Category Archives: Writing

A Christmas Carol

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Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Yes, the influential Jamaican Reggae star shuffled off this mortal coil in May 1981 so it couldn’t be him, and anyway, this bloke was white. Who was he?

 It is the night before Christmas and I am in the ‘Bullring’ Birmingham’s famous shopping centre and snow is falling. I last saw the ‘Old’ Bullring in about 1979. It was, let’s face it not only an eyesore, but an earsore, armsore and legsore it was so bad. Not so today. It is very tidy (in fact bang tidy) neat and very busy.

I am still pondering this transformation in the gents toilets, whilst drying my hands. I am using one of these new-fangled blown air hand driers. Similar to the Dyson airblade, it looks like an open letterbox in the wall. It is pretty pathetic. A vision passed before my eyes of the facia of this thing being removed to reveal two wheezing old men blowing through it from behind. This nightmarish thought was soon banished by an awareness that someone was standing behind me…

I turned and looked. Who was he? Not Bob Marley as we’ve summised, (too white, too alive) Joe Cocker? (too young)  Justin Bieber? (too old)

‘Alright’ he said in a gravelly West Midlands accent (as opposed to a gravelly hill interchange) while he moved to use the hand dryer. Of course! It was only Noddy Holder! The owner of the best pair of lungs this side of the Mississippi Delta and singer of the best Christmas song ever. The band was Slade and the record, the evergreen ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’ a hit for the band first time round, Christmas 1973.

If you didn’t know, and although you probably really couldn’t give a shit, I’m going to tell you anyway; the story is that this seasonal ditty which has etched its way into our national consciousness, along with Turkey, Santa Claus and Dickens’ ‘Christmas Carol’ was in fact recorded over a blistering hot week in New York, late summer of that year. Apparently, Lennon (that’s John, Liverpool, musician not Aaron, Spurs, winger) was in the next studio recording ‘Mind Games’ at the time.

The song was a hotch-potch of snippets that Noddy and Jim Lee had lying around. They were given the final touch, it is reported when (I love this …) Noddy “After an evening out drinking, worked through the night at his mother’s house in Walsall to write the lyrics, which he completed in one draft.” You see? a genuine slice of British Popular Culture crafted in a Walsall two-up two- down after a night on the ale. Bowie, meantime, earnestly doing his Willliam Burroughs’ ‘cut-ups’ must have been wondering where he went wrong.

What to say? I can’t be seen as a fawning fan: No, no, no that won’t do. What about a ‘cooler’ approach? Drop in a ‘blokey’ comment which might initiate a conversation.

That’s it! I figured.

Of all the things I could have said or asked him – such as ‘What was it really like to work with Dave Hill?’

‘Why the Mirror Hat, Nod? and how did you keep it on?’

Failing that, ‘Ere Noddy, you know when Don Powell lost his memory, were there ever things you told him that hadn’t happened, just for a laugh?’

No, of all the things … What do I venture forth with?

‘These hand driers are about as much use as a chocolate teapot’

He looked at me and snorted a snort which was somewhere half way between ‘Yeah’ and ‘What the **** are you talking about?’ – I’m still analysing it.….and made his way out.

Of course what I should have done was wish him a ‘Merry Christmas’, for he knows how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim and Dave Hill observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

Have a Happy Christmas

With apologies to Charles Dickens.  ‘A Christmas Carol’ a contrived piece of seasonal nonsense from ‘Sitting Comfortably?’

Here’s wishing all our readers a peaceful, happy, healthy 2012.

Andy

How to hang your Skrötum

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(Please note this post may not be suitable for young children or those of a nervous disposition)

A post prompted by ‘Sitting Comfortably?’s recent series on recurring dreams which involved forced DIY of a particularly ‘Flat-Pack’ nature and their interpretation. It is intended to provide succour and support for those in ‘Flat-Pack Hell’, wherever that happens to be: deep in their subconscious, or all over the living room floor.

