Category Archives: Autobiographical

Newcastle United And The Spectacle At St. James’ – Coat Tales 2

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As you will know, if you read ‘Coat Tales Part 1’  ‘Once upon a Tyne’ I used to live in Newcastle as a student. I loved the city and it remains what I continue to consider my adoptive home. It is more than just a collection of buildings whose coming together, the happy result of topography, suitable materials and human ingenuity: the realisation of the vision of generations of Tyneside dwellers – spectacular though they may be. It is the people, their character, wit, their homespun philosophies, their generosities. Pah! I’m getting nowhere near explaining it. It is intangible – but you know what it was when you feel it. Yes, it was with a very heavy heart that I left ‘The Toon’, more years ago than I care to remember to move down to ‘The Smurk’ (‘The Smoke’) or London as it was otherwise known.  – not a hint of irony. Never to return. Not as a resident at least anyway. Now then, I could wax lyrical about Newcastle all day but I think you get the picture…. We best move on.

Newcastle United

It’s such a cliché when people rattle on about

‘HowfootballisareligionintheNorthEastyoucantellhowtheareaisdoinginsocial/econ

omictermssimplybylookingatthefootballteamTheMagpiesorToonastheyareknown’

…. Yadda yadda…

St. James’ Park today

It’s the same everywhere. Newcastle is nothing special in this respect. People are always proud of their local club and project on to it their dreams, aspirations, hopes and so on. In 1981, I wasn’t a particularly active football supporter/watcher. I was fairly rootless having moved about more than somewhat and didn’t particularly feel inclined to devote my attentions to one club or another, or shell out the kind of potatoes necessary to watch them play at close quarters. In fact, it was to be another ten years before this little bug got its teeth into me in, of all places, Valencia in Spain, where the hallowed turf (yes, I am being ironic) of Mestalla, became the focus of my footballing obsessions. I found Valencia C. F.’s stadium with its vertigo-inducing steep stands or ‘gradas’ was on match day, host to  the most exhilarating of experiences and it was, I am pleased to say the first place my kids saw professional football played. Very different to my experiences in England.  (Hopefully you will have noticed and approve my refusal to apply the over-used word ‘passion’ here)

St. James’ Park in the 1970s

St. James’ Park

And so to St. James’ Park, Newcastle. Season 1981-2. Of course it looked very different back in 1981. The covered East stand had been added in 1973 – still, (but only just) allowing a handful of the adjacent University – owned student flats an uninterrupted view of the pitch. On saturdays these ample but basic living spaces contravened just about every Housing Health and Safety regulation going as hundreds of people crammed themselves inside and pressed their faces to the windows.

‘Wor Kev 1982. Leazes Terrace in background. Keegan’s perm remains calm under pressure in front of goal

The Gallowgate (Home) End was still uncovered. Almost immediately out of the Gallowgate End was popular stopping off point, before and after matches, The Strawberry. A basic no-frills town centre boozer – It was just my type. In fact I used it a lot. It was one of my favourites. Not that there was much choice. Having been thoroughly spoiled during the course of my early drinking career by the sheer variety of great beers and pubs within easy stumbling distance from my home in Rochdale, Lancashire, the North East was a sorry let down. It was gripped in the iron Scottish and Newcastle fist; the result of which was every pub sold the same fizzy shite. And as if that weren’t enough, living in Fenham we were near enough to the brewery to be able to smell it being made every week. If you were lucky you might find a 70 or 80 shillings (Mc Ewans), and very occasionally something like Belhavens, otherwise it was the ubiquitous Newcastle ‘Broon’ (Brown), Scotch bitter, or, if you were in a club, possibly a pint of Federation Brewery’s ‘Fed’  which was brewed for workingmens’ clubs as opposed to pubs.

The Strawberry: ‘Pint a Scotch, Pet’ 

The Strawberry

And so it was that on a chilly Saturday afternoon 21st November 1981 we found ourselves crammed like sardines into The Strawberry. About to present ourselves as paying customers at the St. James’ turnstiles for the Home League Division Two fixture, Newcastle United vs. Luton Town. That season’s eventual league winners, as it happens. Why we went to see this particular match is a complete mystery to me. The ‘we’ in question  is Yours Truly, Keith and Nige. We met during our first week in Newcastle, and have been firm friends ever since. We lived together (I nearly wrote ‘in peace and harmony….’) at 72, Sutherland Avenue, Fenham, in the city’s West End, 1980 -83 and had a blast .

