I was born in The London Hospital, lived on Cable Street, and went to Vallance Road School. Growing up, I felt part of it even as a sick child, in and out of the hospital with asthma and eczema. I felt love and could do no wrong in my Mum’s eyes; she was a dinner lady and cleaner. Dad was a silversmith and an ABA boxing champion, a fact he never spoke about.
I loved my Nan and was drawn to her way of life. Nan drank at the Wentworth Arms in Mile End, behind the station. She weighed 18 stone and had a Guinness harp tattoo on her arm, which was before they were fashionable. I don’t know why a Guinness harp because she was Jewish, I’m of Jewish descent. I’d think about creeping down stairs to get a drink, so at 11 or 12 Years old, I started on alcohol and got bad attention, which I craved and got instantly.
There’s an alley by Whitechapel Station, where Jack the Ripper did one of his murders. My sister, who’s three years older, said not to go down it, so I went down there. I smelled the piss, saw the needles, and the old building where tramps drank. I looked through the corrugated iron and was instantly attracted to their way of life. I followed Danny the tramp, who never used to speak. He wore a huge coat. He turned to me and said: “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I said, “Drink,” he said, “No, ” so I carried on following him. He’d say it again, and I’d say drink; he ended up giving me a drop. Danny lived in a shack in the middle of the Aldgate East one-way system.
I’d drink anything, began fighting at football, becoming a hooligan, and all that sort of stuff, being attracted to sordidness, and the consequences happened straight away. I was emotionally shut down at that age. I wasn’t afraid of getting a beating; as a result, I have a fractured skull, broken jaw, collarbone, dilation of the eyes and prostate problems, which are a result of the aftermath.
I went to prison at 16 years old for assaulting a policeman at Mile End station. I was in the block pretending to be a hardman, and this continued, and I was in and out of prison for four years. At 21, I met a woman. We had Harry, my son; it was tragic stuff, and she was still up to no good. In 1985, I was in Brixton prison, in Fraggle Rock, sedated and being told I’m mad. My mum would visit, she could see no wrong and thought the police picked on me.
I had to see Ron, my probation officer. Ron said, “How do you drink, Harry? Why do you get into trouble, Harry?” I said, “People pick on me” I wasn’t the sort of guy people picked on. Ron said, “Do you want to do something about your drinking, Harry?” I call this, my one second of sanity, I shrugged my shoulders and went “Alwight then” my head said “What did you say that for” Ron called Jeanette, the probation liaison officer for East London A.A. and arranged to meet me. I was living between the hostel and Mum and Dad’s. On November 3rd 1985, I had my first meeting at St. Clement’s Hospital with Jeanette. I’d been to this hospital before to see psychiatrists.
I told her I’d be wearing blue trousers, blue top, blue shoes, clothes my mum bought me. Jeanette pulled up at Mile End station. She shouted, “You, Harry?” I said, “No,” she said, “Yes, you are”. Anyway, I got in her car. The thing is, before going to prison, I tried to break into St Clement’s while out of my head. I remember a security guard on one side of the gate and a police officer on the other. The officer asked the security guard if I was trying to get out. I yelled, “NO”, I’m trying to get in,” and now this is the place of my first meeting. There I met Jessie, my AA godmother, she wore AA knuckledusters, the Serenity Prayer, the triangle, the AA chains, a Glaswegian version of Mr T. She was three years sober. Jessie shared she’s trying not to swear, my paranoia was bad, and I thought she was telling me not to swear, so I came in with all F’s, Cs and B’s, “Shut the F**k up, you C-word”, and we’ve been best friends ever since.
I had a car after a while and gave Jessie lifts home, she always invited me in, I’d say “I gotta go,” that was my favourite saying, I had nowhere to go. She made me come in and eat. When I got up to leave, she pushed me down…she was 53 years old, I was 24, she said: “I know you’re lonely son” she was right, you could hit me with bats and all that, but Jessie got into me…that started my journey in AA.
The cleverness of alcoholism, sophisticated dreams, drinking from a crystal glass, smoking with a 1950s cigarette holder, wearing a cravat, this isn’t my reality, that’s alcoholism… It’s clever—the delusion of those drinking dreams. I’m like other people presently, maybe, had to be smashed. I had the girlfriend, the car, a job, a football team finishing third in the league, a bank account, my first travel card, which I still have. I thought it’d keep me sober, and I drank. I didn’t slip; I had a glass of relapse. I drank, and I still had the mental obsession. On June 27th 1986 (up to today), my last drink by the Grace of God.
Hackney, Lauriston Road, Step and tradition meeting was my first home group. We read the step every week, which helped, as I can’t read or write. I have tapes of the big book and listened to it over and over again. I believe you become a secretary if you’ve done service within that group beforehand. The meeting started at 8 pm. I’d get there for 5 pm, set the room up, make the tea, and put out the literature. I was GSR and attended Intergroup, and I often argued with the Oldtimers, who loved to argue back. The group ended up having a conscious meeting about me being too controlling.
For 15 years, I was the call-out rep for Thursday night. I’d take the 12-step myself and arrange to meet them at Hackney Step two hours early so we could study the book. On Wednesday, I attended Toynbee Hall, where I met the old-timers; it was a bit of an atheist meeting. I remember jumping on the table with the big book in one hand and AA Comes of Age in the other. Bearing in mind I couldn’t read, I said, “It says here only Jesus can save you…” They gave me the body swerve, but people believed in me.