Swedish Exports

So, guess what? Me and an old friend had a whale of  a time last weekend … At our local branch of IEKA. Yep! You heard correct: I did say IEKA. Sweden’s greatest export (After Björn, Benny, Agnetha and Anne-Frid* of course) That unlovely and irritating Nordic hemorrhoid (which in case you’ve ever been curious are a damn sight easier to get than they are to spell)  which sits aside the marginally unlovlier A 406. The capital’s inner orbital route.

 Not one of my favourite parts of town

That’s the ‘top bit’ – if your Geography’s failing you – The North Circular: or simply ‘That Fucking Road’ as it is more commonly known. It wends it miserable way through  North West London, blighting the lives of those unfortunate enough to live near it, who, at our present location, just happen to be the inhabitants of Neasden. And of course the poor sods who have to attempt to journey along its carbon-encrusted, crumbling and winding fucking lanes, its lights and never, never, never-ending road works with their inevitable lane closures.

You could say that it is not one of my favourite parts of town. In fact, I will do almost anything to avoid filtering round from Hanger Lane, or down through Wembley/Stanmore or anywhere which leads in the general direction of ‘You Know What’.

‘You Know What’. Otherwise known as IEKA.

 A successful visit to IEKA.

There are a pitifully small number of occasions on which we can have said to have had a successful visit to IEKA. In other words avoided an interminable traffic jam, there, back – or both, been able to walk through the store without fear for our safety, found what we wanted, been able to pay for it, then fit it onto/into the car and make it home without further incident. These pathetic ‘successes’ have been achieved either as the result of an early morning snap-decision to ‘up and out’ while everyone is still in bed and beat the crowds  –  or even better, to go when the England football team play a major game such as a World Cup quarter-final, for instance.

 

Just look at it. Like a malevolent Lego set. It stands (casually, lazily. Not straight-backed and disciplined like Marine Commando John Lewis) A sharp – eyed sentinel, jealously guarding its ‘reputation’ and more importantly its market share; topped off with all the charm of a devious, wicked paedophile: enticing the unwary and vulnerable into its veritable ‘Garden of Delights’.

Seductive furnishing, fabrics and practical knickknacks

The sad fact of course though is that there is no answer to its seductive furnishing, fabrics and practical knickknacks. Not at such prices. There really isn’t anywhere else you can get that sexy, contemporary tin opener for less than the price of a pint and a game of pool. Or that sofa-bed which you’ve been searching for (but without  breaking the bank) for when your Dad comes to stay. I dread  the words: ‘Shall we go to IEKA? We could do with something with which we can create a bit of space’ It’s  a bit like hearing ‘I’ve been thinking, Pet. I really do think its time we got rid of that surplus old testicle of yours. We’ve never needed it … and besides, it takes up so much room.’ In addition, it  will fit so snugly into that alcove’  (the sofa-bed) – and incidentally push Dad’s Sciatica into a new and chronic phase.

Reassuring

And look at this: both products, tin opener and sofa-bed are packaged in reassuring, environmentally – friendly corrugated card. And both carry the individual designer’s name: Bengt Bangersson and Soren Ulafsson respectively. (However, the chances of you getting hold of Bengt or Soren should their product fail to come up to your expectations are … well … remote to say the least.)

Funny Names

And they do give them some funny names don’t they? the products? The sofa-bed is called a ‘Lycksel’ which I can’t help thinking is rather rude – if not a physical impossibility.

Try it yourself

Rant over and done with and out of my system – this is where Jimmy and I got our laughs.’Rude, Suggestive and Silly IEKA names’. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s not original, but it made us giggle for a while. I am sure that many of you will have not only played  but come up with far better examples of your own.

Here are some of ours. Try it yourself: in the store or just flicking through the catalogue at home. Lycka till !

New  for 2011/12

Recktum – Is space a problem? Try these attractive stacking storage boxes. You’ll wonder how you ever did without.

Nob. A carefully positioned Nob can do wonders for even the most featureless room. Try the Nob range of table lamps.

Wince. IEKA’s range of giftware. Second to none.

Don’t buy till you’ve tried Bile, IEKA’s exclusive space age cooking utensils.

