Author Archives: Sitting comfortably with andy daly

Playing Doctors and Nurses

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Here’s a great little game to play if you find yourself in Hospital, or visiting someone who is.

Draw the curtain around the bed so that the player cannot see who is approaching. Basically it is very simple. All you need to do is listen to the footsteps of approaching hospital personnel and guess who it is:

Categories

Loud, brisk and purposeful step: Consultant.

No-nonesense pat pat. Has three speeds (fast/medium/slow) depending on the personality of the member of staff him or herself, amount of shift remaining and urgency of journey: Nurse

Lots of noisy, clattering footsteps which seem to change direction frequently. A bit like a heard of antelope: Junior Doctors and students.

Slow soft shuffle. Feet never seem to lift off the floor: Cleaner.

Squeak squeak of rubber ‘Crocs’: Anaesthetist.

Silent. Appear at your bedside without warning: Surgeon

doc_nurses shoes

© Andy Daly 2013

The KILLING

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killing_banner

Tsk, what a time to get hooked to a TV crime/thriller series; three shows before its last ever episode.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m schizzling on about, ‘The Killing’ is a stylishly gloomy Danish cop series, now into its third and final series. It features constant drizzle, faceless housing developments, windows with no curtains, a surfeit of deserted premises (apparently) without lighting, causing the cops to draw torches  and make lots of pretty patterns in the dark, evil villains with sensitive eyes (see above), top of the range knitwear and a beguiling heroine, Sarah Lund.

Sarah Lund

Sarah Lund

Just read the pacy, tension-filled dialogue of the penultimate scene of series three as Lund and colleague Borch, in their car discuss her new jumper and where she got it from. If you don’t want to know how it ends, look away now.

Can I borrow your knitting patterns then?

Can I borrow your knitting patterns then?

Borsh: Så, Sarah Jeg kan lide din yoomper.
Lund: Min yoomper?
Borsh: Ja det er rart. Jeg kan godt lide rensdyr mønster
Lund: oh tak.
Borsh: hvor har du den yoomper fra?
Lund: Er … Debenhams …

(Lund’s mobile rings, she picks it  up)

Lund: Ja?

(She looks into the middle distance listening to the voice, then suddenly cuts the caller off mid sentence. Still looking into the mid distance, she slowly returns the mobile to her pocket)
Borsh: Er … Debenhams?
Lund:  (Still looking distracted) … Ja.
Borsh: Åh, jeg troede, du altid gik yoomper til Marks and Spencer?
Lund: Marks and Spencer?
Borsh: Ja
Lund: Nej. Mine yoomper? Fra Marks and Spencer? … Nej.
Borsh: Oh
Lund: Ingen altid gå til Debenhams
Borsh: oh. hvor meget var det?
Lund: 30 kroner
Borsh: du sjov?
Lund: de har uld og mønstre så godt.
Borsh: Uld og mønstre?
Lund: Ja, du kan strikke din egen. Yoomper
Borsh: Oh.
Lund: Det regner meget er det ikke?

For those of you who maybe have not seen the series and therefore find your Danish a bit under par, here are some helpful words and phrases to help with the above.

Jeg kan lide din                                                  I like

rensdyr mønster                                                reindeer pattern

hvor har                                                               where did you get

jeg troede                                                             I always thought

du altid gik til                                                      you went to

hvor meget var det?                                           How much was it?

du sjov?                                                                You’re having a laugh?
Uld                                                                         wool

mønstre                                                                pattern

strikke                                                                   knit

Det regner meget er det ikke?                          It’s pissing down isn’t?

That's better! Actress Sophie Gråbøl

That’s better! Actress Sophie Gråbøl

For those of you who may be interested Lund’s ‘yoompers’ are hand knitted from Gudrun & Gudrun at 280 euros a pop.

Apologies to all my Danish readers.

© Andy Daly 2012

Khan Stand Losing

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Here it is, repackaged with extra content in a bumper Christmas Special. New improved title! Bits I forgot in the original! Proper ending! All mistakes corrected! The ideal Christmas gift!

