother, Ian, and I had been sent to a private all-boys school called Gordon’s College, which all the kids my age referred to as Gay Gordon’s. Ian did everything to hide from the world that he was more than very in touch with his feminine side. It all came to a head when a vicious rumour surfaced that he was caught having sex with an older man up on the Hazelhead golf course. I tried to rationalize that this was simply impossible; as a teenager, Ian didn’t fit the usual limp-wristed homosexual mold but was rather more the Hell’s Angel/Freddy Mercury hard-man type. He tried to own every conversation and had this insanely annoying habit of answering every fucking question for me.

As a result, I ended up getting an unbelievably embarrassing lisp, which wasn’t much fun when you lived at 66 Queens Road and were born on 6 November 1966. I was an insecure teenager, so the lisp was further exacerbated when I spoke to girls. With the benefit of hindsight—and with no disrespect to speech-impeded people, as I know firsthand how it affects one’s self confidence—it probably sounded like I was the gay one. It took me well over four years of intense after-school speech therapy to finally conquer my speech defect, but even today, I have to really concentrate on some words that have S in them, like sleep and sheep.

All of this had a profound effect on me. I honestly never questioned my own sexuality, as I knew I had never been attracted to any male. I was infatuated with the female body, in sexy lingerie even more than totally naked. I liked a little mystery. Lingerie left the all-important pink bits to your imagination; in truth, they were usually better in the imagination anyway.

Going through adolescence, I had a massive crush on my nana Irene, to the extent that I would actually steal her underwear and get off on it as my fantasy focal point. I have never admitted this to anyone, but before starting this book, I decided that honesty is not just the best but the only policy. I’m not going to sugar-coat anything either. I know I’m not the only guy out there who had a secret stash of Victoria’s Secret fashion-show videos on their hard drives and got a golden boner just by being in their shops.

To be painted by the same brush as my brother was hurtful and truly made me hate most of my school years and, unfortunately, all gay men. This was further compounded when, in grade 10 (third year in Scottish secondary terminology), my form and physics teacher, Belly Simmons, took me aside one day in class and physically abused me by putting his hand down my pants. I was so young and so ashamed that I hid it from everyone, doing my old-school macho-man shit, storing it up inside where it eats at you. As Britney puts it, the tears come at night rather in front of anyone, as real men don’t cry.

Thankfully, someone did deal with it properly. He was caught the following year doing the same to another kid, and that kid told all. After the inevitable firing from his position and before he was summoned to trial, Belly took his own life. That was my first contact with suicide, and it was like seeing Jaws and The Exorcist when I was way too young. I was devastated, and I considered suicide as a very real option to having to go through the inevitable failing of my high school exams.

Sport was everything to me. I was on pretty much every team I wanted to be on in school, but my folks always maintained that sports will not pay your mortgage. I always felt like that dumb black sheep of the family. My school operated on a hierarchical system based on academic achievement and potential, with the clever ones (like my both my brothers) being in A or B and the dense ones being in D or E. I was in "D for dunce. To this day, I hate that letter, almost slipping to E for epi"—epileptic retardation, as we used to somewhat harshly call it.

The whole structure of Gordon’s was based around mental rather than physical excellence, so I simply rebelled in the biggest way possible—actually earning the record for the amount of belting received in a calendar year at well over 200, an increase of more than 50 from the previous record. A song that seemed to sum up my predicament and suicide plot was Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks, with the line Goodbye papa, please pray for me, I was the black sheep of the family, you tried to teach me right from wrong. I sang it over and over again when I was enduring the pain of the scud (the strap) or my most dreaded punishment, detention and lines.

My parents, to my extreme frustration, could never decide which was better: the glitz of city life in Aberdeen (which Mum preferred because of her Belfast past and social butterfly traits) or the rural commuter satellite village that was Stonehaven 15 miles to the south (which Dad preferred from his small-town only-child upbringing). I have to give a shout-out to my many exploits in Stonehaven with females like Vivian and Joanne. I think my brothers and I gained from being the new kids on the block, and many saw us as millionaires because of our private schooling and the fact that we owned the most prestigious hotel in town, which was like a miniature Balmoral castle. It couldn’t be further from the truth, as I recall my folks scrimping and saving wherever they could, with my old dear calling on her mum for help.

