Posts by Duncan

12

The axe falls...

by Abaddon in

jw
friends

... hi ho hi ho, it's not off to work we go.... well, i am redundant, or will be as of end april, when the two factories of my company shut-down and approx.

500 people get made redundant.. nil desperandum and all that... i don't see this as a disaster... if it had been announced in a month i would probably have just signed mortgage papers, and that, whilst still not a disaster would be a tad inconvenient!.

gizza job?.

Duncan

okay thats "Abaddon"

this new pesky "no-going-back-to-edit" feature is a drag.

Duncan.

12

The axe falls...

by Abaddon in

jw
friends

... hi ho hi ho, it's not off to work we go.... well, i am redundant, or will be as of end april, when the two factories of my company shut-down and approx.

500 people get made redundant.. nil desperandum and all that... i don't see this as a disaster... if it had been announced in a month i would probably have just signed mortgage papers, and that, whilst still not a disaster would be a tad inconvenient!.

gizza job?.

Duncan

Bad luck Abbadon

I've certainly been there, too. These days companies are constantly acquiring and merging all over the place, and you can be left without a job so fast it makes your head spin.

I'm sure you'll get a happy ending.

all the best,

Duncan.

1

The Forgetter (Complete fluff)

by Duncan in

jw
friends

another walk down memory lane.... when i was seven or eight years old, i had this most fantastic idea.

this idea was going to bring me fame and fortune.

what i was going to do was invent this marvellous machine it was called the forgetter - which would have the power to make people, the whole world in fact, forget all about certain things.. my idea was that i was going to set my machines controls so that when it was turned on, everyone would instantly forgot all about a particular pop song, which i would then go around taking the credit for having written.. it was a perfect plan.

Duncan

Another walk down memory lane...

When I was seven or eight years old, I had this most fantastic idea. This idea was going to bring me fame and fortune. What I was going to do was invent this marvellous machine – it was called “the Forgetter” - which would have the power to make people, the whole world in fact, forget all about certain things.

My idea was that I was going to set my machine’s controls so that when it was turned on, everyone would instantly forgot all about a particular pop song, which I would then go around taking the credit for having written.

It was a perfect plan. I would be on the telly, I’d be world-famous. I would be a Pop Star!

I chose my song carefully, it was the Best Pop Song In The World, at the time: The Beatles “Can’t Buy Me Love”.

I took the precaution of writing the words – as much of them as I knew anyway - down on a piece of paper, but I was pretty sure that this was probably unnecessary, since I, as the machines inventor, would undoubtedly be immune to its effect. But I was taking no chances.

I even found a nice square silvery-coloured tin, which looked perfect for the purpose. Nice and machiney-looking, all it needed was some buttons and controls on the lid and some “electric stuff” to put inside.

I made some drawings of what The Forgetter would look like when it was finished, and I showed my younger brother and told him that we were all going to be rich.

I think I got as far as putting the words to Cant Buy Me Love inside the tin, but my inventing powers never seemed quite successful enough, and it might surprise you to hear that I never got around to finishing that machine.

Paul McCartney doesn’t know how lucky he is. I came close to stealing away his entire career.

Or …maybe…

…is it possible that he just beat me in finishing The Forgetter before I could, and HE took all the credit for MY songs?

I guess we’ll never know.

Duncan.

Listen, I know this post is just pure unashamed fluff, but I heard the song yesterday on the radio while driving to work, and it all came back to me; it made me smile, so I thought I’d share. There’s not even a Witness angle to it.

11

PART ONETHE STORY OF ZEV***

by zev in

with all the stories coming out on the board, which i know gwen and i greatly enjoyed reading them, prompted me a few weeks ago to start my own.

this is part one, and thanks to amazing, duncan and hillary for their inspirations and getting me motivated.. cheers!.

part one...the early years.. this will be a work in progress folks.. as i write ill post the parts.

Duncan

Hey Zev,

I'm enjoying this too.

I agree with you:

Writing and telling your story helps others see that they aren’t alone in their struggles and feelings

Looking forward to the next part.

Duncan.

12

Hillary 4: A reunion. Ding Dong!

by Duncan in

ding dong!.

doorbell, daddy!.

yes, im getting it.. i lifted my four year old son off my lap and went to see who was at the door.