Yes, yes I am familiar with the concept of Proofreading and faithfully swear to use it sometime. But until then, here is Khan Stand Losing (Formerly known as Khan Get No Satisfaction)

Back in the dim and distant past, before Harry met Sally, Snickers were still Marathons and if you wanted to go to France you had to get a boat or plane, I find myself teaching in a Secondary Comprehensive school in Middlesex. With, I’ll have you know, some very illustrious former pupils. None of whose names spring to mind at the moment unfortunately – except the girl who is in Grange Hill, and the girl on the local BBC news team; the one who’s married to the Sports Correspondent. Oh! and Fearne Cotton and Mick the Mad Cabbie …

It is an alright kind of school. In fact it is a grammar school, back in the day; when in order to gain entry pupils have to pass a tricky little exam called the Eleven Plus. I never take an Eleven Plus, which is just as well, as for me at that age school is a breeze, a place to meet your pals and have a laugh. Indeed, come to think of it, so are the whole of my school days – to such an extent I become extremely suspicious of those types who claim that ‘the Child’ is like a pot waiting to be filled with knowledge and facts. In my day I may be a pot, even a pot waiting to be filled, but not with knowledge and facts, more like Sherbert Dabs, Everton Mints, Spanish, Fruit Salad chews and so on.

Anyway so here I am a young, impressionable, idealistic teacher in his first school – of course this is arrant nonesense as both my parents are teachers, so I know the score as far as the old Chalk and Talk dodge is concerned from day one. However, it seems I make some friends in high places as for my second year there I find myself timetabled to teach Wednesday afternoon Fifth and Sixth Form Games. Now this is felt by one and all to be a great honour; and if the truth be known a bit if a wheeze. But great fun nonetheless. A chance to show your prowess (or otherwise) in the sporting arena and for the kids to see you in another light and marvel at your athleticism or revel in your buffoonery. The range of options available, clearly reflects staff expertise and is quite mind-boggling now I think back to it eg. Football, Rugby, Athletics (track and field) Cross Country, Tennis, Badminton, Squash, Golf, Ice Skating, Volleyball, Skiing, Climbing, Sailing. Canoeing, Kayaking, Weightlifting and Ten Pin Bowling. For my sins, at one time or another, I run the Ice Skating, Skiing, Volleyball and share Footy duties with my old mate Chawkey.

Well, it just so happens that the Girls’ Squash option is for many years the domain of Head of Geography, Mrs Croaker, one of the number of old salts from the grammar school days, who although she looks a bit of a ferocious old fossil who has a habit of shooting first and asking questions a couple of weeks later, is actually an OK sort of Judy once you get to know her.

Legend has it that one day she turns up at the squash club, in Northwood with her girls to find one of their courts occupied. Mrs. Croaker storms right onto the court demanding to know what the blazes and who is responsible and why this court is in use when the school has it booked every week since before Jesus is in sandals…

Jahangir khan

The two guilty parties, their epic battle interrupted stand looking at their trainers like naughty boys until finally someone comes down from reception to sort out the mix up. Which they quickly do, and in no time at all Mrs Croaker and her girls have forgotten all about it.

And the sheepish target of Mrs. Croaker’s fiery invective? The player who dares to take her court? Well, if it is none other than the then World Number One professional squash player Jahangir Khan from Pakistan, who is considered by many to be the greatest player in the history of the game. He wins the World Open six times and the British Open a record ten times. From 1981 to 1986, he is unbeaten in competitive play. During that time he wins 555 games consecutively, the longest winning streak by any athlete in top-level professional sports as recorded by Guinness World Records.

I wonder if it is worth looking at the odds on Jahangir vs. Mrs. Croaker, but figure no bookie would be sap enough to come within a million miles of such a contest. Old Mrs Croaker wins every time, hand running.

I think you can probably insert your own caption here

I think you can probably insert your own caption here

© Andy Daly 2012

Me and Danny Baker

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I thought you might like to hear about the time I met writer and broadcaster Danny Baker.

It was when I was working at the Victoria Wine shop in Marylebone High Street in the summer of 1980/81 or thereabouts. One day I got a call at work from My Best Mate Aky. He suggested that after we were both finished I join him and his girlfriend Silvana over in Poplar, East London for a few scoops. Say no more.

Now, I must introduce you to Silvana. Like the amplifiers in Rob Reiner’s classic send – up of the Rock business, ‘Spinal Tap’, Silvana’s controls all went up to ‘11’. Presence, Intensity, Tone, Speed, Gain and Volume – all up to ‘11’. I had never met someone who could talk so much, so loud, so quickly, spin such convincing yarns, rip the piss out people in such a way that they didn’t even realise she was doing it. AND have an opinion on everything – even subjects she knew nothing about. Quite frankly, she scared the shit out of me. I simply could not figure out how to cope with this crackling, fizzing, jumping box of fireworks. Indeed, it was some years later, when quite by chance I wound up teaching in the same school as Silvana in South East London that I began to get the measure of her. But she had  a heart of gold, and the abiding image I have of her implanted in my brain is all-talked-out, but refusing to admit defeat, pushing her ‘80’s wide rimmed specs up her nose, the old map cracking into a smile and laughing her throaty laugh.

