The previous owners here had made a pond and a pathetic waterfall/water-feature-type thing. It was so bad it is simply impossible to describe in grown-up language. As I sit here and write I can feel myself getting irritated at how crap it was and how proud the owner was of it; as if it was a major selling point of the house:
“Now let’s see, the central heating’s fucked, the tiles in the bathroom have been put up by someone with vertigo and no thumbs, the electrics look as if they’re pre-war (that’s the Crimean War) and the garden’s full of bamboo, but hey! It’s got a water feature. We must have it!”
See what I mean?
Well, the frogs that were thrown in when the deal was sealed (£395,000 for freehold property as described plus 3 frogs) finally got the move they’d obviously been dying for last week, when with my youngest son we caught them, put them in a bucket and took them to the pond in the nature reserve (tip) at the end of our street. There, he and I bid them a fond Adeiu, whereupon they leapt with gay abandon into the murky tadpole-infested waters. We scuttled off for a walk round said reserve during which time, our frogs were probably being greedily gobbled up by the local Heron or suchlike. I didn’t mention this to my youngest who is of a nervous disposition where animal welfare is concerned.
I am already looking forward to smashing the water feature to smithereens with the pickaxe I nicked from the builders.
© Andy Daly 2010
Okay, now then, first of all, let me introduce you to B and E. We’re having lunch in a cafe in Westfields, the huge shopping centre in Shepherds Bush. They are both on BLTs and coffee while I am re-arranging the currants on my sticky bun to resemble a ‘Happy Face’. Retired now, B and E have spent the bulk of their working lives in the teaching game. Not only that, but specifically with some of its most difficult and challenging individuals. They did this (and moreover did it extremely well) by being well-organised, stimulating their charges’ interest by approaching topics or subjects from a point of view which allowed them the opportunity to engage, and by treating their students with respect. However, I don’t want any mental images of ‘bearded (both of them) yoghurt-knitting, wet, woolly-thinking liberals’. Far from it. Snappy-dressing Rock ‘n’ Rollers, they approached the classroom with principles and attitude and certainly didn’t suffer fools gladly. I’m making them out to be a bit of a double act, but of course they weren’t. Apart from a brief spell when they taught in the same school, they did not work together.
The first story is from E and is a cautionary tale for all those with a calling to work in the schools’ inspectorate (still known, as far as I am aware as OFSTED) and comes from the time she worked at Chantry, a special school for ‘maladjusted’ children as it was known then. She had a particularly difficult group. Almost impossible to get settled and concentrating on anything. That was until she introduced them to a bit of sewing or perhaps more correctly, needlework.
For miracle of miracles; when she got out the sewing kit and once they had got bored with trying to jab each other, they simmered down and got into some basic techniques. It must have had some kind of therapeutic effect.
Well, it was into one of these lessons one jolly morning that a school inspector purposefully strode and took up her position to observe the lesson. Apart from making ‘V’ signs behind her back, raising their eyebrows a lot and huffing, coughing, sneezing and ‘hiding’ swear words in them as they did so (Bbbbhhhbitch! Aahhaahhaahhaarsehole!!) the kids completely ignored the visitor. Meanwhile, E explained to the students what they had to do, and they got started.
A relative calm descended. E went around, helping out. As she did so Mrs. Inspector takes it upon herself to poke around and give the students the benefit of her expertise. She stood and looked for a long time over the shoulder of one of the boys, which had the visitor even the slightest scrap of awareness of body language and the intimate classroom dynamics of such a teaching situation is the boy she would have made a point of steering well clear of.
“Oh no no no!” said the inspector. Silence. The students looked from one to another, open-mouthed.
“Oh no no no! That won’t do. That bit there. It isn’t straight ..” You could hear a pin drop.
Without looking up the boy replied: “Yeah? Well you’ve got a fucking big nose, but I wasn’t gonna say nothing”
And so you have it. The fundamental flaw in the process of inspecting and reporting on schools, their teachers and the students in their care. Employing inspectors with Fucking Big Noses.
And for those of you who haven’t worked it out yet, ‘B’ is ‘Bill’ as in My Mate Bill, and E his wife Eileen.