 Anyway, there we were, in the Strawberry, Keith conscious of damping down his Merseyside accent lest it should attract attention, while Nige (originally from Durham and therefore, out of all of us the one with the most ‘right’ to be there) chattered away with his faint East Anglian twang: result of a few years in Norwich, while Yours Truly mumbled as always in my Lancs/Yorks hodge-podge. As long as we weren’t mistaken for ‘Makkums’* that was the main thing.

The ‘Makkum’ is the Geordie’s sworn and mortal enemy, the embodiment of everything the North Easterner detests about the South East and the people who live there. Or Sunderland and Makkums as they are respectively known.

The Strawberry is heaving now. Full of male bodies clad in denim (Geordie Jeans) Checked shirts, T-shirts, Fred Perry’s, Docs and trainers. This was before the era of the replica shirt, but some were sporting black and white football tops. It is a good-natured crowd with more than a few genuinely hilarious characters who entertain us while we make a series of concerted efforts to get served. The pub is at full capacity. The only way we can get a drink is to wait patiently till someone leaves. Briefly the pressure in the building drops (more so if a group depart) There is a hissing sound, like air from a leaking tyre or footy: a big ‘sigh’ almost, indicating to occupants inside the possibility of movement. People peel themselves away from their neighbours and continue their assaults on the bar until the next arrivals restore maximum capacity again and everyone is glued together, immobile until the next punters choose to leave.

Conversation is becoming impossible, both because of the cacophony and the fact that we are separated by yards, trapped by other groups, who are for all we know trapped by other groups. We finish off our beers and head for the stadium. Two minutes thirty seconds from pub to turnstile. We pop our heads into the toilets on the way in. Now would be a good time to go, and would save later heart (and bladder) ache. But the nauseating wall of smell and unsightly scrum within is enough to stop us dead in our tracks, and turn swiftly on our heels. As if it would have made any difference anyway. We still would  require several mid-match visits, given the amount we had drunk and the timeframe in which we had done it. Finally, we stumble out into the watery afternoon light, and a packed  Gallowgate End. ‘As long as we aren’t mistaken for ‘Makkums’ I pray.

Where have all the Magpies gone? an unfancied fixture during the Second Division ‘doldrum years’

The Match

What then took place was typical of my experiences of going to football in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s, notwithstanding some epic matches with My Best Mate Aky: Man U vs. Barcelona European Cup Winners Cup quarter-final, second leg, for instance. No, today I find it irritating, being buffeted by a large, and in turns, genial then menacing crowd: all the time struggling to see what was going on. (Something which on a Friday or Saturday night watching a live band I’d be right in the middle of, loving every minute) I am also freezing cold while the ‘Toon’ army sport bare chests and vests. To top it all off, unable to move due to the dense mass of bodies I am encased in, and so from five minutes after kick off onwards I suffer excruciating bladder pain as I strain to hold back what must now be close to half a gallon of processed alcohol etc. I knew it. I should have gone when I had the chance.

I had given up on the donkey jacket (Coat Tales1) by now and was sporting a normally cosy ensemble of Levi denim jacket and MA1 flying jacket. If nothing else, at least the MA1 jacket design made it harder for someone to piss in your pocket. A nice little souvenier to bring back with you from the football and no mistake. Speaking of which (coats and jackets I mean) Keith has a dark double-breasted greatcoat, with something of a naval cut about it and Nige, a bomber jacket.

Phoarrr! Look at that lasses. A genuine Tyne bloater.

I almost forgot … What a match! Newcastle flounder, on the backfoot for much of the game. Luton lead 1 – 2 until a magnificent final ten minutes in which the Geordies manage to put two past the visitors, including a last-minute winner. The tension unbearable. The explosion of relief at the final whisitle, unbelievable. Imre Varadi gets one, Alan Brown – irony of ironies, a loan signing from … ‘The Makkums’ – Sunderland no less, bagging a brace! Final score: Newcastle United 3, Luton Town 2.

Varadi: who didn’t he play for?

The place erupted. Twenty thousand (give or take a few) Geordies celebrate a famous victory. I am overjoyed: I might just make it to the toilets without major incident. Keith and Nige were jumping on the spot. We embraced and were embraced by high-spirited/drunken Newcastle United fans: ‘What a finish!’