Anyway, now I’ve trashed one old friend, I’ll move on to the main task of the day. I made my way over to Silvana’s flat in Poplar: Fitzgerald House, one of the tower blocks on East India Dock Road, sixteenth floor, I believe. I think I must have had a few ‘travelling cans’ (usually a 4-pack of beers designed to combat the stress and boredom of travelling on London Transport) on the way over, because my memory of the evening is decidedly hazy from the outset. What I do remember was that we ajourned to some moody ‘estate’ pub behind the flats.

Silvana announced that we would be joined by a friend of hers: “Danny. He writes for the NME” (New Musical Express. At the time the definative voice on music which, during the 70s had a weekly circulation in the region of 300,000)’. Knowing how keen I was on music Silvana intimated that ‘Danny’ and I should have quite a lot in common. Well, I was brought up on the NME! I remember how at school, my mate Baz would get a copy every week, and our little gang: Self, Baz and Beckett would stand around reading it from cover to cover. News, reviews, tours, cartoons and jokes. I couldn’t wait. When Danny arrived we were introduced and left to chew the fat for a while. Thus, ensued one of the most dismal evenings I have ever spent in a public house.

Danny seemed distinctly reluctant to chat, whereas I was keen to know all about the NME, who he had interviewed, what they were really like etc. etc. It didn’t go too well. It seemed every band I liked, he hated “Magazine? Devoto – Twat!” and vice versa. It was a pretty disagreeable all in all and eventually all civilised conversation dried up. I caught the 106 back to our hovel in Stoke Newington, thinking “That Danny Baker’s a real miserable bastard”. And so it was. I could never quite reconcile the upbeat,cheery public persona with what I knew to be in private, a darkly-tortured soul. And a miserable bastard.

Until a year or so ago.

Having been out of contact with my mate Aky for about ten years, we got back in touch. After a few weeks, I happened to mention my memories of this forgettable evening and what a grumpy git Danny Baker was.

“Ah yes” he says. “What you probably didn’t realise was that Silvana and ‘Danny’ had recently split up”

(My mate Aky, it seems being the primary cause of the stoppage.)

Which probably explains ‘Danny’s’ demeanour on the night in question.

“But you’re a bit mixed up” (probably the ‘travelling cans’)

“It wasn’t Danny Baker … It was Danny Kelly!”

The Dannys: Kelly and Baker, or is it Baker and Kelly?

For those of you who have no idea what I am talking about:

Kelly is a music journalist, sports presenter, and internet publisher. He began writing for New Musical Express in the early 80s and was its editor from the late 1980s to 1992. After that he edited the British music monthly, Q, and was awarded the title British Magazine Editor of the Year for his work there. He also launched the sports monthly Total Sport. He often works in partnership with fellow sports fan and radio journalist Danny Baker.

Baker worked in record shops before co-founding punk fanzine Sniffin’ Glue in 1976. His work on Sniffin’ Glue led to an offer from the New Musical Express  where he stood out for his wit and comic style. He went on to work on London ITV’s The 6 O’Clock Show in 1982. He became the weekend breakfast presenter for Greater London Radio in 1989, then started working for the BBC on Sportscall, Radio Five, in 1990. In 1992 began writing for TV on clip show TV Hell, then  presented Radio 1’s Saturday and Sunday morning show in 1993, as well as a short-lived late night television chat show, Danny Baker After All, on BBC1. Despite critical acclaim, his radio show was cut in 1996. Writing for Channel 4’s hit show TFI Friday followed in 1996, hosted by Chris Evans, which ran until 2000. He also wrote for comics Jonathan Ross and Angus Deayton and became a regular on panel shows such as Have I got News For You. In 2001 he returned to the BBC from Virgin Radio to host BBC London’s breakfast show, winning Sony’s DJ of the year in 2005. In 2008 he returned to BBC 5 Live, taking over the Saturday morning show in 2009. Diagnosed with cancer 2010. In 2012 his regular afternoon Show on BBC Radio London was axed, despite listener protests.