Notes:
CSE: Secondary Certificate of education
TVEI: Technical/Vocational Initiative
NVQ: National Vocational Qualification
GCSE: General Certificate of Secondary Education
BLT: Bacon lettuce and Tomato Sandwich
© Andy Daly 2010
Further to my post, ‘Buck Rogers’ and the exent of national, nay global interest in said bear; I’m afraid I just don’t get it. Perhaps, I’m having a bad day… bad year … bad life. But no: hold on, let’s give it another chance and view again. Everybody ready. Let’s go!
Yeah, you see, again I barely get past a smirk, and that’s only at the thought of the fact that his stances are so poor that it seems to suggest our bear wouldn’t know what a Martial Art was, even if it jumped up, executing as it did so a spinning hook kick to his temple and in a swiftness of an eye blink, Bang! a turning kick to the other side. Then just for good measure, bit him on the arse (or ‘ass’)
No, as he twiddles his poles in an almost ‘wooden’ pattern (if you’ll pardon the pun) which has ever such a slight suggestion of ‘post production’ trickery about it, our bear has only one thing on his mind. You can almost hear him:
‘Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
Old Mother Nature’s recipes
Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
Old Mother Nature’s recipes …’
Now I’m begining to chuckle. Poor Alan. What would he have thought? Are bears any good at maths?
Jesus. Here we are, speeding towards the middle of the Twenty first century. Remember how it was pictured when we were kids ? We’ll all live perfectly happy lives in towers of apartments, wearing sexy, but practical …. Hmmm, actually not practical at all, spandex suits and fly to work in rockets and space ships which look suspiciously like re-modelled 1950s cars. Instead, we live pretty much like we always have done – Flared trousers continue to make regular comebacks, you can still get VIMTO, yet we have ready access to a technology our grandparents couldn’t have dreamt of, let alone understood ….
and what do we do with it? This immense information super highway, this democratising, border and frontier defying (as long as you’re near an AC power source or suitable rechargeable lithium battery) government-crushing, people-empowering phenomenon…this…this…this… awe-inspiring tool of the common man?
We send each other You Tube crap like
Alan Turing will be turning in his grave (to demonstrate his powerful Back-Kick no doubt)
Note: Anything which encourages a reprise of one of many ’70s low points Carl Douglas’ “Kung Fu Fighting” is doomed in my book.
© Andy Daly 2010
Now then. Hands up! Ever go to see speedway as a kid?
Whether you loved it or hated it – and in my experience, for most people it is a love or hate thing, I bet I can tell you the one thing you remember most about it, whether you visited back in the sport’s ‘Golden Era’ of the late 40s early 50s when huge crowds at speedway meetings, even midweek were commonplace; or the modest revival that was the 1970s, the ‘Doldrum’ 80’s or the ‘Sky TV’ Era ’90s to the present day. Whether you went to see one of the famed clubs like Belle Vue – the ‘Aces’, still going strong or one of the many who fell by the wayside like The Liverpool Chads, Crystal Palace Glaziers, Rochdale Hornets or Yarmouth Bloaters. Perhaps it was to see a world class rider, like ‘Split’ Waterman, Ove Fundin, ‘Briggo’, Ivan Mauger, Peter Collins. Maybe it was a world championship qualifier, Grand Prix or just a second half reserves match.Whether you watched from the terraces, from behind glass, seated at a dining table, or were lucky enough to watch from the pits, I am pretty sure I know what it is that you recall most strongly.
Early Australian Test Team
… But hold on what’s the rush? Why not wait a while as I wax lyrical about what the Poles call ‘The Black Sport’
My first visit was to the unforgettable Shay in Halifax, 1968. I was still black and white in those days, too young to have witnessed the crowds of yesteryear like 1946 for example, when Wembley Lions, who rode at the old stadium, drew such a crowd for their the final meeting of the season, that not only did it result in a lockout, but the match had to be relayed via loudspeakers to a further 20,000 outside. The same season saw 65,000 on May 23 for Wembley v New Cross; 76,000 on June 20 against Belle Vue; 67,000 on July 4 v New Cross again and 85,000 on July 11 against West Ham. There must have been sod-all on TV then.