Tossä. You won’t be able to resist Anders Liefshite’s dynamic new tablewear.

Robust, hardwearing – you need a strong, sturdy Skrötum – especially with the likes of these rascals climbing all over it all the time! Skrötum is a fully interchangeable system of shelving for walls, doors and … wherever you want!

Chuff: An elegant soap dispenser.

Pubik: Scatter cushions.

Gag: a complete range of bedding – sheets, pillows, duvets. You name it!

Ulsså: make your mark with these ready-made curtains.

The ‘Must-Have’ wardrobe for 2011/12 is Stroke. You’ll probably have one too as you attempt to self-assemble this box of shite. Designer Stig Holmqvist makes a feature of using a completely different number of screws and nails on each construction – Individual! Or as we say in Sweden, ‘Förlorare!’**

 

* ABBA: For those of you who have been hibernating for the last 50 years.

** ‘Loser!

Postscript to ‘How to hang your Skrötum

A few IEKA facts:

Founded in 1943 by 17-year-old Ingvar Kamprad in Sweden.

It is the World’ largest retailer of furniture.

The company name is an acronym comprising Ingvar’s initials, the farm where he grew up (Elmtaryd), and his home parish, Agunnaryd.

IKEA products are identified by single word names. Most of the names are Swedish in origin, based on a special naming system developed by IKEA.

 

  • Upholstered furniture, coffee tables, rattan furniture, bookshelves, media storage, doorknobs: Swedish placenames
  • Beds, wardrobes, hall furniture: Norwegian place names
  • Dining tables and chairs: Finnish place names
  • Bookcase ranges: Occupations
  • Bathroom articles: Scandinavian lakes, rivers and bays
  • Kitchens: grammatical terms, sometimes also other names
  • Chairs, desks: men’s names
  • Fabrics, curtains: women’s names
  • Garden furniture: Swedish islands
  • Carpets: Danish place names
  • Lighting: terms from music, chemistry, meteorology, measures, weights, seasons, months, days, boats, nautical terms
  • Bedlinen, bed covers, pillows/cushions: flowers, plants, precious stones
  • Children’s items: mammals, birds, adjectives
  • Curtain accessories: mathematical and geometrical terms
  • Kitchen utensils: foreign words, spices, herbs, fish, mushrooms, fruits or berries, functional descriptions
  • Boxes, wall decoration, pictures and frames, clocks: colloquial expressions, also Swedish place names

So now you know!

© Andy Daly 2011  The views expressed are not necessarily those of the author

Wildlife Photography

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A ‘Timeless Classics’ production. First published February 2010

In which a family of kingfishers manage to trick a former Art teacher into rejecting a process-led model as a metanarrative of a discredited Modernist formal orthodoxy. It also features some spectacular stunt flying, courtesy of the Red Sparrows.

It has slowly become apparent to me that I’ve been had. Done over.  Hook, line and sinker, I have been stitched up like a kipper by … a family of kingfishers

Why? Because I have failed to listen to my own best advice and have allowed myself to be seduced by Product at the expense of Process. I know! …  Me! The Process Kid! ….Me! who has spent a lifetime  teaching a process-based model (I’m getting more and more angry as I write this) Me! a signed and fully paid up champion of a process-led aesthetic. I can’t believe it. Tricked, out-witted and out-manouvered … by a family of bloody kingfishers. I mean, they’re only 6 inches tall with a brain the size of a pea!

The Readers Digest Book of British Birds describes them as ‘mainly sedentary’ and confines the bulk of its entry to an almost obsessive interest in the spectacular colouring, superlative flying, and dramatic diving. Ha! Where are the warnings that this orange and blue – alright – ‘turquoise’ critter will quite happily lead the unwary out onto one of the most treacherous visual arts battlefields of the Modernist era and leave you beaten and bloodied for your troubles? Where does it suggest that it might be wise to re-aquaint yourself with Walter Benjamin before you go birdwatching?

Here is my story.