Spectacle Case

Now, I didn’t actually hear the sound of crunching glass. The roar of the crowd was too strong. Keith said he felt it underfoot, but didn’t realise what it was. Then I saw it, or rather them, or rather what was left of them. For as he celebrated equally the Newcastle side’s powers of recovery and relief at a decent game seen; unbeknown to Keith, his glasses, which were not in a case, had slipped from his greatcoat pocket onto the terrace, where his feet demolished them with surprising efficiency.

Keith’s specs. Or what was left of them

He managed to recover them – Not an easy thing to do as 20,000 people suddenly decide ‘ Howay. Pub, club, home?’ All destinations which seem to involve trampling through just where you’re standing. We make a bee line for the exits via the toilets (I would have risked the grottiest, smelliest, disease-ridden facilities by this stage) Finally, we make it out of the ground and Keith shows us his glasses. In an admirable display of empathy and support for a colleague in trouble, we are left momentarily disabled by fits of laughter as he stands clutching the most comically mangled pair of spectacles.

At least they didn’t mistake us for Makkums!

 © Andy Daly  2010

* Author’s note 1: I am aware of the numerous variations in the spelling of the word, (usually ‘Mackems’) but I am going with my favourite: as seen graffittied on a wall in the centre of Newcastle, c.1981 – ‘Makkum’

Author’s note 2: Apologies for the amount of updates/corrections on this post. Normal service will be resumed forthwith.

Once upon a Tyne – Coat Tales 1

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 Author’s Note: Caution – Some aspects of this post may not be suitable for younger children or those of a nervous disposition. It details actions of my former self which are neither big nor clever.

Long ago, back in the day when Dizzee Rascal was just a Rascal, I was an Art student in Newcastle Upon Tyne. Now I don’t know whether you’ve ever been to Newcastle in the winter, but it is, to use the correct meteorological term, bloody freezing. Therefore, it is essential to be in possession of a good coat to keep the bitter cold at bay. Unless of course you come from Newcastle; in which case it is essential to be in possession of a good vest or cap-sleeved T Shirt. For if you weren’t aware, Geordies are inoculated against feeling the cold at birth and that is why flimsy garments, summer dresses and bare feet are common sights on the town  (or ‘Toon’ as it is more correctly known) in mid-winter.

I studied Fine Art at the University. The department, originally the King Edward VII School of Fine Art was housed in a building to the south east of the university quadrangle, once of the former Kings College, University of Durham.  I say ‘housed’, in fact it was partly housed;  namely The draughty Library, frosty gallery, chilly workshops and studios, in this imposing 1913 structure with its bronze statue of King Edward VII installed in the niche above the King’s Road entrance,  wrought iron gates and tower with a double-arched gateway. The rest (cold offices and even nippier workshops and studios) were to be found in an icy Modernist white cube, tacked on to the original building.

 Quadrangle

Fine Art Department (Modernist White Cube out of sight behind)

In the first year, we were ‘taught ‘(and I use the term loosely here) together in a large warehouse of a studio in the new block. We were a strange bunch: a disparate crew of potential artists-in-the-making, all at different stages in our understanding of Art, what it was, what it might be,  and how we fit in to the ‘big picture’ (No pun intended) All issues I have to say, the Fine Art course of the time singularly failed to confront.

As a group, we didn’t gel. I used to look at other year groups and compare: they would meet up at breaktime, sit and have a coffee, chat, socialise – bask in the glow;  the result of the heady mixture of wonderment, envy and hate with which other students saw us. We seemed to take it all too seriously, hid away and were ‘tortured’. I gave up with them about half way through the first term. The lasting friendships I made from that time were with people studying ‘sensible’ subjects like Law, History and English.

Until, that was, I discovered – almost too late in the day – ‘The Poly’ (Remember them? AKA Newcastle Polytechnic, now the University of Northumbria) Here, with partner in crime and Blood Brother, Skull Murphy  I found that there was indeed life during, as well as after Fine Art. But that’s another story.

The tale I am about to recount is of a spell in my first year 1979-80. It was late November and it was cold. I used to wear a ‘Donkey Jacket’. For those of you who have never come across one, they were workmens’ jackets which became popular in the nineteenth century. Unlined and typically of black or dark blue wool, the ‘Donkey Jacket’ usually had two spacious hip pockets, occasionally an inside ‘poacher’s pocket’ (whatever that was) and a reinforcement panel across the shoulders. This panel may be plain black, grey or in recent years, fluorescent orange or yellow (sometimes with the company name stencilled across) in an effort to increase visibility. I never quite managed the dizzy heights of a fluorescent panel, mine was just plain black. As to the significance of the name? I think it is probably a reference to the wearer – the type of worker and the kind of job expected of him: in other words The ‘Donkey Work’.