1945 New Cross
Grand Prix 2009
Still, even in the ‘60s, The Shay on a Saturday night held crowds that to me (aged eight) looked pretty vast. They enveloped me in a genial warm, grey ‘fug’ (it’s like a group hug in which everyone is smoking) while out on the track our heroes: Eric Boocock, Dave Younghusband and Greg Kentwell etc. did battle against the riders from the opposing teams. The crowd was almost always good natured and loud. Riders were talked about and addressed with such familiarity that a newcomer would be forgiven for thinking that they were indeed close friends or relatives. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, which was given; freely and without prejudice – regardless of whether they had ever even sat on a motorcycle, let alone ridden speedway or were conversant with its subtleties and idiosyncrasies (Yes, there is more to it than meets the eye) There can be nothing more disheartening I imagine for a rider going through a phase of poor scores or mechanical ‘gremlins’ that they all suffer from time to time, than taking the long walk back to the pits after an engine failure or fall past the opposing team’s fans:
‘Yeaaaaaah! You’d be better off milking it ….’
Look at the crowd! 1944
Elite League match 2010
But heated debate or ‘rider-baiting’ rarely boiled over into fisticuffs or anything serious. Although when it did – It was always invariably in the pits and usually worth the admission money alone.
The Shay, Halifax
Eric Boocock
For the uninitiated/uninterested speedway bikes may look pretty basic, but engines are highly tuned power units that on a modern machine produce upwards of 11,000 RPM and will dish out 80+ BHP, (nearer 8,000 RPM and 50 BHP on a late 60’s bike) all of which can be directed to the rear wheel in a split second by dropping the clutch, which is enough to propel bike and rider from 0 – 60 in under 3 seconds, in which time the rider has to control the bike, choose his racing line and prepare to navigate a corner – or plough into the ‘safety’ fence (see below) at full speed. As if that weren’t enough, they have to ride the corner as fast as possible, which means the execution of a broadslide, the ‘Dark Art’ that relies on correct weight distribution, fine throttle control, balance and an intimate knowledge of how to use the track surface and in particular the amount of loose dirt lying on it to one’s own advantage. Oh yes, of course, all done in competition with three other riders, each looking for the same piece of track. So it’s not surprising if things overheat from time to time, be it engine, clutch or rider. They have to trust each other. But nonetheless the race to the first corner is a cut and thrust affair. Not for the faint-hearted.
David Mason’s GM ‘Laydown’ 2010
Steve Buxton’s beautiful Weslake. Still in one piece
Not that I was aware of any of this as I used to stand on the small stool we used to take that allowed me to see right over the safety fence to the starting gate. (It is where the clouds of bike exhaust fumes are left hanging in the air in the picture of the Shay above – at about 1 o’clock. The noise at the starts was deafening. Because there was no sprung safety fence at the Shay (there the fence was made of wood and steel, so I am guessing the word ‘Safety’ was in order to signify the protection it afforded the crowd as opposed to the riders.) it meant you were that much closer to the action: so close in fact, that as riders entered the home straight I could stick my head out over the fence, watch them approach, pulling in just in time as they roared past. I’m not sure I would have done that had I known then about the circumstances of the Le Mans disaster some thirteen years earlier.
Riders who were unlucky enough to inspect the safety fence at close quarters often finished their evening with a visit to the local Infirmary and a decidedly second-hand looking bike. Thankfully however, in all my years watching speedway, although I have seen many, many spectacular accidents none have been fatal while the vast majority resulted in only minor injuries. Speedway is not a ‘widowmaker’ but it can be a very cruel sport all the same.
Again, all of this I am blissfully unaware of as I watch the riders line up for the next race. They to and fro, looking for the best point on their particular gate, the one which will produce maximum traction once the tapes go up and the clutch is dropped. One of them pulls away, seemingly to clear his goggles, which have misted up. Or is he just trying to unsettle his opponents? Astride his bike he tips it over, allowing it to pivot on the long footrest so that he can rest the clutch giving him a free hand with which to make the necessary adjustment. He is unable to use his right, which is the throttle hand, because it risks stalling the machine (and these days is attached to a ‘kill switch’ that cuts out the engine in case of accident.) He grabs the clutch lever and pulling on the bars, plants the rear wheel onto the track again. Helmeted, masks and goggles; it is impossible to see their faces. I wonder what they are thinking? Are they scared? I feel butterflies in my stomach (and I’m only 8 and watching not riding … ) The bikes, and in particular, the spokes sparkle under the floodlights. Shiny, shiny bikes which could in a few seconds time be worthless scrap metal. The start marshall calls them to order, the riders suddenly stiffen, ready and heads swivel to the stretch of starting tapes they see most clearly, throttles are wide open, exhausts billow, clutch held on the verge of biting …
And there it is:
CH3OH.