Duncan

DING DONG!

“Doorbell, daddy!”

“Yes, I’m getting it.”

I lifted my four year old son off my lap and went to see who was at the door. I wasn’t particularly expecting anyone, but my mum and dad had a year or two previously moved to another English town two hundred miles away, and were in the habit of just arriving on a visit with no notice. Could be…. But, as I approached my front door, I could see through the frosted glass that it was, in fact, just one person, a man dressed in black.

I opened the door to Hillary Step. We hadn’t seen each other, or spoken, for probably eight years. And a lot had happened in that time.

I was married, and had two kids. We had recently moved into a newly-built house in a newly-built council estate – coincidentally enough, very near where Hillary’s folks’ house was. It was, in fact, this very estate he had so deplored as the beginnings of it started to tear up the meadows and woods near his family home.

I had grown into what must have seemed to Hillary a very different individual to the one he knew from years earlier. No longer a faithful Witness, I had in that interval (in the order that I remember): stopped pioneering, stopped giving public talks, become irregular in field service, and consequently been removed as a Ministerial Servant, faded from the ministry school, stopped going out in field service altogether, stopped reading any Watchtower material, stopped attending meetings, had attended and partaken in a church service (christening of my nephew), and partly as a consequence had attended a judicial committee on a charge of apostasy, which, miraculously enough, I managed to survive.

Our family was now celebrating Christmas and birthdays, and – for good measure - I had become a regular blood donor (the Blood Transfusion Service was always turning up at work, and it seemed like the right thing to do) .

Looking back on that time now, twenty years later, I am surprised and proud in equal measure at how quickly and completely I had managed to throw off the from-birth conditioning of the Watchtower. Like I said in one of the earlier posts, at fifteen I really, really believed it all. At twenty-two I had seen through it utterly, and was completely beyond all hope of redemption.

The agonies and tortured uncertainties of my teenage years, with which I had consumed so much of Hillary’s time and endless patience, were all behind me now.

As we sat talking to each other over drinks, I had no idea how much of this he knew about me, but I certainly wasn’t going to hold back from telling him. He was getting both barrels.

Being as forthright as I was with him that night was actually an extremely stupid thing to do on my part. I had, as I said, only recently just avoided being disfellowshipped for being an apostate. At the JC hearing I had taken the line that I was “weak” and “needed time” and all that nonsense, and had worked really hard on the elders to spare me (I never had any intention of going back, but didn’t want all the complications of being disfellowshipped with my folks and believing siblings). I’m sure one of the factors in them letting me off, was that they were satisfied I was not promoting my apostate filth among the congregation. Yet here I was, in the pub with Hillary, telling him exactly where you could put the Watchtower Society.

I guess I felt a kind of power talking this way. No longer the unhappy, confused, anguished, whining young teenager, now! Not any longer! I was Powerful! Confident! Everything had changed, oh yes!

Looking back now, I can see that one thing at least had not changed with me and Hillary. What had not changed was the Agenda. What we discussed. It was Me.

Me, me, me. What I thought about things, how I was.

Afterwards, in recalling the conversation, I was thinking – now wait a minute, did he tell me at one point that he now was an Elder? – did I notice what he said at the time? - did I even answer him? – oh well…

We parted on good terms, and Hillary never did shop me to the Elders, but that was the last time I ever saw him.

I was, at that time, right in the middle of constructing the life I now inhabit. I had left my clerks job at a local small building firm and joined the town’s major employer in their huge accounts office. I figured that in the larger company there would be chances of promotion and advancement. I took out membership of one of the UK Chartered Accountancy bodies and began studying for a qualification and started taking the exams.

Eventually, I got my accounting qualification, and I got a better job. Then a better one and so on. These days, I’m not the richest, hottest Bigshot in the City, but I’m happy with what I’ve done. I do an interesting job that takes me to interesting places, and the years of night school have made up somewhat for what I so stupidly threw away all those years ago.