 I take my bike from out of the shed and leave the house I share with my wife and two children, at work and school respectively. And why do I do this? … well … it’s because  we’ve got the bloody builders in. They have just ‘knocked through’. Any sign of a dustsheet? No! Any respect for personal space? No! Any interest in the fact that I too may have some objectives I’d like to acomplish –  preferably before sunset and so therefore really cannot  spare the time to make another cup of tea and listen to another ‘Clumsy Tony’ anecdote. No!

So I’m going for a bike ride to escape, because if I hear that fucking dopey roofer sing ‘Karma bloody Chameleon’ one more time I swear I’m going to pound his brains to mush with one of his own roofing tiles.

And so to the park (tip) at the end of our road.

Just listen to that … Silence! … (Well silence that  is if you filter out the playground noise from the school, the trains passing on the Met. line, the plane landing at Northolt, the coarse chatter of the jackhammer from … Oh gawd!..  Our house by the sound of it)

And so I’m off. A quick three lap burn up of the ‘Nature Reserve’ This presents a major test of skill and nerve as you try to avoid the dog crap everywhere, and today? … well, let’s head off down past the park and along the brook (sewer) and back again.

I’ve got to say, all joking apart, that in the dappled sunlight under a flaming canopy of Horse Chestnut, Ash, Hazel and a couple of Oak and Beech, it is extraordinarily beautiful down here … and quiet. The Parrots look a bit out of place though. There’s a … (collective noun for parrots? a squawk? –  sounds alright) There’s a squawk of parrots, about 6 in total who divide their time between the park and the big old tree behind our house. Escapees, I guess. A novelty at first, they are now right up there with the dopey roofer on my hate list courtesy of the bloody awful racket they make: that’s all seven of them.

I am just imagining what roast parrot might taste like and indeed how it might compare with roast roofer (I suspect a parrot, no matter how well fed might present a challenge in feeding a family of  four. The roofer, on the other hand has been nicely looked after and …)

Bloody Hell! See that? A kingfisher! Brilliant!

Wonderful! One of my favourite birds as a child. Not that I ever saw more than about three. Seeing a kingfisher gave me an electric thrill (and still does) as the streak of sapphire and orange flashed past, seemingly unconcerned, but busy nevertheless.

Who would have thought it?  On smelly Yeading Brook. I saw it again the following day and again and again. I was surprised talking to local dogwalkers, regulars along the brookside path, that although ‘vaguely aware’ of the bird’s existence at some time or other, no-one had seen it (or them) this season. Yet I, having begun to observe the bird’s pattern of behaviour and favourite branches on which to perch, saw it two, sometimes three times a visit.

I resolved to bring my camera, which I did (oh how I rue the day!) There was a lot of activity that morning: I’d seen it two or three times – It had of course occurred to me that there could be more than one: a pair? I was on the verge of leaving when right out of the blue/turquoise/saphhire whatever you want to call it, close by the lower entrance to the park it landed on a branch overlooking a bend in the brook. It was about 70 yards away. Against all odds, which included a standard 50mm lens – no telephoto and uncontrollable shaking as I tried to focus (In fact, if the truth be known, I had a quite incomplete grasp of the procedures for focussing my Canon 450D for having had it for two months, I was too lazy to have read the instruction manual) The shot was an accident: I was pressing the button for a meter reading and overdid it. I got another one in, but with a shutter sound like a skoda car door slamming – that was it. The kingfisher was off!

 

Can you spot it? 

 But I had it! After thoroughly testing the image manipulation giant that is Photoshop CS3 (Extended) I had it!  Okay, it wasn’t exactly David Attenborough: but then I wasn’t on his kind of money.You had to look hard deep into a mess of trees, riverbank, undergrowth but there it was the unmistakeable shape of a kingfisher. Ha! I was about to prove to everyone that this was no fig roll of my imagination…

But it was also to prove my undoing … My dissatisfaction with the quality of my kingfisher picture,  which despite all the power of Photoshop was still grainy and fuzzy, began to be replaced by a growing conviction that here was an opportunity to extend my range as a budding photographer. Yes! It was time to move on from those interminable artsy ‘coffee table book’ guitar pictures( http://www.andydalyphotography.co.uk/  in case you’re interested. I accept Pay Pal and all major credit cards) Let’s face it, any clot with a serviceable camera and a spotlamp could do them – you just had to remember, Do ‘em in black and white and don’t forget: Loads of shadows! No: this was real photography: wildlife photography.