That’s what you remember above all else.
Methanol.
Otherwise known as methyl alcohol or wood alcohol. It is a light, colourless, flammable, liquid is produced naturally in the anaerobic metabolism of many varieties of bacteria and is the fuel used by to power speedway bikes.
Or more correctly, what you remember is its smell – after combustion. That unmistakable, slightly thick and rich almost perfumed smell, with a bit of Castrol R SAE 40 racing oil thrown in for good measure. There’s nothing like it.
Was I right?
Links:
Speedway GB Official British Speedway Site
Methanol Press Speedway author Jeff Scott takes his own unique and slightly quirky look at the world of Speedway and the rich variety of people found in it.
Mike Patrick Speedway Photographer
Speedway Star Weekly magazine on line
Speedway Plus Online magazine
Speedway Grand Prix FIM Official GP Site
All Speedway Photos/videos
© Andy Daly 2010
Safety Warning. Methanol: not to be confused with Menthol. I don’t think it will give you the same sort of Fresh Breath Confidence somehow.
Pic credits: 4 and 6: AllSpeedway.tv, 5: Mike Patrick, 8: Speedway Plus, 9: speedwayondisc.blogspot.com, 11: Steve Buxton. All the others: © Andy Daly 2010
If you are wondering why the world has seemed a lesser place this last couple of weeks, it is because one of my life’s good things is no more. Today, in Kirkby Stephen, Cumbria, family and friends will say a final farewell to dear Bill Turner.
I seem to have known Bill and his unmistakable voice, rich in tone and timbre, forever. I didn’t realise why he held such a prominent place in my childhood until the words he spoke at my mother’s funeral (for which I was deeply grateful. I treasure the copy I have, though I can’t bear to read it much) He explained that he had been one of my first – and I reckon my best – babysitters. Later on I recall the postcards and letters he took the time to write and send from Zimbabwe or Rhodesia as it was then. I looked forward to these and the tales he used to tell of his adventures in this ‘exotic’place.
Although in recent years, all grown up and with my own family, I did not see much of him, he has always had and will continue to do so, a special place in my life.
Of course, none of this I bothered to tell him while he was alive, much to my regret and shame. When will I ever learn?
Or ‘The Key’
(with sincere apologies to Richard Hawley)
Open up your door
Open up the door
Though quite against the law
To the right you’ll hear it click
Hmmm! it has a tendency to stick
Ooh open up your door
This key will fit for sure
Though I’ve not tried before
Know it’ll open up the door
Open up the door
So open up your door …
Introduction
Now many people may scoff at the particular piece of Cumberland folklore I am about to reveal, and which has been brought up to date in modern verse as a popular song by Sheffield ‘Crooner’ Richard Hawley.
But it is true.
There was a key.
A key which revealed our past, present and possibly our futures …
How do I know? Because I saw it with mine own eyes, held it in mine own hand.
The Power of The Key
The Key was a source of great potency, and as such a good example of enabling nature of Power. Not only did it unlock hardwood external doors, but internal softwood: glazed and unglazed, firedoors, walk in store cupboard doors, but it was also able to unlock doors, which allowed us to walk back into our very own thoughts and words, and those of others, too. Imagine that! The Key was for its keepers and users a vital weapon against oppression. (A comprehensive account of power can be found in Steven Lukes Power: A Radical View where he discusses the three dimensions, which include that (ie the Key) which make action possible.) Much of this stance is related to the analysis of Power by the French philosopher Michel Foucault (1926–1984)
No Smoke without matches
Lovingly and intricately incised with the bold Celtic patterns so reminiscent of the 10th Century cross at nearby Gosforth, it wasn’t. Instead it was a disappointingly lumpy and imperfect alloy copy of a Chubb masterkey. I should explain. I was in the Sixth Form at Wyndham School, Egremont, Cumbria. Family committments had necessitated a move from my beloved Rochdale to the dormitory town of Seascale, next door to the British Nuclear Fuels Ltd Sellafield/Windscale plant, which is where I lived for 2 years and Wyndham was the nearest school.
