Shot and wounded, blown up badly- TWICE- and here he is to tell the tale

His CV reads like one of a fictitious super hero from the realms of fantasy and fiction, yet “Simon Chambers” is the real deal (albeit with a fake name), and he has the credentials to prove it. As a former paratrooper, Chambers was trained and ready to form the spearhead for the Army’s rapid intervention capability; soon progressing to the first battalion as part of the Special Forces Support Group (SFSG). The years that followed cut similar paths in various other army roles, among which Chambers was only marginally slowed in pace by a particularly bad Parachuting accident while jumping as part of the Royal Corps of Transports Parachute Display team- The Silver Stars.

Yet even once he was discharged from the forces following 22 years’ service, he almost immediately found himself volunteering for a further 6 months in Bosnia.

This is a man who sought (and still does seek) to survive on the near constant presence of adrenalin pulsing through his veins, so it should be of no surprise that when he eventually became too old to soldier in the British Army, there wasn’t a very long list of civilian jobs to match such a colourful work history. But there were Private Security companies. Having attended a close protection course, it wasn’t long before Chambers was offered a job with one of America’s top close protection companies. This was the just the beginning of another 7 years of putting his life on the line but this time, as a hired gun for some of Iraq’s biggest named security companies – Blackwater, Erinys, Aegis and EODT- after he was first positioned there as part of Paul Bremmer’s Bodyguard team. As might be expected when living life on the edge, Chambers came close to losing his balance. During that time he was shot and wounded- twice -and blown up- twice. And yet he has survived such perils.

The man himself will be speaking at Cowes Enterprise College on Friday 17th October, with invites to other island secondary schools. He has recently written his second novel “The Devil’s Playground”, which is about his adventures and published by Percy Publishing. Simon is still active in the field and therefore no pictures or videos are to be taken. Unless your in the audience, his face will remain a mystery.

They told her to write about Deptford… A taster of Bridget Minamore’s poetry

Bridget Minamore, ladies and gentlemen!

For a young woman in her 20s, Bridget Minamore has already achieved what many could only wish to in a lifetime.  She is a writer who has just completed an English degree at University College London. She facilitates poetry workshops, writes and performs things for all sorts of people, and was shortlisted to be London’s first Young Poet Laureate. The Guardian, The Independent and The Huffington Post have been keen supporters of Bridget’s work, with its broad scope and diverse topics. Recently, Bridget has been writing about about hip hop, climate change, her 97-year-old grandmother, football, London, Ghana and teeth. She reads a lot of books and has just got back from travelling in South America in time to be joining us at Cowes Enterprise College on Friday 17th October. Here’s a little taster of Bridget’s work, but there are many more poems, pictures and videos of her work on her website.

They Told Me To Write About Deptford            

We hold pride in our homes in the base of our throats

like the last gasp bastion of breath your niece made

before each and every feeding –

it’s a greedy way of living only babies understand.

 

You are greedy so you left.

 

You are elsewhere now,

pretending that new home is your home,

that Eastern corner of the city claims you now, they say,

you love it there, they say, and you say

kind of / yes but no / you’re wrong,

I love it there but it’s not home, and

anger, suddenly becomes irrationally easier for you to hold.

 

You are protective of this place, so you fight back with facts like

– the canals in East London aren’t even all that, and

– it’s not rough here it’s eclectic, and

– no-one even likes the underground, and

– I prefer the smell of weed and not shisha in the streets, and

– in Deptford there are 4 night busses from central London

so the one night bus to Hackney Wick just isn’t cutting it, plus

the 8 drops me off on the wrong side of the Stadium anyway.

 

You are protective of this place.

 

South East London is your awkward cousin, the men you love,

Ghanaian food, Chelsea football club, Beyoncé –

someone, something,

only you can say bad things about.

 

– and you are here now;

showing others market stalls with clip on earrings,

because home apparently never changes and never ages

and always leaves imprints behind

 

you show them the door to the shed at your old hairdresser’s house

you hid behind because the she told the tax man she was unemployed

 

you show them the empty space left for the man with the pincers for fingers

who always put extra onions on your burgers before he died

 

you show them the remnants of the cafe round the corner

with a train for a seating area that they, They, are trying to take away

 

the station that has never really felt like a station

because it still doesn’t have proper barriers

 

your dad’s old cab office

 

the place that’s the base of the Save Lewisham Hospital campaign

 

the pub that has the same football supporters every Sunday in the season

so you dare not mention Arsenal here

 

the plantain that is always 6 for a pound not 5

because if Abdul tried to raise the price

Marcia and Afua and Roland would tell him

he was trying to end their lives

 

and the university you nearly went to but avoided

because everyone told you to spread your wings and

fly a bit further from home

 

you tell them to be wary of the wha gwan’s in the street

because here wha gwarn does not mean what’s going on

it means when and where are we going to meet

 

you tell them of the way your mother speaks differently here

as if she can tell the darker faces from closer lands

will still always understand her better than you can

 

you tell them of rumours of So Solid Crew sightings

that stretched from New Cross to Peckham in the early 2000s

 

but you decline to remind them of the bridge

that visitors always describe as having water running under it

because they never see this part of the city clearly

 

You are protective of this place,

This awkward blue Ghanaian Beyoncé on the wrong side of the river.

 

You are here now.

But you are greedy.

So you left.

 

– and every time you come back you are reminded

of the wet, running water under the bridge that doesn’t exist,

and the reasons your Dad left that cab office,

and the pulled taught forehead that would follow a too tight braiding trip to Jessie’s house,

and the theatre you didn’t know existed until you were old enough to miss it,

and the Jollof rice and chicken wings you always get from the Nigerian man

at the base of the market that is never as nice as it first seems,

 

 but you are greedy,

 

 and so always

 

 keep on eating it.