LIVING A DYING LOVE
an Autobiography by Bryan H. Joyce
The key phrase is, 'turn itself inside out' for that's what it
felt like when I was vomiting. It felt like I was bringing razor
blades all the way up from my larger intestine. The creature from
my story vomited starlight. The stuff that I was bringing up was
a lovely bright yellow with just a hint of orange. It was the
coating of my stomach. There were no solids. Just a fluffy
floating head to the bile.
When I stopped retching, the doctor gave me lots of large
tissues to clean my self with. He examined the vomit closely then
rinsed the sink out.
"Can I have some water?" I croaked with much difficulty.
"No. Your stomach lining will be badly inflamed after that
attack. Don't drink anything until the vomiting has settled down
for a few hours. Don't eat anything for a minimum of twenty four
He gave me a prescription and told me to rest a lot.
My Father took me home and put me to bed. It was too painful for
me to get undressed, so I lay on top of the covers with a blanket
From then on my memory of things get hazy. I don't think the
human mind will let that amount of pain be remembered accurately.
If it did then I think that the human being in question would go
stark staring mad. If I even attempted to describe in detail the
events that occurred in the following hours then it would get
very repetitive with constant references to pain, pain and more
One consolation, I never screamed in front of anyone. When I
screamed it was during and after the vomiting-into-the-orange-
basin fits. It was done very quietly through gritted teeth whilst
gripping the headboard of the bed hard enough to bruise my hands.
Sometime that afternoon, I realised that I was dying. I didn't
tell anyone, but insisted that the Doctor be called out.
He wouldn't come out and insisted again that it was just a
stomach bug. He left a prescription for strong medicine with the
receptionist at the medical centre. My sister went to the medical
centre and then to the chemists to collect the new lot of drugs.
The first lot of drugs I'd been given were no good to me because
I couldn't keep them down for long enough to be effective. The
new medicine turned out to be something to stop vomiting combined
with paracetamol to kill the pain. Para-bloody-cetamol! I nearly
died laughing! That was like using a pop gun to ward of the
I managed to keep the new medicine down. It did nothing for me
so the doctor was called again. He agreed to visit me at home
after his surgery was finished. That was hours away.
By this time my own bedroom was stinking of vomit so I was moved
next door to my mother and fathers bed. Soon their room was
smelling of vomit. I started to vomit blood. Admittedly, not very
much, but blood nevertheless. My Mother examined the vomit and
then put the basin somewhere safe for the doctor to examine
later. Aren't Mothers wonderful!
The family was now so worried about me that they would not let
me stay in the room by myself and posted a watch on me.
To make the time pass quicker, I tried to watch some TV. I can
only remember watching "Grange Hill" because I was surprised to
find that the theme music had changed after all those years. What
it was about I'll never know. Its not been worth watching since
Tucker Jenkins left. I was only looking at the TV screen not
watching the program. I must have seen "Neighbours" and the News
but I have no memory of it.
Eventually the doctor came. It was the same one as before. I got
the impression from his attitude on examining me that he just
didn't believe the pain that I was in. When he touched my stomach
I went into spasms with pain. He told me to stop panicking and
relax. I joked that I was so cool that he could keep a side of
meat in me for a month. Zaphod Bebblebrox said that in one of the
radio episodes of the "Hitch-hikers guide to the Galaxy". I told
the doctor so. He wasn't interested.
"You'll have to go into hospital. I think you're okay. When
anyone brings up blood then it's routine to have it checked," he
"Will they give me something for the pain?"
That was the only thing that I was interested in. He called an
ambulance and left. It was over an hour before they came. The
ambulance men wanted to carry me in a stretcher but I would not
let them. Supported by both of them, I walked baby steps out to
the ambulance. Why I did such a daft thing I'll never know. I'm
not a macho person.
"How long have you had an ulcer?" One of the men asked. He was
my height and build. Looked about mid thirties with a thick black
moustache. The other was about the same but had no moustache and
was bald. I may have been mistaken, for it was in the dark car
park, he didn't appear to have any eyebrows.
"Don't have an ulcer!" I said.
"You fond of curries?" Said the bald one.
"You like a drink?"
"Ah, that'll be it then! You've probably had a wee ulcer for
some time and it's burst. You had much stomach trouble in the
"A little." I was getting angry at the questions because of the
effort that it took to answer them. We had at last got to the
"Sounds like a burst ulcer then," said one of the men.