I hadn’t been there long when a rumour began circulating among the student body that some person or persons unknown had access to their own master key – which enabled passage to all areas of the Sixth form block, including classrooms and offices. Nowhere was secure. But who?
No smoke without fire. In this instance, the Swan Vestas proved to be Smisch and Duane. These two reprobates* ‘borrowed’ a staff master key, then in a gripping race against time, made a mould, returned it, then cast a copy in the metalwork rooms!
Greatest HitsFrom thereon, the Sixth Form students had unlimited access to the whole block – you name it: Head of Sixth Form’s office, all the classrooms, storerooms and both external doors. Power indeed! Of course, strictly speaking, it allowed us merely to walk back into the classrooms where we had above-mentioned thoughts etc. (There was a lot of ‘herb’ floating around at this point in time – if you catch my drift.) But it does make you wonder about the wisdom of putting all the doors on the same key.
Anyway, it was very convenient. Let’s say you wanted to make an amendment on your ‘UCCA’ form – no tiresome wait until the Head of Sixth Form returned from lunch.You simply got the key, let yourself in, got what you wanted, tidied his desk a bit if you felt inclined, and locked up again on your way out. The staff had no idea!
I remember a gang of us emptying the Head of Sixth Form’s office one lunchtime and replacing all the furniture with exotic curtains, rugs, bean bags and cushions which people had brought from home, to make it look like an opium smoking den and on another occasion, again after removing furniture we simply wheeled someone’s oily motorcycle in from out of the car park and left it on its stand in the middle of the room. He must have thought he was going mad! And all because some careless member of staff left their Master Key lying around. Tsk tsk.
One afternoon, Duane and I used the key to access the ropes and crabs from the summer camp gear store. We then took all the bags belonging to the students at a History class on the top floor. Bags were not allowed into classrooms and of course therefore were an easy target. After tying all the bags along the rope, we strung it from one toilet window on South East side of the building (which was an inverted ‘S’ shape) to the corresponding window on the North East side, then hoisted it up, so when those in the class turned to look out of the window, they saw their bags dancing up and down in the wind, some 40 feet up. One night, drunk and tired of trying to hitch hike home, we let ourselves in and slept on cushions on the common room floor.
To future generations … and capture!With much ceremony, the key was ritually handed down to ‘Responsible Officers’ of the incoming Upper 6th (year 13) But it couldn’t last. People had become apparently, so blasé about using it, that it was only a matter of time before someone was caught with it. And let’s face it a dopey staff can only be so dopey for so long… eventually, a year or so after I had left, the inevitable happened … Caught in possession. And that was that.
I wonder why they never changed the locks? You don’t think they knew all along. Did they?
Open up your door
Open up the door
Oh Officer I’m sure
I really can’t take any more
I just sit here on the floor
Ooh officer the door
Just ask for Legal Aid once more
I must qualify, I’m sure.
Open up the door
So open up your door
Open up the door
Hawley. Has just read ‘Open up your door’
(*Now Professor of Interaction Design at the Institute for Design, Oslo and Computer Software Consultant and Contractor, Denver Colorado respectively.)
Please note: if you haven’t already realised, paragraph two is complete bollocks.
© Andy Daly 2010
Sixty three. Sixty three years old. Just reflect on that for a minute as I drain the dregs of my Horlicks (and double brandy)
For I, along with about 2,999 others have just spent an evening in the company of polite, intelligent, urbane Miami car insurance salesman (63) James Osterberg’s alter-ego, Iggy Pop. And what an evening. Right from the get-go with blistering opener ‘Raw Power’ Iggy and the Stooges made an unequivocal statement of intent – this was no old fossils’ Greatest Hits jolly, this was the real deal: searing, raw, incisive, naked, ugly (Aghh… I hate the term, but it really is the only one that fits) Rock ‘n’ Roll.