It was a delight to rediscover Hillary on this website (even if it is a bit strange to keep remembering to call him Hillary). So - here’s to you Hillary! I, for one, am not surprised at your success in rising in the Organisation – seems only natural to me. After having met you, who in their right mind would not want to put you in charge of everything? I’ll bet your caring, Christian nature and perceptive intelligence has helped many a troubled Witness down the years. The Organisation needs people like you, but seems determined to drive them away. Best wishes to you in your life’s journey.

Your old friend Duncan
(who, in writing this little series came to appreciate that, over the years, one of us did all the giving, and the other did all the taking. I’ll let the readers make up their mind which was which.)

7

Hillary 3 - "why don't I make us a cup of ...

by Duncan in

jw
friends

if you get an old copy of the guinness book of world records say, from 1972 or 1973 and look it up youll find the following reference:.

window cleaner the worlds worst.. undoubtedly the very worst window-cleaner in the world, and in the whole history of window cleaning, is an individual known as brother duncan in the london new-suburb congregation of jehovahs witnesses.

this utterly inept incompetent attempts to make a living by this means without ever having the acquired slightest skill or aptitude for the art.

Duncan

If you get an old copy of “The Guinness Book of World Records” – say, from 1972 or 1973 and look it up – you’ll find the following reference:

Window Cleaner – the World’s Worst.
Undoubtedly the very worst window-cleaner in the world, and in the whole history of window cleaning, is an individual known as Brother Duncan in the London New-Suburb congregation of Jehovah’s Witnesses. This utterly inept incompetent attempts to make a living by this means without ever having the acquired slightest skill or aptitude for the art. Truly lacking any clue, he inflicts his craft upon the unfortunate householders of the Hayfield housing estate in New-Suburb Town, many of whom obviously pay him out of some sense of pity …

If it’s not there, then it certainly ought to be.

Washing windows is what we pioneers did. It was tradition, nothing else was ever considered. Pioneers Washed Windows. There was probably a scripture about it. And whereas all the other members of the pioneer corps, fitter, stronger, much more skilled in a practical sense than me, managed to make a decent living, I was hopeless. I was just awful.

The other pioneer-brothers managed to construct a decent round of well-to-do houses, in the better parts of town, houses you could charge premium rates for. They somehow contrived to get contracts from shops and offices to clean their windows, using those squeegee things, and make a ton of money, on a good regular basis. The wherewithal to accomplish all these things was simply beyond me.

I would turn up at the house, put some ladders up against a wall, and begin sloshing water all over the windows. Oh, I knew the basic theory well enough: warmish water, no detergent, a vigorous once over with a wet chamois, follow-up with a wipe-over using barely-damp scrim (a type of coarse linen, I believe, perfect for the purpose) and - there you go! Sparkling windows! Take the money and rush off to the next house. You should aim to do twenty or thirty a day. A good day for me was six.

I was slow for all sorts of reasons: To start with I had a natural lack of ability in handling the ladders; sometimes I think I must have looked like the Keystone Kops, falling about all over the place, unable to walk in a straight line under the weight of the ladders. I also worried too much, I would convince myself that the windows looked smeary, so I would do them all again. And, I was easily distracted: “Cuppa tea, Window cleaner?” Every time I’d say yes.

But the main reason I was hopeless, was because I hated it. I had never had to deal with such mind-numbing tedium in my life before, and I wasn’t handling it well. I would set out in the morning with my sandwiches and flask packed in my shoulder-bag, along with a novel to read during my lunch break. I was making a point of buying each week one of the titles in the Penguin Classic series, and I was working my way through Dickens, Trollope, The 19th century Russian novelists, and so on. Halfway through the window-cleaning morning, after just a couple of houses, I would get fed-up and go and sit in a bus shelter and just read that weeks novel.

I was earning hardly any money – and what I did earn I spent on books. My folks, I have to say, were excellent - they never asked for anything in the way of a contribution to household expenses. I guess they were proud to support a pioneer son.

But, as I explained in the earlier post, I really wasn’t a terribly good pioneer either. I was getting the hours in, and the literature placements, but it absolutely wasn’t the life I thought it would be, and I knew in my heart it was an empty way of life, a meaningless round of magazine and book-selling. Though I would still not admit it to myself, I knew I had made a huge mistake.

