Wrapped in my identity are, perhaps, the two halves of the world that are most at odds with one another. So, there has always existed within me a struggle for identity. I felt for many years very much like Alaric King of the Goths; torn between his heathen ways and traditions and his newfound religion and civilisation of Rome. Or even Timur -Tamerlane - torn between the ways of his Mongol ancestors and what was expected of him as a Muslim Emperor. And like Tamerlane and Alaric, instead of adopting a way forward, I forged my own.

“A man’s path is only one” the Tartar rulers of Samarkand used to say, meaning that once your reigns were drawn towards the standards of war, struggle, and adversity - a purpose- there could be no turning from it without shame. Now, this is not to say that I went out to buy a horse, and a composite bow. Of course, I could have facilitated this by joining the French Foreign Legion (it crossed my mind) or I could have sent out my CV to Al-Qaida, apparently there was a high turnover of staff (This didn’t cross my mind… in any other way than humorously). In the end, I competed as an amateur boxer while working as a chef (my father had taught me how to cook) and manged to distinguish myself. To the chagrin of all the people who were adamant I’d end up as a nobody. Well, if they even knew anyway. It was an exciting time and kept me focused and out of trouble through the dark days when my father languished in a prison cell and provided me with a way to eat well. I also met my wife, who provided the support and stability I needed, we have been married for almost eight years and we have two beautiful children.

But during those tough days before things got better, I was on my own. And I was very lucky to have had a love of reading; reading gave me respite and took me off to other worlds, reading provided me comfort and a reservoir of inspiration which ultimately saved me. Drugs and crime often provided very similar comforts, as I had witnessed in friends, who had drawn their reigns towards the wrong path and never came back.

It was the stories of the Ostrogoths, and Visigoths as told by Henry Bradley, and the marauding’s of the Germanic tribes in general; that helped bring about the end of Rome; that had made me feel better about being poor and having rubbish clothes and shoes with holes in them. Despite my condition, perhaps I too could one day “bring down Rome” so to speak. I used to fancy, on the days when I hadn’t really eaten much and hadn’t managed to steal any, that I was like those tribesmen, wandering and fighting, looking for a home to call their own. I fortified myself with the story of Genghis Khan and his Mongols as told by Harold Lamb - my favourite author- and how, despite extreme adversity, Temudgin still managed to come out on top.

I read and re-read the various tales and exploits of Conan the Barbarian and his many companions. I read of how Conan’s vitality and strength, as well as his tenacity, allowed him to survive the most horrendous ordeals; thus, I too wanted to be strong and fit so I could survive and turn the tables. Conan’s hatred for the machinations of betrayers and schemers also became mine, as was his preference for directness and plain speaking. My young mind, disoriented and knocked of balance by what I now understand to be a traumatic experience, latched on to such tales and saw deep meaning in them.

I felt at the time like those stories were written for me, they spoke to my soul. Being as poor as I had been in a city like London was quite bizarre and created a lot of anger and resentment in me that took a long time to recover from, it’s an experience I will never forget. But, just like my aforementioned heroes, I did indeed overcome, with the help of my wife, who is perhaps my greatest Hero of all time. She who put up with me and stuck by my side when nobody else would, my only ally. I too met many companions and had many adventures, just like Conan, And I forged my own identity like Tamerlane.