Dozy Writes

I’ve got something a little different for you this week – today’s post is all about biographies. 

Biographies are fascinating pieces to write as they give me the chance to connect with people and learn all about their lives. I am a naturally curious person so I love to hear about people’s backgrounds.

Many people might think that they haven’t led exciting lives or doubt that they have achieved anything worthy of writing a book about but I disagree. Every person I meet has an interesting story even if they haven’t realised it.

As Mark Twain once said:

‘Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.’

t’s so true. Many of us have had unusual or sometimes absurd experiences that we would laugh about if we saw them in a film, not believing them to be feasible but our history is proof that they can happen in real life.

So if you’ve ever fancied writing about your absurd experiences but are worried that you aren’t famous enough, I would encourage you to stop worrying and just go for it. 

Whether you choose to write down just a few lines or turn it into a big book, it is an incredible process to go through. Looking back on how you have overcome life’s challenges and obstacles can give you an appreciation of your strength which is easy to lose sight of. It can also be cathartic to take a step back and look at your experiences from the outside, allowing you to view your life with a new perspective.

And let’s not forget that it’s also an incredible gift to leave for future generations who will be fascinated by how you lived your life and eager to hear any pearls of wisdom that you wish to pass on.

If you’re a bit daunted by the idea of writing your own life story and are interested in finding out more about having it written for you, visit my biography writing service page where you’ll find lots of helpful information.

In the meantime, I have provided two extracts of biographies I have written. The first extract is written in the first person which can convey a more intimate and conversational tone, a little bit like being drawn into a huddle to hear a story.

The second extract is written in the third person which allows a story to be narrated impartially with direct quotes added from the subject. 

Although there are differences in each style, it is important that they each allow the personality and voice of the subject to shine through.

Some details have been changed to maintain anonymity. 

–ooo–

Biography written in the first person

In the words of the Rolling Stones: 

‘Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste…’ 

Not true actually. I am female for a start, I have never been wealthy and, as you’ll soon find out, I am seriously lacking in the taste department.

I was born at the arse-end of 1976. Yes, that was the year with the glorious summer that my poor mother struggled through whilst accommodating me in her generous womb. Due on Hogmanay, I arrived 15 days early seemingly in a rush to see the world, a pattern that would continue throughout my life.

There were great celebrations the night I was born, the family had gathered for Sunday dinner which was still very much a formal tradition at that time. I upset this arrangement by popping into the world earlier than expected but, not to worry, for my auntie’s house was full of booze bought in especially for Hogmanay. Those were the days when Hogmanay was still a festival to celebrate rather than the pitiful carcass it is now.  So suffice to say that many drinks were taken to celebrate the birth of a first granddaughter and niece. 

The celebrations culminated in my uncle spewing in the bath after too much of the old cratur (whisky) and losing his false teeth in the process. This was an event that had occurred so many times that the poor man ended up spending a fortune on false teeth.

So I arrived, a sensible weight of 6lb 6oz – put another 6 on that figure and it could be ominous. Two years after my arrival, my brother came along and completed the family unit.  

Growing up in a council house we had a relatively normal life and a fairly idyllic childhood. I know this is unusual and perhaps you might be expecting, or even wanting me to tell you of all the ghastly things that I went through as a child but I can’t yet satisfy your thirst for horror. Besides, the market is overrun with stories of folk who had a terrible childhood. You won’t find any tales of murders or children getting beaten up by nuns here – there wasn’t a nun in sight during my formative years as my family was strictly Presbyterian. 

I think the most abusive thing my parents ever did to us was to make us watch ‘The Beechgrove Garden’.  To those of you unfamiliar with this TV programme, allow me to explain. Think Alan Titchmarsh or Monty Don but in the north of Scotland. On a regional channel. Ah the good old days of Grampian Television with a tuppenny budget. 

Jim McColl was the star of the show and my brother and I got the chance to meet him at the Glasgow Garden festival in 1988. The meeting naturally took place in a greenhouse and I even got his autograph although, being the careless fool that I am, I subsequently lost it. 

You may have realised by now that my parents were gardening enthusiasts and that, my friend, is where the real abuse lay. Forced to watch gardening programmes, attend garden festivals and visit the myriad garden centres that litter the Highlands of Scotland. 

Gardening was our faith, and the local garden centre, the church that we attended enthusiastically every Sabbath. 

It started, as all addictions do, on a small scale.  Whilst living in our terraced council house we only went out for border plants, the odd trowel or hoe. 

The real malady started when we moved to the country. Suddenly we had a newly built detached house with garden ground on all perimeters. We had to fill this dreary wasteland with colour, texture and shape.  Bring on the shrubs, the garden ornaments and shingle. Add in some paving slabs, sheds (plural), a tractor mower and sod it, let’s plant some more trees. The birch trees already in residence had to accept some new neighbours and were soon surrounded by eucalyptus trees, conifers and even a weeping willow. 