"First time I've ever seen someone with a burst ulcer able to
walk out to the ambulance," said moustache as he helped me into
"You're in luck Son. This motor's just been fitted with all new
gear. Goes like the wind. Smooth too," said the bald one as he
went around to the drivers door. I was indignant at him calling
me 'Son' for he was only a few years older than me.
Smooth he said! Every bump and pothole was torture. I lay on my
side clutching a safety rail with one hand. In the other I held a
stupid looking grey re-cycled paper hat that was actually a sick
bowl. The moustached ambulance man tried to keep up my spirits by
chatting to me. I refused to answer his questions because the
pain was getting too much for my true grit to handle. He started
to talk to my mother and father instead.
The only thing I remember about the journey clearly was that the
glass in the back door panel was black. I could see out but the
other car drivers couldn't see in.
The ambulance stopped suddenly. We had arrived at Monklands
hospital. I was helped from the ambulance and onto a large
wheeled stretcher. Beside the nearby doors, set into red brick,
was a sign. It said, 'CASUALTY DEPARTMENT.' Don't know why but I
thought that you only went to casualty if you were in a road
accident or had been shot or something. Green walls and automatic
doors whizzed by as I was hurriedly wheeled into a big bright
room. My mother and father went off to fill in forms. Nurses and
doctors buzzed about everywhere. Curtains were pulled around. I
had been lying on my side, they moved me to a sitting position.
With marvellous efficiency, I was quickly undressed and a blood
sample was taken. Somebody took my glasses and my watch and put
them in a small plastic bag. There were no possessions in my
pockets. I'd emptied them onto the floor of my bedroom some hours
My blood pressure was recorded several times in quick succession
by three different machines. One minute it was dangerously high
the next dangerously low. I was told that it was the pain that
was causing the dramatic fluctuations. They would not give me
anything for the pain until a surgeon had seen me. I felt
confused at the blur of faces that kept asking me all the same
questions over and over again.
"How long have you had the ulcer"
"Don't have one."
"Ya had a discharge when you go to the toilet?"
"Blood in the urine?"
"Any blood or black stuff from your bum?" A doctor actually said
that. Honest! He looked to be about 17 or 18 years old.
The blood pressure machine was left attached to my right arm
whilst a plasma drip and two others went into my left arm. The
pain from my stomach was so overpowering that I couldn't feel the
needles go in.
"When did you last eat?"
"Yesterday lunch time. I had a sandwich or two."
"Anything to drink?"
"Some water about ten hours ago but I sicked it back up."
"I meant alcohol."
"No. But I had a bottle of wine last night."
"Don't let it bother you. I had six bottles of Grolsch last
A portable x-ray machine was wheeled in. The first x-ray was
taken of me sitting up. The plate they put behind my back was
freezing cold. Then they tried to lower the back rest so that
they could take an x-ray of me lying on my back. At about forty
degrees the pain was too much. I started to scream quietly
through gritted teeth. Quickly they raised the back rest again.
"I'm not waiting for the surgeon. I'm giving him something for
the pain now," said one of the young doctors.
God bless him!
"Okay. I'll take the blame," said another doctor.
After about two minutes someone injected me with a tiny
hypodermic that wasn't even half full.
"There's no way that anything can kill your pain. This is strong
stuff but it'll only take away the edge. Dull it a little."
I'm glad he told me that otherwise I'd never have guessed that
I'd been given a pain killer. Nevertheless, it must have done me
some good for when they had another go at lying me on my back for
that second x-ray I managed not to scream.
Some minutes later a massive black man entered the room. He
looked like a wrestler. It turned out that he was the surgeon. He
prodded my stomach and abdomen with massive fingers and asked me
the same questions that I'd already answered several times
"You'll have to have a small operation. An exploratory. There's
a few things that it could be. An ulcer that's burst, your
appendices or more probably I think that you might have a hole in
"Well, it's 10 past nine now. We'll have you in the theatre by
half past. Just waiting on the x-rays. In the mean time I have to
examine your back passage to see which way your bowl curves so
I'll know which side of the abdomen to go into."
Under normal circumstances, the thought of a bowel examination
would have been the ultimate humiliation. It wasn't exactly very
pleasant. At least it didn't hurt and was over quickly. All I
could think about was the fact that I had less than half an hour
of pain to endure. The fact that I was to have an operation
didn't bother me in the slightest.
