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That was a strange question, but then again the person asking was my ex-wife of over twenty years.  Brought together again for the wedding of my son I think she meant did I find happiness after I left her. Did I? I’m really not sure, you decide. Tom McHugh opens his heart and shares his life experiences with us….

At my lowest point I actually email details of what to put on my gravestone. One Spanish, one Irish.

Looking back as I sit alone on this Andalusian hillside overlooking a stunning lake surrounded by almond and olive groves, am I happy? My apartment is damp and cold, dangerously damp – the walls are covered with black fungi which if inhaled for too long can kill you. This was not part of the plan, although death might not be a bad option.

I have no money, no friends as such, I have Spanish radio and television for company and my two irish wheaten terriers Monty and Molly. I eat fresh apricots for breakfast, cherries, olives and bread for dinner. I swap some of my fruit and worldly possessions for odd bits of food in the village. The village is a two hour walk away and some days it’s minus 15 degrees.

It was never meant to be like this. When I arrived in Spain three years earlier I had a plan, a wife and a future. I had hopes and dreams. All I have now are my two dogs, loneliness and despair. Can I survive? I have to, I owe it to my dogs. I brought them here from their beautiful detached Cheshire home. Cornflakes and milk for breakfast, M&S chicken and vegetables for dinner (the dogs, not me!) I have to survive, I owe it to them. It’s not their fault we are in this mess. Despair is the grave from which we can re-invent ourselves – I have to or I’m going to die here – alone. Reinventing myself has been my specialist trick all my life.

Pilgrim, Pirate or Poet? Take your pick, that’s me.

When I left my first wife twenty years ago I left with three bin bags, but I was leaving her an eighteen year old waitress with a body to die for. What did I have to lose? I was invincible, I could survive anything. My Mum had not long died at only fifty-four. Nothing and I mean nothing, prepares you for that and nothing that life could throw at me would make me that low and desperate again. That’s what I thought then!

Re-invent yourself tinkerboy. Unpack your binbags and enjoy life. Life is great isn’t it?

That was the start of the rollercoaster ride that was to be my life. I would have amazing highs, a couple more times of reinvention and now the desperate low I now find myself in. My new young partner summed me up very quickly “with you tinkerboy, some days it’s brown ale and some days it’s vintage champagne!”

And that has been my life.

I was ‘head-hunted’ to go and run a beautiful country hotel in Derbyshire. Could life be any better? Skiing holidays, Summer holidays to Spain and Italy, still getting paid to play football – life was good. I was a legend in my own mind. It wasn’t long before my old achiles heel would raise it’s ugly head – women!!

I have had a passionate interest in the opposite sex since I was about thirteen! My dark curly hair, blue eyes and blarney had already caused me many problems. I was given the job of controlling the outside/location catering business which involved travelling throughout the UK on expenses – magic!

I was given a pretty young trainee manageress as my assistant. She was to be my PA and go-fer. Bad move, she had a great arse. On only our second night away she ended up in my bed, which was sad because she was a very naïve girl. She said her favourite film was Crocodile Dundee I said it was on the movie channel in my room. It wasn’t but after a nice dinner and some pink champagne, the blue eyes and irish charm made her forget Crocodile Dundee. In the morning(late) she went to her room to get ready for the day ahead. We met in the hotel reception, she looked like she was about to cry. “What’s up” I asked starting to worry just a little.

“Head Office called my room three times this morning and got no answer because I was with you”.

“And so what? They don’t know where you were”.

“They do now”

“What? I stopped in my tracks “How? You told them what?”

“I felt ill during the night and I went to your room”

“Shit, shit” I said

“I just told the truth. I was in your room. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that now everyone in Head Office knows. Shagging the hired help was not part of my job description.”

It would not be long before my existing partner found out. I had enemies at Head Office. People resented my quick rise to the top. Within six months I was on my way back to Cheshire with the ‘new’ love of my life.

Time to re-invent myself again – easy.