This is the third time I have seen Osterberg undergo this almost daemonic transformation live. The first time (’81) I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t thinking: I didn’t get it. Wood and trees etc. The second time (2007) was with my eldest at the Festival Hall: part of the annual ‘Meltdown’ series of events; which is where the penny dropped. However, it is without doubt, tonight’s performance of the pivotal ‘Raw Power’ (1973) in its entirety which has been the most compelling, and is the one I have enjoyed the most.
Iggy’s ‘Stooges’ are Drums: Scott “Rock Action” Asheton, bass: Mike Watt, and guitar, as replacement for the late Ron Asheton, in a wholly appropriate, though highly ironic echo of his assimilation into the original incarnation of the band (and the subsequent and devastating demotion of Asheton, R) … It’s naughty boy, James Williamson. Together they laid down a powerhouse backdrop of sound, which if you analysed carefully, I’d be willing to bet would contain the building blocks of every Punk motif you could care to mention. A perfectly primed canvas for Iggy, on which to daub, splatter, splash and from time to time exquisitely render his vocal imagery and project his physicality. In fact, it’s what strikes you the minute he half-walks, half-staggers onto the stage. How completely physical Iggy’s performance is.
And yet he cuts such a contradictory figure. For his age, he is in impressive shape. (‘Two hours of Chinese shit every morning’ ) Taut torso, sinewy, part Marvel Comic Super-Hero and part crucified Christ; commanding, he calls the tunes. Yet equally vulnerable: not least when, without a great deal of warning, he launches himself off the stage, diving headlong into his audience relying on their hands and arms to catch him and eventually return him to the stage. Occasionally he looked fragile, but indifferent to it. Indeed, more than anything with his stage dives he appeared increasingly determined as the evening went on, to find a bit of a ‘gap’ through which lay only sudden and violent contact with a hard floor.
‘Go on have a go! Any fool can do this’
Understandably, over the years his stage performances have taken their toll, particularly on his back. But he doesn’t slow down, despite the discomfort he now and again, seems to be feeling. There are times when his gait resembles my own stuttering, stumbling, even hyperactive steps. In fact, I am struck many times during the course of the evening at the similarities between Iggy’s sometimes jerky lack of co-ordination; and my own. The result of what 10 years with Parkinson’s and the drugs used to fight it can do to you.
Jim Osterberg has spoken countless times about this stage persona, and how this unpredictable, dangerous and, at times physically intimidating phenomenon is something he cannot control. He is possessed. I recall an excellent South Bank Show interview (and there’s a combination of words I use very sparingly – if ever) I saw a couple of weeks before his 2007 ‘meltdown’ show, in which he spoke with clarity and precision to the point of cold-bloodedness about his formation of the Stooges with their ‘White Trash aesthetic’ and why this had to be the context within which Iggy was to exist. During the dark opening bars to ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’ as they raised the hairs on the back of my neck in the Festival Hall it suddenly became blindingly clear to me what Iggy Pop is all about.
And just what is that? You ask. Well, You’ll know … If you know. And if you don’t, no amount of explanation from Yours Truly is going to be any use to you. Like me back in ’81: If you get it, you get it; if you don’t, well it ain’t the end of the world, but you are missing out on something pretty special.
Unlikely isn’t it? The thought, twenty years ago that Iggy Pop might still be performing in his 60’s would, at least for me anyway, have conjured up images of sad revival tours, the wearing of cheap and unsavoury stage gear, a backing band of ‘session musicians’ whose wooden playing and lack of rapport reveal a complete absence of understanding. All, we could be forgiven for imagining, chaotically magnified by tantrums and out-of-touch histrionics from our hero.
None of it.
Fact (Okay it’s a silly one, but bear with me): The band’s combined age (and I’m not even counting Steve Mackay) were we to travel the equivalent back in time, we would find ourselves in the year the American Revolution began and James Watt patented his steam engine! But the Stooges play with a conviction and energy worthy of musicians a third their age.
