My father is a famous writer

He belonged to what was termed

The Kitchen Sink School

I have always admired his work

Like many he came to London

From a decaying northern city

And exchanged his vacancy

For another vacancy

This was long before I was born

We watched a newsreel recently

Which dealt with a series of horrific murders

In the Hammersmith area in the sixties

It was filmed in black and white

Which added to greyness of the era

And clearly showed those without hope

People who had gravitated towards London

In hope of bettering themselves but failed

This was one of the reasons my parents moved south

My father was and still is very talented

And this enabled him to swim above the gutter

But not everyone was as lucky

Many ended up on the streets or in festering sores

Provincial girls ended up in dirty rooms

Just to make ends meet and put food on the table

Family men became their clients

Before drowning in bottles or choking on fags

There was no colour everything was bleak

Even now my father has a dislike of homosexuals and blacks

This hatred had its roots in these years

As he was very aware of the toxic mix

I share his views although I have not really experienced them

Sad girls do not walk the streets and young boys are no longer targeted

Things are said to have improved and technically they probably have

Life is easier as there is more choice but the toxic underbelly still exists

In certain ways I have been more successful than my father

Although I do not accept this as our pens are totally different

Anni and I live in a degree of comfort in rural Oxfordshire

Not far from where my parents still live

We have kept our heads above water

I am writing a book about the second civil war

Which I believe is not far away as the country is very angry

Although this has always been a million miles away from my farm

There are no blacks to speak of and homosexuals and other perverts

Are so well hidden as to be almost invisible to decent people

My book is to be called Death List and is a fictional account

About the trial and execution of those considered traitors

From the Prime Minister downwards

There are no heroes in my new book

Just honest and decent men who just have had enough

In my father’s books his heroes are the Terry’s and Rodger’s

Who rebel against the system but are slowly crushed

That is why my books are so different from my father’s work

As all my characters are holding guns