 Guess What?

Anyway, back to the tale. It was bloody cold, and the point was that – as you will know if you were paying attention – the Donkey Jacket:  trusty, fine exemplar of British Working Class attire though it may have been, was an ‘unlined ‘garment.  So, even when buttoned up, my Donkey Jacket let howling gales of icy cold Easterly wind which swept directly off the Siberian steppes straight through my coat into direct contact with my navel and midriff. (‘Brrrrrrrrr!’) I took to wearing it with a jacket underneath, but I was still cold.

Then one evening, I was in our studio, with one of my fellow artists, Anne, having a wander around the cavernous hole, looking at everyone’s work:  sketchbooks, drawings, colour studies, paintings, as well as notes on paper, models and maquettes. It lay where they had left it at day’s end (with either a four-minute warning or a call to the pub by the looks of it) on desks, the floor and/or pinned to the wall or screens in their respective studio spaces.

There really is something magical about looking at artists’ and designers’ workplaces. To be able to browse through the visual distillations of their thoughts and ideas as expressed in tentative first marks/sketches: wobbly-legged initial attempts at solving the visual problems they have been posed. Sketches, notes, books and art artefacts, some finished others not; complemented with doodles, reminders, visual references – a bus ticket, a bottle top, a scrap of a hotel menu and contextual relationships with a particular artist or artists’ work.  Genuine treasure troves – and always so different to each other:  from the obsessively tidy, to the manically unkempt, they are a reflection of their owners’ approach to the creative process. Looking at the visual traces of the development of an artist or designer’s ideas – no matter how insignificant they may be, is something I regard as a privilege:

And how generous and trusting:  to leave one’s inner thoughts for all and sundry to see. I bet there weren’t many other departments in the university on that November evening which you could step into off the street and immediately get such an intimate snapshot of how a particular student or group of students were responding to a task set.

I think that now, but of course I didn’t think that then. Then it was more a case of ‘Howay, let’s get to the pub, I’m freezin’ Likewise, not everyone’s workspace was blessed with the kind of visual treats I have waxed lyrical about above. Take mine, for instance. As I recall, it had very little of anything to show. I don’t actually remember the project title, but it would have been something like ‘Object and Environment’ and was clearly an attempt to elicit responses from us to the likes of Marcel Duchamp’s ‘Ready Mades’ which aside from using materials in an innovative way – in a sense to represent themselves, had started to (and still do) ask all sorts of awkward questions of the received aesthetic script that was Modernism.

Now, in 1979, although familiar with Marcel Duchamp’s work (I had even seen some of it) had I been asked  as my ‘Starter for ten’  to explain the above, I would have been found sadly lacking. In the event, I wound up by making a surprisingly elegant sculpture out of broken chairs from the refectory which took me all of 5 minutes to plan and execute and was as Modernist as you can get.

‘Fountain’ Marcel Duchamp 1917

I didn’t have a bloody clue.

The walk round the studio was punctuated by having to negotiate several large piles of rubbish, for the initial stages of the project  seemed to induce in some people, (Yours Truly included) a kind  of  ’Skip Fever’ in which the contents of, apparently,  every skip within a two-mile radius were brought back to the studio as potential source material. I had recreated part of a skip I had found behind the Playhouse.

Rubbish

‘Why?’ I can hear you ask: Why indeed.  Anne called me over to look at Caligula’s work. That wasn’t his real name. In fact, I don’t recall why she called him that, unless it was because he looked like John Hurt, the actor who played the character in the ‘70s BBC dramatisation of Graves’ book ‘I Claudius’. Whatever, the case – if only for a brief period, the name stuck. Caligula it was.

‘Bloody Hell’ She says ‘Would you look at that’. She was pointing in the direction of Caligula’s workspace. ‘What a bloody mess. I don’t know how he works here!’ It was a tip. Literally. For it seems as though Caligula, cold sweat, heart racing, stricken, like me with ‘Skip Fever’ had done the same thing, but on a massive scale. Either that or together, the students in his area of the studio were doing some serious collecting, dumping their stuff near his table. The pile was now threatening to engulf his desk. Despite all this, Caligula appeared to be, if memory serves correct – and I think it does, making a small painting of an apple, the subject of which was hanging on a string suspended from the ceiling.

‘What do you think of the painting?’ Anne asked me.