Baker’s autobiography. Well worth a read

So now you know…

© Andy Daly 2012

Stupidity

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Stupidity:  quality or state of being stupid. It derives from the Latin verb stupere which means numb or astonished. Apparently stupid and stupidity entered the English language in the sixteeth century. Since then, stupid has taken its place along with fool/foolish, idiot/idiotic and moron/moronic to describe the types of people and behaviour I am about to introduce you to. People whose behaviour  shows a lack of good sense or judgement – to whit, I put it to you that stupidity is predicated on a level of intelligence, which is ignored by ‘The Stupid One’ in order to be stupid. The reasons for this are unclear but in my experience almost certainly involve the excessive consumption of alcohol, a desire to impress a member of the opposite sex or for a bet, on which large sums of cash money are believed to be riding (or sometimes a combination of all three).  It was my story about the Train Carriage Hurdling that got me thinking more than somewhat about Stupidity, but if you thought that was stupid; as Bachman said to Turner after critics labelled them underpowered ‘You ain’t seen nuthin yet’

Mr. T: Crazy fools doin’ stupid stuff

Please note that in order to preserve the dignity of the ‘former aquaintances’ responsible for what is about to follow I shall refer to them from here on in simply as my ‘former aquaintances’. In a true spirit of inclusivity and interaction, feel free to grade this selection in order of stupidity: one being high.

Nightclubbing

“Can’t we get a washing machine? I’m sick of that launderette” complained the partner of a former aquaintance

“Are you kidding?” He said “ A basic model would set us back about £250 – No way!”

That evening uptown with a skinfull of grog, my former aquaintance makes for a nightclub with some friends.  They are refused entry whereupon in protest, he jumps up and grabs the canvas awning over the club door, intent on swinging on it. Needless to say it rips and then collapses. The doormen give him a light kicking (nothing that would show) then hand him in to the police. He is charged with Drunk and Disorderly Behaviour and in court is fined …£250

Batman

You know that feeling; on the way home from the pub, you feel the urge to wee, but also a desire to be a bit creative about it. Think Gotham City and Batman! My former aquaintance was a dab hand at this, he would keep his bladder as full as possible, then using a suitably lit wall, relax and let flow in an up down, left right configuration to reveal an uncanny likeness to the  Batman ‘spotlight’ motif, including scallop-shaped batwings.

Batman

Chin up up up up

One night on entering one of the capital’s larger tube stations, my former aquaintance suddenly  takes a run up then launches himself headlong down one of those inviting-looking strips of stainless steel you find between the up and down escalators. He went at quite a lick too, unfortunately he had forgotten about those ‘Toblerone – shaped’ signs which lie across at regular intrevals warning those on the moving stairs to ‘Stand to the Right’ or ‘Fold Pushchairs’. Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! Wall … You get the picture. He only did it the once.

Wallop wallop wallop

Chips Ahoy

One evening a former aquaintance who was also sharing our flat, arrived home having forgotten it was his turn to cook tea.

“Never mind lads, I’ll go to the chip shop. What do we all want?” He took the order, put his helmet on again, jumped on his motorbike and sped off into the night. He returned about 20 minutes later. He took off his helmet with a sheepish grin, wiping the visor which seemed to have been in a collision with a pot of glue and a box of beige carpet trimmings.

“Errrr, I don’t know how to tell you this”

“What?”

“Well, I got the order, and the bag was quite big, so I thought how can I carry it back on my motorbike? I know, I’ll stuff it down my leather jacket, except halfway gown Wingrove Road it burst open and there was fucking fish and chips everywhere!”

Hole in one

We had some friends who had a first floor flat in a house in the East end of Newcastle. One day a hole began to appear in the bathroom floor, alongside the toilet. It slowly got worse, but the landlords did nothing about till one day it worked its way through the ceiling of the flat below; which because it was the same layout, was also their bathroom. One night our friends had a party. I remember my former aquaintance rushing up to me mid-party:

“I’ve done it! Look at this”

He showed me to the bathroom where, with some skill it has to be said, he took aim and pissed through the hole in the floor right into downstairs’ toilet!

Bowie: Volume 10

My former aquaintance comes home from the pub. Ah! The perfect way to complete the evening: a little bit of Ziggy Sardust at full blast. So with his parents  asleep upstairs, he tiptoes into the front room, loads up the platter, puts on the headphones  and cranks it all the way up! He is less than half way  through ‘Five Years’ when he finds himself being  violently shaken awake from an uneasy slumber. Can’t hear, the music’s too loud. So he takes off the heaphones. The music is even louder. His father is yelling at him but he still can’t hear. Finally his Dad pulls the plug out of the record player and  as Bowie slowwwly faaades aaaaawayyyy, stomps back to bed in his pyjamas.

He can’t figure it out, until he realises he never actually plugged in the headphones at all. What he had been listening to was the noise of Bowie volume 10 filtering into his phones from outside!

“The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits” Albert Einstein

Warning. Do not try any of these stupid stunts at home. Or anywhere else for that matter. Always leave it to the experts.