And I was beginning to get the first inklings of what I have now learnt (since reading sites like this one) is called Cognitive Dissonance.

One particular episode stands out in my memory: those articles printed in the Watchtower around that time that taught how the heart of an individual was not merely an organ for pumping blood but actually had some capacity to “think bad thoughts” for that person. It was simply idiotic. It was nuts. It was offensively stupid – that’s right, I was offended that I was supposed to take this utterly laughable notion seriously. How could they print such nonsense?

Well now, the window cleaning, the pioneering, the gradual dawn of internal doubt about the Watchtower society, all of this was coming together with the effect of making me a seriously unhappy and depressed young man. And, of course, I thought the problem was all me. My weakness, my immaturity, my failings.

Meanwhile, Hillary and I were becoming good friends. He was such a welcome change from the company of the other pioneer brothers, whom I was finding to be, truth to be told, somewhat dull companions. Hillary, on the other hand, was extraordinary.

He wasn’t just clever – his breadth of knowledge was immense. He knew things! He knew Art, he knew Jazz. He spoke languages, he had spent time living abroad in another – or several other - countries. He knew cooking. He walked hills and mountains, he knew Classics, he knew Literature. It didn’t matter what you threw at him, he was informed, and had interesting opinions. He was an education to be around.

He could talk to you about Philosophy, or History. He was into American and British rock bands I had never heard of. Even on my home ground – American Comic Book Art – it turned out he was as clued-up as me, knew the artists and writers.

It was like my life was a black-and-white silent movie, while his world was this fantastic 3D surround-sound Technicolor interactive tactile Aroma-vision experience.

So, from my point of view, it was like this:

On the one hand, here’s me faced with another dull day of trudging around the streets, calling at not-homes, or delivering magazines to people whom I suspected were simply binning them as I left; or, possibly, another tedious day of glass-smearing….

…Or, on the other hand, I could go round Hillary’s house!

He was unfailingly polite, welcoming and patient. Always made me feel that what he had just been waiting for, to make that day perfect, was me turning up for the afternoon. He had himself left school by now, living in his parents house, but I had no idea how he supported himself. He was always in when I called, and always seemed to have hours of time for me.

We would talk. Or rather, I would. In fact, it wasn’t talking, so much as unloading, really. All my anguish and turmoil and hopelessness. He would listen with infinite patience and kindness. He didn’t even say much. He is probably the most centred, self-possessed person I have ever met, and he was entirely non-directive in dealing with me. It was never “ Okay, what you need to do is (a) (b) and (c)…” it was always “why don’t I make us a cup of tea?” or “I’ve been meaning to play you this piece of music…”

Hillary never offered me a cut-and-dried solution to anything, and I can’t bring to mind a single piece of advice he gave, but there was understanding and concern and kindness. Those afternoons flew by in an enjoyable haze. Occasionally there would be a chance to meet some really interesting people at his house. Old friends of his. He was a fine upstanding baptised member of the congregation by now, and without doubt the Elders’ darling, but nothing would persuade him to do the classic Witness-thing and turn his back on his old friends, he kept up with them..

I would say those afternoons I spent round his house are among my fondest, happiest golden memories.

Anyway, time passed. Eventually I did leave the pioneer service, got a full-time job (in an office!), got married to the daughter of the PO from a neighbouring congregation. Hillary and I drifted slowly apart, and one day – he wasn’t there. I don’t even remember him leaving.

Someone told me he had gone to live elsewhere in England, someone else said he was in Europe. Who could tell with Hillary? Like an iceberg, nine-tenths of him was hidden from view, no one knew his motivations or reasons .

Eventually, It turned out he had gone to live in the US. He sent me a card, which I kept for years. But I wasn’t to see him again for six or seven years, by which time, I had thoroughly worked things out for myself as regards the Watchtower, and, by now guilt-free, Borg-free and set free from a life of spiritual drudgery, I was happier than I’d ever been since childhood. There would never be any turning back for me.

But I did have one more meeting with Hillary to come, the telling of which will conclude this little series….

Duncan.