Sure, people die all the time during operations. Their bodies
have a bad reaction to the drugs or just the shock of the
surgery. People die all the time. Hospitals must have more ghosts
than graveyards. I've had a boring life. Who would give a damn if
I died on the operating table? At least the pain would be over.
Another drip was plugged into my right arm by a young doctor
that looked like a moustached Hawkeye out of "M*A*S*H". He got me
to sign a release form for surgery.
"Sorry about the state of the signature. It's normally much
tidier. Can't stop shaking," I said.
"Doesn't matter," he said.
The next event was the insertion of the urinal catheter. The
painkiller I'd been injected with still didn't seem to be doing
anything, but obviously it must have since I managed a short
conversation with the doctor at that point. It was about how the
insertion of the tube reminded me of a TV documentary where the
doctors had fitted a TV camera up with a fibre-optic cable which
was then passed down the patients penis and into his bladder. It
was frightfully interesting. The young doctor agreed with me.
He'd see the documentary too.
Whilst the doctors gathered at the back of the room to examine
my x-rays, my mother and father came in to see me. Without my
glasses, I had trouble seeing them. They both looked pale and
worried. I tried to cheer them up with a feeble joke.
"I've just thought up another joke."
Normally when I say that everybody groans and then I tell the
joke anyway. For all they complain about my jokes, people usually
"What's Mrs. Mouse's first name?"
"Don't know son?" said my mother quietly.
"Fay?" said my father.
"When will I, will I be Fay-mouse. You know, the Bros song? Fay-
mouse. Get it? Famous. Tell sis that one."
Someone arrived to wheel me away to the operating theatre. I
said my goodbyes.
"Don't worry son. You'll soon be home again," said mother.
"I'm not worried."
Then as they started to wheel me away, I suddenly blurted out
something that even managed to surprised me.
"When's Valentines day?"
"Next year," said mother looking puzzled.
I was wheeled out into a cold white corridor. It was that quiet
after the casualty room that the long smooth journey took on a
dream-like quality. Passing through many sets of automatic doors,
I began to feel nervous.
"It's just like the telly," I said.
"Yeah. Only it's better," said the somebody who was pushing the
I was left by my self in a single room near a ward for about ten
minutes. Then they put me onto another trolley and wheeled me
into a room near the theatre.
"Bryan Joyce?" said an old nurse.
"When were you born?"
"You ever had an operation before?"
"Once. Had my adenoids out. Don't know when. Guess I'd have been
"You've got a good memory," she said and looked at a clipboard
full of papers. How did they find that out? "You're dead right!"
When she said the word 'dead' my blood went cold and I focused
sharply on it. It seemed to mean something different from what it
had always meant. Her voice took on sinister tones.
A man that I guessed to have been the anaesthetist put a black
mask over my face and told me to breathe in deeply. In what
seemed to me to be no logical order he began to count backwards.
Several minutes later I began to feel decidedly odd.
"Nearly there. He's nice and red," he said. He filled up a
syringe and injected it into one of the taps of the drip that was
attached to my right arm.
So this was it. I expected to get sleepy but didn't. After only
about a minute they started to wheel me into the theatre. Would
it be just like the on telly? All the lights shining down at me
from a sea of white masked faces? Lots of green cloth and
stainless steel? I don't know. My last memory is of the trolley
bumping the door open.
Then, realisation and terror! If I died, I had no kids of my own
to carry the family on. No loving wife to miss me! No wife to
hold in my arms and tell her I love her! I could die and nobody
except my mother, father and sisters would care?
I DON'T WANT TO DIE!
I started to cry. God, don't let me die. I need her though I've
never met her. I need to live. I have to find someone. I have to
let her know. There has to be time for strangers to turn in to
lovers. Help me God! I'm so frightened! Save me! (Total panic!) I
tried to sit up but found that I couldn't move. Need to find a
love to share my life with. Need to tell her...!
A face in white looking at me.
I struggled and managed to mumble five words quietly.
"Tell her I love her!"
"What?" said a soft voice.
Then sub-vocally I repeated myself.
"I love her."
Then as everything fades to black, "I'll find someone."
Now things start to get weird....
Darkness. Silence. So comfortable. No pain. I can stay here
forever. Then voices. Quiet. Mumbling. Full of concern. A machine
hissing. Full of panic. Something tickling my right arm. Stop it.