© Andy Daly 2012

Training for the Hurdles

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The incredible success of this year’s ‘Summer of Sport’ got me thinking. Although I have participated in many sports such as: Football, Skiing, Climbing, Long Distance Running, Tae Kwon Do and Ice Skating, I cannot really be said to have excelled at any.

Except Train Carriage Hurdles.

My frame – even to this day, compact, lithe and muscular (less objective commentators might say skinny) is perfect for a discipline which requires powerful bursts of speed, agility, the ability to propel oneself to a significant height, after – and, this is where the key factor, balance comes in – consuming copious quantities of alcohol … or indeed while consuming copious quantities of alcohol.

Don’t be surprised if you have never heard of Train Carriage Hurdles; it has been largely an underground pursuit, (no pun intended – much) despite attempts to have it accepted as a demonstration sport in the 2016 Rio Olympics.

Of course you need some specialist equipment: such as a Bulleid 4EPB/SR train carriage. Introduced in 1940, they populated the Southern region and remained in service until 1992. You know the ones: with the distinctive luggage racks, known and hated by two generations of commuters, with a three seat one side, two seat the other configuration.

Train Carriage Hurdles

Also essential is a short run of track between two stations. We used to use the now-defunct spur to Woodside from Elmer’s End. It served our purposes perfectly. For one, the journey length; no more than 3 or 4 minutes meant just enough time to complete a race and scramble off the train. And secondly, it was where we lived. That is to say My Best Mate Aky, The Baron, the rest of the gang and briefly, Yours Truly.

So what did Train Carriage Hurdles involve? Well, assuming you were in an empty carriage at Elmer’s End (it was possible to compete in an occupied waggon, but the risk of being detained by the British Transport Police or getting your teeth knocked down your throat by an irate fellow commuter was significantly increased.) The two competitors tossed a coin to choose start positions: almost always on the three seat side for reasons which will become apparent. Numbers were restricted to two in a race. The only exception being the relay, in which case the second leg runners took their places at the other end of the train in the ‘baton change-over’ area. Once the start marshall was happy, competitors went on the signal ‘Go!’

The object of the race was to jump off the seat cushions, and launch oneself, first between the top of the seat and the luggage rack  in front, onto the next seat then another launch and over – this time beween the luggage rack and the carriage roof. And so on in an ‘under and over’ fashion (you see why most competitors, save for the slightest-built quicker starters opted to start on the three seat row) until the end of the carriage was reached, at which point, they would cross to the opposite side and come all the way back in the same manner. The winner of course, being first home before Woodside was reached.

If ever there was a sport for which I was entirely suited it was this. It is just a shame that it was of an era before the current blurring of the boundaries between sport and criminal behaviour. In fact there are probably fewer than half a dozen people alive on this planet who can bear witness to my prowess as a Train Carriage Hurdler. Those were the days!

Stardust in Rochdale

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I know. Sounds unlikely doesn’t it?

I suppose you might be thinking coal, asbestos, or brick dust, fair enough. But stardust?

Yet, for a while in the ’70s there was a significant scattering of Stardust in Rochdale, the old mill town in Lancashire where I grew up.

I should explain. The stardust in question was not sprinkly sparkly stuff, but plain old Bernard Jewry, otherwise known as Shane Fenton, otherwise known as Alvin Stardust; a corny, would-be glam pop singer.

One day on a gable end in Heywood near Rochdale, Alvin Stardust’s face appeared painted larger than life with a jigsaw pattern backgound. Why Alvin Stardust? Well why not? Local legend has it that it was intended to be Elvis, but the artist – who I later was to learn was Walter Kershaw – didn’t have a suitable picture!

Alvin Stardust by Walter Kershaw

Walter remembers going to the house and asking the owner whether he would mind if he used the side wall as his canvas. He said yes. This phenomenon of ‘Street Art’ (which pre-dates the ‘Cable Street Mural’ by at least four or five years ‘Art Graffiti’ by ten and Banksy by decades) began in 1973 with ‘The Pansies’. Often paintings were on properties that were due for demolition. I remember as a kid: dying to see what was going to appear next, and where.

Pansies 1973

Although I think I am right in saying that Walter never got into any trouble over his work, the Council certainly didn’t approve, which of course made it all the more exciting. I thought he was brilliant. A sort of guerrilla artist, bringing art out of the gallery into a public space.

The Inside Out House

My little story came about at the saturday morning art class which was held at Rochdale Art College. I loved it there. I did a basic drawing/painting class for a couple of years, then an excellent life drawing class for a couple more. I remember the white-painted studio walls, paint-caked floors and the smell of turpentine, oil paint and stale fixative; something which, although I have all but lost my sense of smell, I can still conjure up.