Hmmm?… What?’ Something had caught my eye. In amongst all the clutter and debris was the obligatory shopping trolley. Hanging out over the back of the trolley was what looked like a donkey jacket. I had a closer peek. Well, it was slightly more than an ordinary donkey jacket. It was a much heavier fabric, slightly longer … and it was lined! The lining was torn on one side, admittedly, but there was definitely a lining. Before I knew it, I was trying it on. A perfect fit!  (Not often words found in the same sentence when it applies to Yours Truly and clothes) … but more to the point it was warm!

Art – or is it the other way round? See how difficult it is?

‘What do you reckon?’ Do you think it looks like rubbish? I asked Anne. ‘Aye, it looks like bloody rubbish from where I’m standing’

‘No, what I mean is do you: 1) think it’s someone’s real jacket and that has been inadvertently left here? Do you: 2) think its ‘Art Rubbish’ that is part of a combination of real objects, intended to elicit responses about ‘What makes art Art and what makes rubbish Rubbish? Or do you: 3) think its real rubb……..’

‘I know what you mean, idiot. I think its real rubbish. Anyway, man, who’s going to care about a scavvy bit of material like that?’

True: and so, without another moment’s thought, I put it on, and immediately felt warm as toast. Done deal!  And off we went.

Now it came to pass that some months later, around March the following year I guess, that I was in the University Student Union one night. We didn’t go there often, preferring to drink, go to nightclubs or see bands at other venues in the town such as The Strawberry, The Spital, Crown Posada,  The Forth, The Bridge, Balmbras, The Bacchus,The Belle Grove, The Royal Bar, The Newcastle Arms,  The Prince of Wales, The Leazes, Trent House, Red House, The Lonsdale, The Baltic, The Mill, The Percy and The Hotspur (but only if desperate) The Stage Door, Tiffany’s,The  Poly, The Cooperage,The Buffs Club, The Bier Keller, The Mayfair etc. Not that we went out much…

However, on Friday nights, The Union did used to do a fairly decent disco.  Anyway, whatever the reason, band or disco, I was in The Union and at one point, towards the end of the evening found myself in the Gents toilets – I have to admit, dear Reader, rather the worse for wear. Mind you, I was still a long way off the loss of control of bodily functions stage, and hadn’t yet started with the ’Bedroom Whirlies’, I could have got home unaided without stops to sleep in skips, bus shelters etc, but I would have had trouble ordering in the Stanhope St. Chippy or refusing another drink. I stood at the urinals, pondering the above, casually wondering where the evening would take me, when I became suddenly aware that I was not alone. At the other end of the urinal was a crooked, decidedly unkempt figure. He definitely had the ‘Whirlies’, for with cigarette hanging from the corner of  his mouth, he reeled backwards and forwards trying to maintain his balance as he relieved himself.

Recognition. It dawned on me who it was: Caligula! Oh shit! And guess what I was wearing?

Probably conscious of my gaze, Caligula slowly turned and looked. He reeled backwards as he did so and in adjusting his position found he had turned his head too far. He made to bring it back. This time, he tipped forwards, regaining his balance just in time to prevent falling (still relieving himself, cigarette still hanging from the corner of his mouth):

‘Aaallrrrougtthhh?’ He said           Trans: ‘Alright?’

I replied: ‘Alright?’ Which I felt to be the closest approximation. I still had no idea whether he even recognised me. Any further doubts on this score were firmly put to rest when he let go of himself with one hand and (thankfully, for I feared for the jacket he was wearing as the glowing cigarette tip was getting longer and more and more fragile) took a long pull on the ciggy, caught hold of himself again and looked at me once more. His eyes had narrowed to the tiniest slits, bothered as they were by the wisps of smoke as they sidled up the side of his face. His body swayed backwards and forwards as, unable to get a response from his eyes, he tried to focus on me ‘the long way round’

‘Ey! Thath’s my futthen coa…’     Trans: ‘Hey that’s my fucking coa…’

Without thinking I blurted out:

‘Yeah, and you know what? It’s a disgrace the lining’s all ripped on one side. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be expected to wear it in this condition’

Still rocking and rolling:

‘S’my futhecoaaa..ey! Fyoouwannit yu cannavit. Y’heear me? Fyoouwannit yu cannavit.  Annever licchtet anywaaaah, phut!’

Trans: ‘Its my fucking coat. If you want it you can have it. Do you hear me? If you want it you can have it. I never liked it anyway, phut! 

And with that, he spat into the trough and I made my exit.