4

Hillary 2 (He's actually in this one)

by Duncan in

jw
friends

so, i had left school and was embarking upon my theocratic career as a pioneer.... there was already an established pioneer group in the congregation it consisted of 4 or 5 older unmarried sisters in their late twenties/thirties, and a similar number of just-left-school young brothers.

the two groups had practically nothing to do with each other.

well, now i had a new gang, and i was immediately submerged in the new group culture.

Duncan

So, I had left school and was embarking upon my Theocratic Career as a pioneer…

There was already an established Pioneer Group in the congregation – it consisted of 4 or 5 older unmarried sisters in their late twenties/thirties, and a similar number of just-left-school young brothers. The two groups had practically nothing to do with each other.

Well, now I had a new gang, and I was immediately submerged in the new group culture. Like I said, I had, somewhat naively, imagined that I was about to be elevated into another, higher spiritual plane upon joining this elect group, but I guess it won’t surprise you, JWD readers, to learn that this did not come to pass.

With a shock, with an impact like hitting a brick wall, I encountered the pioneer culture. I started learning the way of the group. And it was, in a word : cynical. Time-wasting, and hours-cheating. The monthly reports were not far short of total fiction – although there were a host of rules about how you could count time, so some pharasaical rationalisation could be made to ease consciences.

Our daily routine involved walking around, calling at not-homes, delivering magazines to our carefully-cultivated portfolio of magazine-route-calls, taking care to never get into any deep or meaningful discussions with them, just in case that that might possibly put them off and kill the golden goose of easy literature placements. There was a requirement in those days that, to keep your regular pioneer status, you must be reporting at least one regular Bible Study each week. The requirement was usually met by the expedient of conducting a Bible study with the young son of Sister “Husband-not-in-the-Truth” who would be looking for a good role model for her lad, just a couple of years younger than you were.

Months went by in a lazy routine where days were spent hanging around in coffee-bars, constantly talking about girls, sex, cars, girls, pop music, sex and girls – pretty much like any group of “worldly” young lads, I suppose. The other thing which ate up huge amounts of our time was practising and perfecting our mimicry of the brothers down the hall. This was really Big with us, and we were fortunate enough to have a few prominent ones with wonderfully mockable mannerisms.

Nobody ever read the Bible, or even – if we could help it – the publications. The Bible was exclusively for meetings, or, maybe for householders. If you could manage it, perhaps, it was good for a three-scripture sermon on the door prior to getting a placement.

There was simply Zero Spirituality in this group, and I was astonished and appalled.

…At first.

With - what in retrospect seems - astonishing speed and ease, I entirely embraced this new way of life. I was, as ever, quick to fit in with my peer-group. In a remarkably short time I came to view my former “model witness” self as being quaint and ridiculous. That way of carrying-on was only for an assembly part!

It was during this whole life-changing transformation that I became aware that there was a new study down the hall – someone who had been at my school - and knew all about me - and was making Fine Progress in the truth. It was a young brother, a few years older than me, called Hillary Step.

I was anxious to get to know him, and learn more about him since all the Elders (the ones who mattered to me anyway, the ones you could genuinely look up to, like The Telegraph Pole, and 2 or 3 others) were all, universally, raving about him.

Hillary was a young man, slim build, somewhat taller than me. He invariably wore black, always a black jacket, black shirt, sweater, black trousers. He had a pleasant face, dark colouring, and very kind and friendly brown eyes.

We exchanged pleasantries down the hall – teachers we had in common, that kind of thing, and gradually I got to know him over the next few months. It was clear that he was something out of the ordinary.

For one thing, he was smart. And I mean very, very, ferociously clever. Now, I thought I was pretty smart and brainy (anyone who knows me will tell you I have never had the slightest problem with low self esteem), but even I had to admit to myself that Hillary was something else. It was refreshing just to talk to him, to hear his opinions on things.

It was clear that the elder who was studying with him was just as proud as can be about him, Hillary certainly was a rising star. I was encouraged to befriend him and help bring him along, but I needed no prodding. Hillary was a fascinating guy.

His friendship came to mean more and more to me as time went by, and as the cancer of doubt started to grow in me.

It wasn’t, at this stage, doubt in the Society or its teachings. It wasn’t doubt in Jehovah - all that would come later. It was the gnawing feeling that I had made the most terrible, colossal mistake in becoming a pioneer. It wasn’t the life I thought it would be, and it wasn’t the life for me. Though I tried hard to smother the knowledge from myself, I knew that my “ministry” was an entirely meaningless sham: a total waste of time.