And here, dear reader is where the wheels began to come off. I can hear myself thinking, althoughI never actually uttered the words, but sure enough, like so many of my wayward students over the years I thought them. Words which are enough plunge even the most experienced, hard-bitten, battle-scarred Art teacher into a trough of despair:

“But I know exactly what it’s going to look like”

I know, I know …. Me, the Process Kid! As I sit now staring at words on the screen I can barely believe it. But there I was, a week later, armed with a telephoto lens (courtesy of E Bay. Incidentally, I picked up a delightful plaster cast of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and a complete Morris Marina workhop manual at the same time. Who says it’s a Global Car Boot Sale eh?) and assorted camouflage garments, more usually associated with members of fanatical paramilitary active service cells: ready to do battle with the kingfishers for the ultimate Kingfisher photograph ….

[A small hollow in a sandy bank overlooking Yeading Brook and a family of Kingfishers are sitting around, reading the morning papers and childrens’ comic supplements]

Oh God! Here he is again!

Who’s here again, Darling?

That idiot. You know, the one with the camera.

The one with the wooly hat? You’re too hard on him. You should stop teasing him and leave him in peace.

Leave him in peace? What about us? What about him leaving us in peace? I’ll leave him alone when he stops invading our privacy. Three times last week…three times. You know what I’m like about my fishing –

[The children pipe up] Oh yes! We all know what you’re like about your fishing. We’re not allowed to talk..

We’re not even allowed to breathe!

Now, you two, come on…What your father is saying is that he just enjoys his privacy..

Exactly! Alone. So I can think and unwind and relax. Without having some half-baked would-be ‘wildlife photographer’ sticking his zoom lenses into my beak. And anyway, where do you think your meals would come from if I weren’t allowed to ‘dip this beak’ unhindered?

I caught one yesterday!

That was not a Minnow.

What was it then?

Well, it wasn’t a fish … Now let’s leave it at that … Oh God!

What is it now? You’re ever so tetchy these days…

It’s those bloody parrots, again. I wish someone would sort them out…send them back to where they came from.

But Dear, you can’t say that…

I just did. Okay! So who’s coming to have a bit of fun with old ‘David Attenborough’ then?

Me!

Me!

Me!

Daaad?

Yes, sunshine?

Do you think he knows there’s five of us?

Hmmmmm…Difficult to say… I think he knows there are at least two.

Remember yesterday, when you and Mum had already gone up to bend in the river with the wooden platform, but when I flew past, he went in the opposite direction?

Yes, that was odd. I just don’t think he’s very observant.

…He’s always half asleep

Yes, I’ve noticed that, Dear. I don’t think he gets enough rest…

Rest?! Oh for pity’s sake woman, we need to get rid of him, not mother him. I want my peace and quiet back.

Dad! Let’s try and get him to drop his big camera into the river

Yeeeaah!

And how are you going to do that?

Oh it’ll be well easy … Did you see when he dropped his hat in the river?

That’s right:  So far …Let’s see …  His gloves went in….

… his hat …

… (Twice) …

… His lens cap …

… and he got bitten by a dog! …

[Together] Twice!

It is easy! All you’ve got to do is make him wait till he starts to get tired…

It’s best to sit quite high up

… and behind him. He still thinks we only ever fly or perch low along the course of the river.

Watch him. Watch his shoulders.  After a while he starts to go into this position and his shoulders hunch over.

What’s ‘hunch’?

Y’know, go all rounded

Then it’s time to fly… Straight at him if you can

Yeaaaah!

He goes all shaky! It’s dead funny.

