
The first half of this e-book (available from Amazon, all profits going to the Chinese Medicine Forestry Trust) is a frank account of my life – from childhood, through my rebellious teenage years, hippie travelling, random jobs, my first career in the natural foods business, my path into Chinese medicine and much more. The second half of the book is made up of a number of short stories, many of which relate tangentially to the memoirs. It’s been described as a ‘riveting read’ and āWhat an interesting and captivating read. Honest, funny, moving and inspiringā.
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Here is a sample from Chapter14: Music
When I was twenty-one, David Bowie (on the cusp of fame) and his girlfriend Mary Finnigan opened the Beckenham Arts Lab in the Three Tuns pub. It was the nearest thing to my local since Iād spent many hours there, mingling with my anarchist and CND friends. And somehow, Mick (guitar), Bob (drums), my brother Alan (harmonica) and I became the Art Clubās house band (going under the dreadful name of Oswald K. Aldehyde). Lacking a trace of self-doubt, weād launch into blues or jazz covers ā Miles Davisās So What was a favourite ā which rapidly degenerated into long and self-indulgent noodlings.
I didnāt take to David Bowie in those early days. Always a chameleon, this particular incarnation was full of a luvvie campness that couldnāt have been further from the worthy authenticity of my black and white politics. As soon as heād announced us he would disappear into a back room. I had no complaints there ā I wouldnāt have stayed to listen to us either ā but when he swanned back at the end of our set saying how absolutely faaaabulous we were darlings, I choked on the insincerity.
When he died in 2019 I spoke to my brother about those times and he told me something I have no memory of.
āWe were at Brian Enoās house,ā he said, āand you had a row with David about how he shouldnāt be charging people money to get into the Arts lab. You kept calling him a ābread head, manā ā [bread head = money-obsessed in hippie talk).
The summer of that Arts Lab year, 1969, Bowie organised Britainās first Free Festival in our local park. Beckenham Recreation Ground represented everything Iād loathed about growing up in this bland London suburb. Grass cropped to within an inch of its life, dogshit, mean little flower displays, thorny, clipped bushes spaced out along bare and barren beds, a sour and officious park keeper and bored kids hanging out by the swings, smoking, and wondering what terrible fate had condemned them to live in Beckenham. This was the park where Iād walked our dog Rex as a kid, wondering when the hell my life was going to begin.
But this day it was transformed. A crowd of hippies lounged on the grass and the smells of weed and patchouli wafted through the park. Weād put together a scratch band with a guest drummer, managed a quick soundcheck, and halfway through the afternoon launched into our first number. Within seconds Mick ā our front man and the only real musician in the band – started turning his head and looking back at us with an agonised expression. It wasnāt till the end of the song we saw heād busted two strings. We soldiered on with our next tune but had to abort the gig halfway through when the park-keeper ā in full uniform and shiny peaked cap ā wrestled our drummer to the ground, kicking the drums away and screaming āYouāre not playing that bloody loud in my parkā.
On the 50th birthday of the festival, after Bowie had recently died, the bandstand was given Grade 2 listing as a historical monument and a photo appeared in most newspapers and TV channels. There I was with my violin, somewhere to the rear of a supremely cool-looking Bowie, while Mick sat plucking at his guitar strings.

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