I think that this is where I got my work ethic. To earn pocket money, I had to help in the hotel doing a variety of duties. My worst chore came every Christmas Day after the presents were opened, when I did the dishes in the hotel’s restaurant. We were obviously fully booked, and that was our chance to max out our revenue before the slacker winter months kicked in. I got into this weird festive ritual that dictated we weren’t allowed to open our presents until after the work was done, which was when we got our own turkey feast, late in the afternoon.

It never fails to amaze me just how much influence your upbringing has on you and how much you either resist or resent some of your parents’ ethics but deliver the agreeable ones onto your own offspring. Every Christmas day when Carol and I and the girls were together, we would only open the down-the-chimney stocking-filler presents and then go skiing or riding, as it was the quietest morning of any on the mountain. We opened our own personal gifts in the evening after our feast.

To overcome the sheer boredom of our rural surroundings in Stoney, one of my few friends, Dean Kerr (or Kermit, as he was affectionately nicknamed), introduced me to my first-ever addiction: smoking tobacco. By the time I eventually managed to quit this highly addictive social habit at age 27, I had actually smoked for longer than I hadn’t, and it was because the doctor warned me about my very annoying predisposition to asthma. That blew my career fantasy of growing up to be a firefighter or, best of all, a fighter pilot like Maverick and Goose on their epic eighties Top Gun adventure. It was made clear to me that if I did any of that, I would end up in an asthma ward by the time I was 40.

My brother and I decided to pony up for some second-hand DJ equipment, which also satisfied our mutual love of music and my love of dance. It was easily the best job (if you can even call it a job) that I have personally ever had. It came so totally naturally to me that to this day, I am my own personal DJ, every spare second I get.

We managed to secure our first gig at the local community centre youth club, which was pure magic. It was the ideal place to pick up local talent from our target-rich environment. I have never really understood why being a pretty decent DJ and dancer was so desirable to the opposite sex, but there was something there, and I was at the perfect coming-of-age moment to take full advantage. I simply have never scored so many birds (or chicks, as they say in North America) in my life. It was amazing to me, but it made my popularity plummet with the local guy crew, a feeling I have experienced throughout my life.

My intense and tenacious competitiveness made us better. We put on progressively more professional gigs every Saturday night. Word got out about our DJ unit, and we were invited to play the adult discos, which were a whole different beast to slay.

I remember my first one so well: I was nervous, as we were in the town’s largest hotel, the Commodore, and in front of adults who probably had very different taste in music than we did. We thought it might be hard to garner their respect as two adolescent kids, but in actual fact, it was dead easy. The simple formula was to play fair-to-middling records up to about 11 p.m., when the locals started to get their alcohol courage, and then play your best tracks up until around 1 a.m., after which you could quite honestly play any old shit and they would still dance. The guys would pull out their best lines, armed with beer-goggled bravery, and it was absolutely hilarious to watch.

It was an early introduction to adult life and the difference between dating when you’re a kid and when you’re adult. It was so simple then: boy meets girl, cute innocent chase for a few days, then boom, she’s yours. There was none of the attitude, ego and battle of the sexes you get involved in when you grow up. I blame it squarely on sex, marriage, babies and death. As you get older, you soon find out that from some men’s perspective, this isn’t too far from the truth. I know that’s not male chauvinist crap, as I know for a fact that I ain’t the only man, or woman for that matter, who feels this way. Anyway, how could I ever be a male chauvinist after 23 years of faithful romance and marriage and two adorable daughters?

Only now do I have an understanding of what my mum had to deal with for so long as the only female in our family. Instead of my kids growing up with Action Men, Hot Wheels, train sets and Transformers like me, I was surrounded by Barbies and Kens, dress-up, tea parties and unicorns. All I can say is, listen closely to the advice your best man and friends try to give you on what has to be the best night of your life, the stag party, before the completely different reality of married life descends.