Okay? We all ready? You staying here, Love?  Oh! Before I forget, I’ve left an article out for you… might like to read it. I thought it was quite good. It’s a frank new appraisal of Benjamin’s ‘Work of Art In An Age Of Mechanical Reproduction’ In fact, I think it will throw more light onto the near polarisation of the visual arts and the acendency of a Post Modern,  pluralist aesthetic for the end of the twentieth century. See what you think. Okay kids? We off?

Chocks away!

[Some weeks later. The Builders have now gone]

                                                               …. ready to do battle with the kingfishers for the ultimate Kingfisher photograph.         

 [Reader]: So?

What?

[Reader]: So where is it?

What?

[Reader]: The ‘Ultimate Kingfisher Photograph’?

You see, people don’t realise just how difficult wildlife photography is. They just think that the photographer turns up, whips out their camera, Click! Click! Home in time for tea and crumpets. No way! It requires methodical planning, deep knowledge of the habits and environment of the subject and consumate camera skills. Never mind thinking … aperture?… exposure?… focus? … ooops, lens cap off … when there’s a kingfisher flying at you. It needs to be instinctive … it’s raw!…It’s man versus beast in an extreme and hostile environment.

[Reader]: ‘Extreme and hostile’? What? Yeading Brook? In Roxborne Park?

Yeah … err … it’s pretty hostile. I came close to losing my hat in the drink on one occasion.

***   Kingfishers 1 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   *** 

 [Reader]: So how long have you been waiting for this ‘ultimate photograph?

Let’s see, where are we now? March .. That will make it uhmm …  Five months … it’ll be five months

***   Kingfishers 2 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   *** 

 [Reader]: And how many pictures have you taken?

Oooooohhhh loads!

[Reader]: Of kingfishers?

Two

***   Kingfishers 3 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   *** 

[Reader]: So your original image and two new ones?

Ahhh ..  No. My … errr…original shot and one new one.

***   Kingfishers 4 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   *** 

 [Reader]:  It must be spectacular … the other one? It must be if it’s your ‘ultmate kingfisher photo’ Can you describe it? I’m fascinated by the notion of it being a battle between man and nature in order to wrest the image you want exactly as you thought it was going to look. That must be some result eh? The suspense is killing me … Thanks … No, don’t see it. Ahhh! That’s because I’ve got it upside down … no wait …. No, Still don’t see it ……..what the hell am I looking at?

Well … can you just see behind that branch…?

[Reader]: You mean that blurry brown line?

Hmmmmm…It’s that spot of blue …. Juuuusssssst ……. there!

*** Game Set and Match: Kingfishers ***         

 Epilogue

Never has the pursuit of artistic endeavour so exausted me. Never has so much time been invested for such little reward. How could I let myself walk into such an obvious trap? One which, because of my training and experience I should have spotted from the outset.

My ‘Ultimate Kingfisher Photograph’ hangs on the chimney breast (I tell people it’s one of a series of abstract paintings I’m working on – sort of diffused spatial enquiries … ‘Yes, they can sometimes look like out of focus photographs. I’m glad you spotted that’) My misery is complete when the Dopey Roofer decides he likes it and offers to buy it.  It reminds him of the lighting effects used at last year’s Ministry of Sound New Year Party. ‘It was sick man, I’m tellin’ yah I was well out of it’.

 I let it go for £5:49 with which I buy a new wooly hat. The house is cold and lonely, the wind whistles through the gap in the front door, making a sound like a maddened wailing banshee. I’m beginning to miss the builders … they weren’t that bad after all.

Cause of all the trouble

  

‘The Ultimate Kingfisher Photograph’

  HELPLINE

If you have been affected by any of the issues in this post, call 0800 4746 4746 to talk in confidence

© Andy Daly  2010

Which Reminds Me

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A re-issue, by Timeless Classics. First published in January 2010

Once upon a long time ago, we had a French friend who was at the dinner table
with her boyfriend’s parents  for the first time. “Oh I say are you alright
Chantelle?” asked the concerned hostess as Chantelle appeared to choke on her food. Keen to impress with (as ever) with her wide vocabulary she replies
“Oh yes, I’ve just got something stuck in my clitoris!”