I must have been about thirteen. On this particular morning I was drawing an imaginary scene – a lunar space space station, when the tutor announced a visitor. It was Walter Kershaw, and he was keen to see what we were doing. I remember him going around, spending a little time with each of us; making suggestions about how we could improve our work. Finally, he came to me. I was in awe. For me it was like George Best suddenly coming up to you in the park and showing you how to improve your dribbling skills.

I remember exactly what he taught me, because I still have the picture. I had put in some rather half-baked lettering What he did was to rub this out and show me using faint ruler-drawn parallel lines, how to make ‘guides’ which would ensure you got letter shapes the same height. Something which in later life as  an Art and Design teacher I did for my own students countless thousands of times.

Mmmmm. That Hubble telescope is not what it’s cracked up to be

In fact, at about this time, Rochdale had quite an alternative scene going on. So alongside Walter’s subversive murals, there was the Rochdale Alternative Press (RAP) – one of the highest circulation alternative magazines in Europe, The Rochdale Art Festival, The M6 theatre company (whose cast included Sue Johnston – later Brookside and Royal Family), The Deeply Vale free music festivals which played a significant part in the early careers of amongst others; Joy Division, The Fall, Mick Hucknall, plus Cargo studios on Kenyon Street where artists such as The Fall, Joy Division, Gang of Four, Not Sensibles, A Certain  Ratio, Nico, Teardrop   Explodes, Icicle Works,  The Chameleons, Echo and the Bunnymen,  Durutti Column etc. recorded.

In 1977 I moved away from Rochdale, but I never forgot Walter Kershaw’s work, nor his ‘down to earth’ approach to art. He was one of the reasons I went to study Art in Newcastle, as he studied there too (when it was still King’s College, Durham.) I began painting murals myself: at the Sixth Form college I went to and later, when I took up teaching, with groups of students in my own and local schools. In addition, mindful of how much of an impression it made on me to see an artist make a living from his work, and furthermore, share it with his community, in the last school I taught at we initiated an Artist in School programme that lasted over ten years, in which we had an annual residency or artist’s workshops, the aim being to reach as many children as possible.

Walter Kershaw. One of the TraffordPark mural panels

Walter still lives in Rochdale and works out of his studio in Littleborough and as well as his mural painting, which has  taken him all over the world, he has work in a number of public collections such as the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Arts Council and the Gulbenkian Foundation.

© Andy Daly 2012

© All images (except No. 4) Walter Kershaw

In Conversation. Is Iconic a much over-used word?

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The first in a new series in which leading academics in their field discuss contemporary cultural issues. To start us off we are joined by Stephen Paul Murphy, Emeritus Professor in the Faculty of Design, University of South East Manchester. (Formerly Altrincham College) A man of many parts Murphy held the British Wrestling Board’s Welterweight crown two years in succession, and still wrestles under the name ‘Skull Murphy’. Joining him in conversation today is Andy Daly, PHD, reader in Semiotics, Department of Visual Language, University College Stratford. (Formerly Hackney Technical College) By coincidence, also a wrestler,  he held the European Light and Light Middleweight belts before hanging up his leotard in 2008. He still does the occasional demonstration bout under his ‘nom de guerre’ Scrubber Daly.

Welcome, gentlemen the floor is yours.

Andy Daly I’m sick of hearing the word ‘Iconic’ used to describe everything. I swear if I hear it one more time, I’m gonna lose it.

Stephen Murphy Chillax, man.

Andy Daly Well, it does my frigging head in. Three times on one item on Breakfast TV this morning.

Stephen Murphy You need to get out more.

Andy Daly Yeah, but where? If I go into London, I go to the tube station, an iconic example of 1930’s Modernism. Look at the tube map, Harry Beck’s iconic solution to the non-topographical representation of the tube layout. Get on the train, look down at my Air Wair boots, an iconic British design classic. Go to Trafalgar Square, home of the iconic statue … See what I mean?

Stephen Murphy So you get out but you can’t help yourself from seeing the iconic, that’s the problem with the artistic mind. You just need to walk around looking at your feet, then there’s only one iconic to think about – unless your socks are iconic as well, then you’re goosed. Oh! and I bet the jeans are Levis. Shit I see the problem.

Andy Daly Exactly! … Not as simple as it seems is it? I even went to the quack. He said I had a classic case of one of the 21st century’s iconic complaints …

Stephen Murphy What does it mean anyway?