Which is where the story should have ended, except for the fact that  the remainder of my relationship  with the coat was to be  short-lived; as in a wholly appropriate turn of events, someone nicked the coat from me  a few weeks later at a party in Benwell.

And what of the coat’s original, and as it happens, rightful owner? Well, if you were to ‘Google’ The Fine Art Department, part of the School of Arts and Cultures, University of Newcastle Upon Tyne; there you would find details about its staff, and in particular, its current Professor, a renowned sculptor, whose work is a ‘response to the materiality of landscape.’

What it doesn’t say much about is that  some years ago, he, himself was a student at the University’s  Fine Art Department.

In fact, he was in my year.

Now, I’m saying nothing else on the subject, except to point out that a difference of opinion over the semantics of Rubbish meant that during the winter of 1979-80, I was a few degrees warmer than him.

 © Andy Daly  2010

East Ward #4

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We think he’s Armenian. That’s Capain Birdseye. I’m not sure. I’m convinced he was speaking in Spanish when he lunged towards me, hand going for my throat. This was when I was still on E-Bay before Jock the Junkie got swept off  into his very own room and I was billeted in the big bay at the end with (finally) some normal company.

I wasn’t frightened as this attempted assault on my person took place. In fact I was fairly sure I knew what it was all about. I was terribly dyskinetic: Lots of uncontrollable movement – almost a ‘fit’. You see the Doctors had been around earlier in the day and had me started on titrating doses of a new medication: Pramipexole a Dopamine Agonist, instead of the Rotigotine. It was only when the dyskinesias started to get really severe, that I figured out what was going wrong. Nobody in the team treating/observing me had thought about the need to readjust my doses of L-Dopa to allow for the more potent replacement.

It was a relief to have been able to rationalise what was going on, so I tailored my doses accordingly, made a note on my Observation sheet and began to brace myself for what seemed was going to be a rocky ride. I was begining to present a danger to shipping.

Enter the Captain. So named because he resembled Captain Birdseye. He was easy to spot. Apart from the grubby silvery, nicotine-stained beard, he had been fitted with a flourescent pink tabbard. The Captain had a tendency to ‘wander’. He’d only been there a day and they’d had to haul him back down off the High Street twice. His ‘high visibility’ tabbard was intended to curtail his meanderings; as was the six foot Nigerian nurse, who he seemed to be permanently fixed to.  I never did get a good look at what sort of device held her right and his left arm clamped together for the whole day. Could have been a chain I suppose. All I know is that at the moment he is dragging the nurse with him as he flies (well, not exactly … it’s more clumsy than that, and I’ve used ‘lunge/d’ once already. He lurches?)

Okay … he lurches at me. I had seen him getting more and more distressed by my violent flailing and so had prepared myself for ‘something’. I calmly avoided his lunge. He seemed to say in Spanish (though not as a native tongue)  ‘Va a morderse  la lengua’ (‘He’s going to bite his tongue’) I think he thought I was having an Epileptic fit, and in the received wisdom of days gone by, was attempting to stop me biting/swallowing my tongue. I Told him ‘No pasa nada, no te preocupes’ (‘It’s OK, don’t worry’)

‘I’m going to get out of the way’ I said to the Nurses: ‘I’m off to the day room’ and that is indeed where I went.

The dyskinesias lasted about another hour or so during which, nobody came to check on my condition. When I emerged, exhausted from the day room (10th floor with open window to boot) All seemed quiet.

Partly because Captain Birdseye had absconded again.

I need a drink. I wonder if Stig’s about?

© Andy Daly  2010

East Ward #3

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Chapter 3

I didn’t know where I was when I awoke. Somewhere vaguely unhealthy. A skip possibly, off the Caledonian Road? A  rasping voice, seemingly at my ear.

‘Nooooo, I dinnae want th’ methodone. It’s nae fuckin’ strong enough’ (In a Glasweigian accent – in case you weren’t sure)

Yup, Caledonian Road it is. But wait, a patient, calm voice. Possibly a junior doctor:

‘Look, you won’t be getting anything if I can’t get this line in’

‘Nooooo! Ahhhhhh! Ye bastarrrd!’

Patient, calm voice:

‘Okay, now just lay still for me a …’

‘Aaaahhhhhhh! …. Fuck!’

Patient, calm voice, getting irritable now:

‘Look! What Am I supposed to do, You’ve got no…’

‘Shhhhhhh!’ (I’m not sure whether this came from other patients or the nurses, unable to hear each other as they chattered at the Nurses’ station.)

