The reason why I tried to contact Knopfler and Illsley was because of the amount of knife crime that had become a everyday event throughout Britain. I’d been stabbed myself in London and knew the effects it had not only on myself but my whole family.
I needed money to bring about a campaign against knife crime, and as well as a video portraying the damage it does not only physically to the victim, but also the mental effects. I thought the very song needed was Six Blade Knife, hence my contacting my friends ha ha from Dire Straits, Honest John Illsley, and its a pleasure to give you money Mark Knopfler.
The small amount of money I had a few thousand pounds went into trying to get in touch with Knopfler and Illsley, who I thought would have been pleased to see me after such a long time, and with the money they’d made through my lyrics would have obviously been more than generous towards a needful cause.
Of course we now know the outcome of my venture, I found that people were being stabbed and murdered for ripping of pounds of others cash, and here was Illsley and Knopfler ripping of millions from me. Were they going to be the kind of characters in helping to stop knife crime, not a chance their fucking attitude was practically making it happen to them.
And as Knopfler had moaned about some woman who knocked him of his motorcycle, didn’t ask how he was, with his take on being a person who cares about others, its a pity his family were not mourning his demise from this planet.
For the only person Mark Knopfler cares about is himself, and its a shame the woman hadn’t thought about putting the car in reverse and making a good job of it, for if he thinks nothing of robbing the artist that brought him so much wealth is meaningless to him in his book, I don’t think he would get much sympathy if he treats his friends with that type of aptitude.
Then sadly you can sort of understand someone having to use a weapon to try and get even in this one sided situation, Knopflers sort makes this type of crime happen I’m sorry to say. But there are innocent people getting knifed and murdered for nothing, and when a so called Star behaves in this manner, he’s practically condoning this violent and behavioral immorality.
When I’d written the Six Blade Knife, I really thought that it would never get published, but at that time I had not heard the music that Mark Knopfler would put to the song. For the lyrics I feel are almost as macabre, as the story that goes with it. My friend at that time, whose father was a Major in the Royal Artillery had died, and I’d travelled from London to Edinburgh for the funeral. The wife of the deceased Major, had been sorting out some of his military gear, and knowing that I was in the services said to me “Would this do anything for you?” she asked, handing me an officers Six Bladed Knife, and the beginning of what would become the opening of a good lyric when I returned to London.
The rest of the lyric, goes back to 1970 when I was staying in Edinburgh, and a job vacancy for an undertaker was advertised in the Evening News. I’d jokingly asked my mother who was constantly pushing me for to take a job, what she thought of her son taking on a gruesome job like that, rather than using my talents for writing, that she kept refering to as doodling, and a waste of time. “You were in the army,” she said, “And if you couldn’t stand the sight of blood, or dead bodies, then you should not have joined in the first place.”
With her words still pricking my concience, for I don’t think of myself as a coward or someone who would desert their comrades because they’d been wounded or killed, I applied and got the job of undertaker. I wont drift into the many stories I could write about the undertaking business, and there were plenty, so I will stick to the events of how that knife became a part of the Dire Straits album.
On this particular day it was my turn to be on duty in the office, when a phone call came through from the police that there had been a fatal accident. Some young guy fueled up with drink had dived into the freezing cold water of an open air seaside swimming pool. It would be revealed later on after an autopsy, that before he had gone into the water, he had eaten a very greasy mince pie thats fats had hardened when his body had become cold in the water, and that is what had killed him.
I recognised the name of the deceased on the hospital release form, as a one time pal of mine who I knew was as strong as an ox and for a mince pie to have taken his life just shocked me to how easy a life can be taken from our loved ones. However, on reaching the morgue I was to get an even bigger shock, for during the journey I’d convinced myself that it couldn’t be the person that I knew, and it was just the name on the form that was similiar. On entering into the morgue I almost hoped it would be someone else, what a thing to hope for?
It was gloomy in the dissecting room, and the mortician was in another part of the building, the body I’d come to collect was lying on a metal trolley, a white sheet covering the pale torso up to the waist. The youthful chest and arms were naked, and belonged to someone who had been strong and fit when they were alive. Then the sunshine suddenly began shining through one of the antiquated windows, allowing me my first proper look at the corpse, for in the dark of the room I’d been having difficulty in making sense of the persons facial features.
The light from the sunshine showed me why. The top of the scull had been cut around like a tin, and was now laid across the face, making it almost impossible to recognise who it was. His brains had been scooped out with what looked like something an ice cream vendor used, and the cranium was empty reminding me of a cocoanut shell scraped clean with a knife. I’d been staring at the corpse for what I felt was an age, when suddenly the mortician walked in, pushed the scull back onto the top of the head allowing me to see the face of the deceased crumpled by the looseness of the scull. Even in that state I knew it was my mate, and I also knew I would not be lasting long in that type of occupation.
One blade breaking my heart, one blade tearing me apart, six blade knife do anything for you/ Anything,… anything?