Andy Daly Well, its epistemology clearly relates to the word Icon which …

Stephen Murphy Never mind all that bullshit Daly, what does Wikipedia say?

Andy Daly It says, and I quote: “A cultural icon can be a symbol, logo, picture, name, face, person, building or other image that is readily recognized and generally represents an object or concept with great cultural significance to a wide cultural group.” I guess you could say it sort of means ‘a classic case’

Stephen Murphy Damn. Wait a minute, so your doctor was telling you you had a classic case of a classic case?

Andy Daly And it also says (get this) “In the media, many well-known manifestations of popular culture have been described as “iconic”. Some writers say that the word is overused”

Stephen Murphy Hot damn.

Andy Daly I know what! Let’s get everybody to substitute an ‘R’ for the ‘C’ – Then it becomes ‘Ironic’. That’s better. Everything can be ironic instead: that will be much more Post-Modern and fun … and ironic!

Stephen Murphy Sounds like a plan!

Andy Daly Fancy a beer?

Stephen Murphy Is  grass ironic?

Andy Daly Errr.. I don’t think … Never mind.

Next week Melvyn Bragg and Joan Bakewell, and the topic under the microscope is ‘Why don’t you seem to see white dogshit around these days?’

© Andy Daly 2012

Rake’s progress 3

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Where am I?

One of my companions has just made a fire beneath his bed using his clothes. He said he ‘was cold’. Thank God he didn’t have any matches. Mind you during the course  of a chilly September night with draughts creeping in from the ill-fitting windows alongside my bed, I would have been glad of a bit of warmth and the restful glow given off by smouldering underpants and socks.

Guess where I am?

I’ll give you a clue. It begins with ‘H’.

Hell?

No, but you are close.

Of course, I’m in Hospital!

This time the surreal nonsense began in the cab here. The driver furnished me with all manner of interesting facts. Such as:

“Did you know the human body can live for 40 days without water?”

“Really?”

“Or is it food? Yeah, must be food….”

“Well, I suppose, if Jesus did it ….”

“Did he? He done all that then?”

“Well, according  to the Bible, 40 days and 40 nights in the desert …”

“That must be Lent then? When you give up chocolate? Just imagine 40 days and 40 nights without chocolate. It’s a good job Easter falls when it does”.

Hospital benefactors, decor, architecture etc revisited

The current admission is for surgery to re-implant the electrical contacts in my brain, to hopefully target better the stimulation, and in turn give greater relief from symptoms. I give the Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein a nod as I book in at reception. She was actually called Henrietta, the ‘ugly duckling’ daughter of Queen Victoria, except she never got her hands on a Swan-conversion kit. She was married off to a penniless minor German aristocrat, Prince Christian. She devoted her life to ‘good works’ and was a supporter of the Suffragette Movement. What doesn’t look quite so good on the CV is that she was apparently addicted to Opium (that is the drug, not the tarty perfume) and Laudanum. I resist the temptation to  inspect the fine craftsmanship and intricate carving on the staircase, and make my way up to the ward.

After bedding down looking forward to relative peace and quiet: there being only three of us on the ward, the night became typically eventful after  a patient is brought in somewhere about midnight screaming and shouting the place down. Apparently he’d had an operation the previous week, gone home and existed almost exclusively on painkillers. Now I’m no quack, but even I know that painkillers will give you constipation. So after the registrar had had a good feel of his distended stomach and bowel, and assured the patient he was (unfortunately) in no danger, he promptly fell asleep and gave the rest of us a virtuoso display of snoring and farting. By 5am I could take no more and was ready to fucking strangle the bastard. So I got up.

DBS set up

The beginners guide to Deep Brain Stimulation Surgery – A practical approach. Part two

After undergoing a battery of tests, I join the surgical team to discuss the situation. There are basically two options. The first, is to move my electrodes – but where to? My problem is that the implanted electrodes in the Sub Thalamic Nucleus of my brain are exactly were the textbook says they should be. Also, what I didn’t know until then was that every time they go into the brain they need to drill fresh holes in the skull through virgin bone. Even for a re-implantation. Not good. A Second option would be to fit a fresh set of electrodes in  the Globus Pallidus, with which there have been some successes in reducing the uncontrollable movements (Diskynesias) which are a side effect of anti-Parkinson’s medication. Again this would mean fresh drilling, but would mean that the original set of leads stay in place. Now my ears prick up at this. The advantages are that existing benefits could be retained and fine-tuned by means of the leads in the Globus Pallidus –  in theory. Disadvantages are a whole second run of cabling down the right side of the head, to match the left and the insertion of an additional IPG (battery and Implanted Pulse Generator about the size and weight of a large-ish mobile phone), into my chest below the collarbone, or the abdomen.