Go away. Leave me alone! Get me a drink. Never been this thirsty
before? I try to turn on my bedroom light and find that I can't
move. No, not that dream again! If I find the light it won't go
on. The invisible things in the darkness will begin to call in
laughing whispers whilst their claws caress my sweating body.
Its too hot in this dark dream?
I should bite my fingers, maybe that would wake me up. No,
don't! It may only be a dream, but people sleep walking can hurt
themselves. I could wake and find I'd bitten my fingers off.
Skin crawls. Tickles. Dreams never have the sense of touch in
them? There's something wrong with my face! Try to touch my face.
Still can't move. Try to speak and feel as if I've no throat or
tongue. Try harder. Mouth doesn't work? Can't feel it at all. Are
my eyes open?
Perhaps this thick jelly of burning sweat is really just hot
water? I'm drowning in thick hot water. Help me! Breath out and
swim in the direction of the bubbles! I'm drowning and dying of
Then there was light. I open my eyes. Blobby figures float
closely near by. Why can't I see them? Am I alive? Something
tickling my arm. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it! Why can't I speak?
Why won't she leave me alone? She? Stop tickling my arm mother!
With what felt like a superhuman effort I twitched my arm.
"Look he moved. His eyes are open!"
My mind cleared momentarily. My glasses! I can't see because I'm
not wearing my glasses. Where am I? Why can't I speak? Try. Try.
Try? Super human effort to move my mouth. Again. Nothing. Again.
Nothing? Give up. I'm not even breathing. It's a dream. Has to
STOP TICKLING MY ARM!
"Look! Told you. He hates that. It worked!"
Something's on my face! What's on my face?
"Can you hear me?"
I tried to nod but couldn't so I gave a thumbs up sign. Happy
sounds. Many people sounding relieved. Feel so...so...loving. Let
me wake up. Don't like this dream. Probably forget it anyway.
Need to sit up. What's that hissing?
I turned my right hand palm upwards and slowly lifted the
fingers until they were at ninety degrees to my palm. Sit up. Sit
"What's he trying to do. What is it my lamb?"
"Sit up. He wants to sit up. It that it? Do you want to sit up?"
"He's going to be all right! He understands us."
"You can't sit yet. You've been very ill. I'll give you another
Better! Need to talk. Do a mime of someone writing. There! Got
it first time. Someone gives me a clipboard with paper on it.
Can't tell if I'm handed a pen or pencil. It's hexagonal in cross
section. Must be a pen. A Bic. Yes. I can feel the air hole half
way down its length. Can't see well enough to write. My eyes were
never as bad as this before? Don't need to see to write stuff
down. Knew my talent of being able to write without looking would
come in handy. I bet they're impressed! No one knew I could do
it. Wonder if I'll be able to do it when I'm awake? Do you want
to know what I wrote?
"Sorry pet. They're at home. I'll get them brought in later."
Pet? Pet? We're not Geordies! We're Scottish. Who said that?
"You can't have a drink yet darling. You've had an operation."
What the hell has that got to do with anything? Then I
remembered. I'm in hospital. They wouldn't let me drink after I'd
got my adenoids out. Go back to sleep. Sleep it off. Nothing
My vision clears a bit. Can see my mother and father smiling at
me. Mum is stroking my arm. Don't! You're annoying me! Three
other people are smiling excitedly. They look like doctors and
nurses. Everybody looks daft. Grinning like Cheshire cats. I
"They're at home. Try to understand Bryan. They're at home pet.
Bring them to you later."
Stop calling me pet! I need my glasses!
Again...Blackness. No dreaming. Long time...
...Where's my glasses?
I think that is enough stuff about the hospital for the time
being. If you've ever read "Love, Death And An American Car" you
now know where the scene near the end came from.
It is often said that a writer can't really write with passion
until he has truly experienced misery. This isn't exactly true,
but there is some truth in it. I went into quite a lot of detail
about things leading up to the hospital because they have
effected me profoundly ever since. It's a case of when you have
been near death, you become closer to life. I see things more
clearly now and as a result I am able to write GOOD stories where
before there was only a load of crap. My experience near death
has heightened my awareness of life. I was in intensive case for
four or five days.
I don't remember it very clearly for I was doped up on strong
drugs. I had quite a few nasty hallucinations which I don't want
to talk about and one very embarrassing incident which I will
One night I was telling the nurse about how this was all a dream
and that I could prove it 'cause mirrors didn't work in dreams.