Mike Watt gets animated too
For once I make a smart move, and with my Minder, Stig leave the relative safety of our balcony seats, leap down the stairs, then blag, wriggle and push our way to the front for the final few numbers. It really is the only place to be. Meanwhile, Iggy has given so completely (Yes, I know a lot of it is pure theatre) he is on the verge of collapse. So am I. It’s nervous tension. For each successive ill-advised-in-my-condition-mosh-pit encounter brings ever closer the day when I hit the deck and don’t get up too quick (If ever) Or worse, having to, from then on, sit back and watch others younger, fitter (as well as a few older, unfitter taking chances too) as they get on with it.
Video ‘Kill City’
Finally, for those of you who are interested, or who had money on it, I am relieved to report that Iggy’s ‘Old Feller’ stayed within the confines of his highly mobile jeans – Just! But it was touch and go … If you’ll pardon the expression.
To summarise. I couldn’t give a toss how old he is, nor do I give a shit about whether he chooses to pay the rent by appearing in TV ads for car insurance. Iggy Pop, love him or hate him is still able to orchestrate a thoroughly absorbing, carthartic and if I’m honest, a still somewhat unnerving experience for the lucky concert-goer.
‘Shamen or Sham’? Iggy Pop: I know where I stand.
Setlist
Encores
Links
© Andy Daly 2010 Thanks to Stig for video. Mine were shite.
Until he was 5, our youngest son had a serious allergy to Egg. Thankfully, by the time he took the ‘Egg Challenge’ he had outgrown it. This is where in hospital, the patient is given ever-increasing amounts of the allergen under careful observation to see if at what point, and how badly they react – if they do. The most dangerous situation is when after contact with substance concerned, the body’s auto immune system starts to go badly wrong, resulting in massive and if left untreated, fatal reaction known a ‘Anaphylaxis’ or ‘Anaphylactic Shock’
As far as allergens are concerned One of the most deadly culprits is, as I am sure you know, peanuts. (Personally, I never found Shultz’s cartoon capers involving Charlie Brown and gang all that offensive; but I digress and this is no laughing matter.)
Our son’s first attack, just prior to his first birthday was sufficiently bad to warrant a ‘white knuckle ride’ to the nearest hospital and after he had been treated, prompt one of the A & E medics to take us to one side and say “We managed today – but next time it’ll be much worse. You need to carry adrenaline, in the form of an Epipen. The Epipen, a simple auto-injector, if administered in time, gives the patient a measured emergency dose in the form of epinephrine, which buys between 15 and 20 minutes.
Well finally we get one from the GP, despite what seemed, if not reluctance, then the impression we were being over-cautious. That summer, we are on holiday in Spain when it dawns on us. We are staying about twenty minutes drive – if you’re lucky and there’s no traffic or surly Guardia Civil in sight – from the city of Valencia. Clearly, it meant that the 15 minutes of time the Epipen buys you would be insufficient, were we to have a crisis or a suspected reaction, God forbid, anywhere outside the immediate city centre. It wouldn’t be enough to cover the driving time to ‘La Fe’ the city’s main hospital, never mind the time it would take to get to a car from where contact happened to have taken place.
So when we get back to Blighty, we go to the quacks and explain we want another one:
“You want another one?..Why?”
“Why…. Why? So we can fucking go and sell it down Wembley Market you muppet! Why do you think?”
This was 1995/6 or thereabouts. It’s hard to believe that people – including some health care professionals I have to say, were so ignorant of the dangers of severe alleregic reactions. People confused allergy, in which, the body’s immune system is activated and in its worst cases, is life threatening; with intolerance, where the body reacts to substances it can’t process: usually because of deficiency or lack of certain enzymes. Which is unpleasant, no doubt, but rarely puts sufferers at risk.
We made a point of joining organisations and groups, to find out as much as we could about it. I was fascinated by a presentation given at Northwick Park Hospital (It must have been good if it managed to hold my attention for more than an hour in one of the most dismal places in Christendom) by Gideon Lack , Professor of Paediatric Allergy, King’s College London. He told how he belived that people are sensitised to allergens via broken or damaged skin. This insight came about through his treatment of a young girl with chronic ezcema which seemed to resist all attempts to ease it, as well as a severe allergy to latex: which defied explanation. He asked the parents to let him admit the girl and agree to being observed while they appplied her creams and emollients. Father was a dentist. When time came for his turn to cream the girl the first thing he did was put on a pair of (latex) protective gloves. Obviously, anxious to reduce the risk of causing infection to his daughter’s damaged skin, he was unwittingly, making it much worse.