In the December 1985 issue of Share Magazine, there is a story by a member working alone in the Falklands. He wrote about swearing, saying, ” Where do we think people have come from? We get up our backsides sometimes, saying you can’t do this, can’t do that. Terry ‘from Bury’ wrote this. I met Terry at his home in Bury, where a friend, Dave P, took me. I didn’t like him at first. He wore black trousers with white socks. He became my sponsor. He gave himself freely. He didn’t jump up and down. He took me through the book, and I became fanatical. I’m still fanatical about recovery.
Terry would say: “The most important step is the bloody doorstep because if you don’t make the doorstep, you don’t make any step”. He’s right, it takes a lot of courage. Terry passed away in May 2019, and at the request of his family, I helped carry his coffin through Bury town centre, wearing jazzy clothes, with ‘When the Saints Come Marching In’ Played at his request. Terry had a way about him; he could come across as controversial, but I didn’t; he was my cup of tea.
During my fanatical phase, Angie just came back from living in Australia, we were on a bus after a meeting, she said “Harry. you’re at a meeting sounding like a Yorkshireman, like your sponsor, telling people how Jesus can save them”. she said, “Who the F are you Harry?” I said “What?” she said, “I go away and you were a Cockney, I come back, you’re a Yorkshireman with a huge cross around your neck” in my head I said she’s not very well…I got home and told my girlfriend, I saw Angie. ” How is she?” said…I said, “She’s not very well,” my girlfriend responded, “You’re not very Effing well”
I’ve sponsored since I was a year sober; they come to mine, have something to eat. If I think someone is straying off, I tell them they need to get up to anti. I think it’s sad when someone drinks, and for us to drink is to die. When sponsoring, I don’t ram God down their throat, as long as they’re searching for something, and don’t think they’re God. How someone gets their higher power is personal. I remember going to the Akron meeting in Tottenham Court Road. They finished with the Lord’s Prayer, so I just learnt the Serenity Prayer and stood on a chair and shouted it out. I’m still defiant. If I don’t like something, I’ll still say. Especially now, if people post Zoom IDs and passwords on an open forum like Facebook, they wonder why we get Zoom-bombed. I was on a Zoom meeting this morning. I whinged about it for a bit. It says in the fourth edition of the big book about the internet, modem to modem.
We opened the first meeting in Bethnal Green 15 years ago (2005), at the 12×12 Wednesday night. We read all the steps/traditions. The Saturday morning meeting opened. It’s nice to see so many young people and how willing they are to serve. A few years later. David P, Audrey, Jacqueline, and I set up the inner area East London intergroup with all the Bethnal Green groups. It was a good idea, I still think it is.
I’ve been doing the countdown at the Cockney convention for about 28 years now. Mike K started it 36 or 37 years ago at East Ham Town Hall. I’ve been going to Dumfries for over 30 years. It’s like a pilgrimage, seeing the old members turn up for the early birds; they travel the length of the country for this. 13 years ago, I was asked to be on the committee, which is a privilege.
If I hadn’t gone through the 12 Steps and the traditions, I wouldn’t be alive. I’d never get to this stage of not wanting to drink. Life happens. We’re currently in Victoria Park; my mum’s ashes are in the pond; she passed away a couple of years ago. There’ve been times I thought of drinking through emotional pain. I have a recovery song, Foreigner, in my life; there has been heartache and pain. After seven years together, my girlfriend and I split up. I was bringing home street drunks, feeding them, getting them in the bath, going to every 12-step call, conventions everywhere. She tried to help me with all that, and you know what, we’re friends today.
When I first read, Fear would only sober me for a bit, but it didn’t go far enough. Through getting some faith, I would not drink now if I could. It’s part of my life, and it has set me free. When the rave scene came out in 1988, I learnt to dance in recovery. Taking my son on holiday and teaching him to play pool, he became the South East Pontins pool champion, I was the South-East Pontins disco champion, that isn’t bad for someone who was wrapped up in themselves. I’m my nephew’s Godfather, I live in a block of flats, and my neighbours feed me, especially during Eid. I can be part of life, I don’t take myself seriously, but recovery I do, it has set me free.
Below is the Share Magazine article from December 1985 by Terry.
Dear Sharers,
My name is Terry, and I am an alcoholic.
It is 5.40, 4 October and I am working in
The Falkland’s Isles and have just read the
Letter about swearing in meetings. Well, I
Wish after 11 months of being a loner here,
After nine years in AA that there was
Someone to share a meeting with me here.
Never mind swearing in Meetings – AA
Must always be inclusive, never exclusive,
And the best shared experience I heard on
Swearing was at Dumfries, when the
Chairperson said he believed that swearing
Was the last crutch we lose, that’s if you
Swear.
AA is about saving lives and love, com-
Passion and charity to encourage sick
People to come back. I’ve never seen people
Who swear and give themselves to AA
100%. And eventually the swearing dis-
Appears. It is not always a matter of
Considering other people’s feelings as
Chapter Five says. There are some people
With grave emotional problems but they
Do recover if they have the capacity to be
Honest.
Love is the name of the game. Thank
God I was loved when I came to AA by
AA members. With all my wants, and I
Still have many, I must always remember
The preamble – No controversy at any
Level, as in the Big Book, if we don’t all
Hand in together we will hang alone.
Love and best wishes
Terry.
We did this June 2020 in Victoria Park
East London Archives of Alcoholics Anonymous. 