Of course she meant epiglottis!

  

© Andy Daly  2010

Timeless Classics presents “Mirror, Mirror”

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(First published Feb 2010)

Not suitable for young children, the squeamish or those of a nervous disposition. “Celebrity Big Brother” on at the time was the prompt. 

There’s been a lot of talk about ‘Male Banter’ recently.

It’s been the final week of the last ever ‘Celebrity Big Brother’ and as ever I’ve been glued to it. Can’t fathom it really, because normally I have zero interest in the lives of the rich and famous, but it’s just fascinating watching ‘Celebrities’ out of their little comfort zones, being told what to do, being given menial and degrading tasks to do (I pass on the disgusting eating tests: a bridge too far, personally) and sometimes even reaching meltdown on live TV.

 Well, the final few hours of ‘Celebrity Big Brother’ 2010 seems to have been notable (If you believe all the pundits, commentators and hangers-on etc.) for the quality of ‘banter’ between remaining male contestants who outnumbered sole female Stephanie Beecham 4 to 1. They were Vinnie Jones (Ex-footballer/Actor), Alex Reid (Cagefighter/boyfriend to Katie Price/’Jordan’), Dane Bowers (Ex-Boyband member: I forget which) and Jonas Somebody or other (Swedish ‘Euro-Pop’ Recording Artist)

 From where I was sitting, it was decidedly average. Unless I was somehow sitting in a parallel universe and watching a complete simulacrum of the ‘real’ Big Brother … or was it?… but I digress, the point is that I didn’t find the ‘Male Banter’ on offer all that good. Especially when I compare it to banter, jokes and laughs I   have enjoyed, courtesy of some of the lads who drifted in and out of my life, particularly during the early/mid eighties. As well as My Best Mate Aky, people like Skull Murphy, Stig, Gibbo, the Baron, Andy Kav, Jonah, Mo the Header, Dinks, Glenn, Wayne, Peadar, Arthur, Ken, Rob, Bouncing Bob, Chawkey Neil and Wiz. Compared to some of the comments, insults, antics and tall tales from this little lot over the years, the ‘Big Brother’ quartet would have been found sorely wanting.

 It was while mulling over some of the highlights of these hangover-stained years (eg. “The Great White Chief” stopped by Police on Waterloo Bridge at two in the morning, drunk as a monkey, driving – if you can call it that – without lights, The Baron’s drunken sleepwalking escapades, one of which lead him, semi-naked, out of his flat and all the way down onto the Mile End Road to ‘Get the bus for work’ at eleven o’clock in the evening, A 21st Birthday Party at ‘The Ukranian Club’ in Rochdale, coming home from which we got ‘lost’ less than 200 yards from the house in which My Best Mate Aky had lived in all his life, Chawkey ironing his stomach etc etc) that I was reminded of the tale of Dinks’ anus. I will never forget him telling me this story and the helpless laughter it left me with, and for which I only have to recall the story’s dénouement to have it re-kindled.

 Dinks, despite being from ‘Sheff’ (Sheffield) was a smashing bloke. Bit of a nuisance when he was drunk; but then so are a lot of people. He had a tendency to square up to, or a wish to discuss the finer points of issues with Lads (and sometimes Ladies) of considerably bigger build, and who seemed to have an air of greater ‘combat experience’ behind them. He was never a great-looker, bless him (Use these words to form a sentence of your own: Pot, Black, Call, Kettle)  the last time I saw him, he wore baggy (as in no arse at all) army surplus trousers, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a denim jacket. His head was shaved, revealing an angry lunar landscape of spots, blackheads and acne scars. His only hair, bleached, sprouted from a point to the front of his crown, and for the most part dangled down over his eyes and face.

 “Did I ever tell y’t’ story of when I saw me oan arsehole?” He asked one day in the pub, apropos of nothing.

“Well, I were on’t’ bus comin’ oam fr-fr- fr-fr- frum college one dinner time…” (he stammered too)

 I was immediately hooked and listened intently.