The nurse got me a mirror to prove that it wasn't a dream. I then
asked if it was okay if I could touch the nurse on the face just
to double check that it really wasn't dream. I ran my fingers
over her cheek and told her that it couldn't have been a dream
after all because I could never have dreamt up someone as lovely
as her. I've never in my life said anything like that to anybody
ever. You - dear reader - may now go off and find a bucket to
throw up into!
After a few days, I was moved out and into a high risk ward. Two
more weeks went by. I spent that Christmas in that ward. My
parents got me an IBM printer. A few days later and I was allowed
home. I couldn't try out the printer because I was too weak to
sit at the Atari. Eight days later and I was rushed back into
hospital again. It was two and a half weeks before I was allowed
out again. This time I stayed out and finally managed to use the
printer a few weeks later when I was strong enough to sit at the
During the next two months I used my time to write about 15,000
words of "The Thirteenth One" (one of my other Christmas presents
had been "Protext"). For most of the time to learn to code with a
version of "GfA Basic" that had been given away free with "ST
Format" magazine. I had been dying to get out of hospital to try
coding in GfA.
Eventually I got back to work. Months later and I was allowed to
borrow one of the PCs which would be spare for a few weeks
because the place was shut for two weeks for the Glasgow fair. I
came across an old notebook which I'd lost nearly seven years
previously. In it were a few lines that I wrote down as memory
joggers for a, science fiction, bar room tale. Over the next 3
days I wrote the first of what was to be come my Tavern At The
Edge Of Nowhere tales. The story was called "A Killing Time". I
re-wrote it several times over the rest of the Fair Fortnight.
By this time I was interested in the ST disk magazine scene.
This was the result of the Lost Boys magazines. Technically the
coding in their magazines was impressive. Some of the articles
were good, but most were written by young people who used too
much bad language and had no writing skills at all. I was
interested in coding my own magazine and wrote to the editor for
advice. He never wrote back.
The next disk magazines that I started to read were by the
Untouchables. Again, there was a lot of good articles and demos,
but there was also a lot of badly written rubbish too. I wrote to
the editor Mat Sullivan on several occasions and received replies
from them. According to Mat, it appeared that getting articles
for any disk based magazine was like pulling teeth.
The next disk magazine was something by Jason Reucassel called
"Disk Space". It wasn't particularly much better that the other
magazine, but the articles were of a higher quality and there was
a fiction section edited by a professional called Paul Bocij. It
was also a swearing free zone. I've got nothing against swearing
(my unfinished novel "Herman" was peppered thickly with
expletives). When a magazine allows strong language on a regular
basis, they seem to get plagued by hundreds of teenagers who
having got a word processor free with their machines have to
write comedy sketches composed of nothing other than strings of
swear words without structuring of any kind.
"Disk Space" didn't have that problem because it was an anti
swearing zone. In the first issue there was a competition to
write an article. I entered my tale from the Tavern At The Edge
Of Nowhere and won the competition. I got a nice book on coding
in "GfA Basic" for my trouble. I wrote to Jason quite a few
times. The first time he was slow in getting back to me because
he was in the process of moving house.
Paul Bocij wrote to me and asked if I would consider writing
something for another magazine that he was working on. He had
taken his time in replying because he too was in the process of
moving house. I said yes and spent the next three weeks working
on "Love, Death And An American Car". I sent it to the other
magazine and the editor loved it so much that we worked on a
collaboration together called "The Monsters". The magazine was
better than any other I had yet seen because it was very
professionally done. The magazine was called "STUNN!". The editor
was Dave Burns. He was in the process of moving house (????).
A few months later and I managed to buy a second-hand XT PC
I came across two other very good ST magazines shortly after
joining "STUNN!" One was by Dave Mooney. It was called "STEN".
The other was by virus killer extraordinare Richard Karsmakers.
It was called, of course, "ST NEWS". I had put the word about
that I was starting my own magazine called "WAY STATION" and they
were the only two to reply. One of the other trainees at the
training centre was a "STOS" coder called Colin Watt from the
group ACO. He was going to code the magazine shell for me. One of
the things Richard Karsmakers had said in one of his letters was
that he would be interested in hearing my experiences from the
time when I was ill, so you could always blame him for this
During the next few months I started to use the ST less and less
and the PC more and more. It was time to sell up everything
except the printer and use the money to build a 386 PC. And so it
was that I left the ST magazine scene. I scrapped the "WAY
STATION" idea and Colin Watt went off to code his "STOS"
He's just had a "STOS" extension published in "ST Format".
