Hugo Docking

“A” is for Angry

(This piece of writing was created for the ‘Boyhood Memories’ project, a collection of true stories from various authors, collated by Peter Clothier. It was published on his blog last October with plans to publish the collection as a book in the future. )


You are six years old. It’s past your bedtime but you can’t sleep, so you’re lying in bed reading a book. You like reading because you are good at it. You have long surpassed the purple level books at school (the highest level books at school), and The Teacher lets you bring your own books in for reading time because she doesn’t quite know what to do with you. You are quietly quite proud of the fact that The Teacher doesn’t quite know what to do with you. You also like that you can take your own books into class because they are far more interesting than the purple level reading books.

You hear voices downstairs. They are raised. One is highly pitched and broken with uncontained sobbing. The other is booming and laced with rage. You would like to know why. This particular occurrence isn’t common, you think to yourself. But, then again, not exactly uncommon, you also muse. However The Boyfriend is being particularly loud tonight and his voice is deep and manly and the bass of the thing is resonating through the house and you are now fully awake.

You realise you have become inquisitive and will not be able to get to sleep until you understand why there is such a commotion going on below you. You try to be quiet as you tiptoe downstairs. You want to ‘eavesdrop’ (which means to listen without the people you are listening to knowing you are there). You use the bannister to take most of your weight so that your feet will be light on the stairs like a cat. However the stairs still creak and the voices go quiet. You are still curious, and you’ve come this far, so you open the door and ask ‘what’s going on?’

The Boyfriend explains that The Mother has taken some of his bread from the freezer. Which, he says, was clearly marked with an ‘A’ in permanent marker. (‘A’ is the first letter of his name, and there should be no confusion as neither you, nor The Mother, has a name that begins with the letter ‘A’.) Even though you don’t see the packet, you don’t doubt that it was permanently marked with the letter ‘A’, as it is not uncommon for The Boyfriend to mark his food with an ‘A’ in permanent marker. You know that anything written in permanent marker is worthy of note, as the mark is permanent, which means that it can’t be undone, and is there forever, or at least as long as there is bread still in the packet.

You don’t quite understand why the boyfriend has to be so ‘stingy’ with his food but the fact that you think that, in itself, is understandable as you are an only child. If, like the boyfriend, you grew up with siblings, you would understand the importance of marking your food with the first letter of your name in permanent marker.

But the process of clearly labeling your food becomes ‘redundant’ if someone who’s name does NOT begin with the letter labeled clearly on the packet in permanent marker decides to help themselves to the contents of the packet ‘willy nilly.’ With this information clarified you now understand why the mother is crying and the boyfriend is shouting and you head back to bed.


But for some reason you still can’t get to sleep…

Why Worry?

(This piece of writing was created for the ‘Boyhood Memories’ project, a collection of true stories from various authors, collated by Peter Clothier.)

My mother’s boyfriend was an intimidating presence. A gruff Northerner who lived an isolated life in a log cabin. Half living space, and half storage space for a mountainous CD collection from times sourly missed. They met on an online dating website when computers barely existed; let alone smartphones, or Tinder. Gone now are the days of Guardian Soulmates and Friends Reunited. I probably know more about the dark ages of Internet dating than any other nineteen year old should, or would care to know.  

This bald Shrek-like character, with a big belly, huge shoulders and a conclusive knowledge of 60’s hits would come round from the deep North at weekends. Then more and more regularly. He would never fail to scare me shitless. This was shortly after my Father (a small, quiet, South African artist) upped sticks and left, and I quickly decided that his replacement was not up to par. There existed a mutual disdain that pulsated between us, and the looks he used to give me when my Mother wasn’t present could kill a restless Bull. He preferred to verbally chastise me quietly, when we were alone together, and warn me not to tell Mum… So I would walk in her shadow in an effort to postpone the inevitable. I remember trying to follow her into the toilet one time because he was angry with me for some reason… and sure enough he took that opportunity to pounce. He was never physical, but I was a sensitive child and rarely ‘naughty’ anyway, so this new form of emotional discipline was rather alien to me.

At some point he found out I was good at writing and tried to inspire my creativity in the only way he knew how; to force me to write a short story or a poem every week for a couple of months on the trot. It was a carrot and stick type scenario. If I didn’t write a story every week I knew there would be hell to pay, and he would sternly remind me when my deadline was closely approaching. He insinuated with death stares and tone of voice alone that if I were to delay, my life would not be made pleasant. However, if I did manage a piece of verse or prose once a week for two months, he would buy me a ‘mighty beanz mega racetrack (TM)’ and by God I was desperate to have my very own ‘mighty beanz mega racetrack (TM)’. So put pen to paper I did.

One summer we were holidaying in a caravan in Wales. I was having a grand old time mincing around fields and tormenting cows from afar, but despite the fact that I was on holiday I was not afforded exemption from my writing duties. My deadline was looming and if I were to get that ‘mighty beanz mega racetrack (TM)’ I would have to get something scribbled down. This was a real weight on my young mind, which was furiously scrambling for excuses, loopholes and get out of jail free clauses. So when I saw a poem on a tea towel entitled ‘why worry?’ hung up on the wall of the B&B, I was both appropriately reassured and cunningly inspired. I read it through a few times, and with the sponge-like mind of a six year old, memorized the whole thing, and wrote it all down a couple of hours later.