My next appointment was to be my greatest success. We suited each other. The hotel was owned by a local gangster, the place was frequented with stars as diverse as Phil Lynott of Thin Lizzy fame to George Best. The tinkerboy had found his spiritual home. I became friends with the rich and famous. Sir Alex Ferguson and most of the Manchester United team, actors, TV stars, boxers, great train robbers and even ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser was a regular. I even launched the career of the world famous tenor Russell Watson. Daniel O’Donnell, Foster and Allen, Neil Sedaka and many more were all guests. I travelled the world. I could get front row seats for any event you wanted. How long before I pressed the ‘self destruct’ button again? Eleven very happy, successful years to be exact. The problem was I had started to believe my own publicity. I was popular, I had good staff and was at the top. I was partying and drinking – too much! But I didn’t know it. I was becoming careless, I stopped watching my back with some of the dubious deals that were going on at the hotel. After a two week skiing holiday in America I returned only to be arrested by police on some very odd charges relating to gaming machines and cash payments. I had remarried four years earlier and whilst my wife worked with me full time at the hotel, she was never happy with some of the deals and cash handling. I was held at the local police station for twelve hours. When I was eventually released on bail my wife had changed all the locks on the house. I was homeless and penniless, all the bank accounts were in my wife’s name.

I was at the bottom again but I was a survivor. I was going to re-invent myself – again!

My son found me somewhere to live, he had just started his own publishing business and wanted me to join him. I had a police investigation hanging over me and no other offers so I had nothing to lose. Welcome to the even dodgier world of publishing. The idea was simple. Sell them an advert in a ‘local’ child safety publication and just wait for the cash to roll in. Just don’t print too many publications – that’s the profit. In fact, try not to print any. Within six months the police had dropped all the charges and we moved to bigger offices. My wife had returned and we moved to a large house in Cheshire. I had a BMW on the drive and my wife had a convertible. My son and I bought properties in Spain near Marbella. With the help of my son, the tinkerboy had re-invented himself – again! We opened a second office. We were working with some of the biggest charities but we had to keep trading standards and the Department of Trade and Industry off our backs. We even set up our own charity scratch card game. My wife never asked too many questions but I could sense she was uneasy with the money we were earning.

“Should we not give more to the charity?”

“No”

When you’re at the top there is only one way to go – down!

We thought we could keep the charity commission off our backs if we set up our own ‘charity’. We hired a guy who knew how to do it and we were off and running. The DTI and Trading Standards never really looked at registered charities – they left it to the Charity Commission to regulate them. We had already had two investigations by the Charity Commission and had no reason to worry about them. Life was good, weekends in Paris, four or five holidays a year.

Then disaster struck but this time it wasn’t my fault. Our charity guy persuaded my wife to become a trustee of one of our charities. Bad move. The charity commission had been unhappy about us being ‘somehow’ involved in controlling the charities. Our ‘other’ companies were earning more than the charities. They launched another investigation, they wanted to interview all our trustees under oath. My wife would soon find out how much we were, or in our case were not giving to the charities. The interviews took place in December. By New Years Day she had had a mental breakdown and was back living with her sister again. I was down, but not out. The various government agencies were coming after us. Tax, VAT, DTI and Charity Commission. They may recommend criminal charges. They almost certainly would if they could find the ‘skeletons’. We got our lawyers to ‘resign’ my wife on medical grounds which was accepted. She would have been a weak link in any police investigation. We decided with her out of the investigation, if we could take me our of the line of fire, they may just decide they had nowhere to go. We had been in the Daily Mirror. It was only a matter of time.

At lease this time I had a home and money. But for how long? They were gathering enough evidence against both my son and I, tax avoidance, VAT. A police investigation would almost certainly follow. They had accounts, bank statements and documents. We were possibly about to lose everything if they could prove fraud. I don’t think I could re-invent myself again – could I? I was really low. My wife was still with her sister. The companies were struggling to bring in money. The bank accounts had been frozen. I was alone, bored and drinking too much.

For the first time in my life, I felt the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train. The decision was made. I would ‘retire’ to Spain. We had sold our villa some years earlier and bought a run down farm near Granada. My wife agreed to come with me, no more charities or publishing. No more scams. In return for a small wage I would do some emails and help with the investigations – from a safe distance. We put our house up for sale and boarded a Monarch Airlines flight with our dogs and headed to the lakes of Granada. My wife was still a little unhappy about the regular income I was receiving but it wasn’t much and  I promised the ‘old days were long gone. I was actually enjoying not having the worry, the hassle, the constant hassle with authorities. We were slowly getting things back together or was I kidding myself?