I received a letter from Paul Bocij. He was selling up and was
buying a 386 PC. I received a letter from Dave Burns. He was
buying a 386 and keeping his ST! It looked like I wouldn't get
away from "STUNN" that easily!
In February of this year (1992) I met a very lovely woman at
work who asked me out. In either May or June I got the PC finally
built. I coded the new "STUNN" shell in "Turbo Pascal" for the
PC. Over the next few months I began to write less and less. The
reason being, I was in love with that woman from work - still am.
Two weeks ago I started a day release course which was an HNC in
computing. My lovely girlfriend shortly leaves the training
centre to do an HNC in business admin. Its been seven months now,
so I guess I've nearly kept the promise that I sort of made to
myself on my death bed nearly two years ago. I don't have a wife,
but I've got the love of a good woman and if things stay this
good who knows....
So what is the dying Love? Why life of course! We all love being
alive when things are going right, but even when life is good we
are all still dying a little each day. Nobody gets out of here
alive. Take life easy. Enjoy it. Love your life even although you
begin to die from the moment you're born. The best that can
happen to us is that we are allowed to continue living a dying
The only alternative isn't worth worrying about.
A week ago I had a phone call from someone I had never met
before though I had been writing to him for well over a year.
"Are you still writing these days Bryan?" he asked.
"Yup. There's a new Tavern tale under way. Did you use the last
one that I sent you?" I asked.
"Yeah, it was great though it doesn't beat my favourite."
"Which one was that?"
"The one about the head."
"Love, Death And An American Car?"
"That's the one!"
It was Dave Burns. And then a week later, I wrote this.
(c) Bryan H. Joyce 6/Sep/92
Two days later, I sent the above memoir off to Dave Burns. I
would wait two or three weeks and then send Richard Karsmakers a
...well I'm afraid that is just about all for now. I haven't the
time to write much this time as I've a lot of letters to write.
The reason for this is because I got back with my girl friend
just over two months ago. I've been too busy being romantic to
write any letters or fiction for a while....
(except from a letter to Richard Karsmakers)
In the mean time, I decided to send my woman a print out of the
text. See what she thought about it. Was it interesting or had I
gone over the top?
...great to hear that your back with your girlfriend. In my
view, the only valid excuse for delays and generally being a bit
slow on the correspondence side is 'having been a bit romantic
with your regained girl'. It's these kind of thoughts that get me
all inspired to write love stories....
(except from a letter from Richard Karsmakers)
I had not seen my lady for a few weeks. I realised that she had
been avoiding me and decided to phone and voice my fears.
"Things ain't working," she said.
"I thought they were," I said.
"Things were better when we were just friends," she said.
"No they weren't," I said.
"We can still be friends," she said.
"No we can't," I said.
Small feminine upset noises.
"I mean, how CAN we be friends? We no longer work at the same
place and we live in different towns. How can we be friend if we
never see each other ever?
She seemed to accept this. There was a long silence.
"I sent you something today. A copy of a sort of autobiography
that I wrote for someone. I've already sent them a copy. I
thought you might want to read it. Now I think you should tear it
up when you get it," I said.
"I wouldn't do that," she said.
"You've misunderstood. I'm not being bitter. Its just that you
might find it upsetting after what's happened," I said.
"I want to read it. I've kept all your stories," she said.
"Maybe one day I'll get a book published and you can show folk
those stories and be proud to have known me," I said.
"I will and I'm sure you will be famous someday," she said.
"Thanks," I said.
We talked on the phone, in sad tones, for a while longer and
then said goodbye.
(C) Bryan H.Joyce 1/Oct/92
This work is dedicated to the following people for being
instrumental in the restructuring of my life. They each in their
own unknowing way played important parts in it.
Paul Boicj - Encouragement and advise.
Dave Burns - Encouragement and bullying.
Richard Karsmakers - Encouragement, encouragement &
David Birch - - For being my life long companion who
lives over 300 miles away and taught me
to swear, drink and think rudely about
woman (though I think that I would have
managed that anyway).
Fiona Hope - For looking (for a while) like the one I
was looking for. God bless you little
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