Hmmm. don’t much like he sound of that.

For those of you who battled through the particularly inept piece of writing that marked the opening of this tale of tales, and were  paying attention, you will recall my attempt to explain the intricacies of Deep Brain Stimulation surgery, using kitchen utensils, an AM radio and some  fruit and veg. It maybe of help to expand on this to explain my current predicament in laymans terms. So, to recap, you will need one coconut, one cauliflower, 4 kebab skewers, copper wiring,  AM Radio,  power drill and a new potato. Here’s a coconut I prepared earlier. In it I have the two original holes. I now have to make two fresh ones to re-implant the kebab skewers or to attempt a fresh insertion into the Globus Pallidus. So I drill the two holes as before making sure I leave a good gap between new and old.

The Kitchen’s getting a bit crowded here. Anyone fancy a Malibu?

Now take …  Fuck, I’ve dropped the coconut. That’s torn it. It’s cracked across the top from hole 1 to 3  and No, I can’t use the other half of the shell, because for reasons which seemed perfectly sound at the time, I cut it in half again to fashion a horse’s ‘clip clop’ hoof sound effect. Rats! Okay, lets gaffa tape it up, or failing that I can use some silicone sealant. Like everyone else does, everywhere. Where was I? Yes, now the cauliflower make sure … Oh I don’t think I can be bothered with this.

So, back to the Professor’s office, and what to do? The question is batted backwards and forwards, while I, gung-ho for surgery no more than an hour ago, am quickly losing my nerve as it becomes evident that any additional surgery will at least as difficult, if not more so, than the original foray; and that there is every possibility that it could leave me worse rather than better off. Finally it is put to the vote – my consultant (expert in programming DBS systems), Chief Surgeon (one of the world’s foremost practitioners in this field) and his assistant (again highly experienced in DBS) unanimously advise not to proceed on the basis that my test scores indicate an overall improvement of 50% and because surgery would be a ‘shot in the dark’, for the moment at least any way, it presents too much of a risk.

So there we have it. Down to me now to make the most of what I’ve got. Cue Operation Independence.

I can’t think of an amusing way to round this tale off, so I’ll just bring you up to date with Mr. Death’s Door, my constipated screamer from last night. As I packed my gear, I was more than satisfied to find that nature – or rather some industrial strength laxatives had taken its course, and Our Friend was now beset by a monumental case of The Green Apple Quickstep.

Fine for me. I have no sense of smell.

© Andy Daly 2012

Waste Of Ink

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I can’t help help feeling partly responsible for this. As those who know me will attest, many is the time I have droned on to anyone who will listen extolling the virtues of tattoos and tattooing – particularly since having mine done on October 14th 1983, by Ossie ‘The Wizard’ at his studio on Byker Bridge, Newcastle Upon Tyne. I don’t know about ‘The Wizard’ bit: he looked more like a washed-up darts player. It cost £5.00. It should have been £7.50 but ‘The Wizard’ didn’t have change.

What is it? Well, it is a rose on my left shoulder. Not terribly good really, but it strikes a nice balance between the raffish old-fashioned Portsmouth back-street style of tatoo, and a more modern sensibility in which my rose (or red cabbage – it depends on how I’m holding my arm) becomes symbolic: of fidelity and honour – my talisman.

Which brings me back to my point. Why are there so many crap tattoos around? These days it is rare to see an untarnished body, one without some dreadful scrawl on it: dainty risqué  scars on female ankles, hips and shoulders. Lads with tribal black patterns, they have no understanding of but which seem to hint at “I went to Tahiti, and all I got was this stupid tattoo”or” I’m with dickhead”.

When you see real tattoo mastery, the Japanese Irezumi, for instance, where the tattoo, its imagery and execution over musculature are ineluctably bound with the social and political stance of its wearer – or at least it was during its heyday of the 1850s and 60s. Much of today’s ‘flash’ (pre-prepared designs which usually decorate a studio walls, and which the client selects, usually by number) pales into insignificance.

I am reminded of a lachrymose Scot who happened to be in the bed next to me when I was in hospital for my last bunch of surgery. As he tearfully explained to the surgeon. His main concern, despite the severity of the operation was not haemorrhage, infection, or possible paralysis, but the thought that the scarring would ruin the tattoo on his neck. He was delighted to find on regaining consciousness and his subsequent return to the ward from the recovery room that his fears had been unfounded.

His tattoo? It was a series of dashes which formed a line around his neck, a small image of a pair of scissors and the legend “Cut Here”.

Cut here