My wife became friendly with her Spanish teacher who said her father was looking to build a small hotel with waterfalls, a small lake and huge natural swimming pool. He wanted someone to invest and help run and develop it. We went to meet him and my wife seemed excited by the idea, so I went along with it. He wanted £8 000 initial payment, the rest of the development would be covered by grants. After a couple of months he wanted more investment. Where are the grants? So far I’d paid his building firm to do the work and I was becoming increasingly unhappy with the project. When I was advised that there were no grants in place and the bank had not agreed the finance deal. I demanded my money back nicely for the sake of my wife, but he wasn’t playing ball. My wife was taking the side of the daughter, if I wanted to pull out, I’d lose the money. No I would not, he lied. The lawyer knew he lied, the bank knew he lied but this was Spain and I was a foreigner. I had no rights here. I went to his office and assured him he would give me my money back or him, his family and his house would be burned to the ground. I had very dangerous friends. His daughter told my wife, apparently she was crying. Her dad was terrified. “Fine, just tell him to give me my fucking money back”. I was seriously running out of money – lots of land but no money. I could tell my wife wasn’t happy. She said I’d promised never to go back to my previous life but she said “a leopard never changes it’s spots”. I went out one Saturday, stayed drinking with some Spanish friends. When I got back, she had gone. She flew back to England and her sister that night. I have never seen or heard from her since. Well I heard from her lawyers – we are divorced. I was alone again.

I had to leave the villa and the pool we were renting. Money from England was becoming harder to get, things were tough there. Suddenly I had no money and no friends. I rented this cold damp apartment with it’s toxic walls. I had two lightbulbs that worked. No gas for the cooker – not that I could afford food to cook. It was Winter. Some nights it was minus twenty degrees. I did get the odd few Euros from doing a bit of work with the gypsies. I made sure my dogs had food, it wasn’t their fault. I had no phone credit, no money, no food and no friends here. My son phoned as often as he could. I had one friend who had moved back from Spain to England, she phoned when she could but she wasn’t working, when ever she phoned she made me laugh or cry, sometimes both at the same time! My life was a mess I’d moan.

“Oh really” she said. “Try mine”. A former prostitute, alcoholic, recovering crackhead.

“You think you have had a tough life tinkerboy, try mine.”

I never cared for the sound of being alone. I had never been alone, well not for long. I was down, really down. Could the tinkerboy perform one more trick and re-invent himself? As what?

I couldn’t even play my CDs. They reminded me of better times, should they have inspired me? Well they depressed me even more. I remember seeing Madonna in Paris, Andrea Boccelli, Neil Diamond and where the hell was Russell Watson when I needed him? Oh yeah, having a brain tumour! Maybe I was okay after all. My house is burned, but I can still see the sky. I need to find some music that doesn’t remind me of my dead mother, my ex-wives, happy days, days when I courted, days when I was king. God this is bad.

Yeah where the hell is my god?

I pray every night, for my children, my ex wives, my dogs. I pray for forgiveness from everyone I’ve hurt and I forgive everyone who’s hurt me. Why has God deserted me? Or has he? I’m still here, just. What has deserted me? My heart, my mind, my soul? What?

I’m in bed fully clothed, it’s 7pm, it will be another long night. The dog’s are at the bottom of the bed. I will survive, I have to. I start to reread a book that will inspire me. Lance Armstrong survived cancer and went on to win a record number of Tour de France races. He survived and won – so will I. His favourite saying ‘the only easy day was yesterday’. Rachel calls, she makes me laugh, she’s winning her fight with her ‘demons’.

“Don’t you dare quit on me tinkerboy, I’ve still got plans for you!”

Despite all her problems, she always calls. Once I had a million friends, now my only friend is a former street walker. Maybe they weren’t really real friends. What is a real friend? Do you know? I will not die alone in Andalusia, I won’t. At my lowest point I actually email details of what to put on my gravestone. One Spanish, one Irish.

“Tell all the young people life is beautiful

But it is also Bad

I who am telling you this is almost free”

And “He will never play the wild rover no more

May his restless spirit find peace at last”

You can’t get much lower than arranging your own funeral.

Have I survived? Did God save me or is it just that Rachel has other plans for me?

I have always prayed. Without God would I have made it? Was God on my side?

Is there a God? There must be a God. Whose God I don’t know, but surely your God. I’m still here, am I winning? Am I happy? Was I ever really happy?

Despair is the grave from which we may reinvent ourselves.

But how many times tinkerboy?

You know in the end we only regret the chances we didn’t take.

The relationships we were scared to have and the decisions we waited too long to make.

There comes a time in your life when you realize who matters, who doesn’t, who never did

and who always will. Don’t worry about the people from your past. There is  a reason why

they didnt make it to your future.

Only give this to the people in your life that really matter – I just did.

Tinkerboy, Spain Feb 2009

Extracts from the forthcoming book Tinkerboy – Pilgrim, Pirate or Poet?