Monday, 21 June 2010

No Title

Thanks for all the kind words. I'd like to shut the blog with this...

Come home safe Lads... CSR

The Last Post

An irony in the title that isn't lost on me.

I won't be blogging or Tweeting as CSR anymore... I'll continue writing - I've got a book inside my head I think some folk might like to read.

I need to spend more than my money fighting to see my Son, I need to spend my time. Every last spare minute of it. I've enjoyed writing this blog, although it has at times been painful.

I have no wish to rant online and offend people - or give them a view of me that is tainted by my anger, so I'm calling it a day.

For those that have stopped by 'Thank You' even if so few of you left any comments! Just for the record... My name ain't CSR. It's Ray.. and I carried a rifle once. Take care all. CSR

 Cold Steel Rain

Thursday, 17 June 2010

Back Home

The killing stopped 10 years ago. I am stood in a shabby office, a kid in a suit speaks with me. 'You've filled the forms out wrong mate' He is maybe 19 - I see yellow and brown suits, flashes in the night sky. 'We can't pay you anything'

I walk away from the Dole office with no money. I haven't eaten for four days. Mum gives me 30 quid for food. So I take it to a bar and order a Pint and a Chaser. Biting down hard as my empty stomach objects to the Whisky I pour into it. The bile stings my throat - So I light a cigarette.

I haven't shaved since I last ate. My face is sunken and hollow. Fingers yellow. I order another round for myself and stare at a girl feeding the jukebox. She is laughing and dancing. I see White teeth flash out from burnt lips and the steel floor of a helicopter.

'What you fucking looking at?' The words slammed out with venom. A young man is standing in front of me. I focus on him now. Adrenaline surges. Voices scream 'Gas Gas Gas' My heart pounds. I go back to my drink and light another cigarette with the butt of my last one.

'Don't fucking ignore me cunt' The young man is breathing shallow. Eyes wide. 'Go home' I say. The words barely a whisper from my aching throat. He jabs a hand into my chest. I see a glass in his other. The fear erupts. Deep inside my head there is a fracture. Screaming. Blood. I am stood between two worlds.

'Fucks sake mate' A frightened man has his hands raised, the bleeding man on the floor is coughing and sobbing. I order a drink. The barmaid stares in silence so I pour it myself.

The Police stand either side of me. I am arrested. The cell walls close in as the war pours out. Doctors arrive. I am naked and screaming. Inside my mind I try to stem the memories, like a child protecting his sand castle against the tide. Mum sits at the end of my Hospital bed. She is crying. Dad holds her hand as I stare at the wall. I close my eyes and the dead wave at me.

Me and the Boy

Anyone who's read this blog will know I've been to war. I carried a rifle for my Country - I took part in a brutality I struggle to articulate. I watched mates get hurt. A friend of mine paid for the conflict with his life.

The war left me with PTSD. I don't sleep well, have bad dreams dwell on bad things. I signed on the line - I took the shilling, so I don't want sympathy, compensation or chocolate biscuits. What I do want is Parental Responsibility over my Son.

I'm an unmarried Father - Because my boy was born before December 2003 I have the same rights as you do regarding my Son. None. I spilt blood and tears fighting to give others equality and rights. To find I don't enjoy these benefits with regard to my lad angers me. It angers me a lot.

I can get PR - but it will cost. I will have to line a Lawyers pockets and bare my soul to a Judge (who may not like what he sees)

I'm not asking for the world. I just want a say in my Sons life. I stood in the line when my Country asked. Now I'm asking my Country to help me and it won't cost a penny - not even a Shilling...


The guns have stopped firing - the dead lie still and desert dogs gorge themselves. We climb into destroyed enemy tanks - looting souvenirs of war. Enemy Fox-holes are cleaned out and photographs capture our happy living faces.

The land is burning, black smoke hangs in the air as fires rage unchecked. Tracer fire and flares compete with each other as Britains children celebrate victory by firing into the sky.

We leave the desert behind us and return to the world. I sit and stare at a Cheeseburger. Dead flesh that once lived. Next to me a Man complains his dead flesh is cold. I explode into rage. I hear muttering as I leave. 'Fucking weirdo' 'Prick' The words mean nothing to me.

I can't sleep in the soft bed next to my girl. I lie awake and pull away as she tries to touch me. Mum won't leave me alone, she keeps hugging me and kissing my forehead. Dad stands next to me as I smoke endless cigarettes.

I sit in the corner of a pub, no one speaks to me. I smoke and drink, looking in from the outside. I miss the war so very much. I am unarmed and alone. I smoke and drink some more.

Dead soldiers stand in the room. They don't speak to me. They point accusing fingers. 'Leave me alone' I whisper the words. They move closer. Dead flesh that was once living. The guns have stopped firing...

Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Come into my Web

My friend grins at me as he pokes his rifle into my chest. 'Squeeze one out?' He asks. I nod in reply - it's become a tradition. Shitting alone is boring.

We walk to the wooden boxes with holes cut out. The glory of war is but a distant memory as I sit in the burning heat, trousers around my ankles and flies on my arse.

I ask Gus about the Falklands. He fought there on Mount Longdon as an 18 year old. He says little so I give up. A soldier walks toward the makeshift desert toilets. 'Follow my lead' Gus says.

In front of us are Pissing Tubes. Sticking out of the ground at 45 degree angles. The soldier unzips his trousers. 'I wouldn't do that if I was you mate' Gus says the words with feigned concern.'Why not?' The now confused teenager ask, pausing for the answer.

'Some lad in Seven Brigade mate - Spider bit his cock. He's in a bad way' Gus glares at me as I suppress my laughter. The soldier steps back and peers into the black funnel. 'Serious?' He asks. I nod sagely, biting my tongue 'Yeah man, fangs like Seven Six Two rounds I heard' 'Fuck that' he replies and pisses on the floor.

I laugh until tears stream down my face when the frightened soldier leaves. We finish up - wipe and chuckle. Then go back to the war. The next morning the Seven Brigade soldier has died. His cock fell off. His face turned green and boils grew on his eyes. Rumour Control has spoken and the war has the day off.

Tuesday, 15 June 2010

Blood on a Sunday

Just to keep things in perspective...

In 1971 Sergeant Michael Willetts of 3 PARA cleared a room in Springfield Road RUC Police Station of civilians because a bomb with a short burning fuse had been planted by the Provisional IRA. After the room had been cleared, Sgt Willetts then slammed the door to the room which contained the bomb, but realising the door was not strong enough to absorb the blast, he pressed his body against the door, shielding the people on the other side. The charge exploded, and he was killed instantly.

Harvey Andrews wrote a song about it...