(Almost hysterical whisper) ‘You‘ve got no veins I can get into. We’re going to have to call someone else’

‘Well tell ‘em I don’t want th’ methodone, I….

And so it went on.

During the night, unbeknown to me as I slept soundly for nearly a whole hour, the newcomer – my companion to the left – was wheeled in. I was not in a skip off the Caledonian Road. No, I was in the East Ward and the time was – I glanced down at my watch. I’d bought it a couple of days earlier. It boasted a digital and traditional mode, neither of which I could read, so I pressed the nightlight button. A pathetic watery orange glow slowly emanated from somewhere under the watch glass. It actually made the face darker. ‘Brilliant’ I stretched my neck out to catch a glimpse of the bay clock. 3:35am. ‘Brilliant#2’

And so it went on.

Patient, calm voice finally lost it, and in came someone else.

‘My, your arms are in a mess, I’m going to….’

Ahhhhhh! Tell hum I dinnae want the methodo …etc

They went as far as the Assistant Registrar, who finally after a marathon of whispering, shouting, profanities and one imagines medical procedures right on the limit of tolerance; finally gets a line in. I miss this, as exhausted I doze off about 6:15 …Just in time to get fifteen minutes shut-eye before at 6:30, windows are flung open (the lights have been on all night anyway) and the nurses start their rounds, checking that everyone is still alive and if so, taking their blood pressure.

What was it the irrepressible World Champion motorcyclist, Valentino Rossi said about hospitals recently? He’d crashed during practice at Mugello (June 2010) the result being a compound fracture of his right leg. He said he hated hospital because it was there that you woke up to the snores, coughs and farts of men you’ve never met before. Indeed. It was enough of a shock that he was back on his Yamaha competing within 6 weeks of his injury. If ever there was an incentive to get out.

My Scots companion was now bright and breezy, ready to chat (or more accurately talk at) anyone willing to listen. After the night he’d given us: no way. I dipped under the covers and studiously avoided him for the rest of the day. Conscious of the negative impact that the stereotypical treatment of characters can reinforce, I nicknamed him Jock. I liked the alliteration in Jock the Junkie. Bastard.

Captain Birdseye, however was a completely different kettle of fish….

© Andy Daly  2010

Double Brainfreeze

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You know Brainfreeze? It’s that awful feeling when you’ve got something cold
in your mouth which seems to go right through your fillings. I’m assuming you
have some. If not you are a jammy so-and-so. Perfectly healthy teeth are but the vaguest of memories for me, probably the result of a minor addiction to Liquorice Allsorts  or more likely being too drunk or incapable of being in possession of a toothbrush. I get excessively envious of those who don’t have a mouthful of mercury and other toxic metals or resins.

Well, anyway, Brainfreeze sends the raw nerves behind those unsightly
nuggets of amalgam a-jingling and
a-jangling right up through your jaw and into your head, send your brain
into a maddening tailspin until you can put up with it no more and have to
jetison the the offending source of cold, or if it is small enough, swallow.
it. It’s great fun watching the facial contortions of afflicted
unfortunates.

Not so cool if it’s you, though …

Well I had double brainfreeze the other day. I had  a FAB ice lolly (As in
“F. A. B. Virgil” / Thunderbirds) In fact, those of you who
want to kill two birds with one stone and experience a bit of childhood TV
nostalgia, along with the kind of refreshment experience that can only be
offered by a drink on a stick, would do well to try a FAB. Just be careful
where you consume it: because as I was about to say, we’ve just had oak flooring put
down. I am guzzling my FAB more than somewhat, when horror of horrors the
top half breaks off in my mouth. I stand in the centre of the living room: a
sea of newly-laid oak around me as far as the eye can see. Nowhere, but nowhere to
jetison/spit/or otherwise get rid of this particular slab of frozen
hell in my mouth.

I experience what seems like an eternity of agony, I reckon something
equivalent to 5 minutes of having all my original  drilling operations
performed at once – without the anesthetic this time or sitting through a debate in the London  Assembly: it’s about the same really, until I could finally
chomp up the chunk of now not-so- FAB and swallow it, just before passing out.

See? Double Brainfreeze. I have warned you.

© Andy Daly  2010

Wiz and the D’Oyly Carte

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Sorry. Slip of the keyboard. The title should read

‘Wiz and the Oily Car’

So apologies if you were expecting a bit of light Opera. Still, you may as well stay and have a read now you’re here.