I’ve been a fool! I should never have left school! No! I’m doing this for Jehovah, because the End is Near! What? Who are you kidding? Even if Armageddon comes tomorrow, you’re dead! And it’s NOT coming tomorrow, is it? You can tell easily enough the way the magazines are backing away from the 1975-thing! You should never have left school! Those teachers were right!

It was at this stage of my life I started to get a recurring dream: It’s a Monday morning, I’m all dressed up in my school uniform and walking through the school gates. I meet up with all my friends, who welcome me like a hero, and I take up my old desk. The teacher calls registration and I answer, I tell her, I’ve changed my mind, and I’m back to finish my exams – I absolutely bask in their approval….and, of course, I wake up.

I had that dream regularly for years. Same dream – for years and years. Do you know, I am now not far off being fifty, I have several kids, some grown up, I am even a Grandfather; I’m a Director of a reasonable-sized software company with hundreds of employees, and I STILL, every once in a while, get that same dream. Did I inflict some permanent psychological scars to myself or what?

I went to a class reunion a few years ago. Of course, all of us were older, heavier and greyer now. Some were losing hair - a couple of the lads were completely bald (remarkably, I’m miraculously youthful-looking , myself!) – I learned that one or two, even, had met with untimely deaths. The world had turned, life goes on….

It is also the case that I can now look back to that school-leaving time and see that the teachers, all much younger people then than I am now, and no doubt acting with the best of intentions, painted a picture for me which was wholly unrealistic. I could have glittering success! Awards and prizes! A fantastic career! Easy acclaim! All I had to do was stay on and continue my studies. Of course, if I had stayed after such wild promises, no doubt - inevitably – there would have been some huge disappointment for me when things didn’t work out to be so spectacularly wonderful. I can see all this now…..

….but try telling that to your sub-conscious.

I mention the whole dream-thing, and even its residual effect on me today, decades later, to illustrate just how displaced I felt – how wrenched away I felt from what should have been my proper life. And I had done it to myself!

Despite, perhaps, outward appearances to the contrary, this was causing me serious misery. Truly, I was getting all screwed up inside. But, at the time, I couldn’t admit any this to myself and I certainly couldn’t discuss it with anyone else.

Least of all with Hillary, my new-found soul-mate with his fledgling faith.

Or at least, not at this stage.

But we’re getting there…

Duncan.

9

Memories of Hillary - Part I

by Duncan in

jw
friends

upfront disclaimer: .

i know its entitled memories of hillary, but an awful lot of this post is, in fact, all about me and our hero doesnt actually get much of a look-in in this part.

but i need to tell the story right, and it starts with me.

Duncan

Hello Smoldering.

Hillary told a large part of his story, and mine too, in a 3-part series called "Memories of Duncan". I'm kinda doing the same thing here. There'll be 4 of these "Hillary" posts, 2nd one - with a little luck - later on today.

Can't speak for TMS. You can do a search on an individual, though, by clicking "Members" and reading all their threads.

Duncan.

60

Me and my brother.

by nicolaou in

jw
friends

an earlier discussion has been highlighting the differences between da'ing and df'ing.

xena said:i am sorry qadreena but i have never in the 20 some odd years i have been a jw ever heard of an unbaptised publisher being d/aed...marked as bad association yes..but d/a...no...but i guess stranger things can happen.... well that brought it all back.. actually xena the exact same thing happened to my brother in the early 80's.

he was only 14. he'd carried on associating with a friend of his who'd been disfellowshipped.

Duncan

Thanks for posting this Nic.

Very moving post.

Duncan.

9

Memories of Hillary - Part I

by Duncan in

jw
friends

upfront disclaimer: .

i know its entitled memories of hillary, but an awful lot of this post is, in fact, all about me and our hero doesnt actually get much of a look-in in this part.

but i need to tell the story right, and it starts with me.

Duncan

Ginny - you're right. It was the US equivalent of high school, I was 15 when I left - the earliest legal age you could leave school in those days.

Duncan.