In early 1997, I was living in a council bungalow in Trimley with my dad. Life wasn’t ideal, but it was ticking along. That all changed one Saturday in October.

That evening, I’d been asked to run a music quiz for Walton United Football Club. I managed to persuade my boss to let me knock off work a few hours early, promising I’d be back in the next day. The quiz went well—we had a few drinks during and after—and then everyone went their separate ways.

What I Came Home To

My plan was simple: head home, crack open a few cans, and watch Match of the Day. But as I walked into the house, something felt off. My dad wasn’t in. And as I looked around, a nagging suspicion I’d been trying to ignore came to the surface. I’d suspected for a while that he’d been stealing from me. Coins and notes going missing. A few blank cheques had vanished from my cheque book. I wasn’t proud of what I did next, but I decided to check his room.

Lifting up his bed, I found a stash of letters. Returning to his room, I dug a little deeper—and that’s when I found my bank statements. The sneaky bastard had taken £400 from my account. My emergency money. Gone. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

One letter from the housing association, addressed to both of us—Mr. TJ and Mr. JS Versey—informed us that we were to be evicted. Apparently, we were six months in arrears on the rent. Despite them trying to contact us, no payments had been made.

I was paying my half by direct debit every month. He’d been pocketing the rest.

Betrayal, Then Violence

I opened the fridge. My six-pack of beer? Gone too. Furious, I stormed to the house of the woman he was seeing. I hammered on the door. She opened it—and I barged in. The old man was there. Words were exchanged. Then fists. I lost it. I wasn’t thinking clearly—I was acting on 27 years of pent-up frustration and betrayal. The police turned up within minutes. They stormed in, pinned me down, slapped on plastic cuffs, and read me my rights. I’d already calmed down by then, but one last swing at a copper earned me a proper beating. I was dragged to the station and locked in a cell.

They thought I was drunk. I wasn’t. I was livid.

The Call, The Charges, The Fallout and New Plan

At 7:30 AM, they finally brought me out. I was already half an hour late for work. I called my supervisor and told her the truth—I’d been arrested. She was furious. She’d given me time off for the quiz, and now this. The police charged me with two counts of ABH. After I was released, I headed home and collapsed into bed. A few hours later, my mum and old mate Ninky came over. Word had spread. Mum read through the housing letters while Ninky and I cracked open a beer.

I had four days off work, which gave me some time to sort things out. My dad had moved back in with his mother and was apparently telling people I was a “psychopath.” With two weeks left until eviction, I reached out to my old mate Roger. He had a huge multi-level place on The High Road. After a quick chat, he offered me a room—and I could move in the next day.

A Fresh Start at Rogering Hall

I didn’t wait. I packed everything up and left early, giving no thought to the bungalow. Let the housing association have it. I was done. The next morning, my mate Smacker showed up with a van. He helped me move everything into Roger’s place—Rogering Hall, as we called it. And just like that, I’d started a new chapter. Still angry, still bruised—but out from under the weight of someone else’s lies.