It was hailed as my most brilliant work yet.

Shrek was elated that his plan to inspire a young Shakespeare had worked, and when the two months were up, he was proud to present me with my very own ‘mighty beanz mega racetrack (TM)’.

My grandmother, who was always my biggest fan, also found the poem inspired, and entered me into a local young poets competition. I came runner up. I had to stand on a makeshift stage in our local bookshop and read my beautifully insightful poem to a room full of people and proudly accept a book of poetry as my reward. In hindsight the experience taught me a lot about the downsides of living with a lie, and allowing it to snowball out of control and past the point of no return. But at the time I was smiling, saying thank you to the judges, prize in hand, thinking to myself something to the tune of ‘shit cock balls bollocks shit fuck bugger’, as I realised I had made a bit of a mistake somewhere along the line.

My deep dark secret was only discovered when we went back to the same B&B the following year. Shrek got a positive sighting of the same poem entitled ‘why worry?’ on the same tea towel, on the same wall. An awkward intervention style conversation was initiated that day, on a picnic blanket, in a field, in Wales. I was sat down and some stern words were said. I’m can’t remember exactly what they were, but I’m sure certain topics were addressed, explored and indulged. These included, but were not limited to:

‘The Consequences of Lies and Plagiarism.’

‘Trust – Building, Breaking and Rebuilding.’  

‘The Importance of Formal Apologies.’

And of course:

‘Why You Should be Worried…’  

My Mother stayed quiet. I found out later in life that she was actually quite impressed with my ability to memorise the thing, and my keeping it quiet for a year without cracking under the pressure. But Shrek was furious.


I didn’t even use that ‘mighty beanz mega racetrack (trademark)’ more than a few times anyway.

Fear and Loathing in Amsterdam

Suddenly, without warning, I found myself in a small cabin, with half a dozen Girl Scout sorcerers’ speaking in tongues. I glanced around, aware of the danger of revealing my fear. My confusion. They could smell it. It was only a matter of time before these angel fascists would mount their attack on my unwary companions and me. My comrades looked passive, accepting of their unsavoury fate. It was too late for them I knew, and soon I would fall into the same morbid trap. Think Hugo think. Ignore this terrible drug. Assess your surroundings. How did you get here?

The whole room was twisted. Furious bad vibes. Fiendish murmurs. Unholy cackles. Who were these demons of indeterminate age? Both worldly, superior creatures and mischievous youths, pixies. They were passing a bottle of liqueur between them as if it were their first taste of the devils nectar. If their façade of innocence was a true perception then where were their parents? A terrible thought penetrated my hazy consciousness. Where we the villains? Had we stumbled upon a nest of drunken infants? Would the wooden door of this claustrophobic cabin soon be kicked off it’s fragile hinges by foreign agents – to find us cross-legged, knee to knee with doggedly-swaying intoxicated children and assume the worst?

I accepted the bottle of cheap booze from the Girl Scout opposite. Nothing to do now but play along. Act normal. Keep my cards close to my chest, drink the liquor, don’t let them guess my twisted insights. Staggered conversation was being attempted in my peripheral. Laughter. How could my companions be unaware of the severity of this sinister situation? Had their minds be warped by black magic? Or did they simply not understand how badly the events in this cabin could be perceived?

I risked a glance at my closest companion. A stout joint rested between his thumb and forefinger. We shared a brief moment of confusion as we stared at each other wide-eyed and unblinking. It was all we needed to reassure each other that we shared the dark inclinations of the events in this cabin, and we were not alone. I found out the next day that this was not true. He was just super high.

Organic Man

Cashier. Socialite.
Weary with the weight of words and life
                                     Doesn’t quite fit with his


Eyes grown impolite.
A glazed monotone man in an electric box
Of metal and wires and plastic, bags
Under his eyes from mind-wandering nights of
Better places.


He dreams of freedom to roam
To run away from the mind-eroding ‘how was your day?’
Day-to-day drool of making sure the woman with the fancy car
And the swimming pool only used when the
Grandkids come round for two weeks in august
Gets her 50p off for buying two carrot cakes instead of just the one
And insists it must be something he’s done to rip her off
The money grabbing son of a gun behind the till.


To escape the abuse and the same after same he
Crawls inside, ponders time and fate,
And wanders if things would have been the same
If his life had gone a different way,
And he’d got a different job, in a different town,

Made of different stone.



Wherever he went would be a version of the same
The same picture with a different frame
And no matter how hard he could try to keep things fresh
He knew that society would never fail to
Bore him.


To get away from the minimum wage, and

Live in a cave, that’s real, and solid,


And fire-lit snug, and live off the earth,



And look up at the stars every night, would be






No more

Dead-in-the-eye fake smiles.

No more

Charging the battery with soul reserves.

No more

Buzzing cell of electronic life.



Organic man. At peace.