Roger Sproston - Fighting for Light: The Travels of a Tin Pot Warrior

ROGER SPROSTON

www.emeraldpublishing.co.uk

Roger Sproston 2014

The right of Roger Sproston to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN 978-1-84716-4 94-0 (paperback)

978-184716-495-7 (ebook)

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

Cover Design by Alan Cooper

Printed by Grosvenor Group London

Published by Emerald Publishing

To My Mother and Father, Grace and Joe-I will always love you.

Dead donkey's and boxing kangaroos
a rope round your neck, very bad news

A kilo of bananas, a gun to the head
now it's time to go, a little voice said

I'm looking for Nirvana, did it go that way?
Anyone seen it, stand up and say

Chasing rainbows, looking for the light
Tin Pot Warrior, always up for the fight

***************

An acquaintance stopped me in the street a few years ago, after a (very) minor incident with the police.

"Bloody tin pot soldiers, give them a uniform and they think they're God. They push their weight around and leave people shell-shocked!"

This exchange prompted the writing of this book and led to a train of thought that, two years later, has resulted in what you are about to read. I have substituted the word soldier with warrior. This term can be applied to many a brave warrior involved in the absurdity of life. The term 'fighting for light' refers to the move from darkness to light.

The title of this book refers specifically to one of the many people who marched out of the drudgery of working class existence in the 1960s, a long march towards a rosier future, taking advantage of new opportunities. Out of early childhood and on into adulthood emerged a brave little warrior, determined to avoid the prospect of a very bleak future and find adventure and freedom. This was the 1960's, Kerouac had hit the road and come back again, the Beatles were doing their thing and the door was opened for thousands to break the mould and to move on to the other side.

I was one of the fortunate ones in that I went through this door of opportunity, and made the break. In my case, I did what many a Tin Pot warrior did at the time, the only way to make a break in the circumstances, In the summer of love, 1967, I joined the Royal Navy at the age of fifteen, signing on for rather a long time, which was the only real way out of what passed for the future.

This period in the navy lasted until I had seen enough, derived a lot of enjoyment and then kicked it into touch, jumping ship in dramatic style, sick of military life and everything that came with it. From then on, following a short period of military imprisonment, I hit the road, quite often travelling alone, although meeting many friends along the way and got caught up in revolutions and invasions around the world, having incredible adventures which form the basis of a large part this book

Later I had the good fortune to enter university to build on that experience, another door of opportunity for Tin Pot warriors, education for the masses. I also started a publishing company which has now grown to be quite successful, after a hard slog.

The book is a romp through the decades ending up with a reflection on where we are now. It is set ten years after the summer of love, rather appropriately, then works backwards to the beginning before wending its way forwards once more.

Enjoy the ride!

Roger Sproston 2014

All I can say now is thank god I kept a journal. I dont know why I did, as I am not generally a keeper of diaries. One thing is for certain, I wouldnt have remembered a thing without it-not after a wild summer in Amsterdam. I was very lucky to have one brain cell left, considering the amount of mind-altering substances that went down my throat. Plus the many weird and wonderful people encountered along the way. Very much a unique Amsterdam experience, one for the archives.

I was standing on the edge of the motorway out of Amsterdam, south bound for Munich, on my way to India. I was also reflecting on the summer of 77, my own summer of love, a summer of very varied experiences, and it was now time to get away, time to change the scene. Enough was enough, I was emotionally and physically burnt to a cinder.

I had arrived in Amsterdam on a freezing March day in 1977, drawn over by a friends tales of life there, by tales of sex, drugs and rock and roll. To be honest, my life since leaving the navy in 1973 had been one long party anyway, so Amsterdam was simply an extension of this.

The thing about Amsterdam that is most apparent when one arrives there is that, from the vantage point of the Central Station, on the left is the church, St Nikolaaskerk, with its red cross apologising for the sins of the inhabitants and on the right is the more sedate and sophisticated area, which, to be honest, is just as sleazy in places.

My very first act on arriving in Amsterdam was to sort out free accommodation. I had heard, through the grapevine, of a squat near Vondel Park, a Krakhuuis, inhabited by a few young Dutch jazz musicians. I had been advised to avoid certain squats in the city, run as they were by smack heads, dope fiends and the like. Not that I really minded dope fiends, being that way myself. Anything that I could get my hands on at the time, given my state of mind. It was just advisable to live in a place that was together and well run. I had the address on me so I made my way there, via the number 7 tram. The street in which the house was situated was a fairly normal looking suburban street with nothing to suggest the existence of a squat. I knocked the door of number 34 and a bright looking lad answered. A good sign, my first impressions were those of a creative household. After a few questions and introductions to the other members of the household, I was given a room on the top floor of the house, which was magic. The guys in the house were cool, not into drugs, save the occasional spliff, and took to me almost immediately.

After a few days of settling in and mooching around, mostly going to coffee shops and bars, I decided to get a job, with the aim of funding the second part of my trip out of Europe and over to India and beyond. England at the time was grim, the 3-day week, massive dole queues and general hard times. Punk was on the rise. I had missed that boat and the call of the East was infinitely more attractive to me as I had other fish to fry.

Those were the days in Amsterdam when you could walk into a uitzenbureau (work agency) and pick up a job without a problem, the end result being that I spent the next few months sticking labels on bottles at the Heineken Brewery near Vondel Park. I did this until I went out of my mind with boredom. There are only so many ways of counting bottles and trying to be creative. One memory is that of the night dope dealer coming round the factory selling grass to the workers. Quite why this was allowed I dont know except for the fact that it kept us docile. After this little episode, I then worked as a general dogsbody at a small hotel, the Hotel Kabul on Warmoestraat, at the edge of the red light district, making beds and preparing and dishing out food. From this vantage point I could see the whores and pimps, plus the drug pushers ply their trade. Great fun for a while, meeting all sorts of different people until the seed of the red light began to get under my skin and it was time to go. My exit was hastened by me giving out food to all the waifs and strays that passed for friends from the kitchens of the Kabul. I was duly rumbled one night and fired.