The Unauthorised Autobiography of David Ford

Chapter I – The Early Years

To really get to grips with what a man is all about, you have to go back and look at the men who helped shape him. My family heritage is very important to me and is the source of constant pride and inspiration.

Pioneering has always been in my blood. My paternal great grandfather, Ernest Cecil Ford was the first Englishman to be successfully shot from a cannon.

His son, my grandfather Sir Edward “Bruce” Ford served in Prime Minister Anthony Eden’s cabinet in the position of Secretary of State for Air, a mostly obsolete position during peacetime but an honour nonetheless. He took the responsibility of this office, however, incredibly seriously and not content with simply relaxing into the trappings of Westminster, he worked tirelessly in the surprisingly diverse field of works under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Air. During his tenure, British ornithologists classified over 3,000 new species of bird including Bruce’s Green Pigeon, which was named in honour of Sir Edward. In addition, he successfully raised the level of oxygen in the London air, peaking in July 1956 with an O2 reading in Battersea of 78%, a time fondly remembered in England as “the summer of chuckles” . He also commissioned leading scientists to embark on a diverse range of research projects and by 1956 was able to announce to parliament that the bumble bee’s flight is officially impossible and is not to be recognised by Her Majesty’s Government. The impact was felt across the globe and the price of honey plummeted on all international markets. With intelligence showing the Russians were in development of a fully flighted bee, the world teetered on the brink of war for a brief moment. Only brave and skilful diplomacy led by my grandfather averted an international catastrophe. The incident was hushed up at the time and details remain classified by the terms of the 1920 Official Secrets Act but every year at Christmas, with a glow in his cheek from a half bottle of sherry, we’d hear old Pops tell his story about the birds and the bees.

Despite his great works, the Air Ministry was disbanded in 1964.

My father, Ralph Caesar Ford, the youngest of 8 sons, started working at the age of 14 as a salesman. Mostly selling door-to-door, he displayed great ability and soon became one of Britain’s most successful goods pedlars. Legend has it that one summers day in 1971 a disgruntled rival bet my father a pound note that he couldn’t sell 4 tons of horse shit to the people of Stockport before sundown. Never one to refuse a challenge, he accepted and set about shifting his stinking wares. He sold that shit off as modelling clay at the school of art, shampoo at the beauty salon, axle grease at the bus depot and marijuana at the local high school. Within 4 hours he had sold it all and was hailed as the nations finest salesman. He had managed to get ordinary people to buy horse shit and make a lot of money in the process. He now works as the executive producer of American Idol.

He married my mother, Sandra O’Shea, the daughter of irish cattle folk in Croydon.

I was born in 1978 in the hull of a wrecked Viking longboat. My parents, taken with the fad for Norse mythology which swept the hippy communities of southern England in the late seventies had chosen this location for its sympathetic energies. They were happy to see me come into the world on a Thursday: the day named for Thor, the Norse god of thunder and hoped that I would grow strong in his image.

At school I was an appalling student. By the age of 14 I was able to read at the level of a spaniel. Diagnosed with crippling word-blindness, number- blindness, colour-blindness, it was a damn miracle I could see anything at all. The other kids soon caught on to my conditions and would often throw bicycle tyres at me. The resemblance to both the letter O and the number zero meant I would have no chance of seeing it coming.

My life was to change one afternoon while I was hiding in one of the many school cupboards which would offer me refuge. I found the old marching band euphonium. Our school had not had a marching band for many years, not since Mr. Pottsreich, the music professor was fired for teaching the children 3 semesters of Nazi propaganda songs and trying to start a school militia. This dusty old tarnished instrument would prove my salvation. I would spend every available minute of the day in the cupboard adapting classic rock for solo euphonium. Hendrix, Zeppelin, Sabbath. I would sometimes branch out into some progressive, experimental material, I would play the seminal Genesis double concept album “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway” in its entirety scarcely pausing to draw breath. Over the following 4 years I learned to play as many musical instruments as I could find, working through the brass and woodwind sections, percussion and strings with an insatiable appetite.

While an enthusiast, I never saw music as a career or a lifestyle. That was until I was sitting at home watching television when a revelation appeared to me. I saw on my screen the most perfect vision of all that is musically righteous. Such a man, a man who moved with swagger and sang with a voice like a torpedo to the heart. In his leather-gloved hand was an immaculate Gretsch archtop guitar and I knew I had found my hero. The song was called Faith and the man: George Michael.

I followed George like he was my messiah for 4 months, sleeping on his doorstep, rifling through his garbage, harassing his friends and staff, just trying to get answers and guidance. Every time I got arrested, it would only harden my resolve. Then one day finally he spoke to me the words I needed to inspire me to forge my own path. Leaning from his bathroom window, he and another gentleman each fixed me with an intense glare and George shouted the words I will never forget: “why don’t you just fuck off you little shit”.

The next day I traded in my euphonium for a guitar and never looked back.