So enthused were we that my brother and I created our own gardening programme entitled ‘The Woodlands Garden’. Did you see what we did there? ‘Woodlands’ was our house name and we cunningly substituted it in homage to our favourite programme. 

Each episode of ‘The Woodlands Garden’ began with me introducing my brother and I to the audience – we sadly never had any humans watching this gem of a show. Instead, our audience mainly comprised the odd bird, an occasional red squirrel and Gingie the cat. 

Following the introduction, I would talk about the quality of the soil whilst running it through my fingers – I had seen Carole Baxter from Beechgrove do that and had a strange fascination with this motion. My brother would then talk about the trees as he had a better memory for that type of thing and he would then take note of the types of birds frequenting the garden – he was a budding ornithologist.

The programme would end with us giving a sneak preview of what would be happening in the show next week – invariably the same thing that had happened on the current show – before we would enthusiastically wave goodbye. 

This game kept us amused for hours and was one of the many ways we found to pass the time living in an area with hardly any neighbours.

–ooo–

Biography written in the third person

Andy recalls that throughout their time living in Castle Road, the family didn’t have a car. His father, William, drove lorries for work but having their own car was a luxury that they couldn’t afford. 

The family wasn’t completely without transport as William had a BSA Bantam motorbike which he mostly used for running back and forth to work, with perhaps an occasional trip further afield.

The BSA Bantam motorcycles were first introduced in 1948 and have been described as a cheap post-war bike for the masses. They were durable, could run at 50mph, had good brakes and were comfortable. All desirable qualities in what was still a relatively early time for motorised vehicles. 

Andy was fascinated by his father’s motorbike, most likely influenced by the sense of excitement, danger and adventure that seems to surround motorbikes. It wasn’t long before his fascination got him into trouble.

‘I was mucking about with the motorbike one day and it fell on me and I couldn’t get out from under it.  I don’t remember who helped me get out but it seemed as if I was there for a while. It wasn’t a big bike but I was only a wee boy at the time so I couldn’t lift it.’ 

When asked if his father was angry about it or indeed, knew about it, he smiles wryly. 

‘Oh he knew about it, aye. He never said too much but I’ll tell you what he did. He took the plug lead and he told me to hold it and then he turned the kickstart. There’s a fearful spark that goes through the plug when you do that and on this occasion, it went through me. Jesus! I never touched the thing again. Oh, it had the desired effect. What a rattle I got off it.’ 

When asked how his father found out about his escapade he replies, ‘I never told him but no doubt Mam did.’ 

He’s silent for a while before shaking his head in mild amusement.

‘Aye, that was my experience and I’ve never hung onto a plug lead since except maybe through an insulated pair of pliers!’

Their lodger, Charlie, also had a motorbike, a BSA Gold Flash which was a top of the range bike for the time. He recalls that one day Charlie took him out on the back of the motorbike. Andy laughs when he remembers Charlie’s words:

‘Hold on tight, Andy, we’re going to go fast.”’

And they did. 

Andy remembers it being an exhilarating ride. Of course, taking a small child on the back of a fast motorbike might seem extreme in today’s world but ironically, the accident that involved a trip to the Accident and Emergency department for Andy was a far more pedestrian affair. 

In the early 1950s many shops employed messenger boys to deliver their wares to people’s homes. It was common to see teenage boys hurtling along the streets on pushbikes, the baskets on their handlebars laden with groceries. They were the original Deliveroo riders but without the Hi-Vis vests. 

One day, when Andy was around seven or eight years old, he was walking across the road towards his house but he failed to see the older boy on the messenger bike, travelling at speed towards him. A collision occurred and Andy found himself lying on the road, tangled in the bike. Andy recalls that the messenger boy was ‘fearfully upset’ even though it was an unavoidable accident. 

Andy, meanwhile, felt an excruciating pain when he tried to move his arm and it soon became apparent that he had broken his collarbone and needed to be taken to the local hospital. He can still remember the pain when the nurses tried to pull his jumper up over his head. Fortunately, he didn’t require extensive treatment so he was taped up with bandages and let out the same day. 

Later that day, the messenger boy arrived at the house to check up on Andy, bringing some sweets as an apology for knocking him over. The messenger boy was possibly more upset about the incident than Andy himself.  

It wouldn’t be the last time that Andy saw the inside of an Accident and Emergency department, nor indeed the last time that he broke his collarbone.

–ooo–

Thank you for reading these little snippets. Hopefully they may inspire you to tell your own story!