Back in our DJ days, it was fucking easy: you liked her; found a way to tell her to her face; impressed her in some way, like at sports or on the dance floor; and it was a done deal. I ask you, who has the better method, kids or adults? The kids win with a decisive knockout every time.

My love life always had this very weird relationship with the number three when it came to girls, just like those three little words that are said too much and not enough. My romances lasted as follows:

1. three days with girls I thought I liked but were pretty much like driving that lemon of a new car off the lot; as soon as I kissed them, I realized the fantasy was better than the reality.

2. three weeks with the ones who were the light of my life, but something better always came along as the radar pointed out the latest bombshell, must-have girl.

3. three years on, coincidentally, three occasions.

My first three-year relationship was with a cute chick called Wendy, who I truly loved. I think that’s the reason I got so into Bruce Springsteen—the Boss—who owns more space in my iTunes library than any other artist, including even Michael. I can’t quite explain it, but I almost always religiously buy Springsteen’s records as soon as they come out, and I don’t give a shit if punters view it as old-school or boring.

His music mystifies me to this day. He is a pure genius at putting words to my every emotion, life experience, love, everything, the full nine yards. I remember going to his sensational concert in Vancouver just after he dropped The Rising in response to the chaos that followed the Twin Towers attack. Amazingly, he sang every note and played every instrument, every song, with no band, no backing singers or dancers, no pyro, nothing. It was a unique musical achievement that is a bucket-list highlight for sure. I think my ex hated every minute of it, but that was payback for having to endure the way-too-girlie Celine Dion in the Chrysler Theatre at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas years later.

To this day, every time I hear Springsteen’s rock-and-roll rebel anthem Born to Run, with lyrics like Wendy let me in, I want to be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions, just wrap your legs around these velvet straps ... your hands around my engines, it brings me back to laying Wendy so hard on my favourite ninth-hole tee of our local golf course, where I really had my best-ever power drive as the sun set on the scenic Aberdeen landscape. The other great line, I want to die with you on the streets in an everlasting kiss, has more significance now than then. But yes, that was our song, and what a truly killer power ballad to fall in love to.

Only one problem: her family knew what we were up to. As in so many cases, they decided that if you were fucking their daughter, you had to man up and give her a ring. They knew full well that there would be something wrong with you if sex wasn’t involved by that time. Truth is, we had been screwing each other’s brains out for ages with some of the best sex I have ever had. To this day, I still don’t even know how to use a rubber, and I can’t believe I haven’t had any unwanted babies or STDs. Maybe the expert timing and reactions I was blessed with from my sports was the key.

That marriage pressure was, sadly, what drove us apart. Her family desperately wanted it, but I knew I was too young and there was many more fish in the sea I needed to trawl for. My folks never approved of Wendy, as she came from the other side of the tracks, living in a council housing estate. I tried to visit it on my bike last time I was in Aberdeen, but it has been transformed into yet another million-dollar suburb for oil-wealthy Aberdeen tycoons.

Her brother was the army’s lightweight boxing champion, as her parents proudly kept boasting to me. I later learned it was more of a threat that if you screw our sweetheart over, you die, punk. Those were her father’s very words when he got the feeling I was going to end it. Funny thing is, I honestly wasn’t scared. I’d had so many fights back then, I knew I could at the very least hurt him back, if not counter his one-dimensional attack. Though my boxing skills were limited, I was passionate about martial arts, and thanks to my training in that area, I had turned the tables on the many bullies I had to face in the early years because of my diminutive size.

I had kickboxed and done some Shotokan karate to make up for the inherent weaknesses of tae kwon do, but it was the Korean foot-fist discipline that I particularly loved, gaining my brown belt in almost record time. I also gained respect in competitions, often beating larger and higher-belted opponents.

The best fight I ever had was against a black-belt second-degree karate expert who, right off the bell, did this crouching tiger pose resembling something out of the great old-school Karate Kid movies (another one of my favorite flicks