On leaving  Sudbury Town Chawkey, Wiz and Yours Truly moved up from our cosy little rented semi, to the leafy environs of lovely Ruislip (pron: Raiy-slip)  heart of ‘Metroland’ –  specifically, a place called Eastcote (pron: Eastcote) –  Acacia Avenue, if you must know, where we took possession of a fine, large though dilapidated detached house. We got beautiful light, polished wooden floors, acres of space, prehistoric gas heating, a kitchen ceiling which sagged alarmingly and wilderness back and front. If nothing else, a great party venue.

Here, we  (Marión, me: a couple) Chawkey (aka  Charles Stewart Hawkey, schoolmaster of the parish of Redcar) and Wiz (aka Ian Vickers, Pirtek hydraulic hose expert originally of Nunthorpe, Middlesborough) had what, speaking for myself though I think all will agree was an idyllic, largely hilarious and very special time. A shared experience, which continues to bind us as lifelong friends.

In this damp, but sunny eccentric house which used to be rented out to US servicemen posted at the nearby West Ruislip base – which explains why the kitchen sported an immense 1960s American fridge; but not the surfeit  of motor vehicle engines buried beneath the grounds – we laughed, and laughed at  jokes – the sillier the better, tall stories, tales, and many many funny incidents, which one day I will recount in full. However here’s one to whet your appetite.

Wiz bought himself a fancy car, a white Triumph TR6. A British classic. Straight six, gleaming white, Spoked wheels, walnut dashboard, the lot. I used to love how the windows in the house rattled in their frames in response to the engine’s guttural roar. Which they often did, as the car rarely ever went anywhere.

Wiz’s TR6 as I will always remember it: Stationary

You see, what Wiz didn’t realise as he handed over his hard-earned cash for the classic car in question, was that he was in the process of buying the car for which the term ‘mechanical gremlins’ seems to have been invented.

 

Look at the quality. It’s a shame I never saw either of them turn

 One day Wiz says he’s got an oil leak. Not unusual: me and Chawkey both drive Ford Cortina Mk 5’s (I had graduated up from the Marina coupe by now) So someone always has an oil leak. In fact, the drive is so covered with oil it is impossible to distinguish the original ‘crazy paving’ pattern. Maybe not such a bad thing I  hear you say.

Anyroad, Wiz, having carefully observed the run of oil on the car’s underside and the distribution of droplets is of the opinion that the culprit is the rear differential. And so, one saturday he puts on his overalls and goes to work as follows. You do follow?

Well to cut a long story short, by the end of the afternoon, Wiz has reached his goal. Gingerly, he takes the differential unit away from the drive and axle assemblies and cupping it carefully, makes to empty out the oil, measure it and see how much it has lost. Highly organised throughout the afternoon’s labour (It would have cost you £420 in today’s money) Wiz has not thought about the practicalities of this aspect of the job.  What could he use to measure it? He thinks a while then goes into the kitchen, takes the kitchen measuring jug and carefully fills it with the syrupy black contents of the differential and its housing.

 

Wiz’s brow begins to knot. He consults his workshop manual.

“Bollocks! It’s got exactly what the manual says it should have in it” Down to the very last drop. “Errr… So it’s not leaking oil from the differential then?” I said, trying to sound helpful. “No it’s not bloody leaking from the differential then” “Oh, I wonder where …” But you can see from Wiz’s face he’s not after help from the mechanically-challenged such as Yours Truly.

So, with a heartfelt “Fuck it” Wiz re-traces his steps and re-assembles and replaces the various components. Miraculously, everything  fits, nothing is missing, and he has not been left with half a dozen parts which do not seem to have a home.

By now it is early evening. As he tidies away after his long day’s efforts, Wiz happens to open up the boot (or trunk if you prefer) of the car, to put away some scraps of fabric which he has been tearing  up to use as rags.

“You bastard!”

Not one to normally get het-up over things we are all naturally concerned as to what is the matter.

What is the matter is that Wiz has found his oil leak. It is coming from a five litre can of Castrol GTX which has upended itself and courtesy of an ill-fitting lid is slowly oozing oil which has been finding its way out of the boot and onto the axle via one of the boot drain holes!

Isn’t it great when it happens to someone else!

© Andy Daly  2010

Today’s star word: surfeit (Thanks Norm!)

Let me take you back to the dirt track

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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

 

With Gratitude … Farewell

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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?

Open up your door

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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 Hits

From 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

Egg Allergy or Intolerance? It could be a matter of Life or Death

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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 Anaphylaxis Campaign

Allergy UK

The National Eczema Society

 

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