And why the sudden rise of the evil peanut to status of ‘Public Enemy No: 1’? It was never like that before? I believe that in the last 20 years or so the number of sufferers from allergy to peanuts has doubled to (currently for children) one in every seventy. And how? Infantile eczema is very often the precursor. What do you do when you have dry, itchy, cracked skin? You put creams on it. What are the creams derived from? I’ll leave you to work the rest out for yourselves*
I think things are better now. Generally, people are more aware. My wife was tireless in her fight to educate people; far more alert to dangers than I was. Constantly vigilant. But you had to be. For instance, did you know that the MMR vaccine was grown in on an egg culture? Okay, maybe a remote possibilty of causing a reaction. But you don’t take that risk with somebody’s life! The number of times we got a: Well, a ‘bit’ won’t do him any harm will it?’ response in cafes, restaurants, pubs and so on.
‘Errr … Yes it will. That’s precisely the point. That little ‘bit’ could be the ‘bit’ that fucking kills him, you moron’
So here we go. Here’s an example: yes, I know this is the bit you’ve been waiting for – The Rant
(In a cafe, with the kids and a couple of their friends. They are all over the table. Everyone’s starving. Bloody nightmare. Oh no! Along comes the catering industry’s equivalent to Dappy from N-Dubz. It’s the dopey work-experience waiter)
“Can I help You?”
Hmmmmm. I think the jury are still out on that. Anyway, we bung in the order leaving no.2 son till the end.
” Now, he would like the sausages, but he has a serious allergy to egg. Do they contain any egg? ”
“Nah.They don’t have egg in ’em, you get that when you order a full English breakfast, innit”
Oh dear. It was going to a long lunchtime.
“No. What I mean is have they got egg as part of their ingredients?”
“Oh I see. I don’t thinnnnnnk so….”
He screws up his eyes and draws the menu closer to his face; as if the answer to my question is printed somewhere on it in teeny tiny writing.
“Nah. They’ll be OK”
Biting my lip and feel a twitching along the knife edge of my right hand and foot that suggests sudden and violent contact with the neck and solar plexus of the spotty retard before me.
“Yeah, you see the problem is I’m not talking about a food intolerance, I am talking about a serious food allergy, we need to categorically know (which is quite different to guess) whether or not egg has been used in the process of making the sausages – otherwise he can’t have them”
“I’ll go and ask chef”
“What a good idea…”
As he trundles off, I notice he is wearing a “How Can I Be Of Help Today?” badge. (You can be of help to me by taking a walk out that fucking door and under the nearest bus, I find myself thinking)
(5 mins later)
“He can’t find the box they were in. Y’know it’s like a big catering pack they come in. The chef dunno anything they’ve got in them … well except meat of course …. I think …. Anyway, he is pretty sure they haven’t.
(Losing patience…But still managing to come across as jovial, friendly and even-tempered: teacher training you see)
“Alright. What about the Steak and Kidney pie then?”
OKAY! One Steak and Kidney Pie comin’ up”
“No, I mean before we order we need to know if it has any egg in it?
“I shouldn’t think so…I mean what would you put an egg in a Steak and Kidney pie for?”
“I Fu……….C’mon kids let’s go to Starbucks…”
… Later that evening, I follow Spotty Retard to the “Warner Village” cinema complex where he goes to watch ‘American Pie meets Haloween’. I sit behind him and slit his throat as he noisily and greedily shovel handfuls of a 24 litre bucket of popcorn into his mouth.
See? Understanding the difference between allergy and Food intolerance really could be a matter of life and death.
* I refer here, of course to shop-bought creams and emollients, not approved pharmaceutical products
Links:
The Learning Early About Peanut Allergy Project
Children’s allergy specialists at Evelina Children’s Hospital, part of Guys and St. Thomas NHS Foundation Trust are conducting the LEAP Study to determine how to best prevent peanut allergy in children.
© Andy Daly 2010
Sitting Comfortably? 