“Aye, I were on this bus, when I thowat: Y’ knurr, twenteh too yeayurs on th-th-th-th-this planet and I’ve n-n-n-n-n-never seen me oan arsehole.”

Then and there, Dinks resolved to do something about it. He hatched a plan. What sort of bizarre meanderings and tortured thought processes lead a human mind to close focus of such an issue is beyond me. However, unimpeded by such concerns, the intrepid Dinks prepared to alight.

At his stop, he scuttled down the stairs and off the bus. He quickly covered the quarter of a mile or so to his house.

“Twelve-thirty: brilliant, me Mum won’t be ‘oam till at least wun. Should be perfect!” he thought to himself as he glanced at his Tintin watch

He described reaching home, hurridly unlocking the front door, and racing straight up the stairs into the bathroom.

 Once in, he threw off his jacket. The bathroom, though clean and tidy, was small and poky. The only mirror was that on the front of the vanity unit placed high on the wall, adjacent to the sink. Now this was going to be tricky, it would require nerve, balance and more than a little agilty. Not to worry! Our Hero had done his planning and, after feverishly unbuttoning, dropping and stepping out of his pants, naked from the waist down, he began his ascent. Careful!… one foot on the basket that housed spare toilet rolls, old newspapers, and inexplicably, a can of WD 40. Good! … it did’t give. A step up with the other foot onto the window ledge. Easy! The fan light was open causing the net curtain to play in the fluttery wind. This was the big one … Ready? One, two, three … Hup! Other foot into the ‘soap space’ corner of the sink, behind the tap … Will it hold my weight? …. Yyyyeeessss! Done it!

 I recall the expession on his face as he reached this pivotal point in his recounting of the whole tale: a mixture of triumph and relief.

“At last! The Holy Grail!” (His words!) “I could see me oan arsehole!”

He should have taken more notice of the open window, for no sooner had his face of triumph clouded with revulsion at what he beheld in the mirror than the bathroom door (which in his haste he had forgotten to lock) swung open, and his Mum walked in.

“Jeremy!” She screeched “What on EARTH are you doing….?”

 “I’m br-br-br-br-brushin’ me teeth Mum!”

 “…..Well, I just said first thing that came into me ‘ead”

© Andy Daly  2010

The Carbon Fibre’s in the Kitty Litter!

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I know this is a bit of a specialist subject, but  lately I’ve become fascinated more than somewhat by the work of three pairs of British motorcycle  racing commentators, namely Julian Ryder and Toby Moody who cover Moto GP, Moto 2, and the 125 class, for British Eurosport. Jack Burnicle and former rider James Whitham who commentate on World and British Superbikes, also for British Eurosport; and Nigel Pearson with former England rider and ex-World Longtrack champion Kelvin Tatum, who cover the Speedway for Sky Sports.

 

 

 

(Moody, Ryder, Burnicle, Whitham, Pearson and Tatum)

So, what is it that makes them all so compelling? What common links exist between these six disparate characters, other than their habit of hanging around in twos at race venues? Obviously, as befitting of people in their position they are almost all completely immersed in the world of motorcycle competition – and in  particular their own areas of specialism in the sport, either as a former rider (Whitham, Tatum) or as serious enthusiast (possessor of  frighteningly comprehensive encyclopaedic knowledge, Ryder; highly articulate, often comically tongue-tied Moody, informed ‘giddy spectator’ Burnicle and Pearson, genial apologist for Speedway, everyone’s ‘Love it or loathe it’ sport)

I used to think commentators were superfluous – I think some still are. Dave Lanning, the voice of Speedway in the ’70s changed that. A good commentator, I feel should not be there simply to give you information, or explain; for example in the way  you might have to explain to those who have never attended or watched such an event before what is going on: especially when it means everyone who has is forced to hear it again and again. (Hope you’re reading this Tony Millard)  A good commentator should be in that place where audience and sportsperson meet; they should engage with the experience that their audience is having, develop and deepen it. This is what Lanning did. He knew the riders, the teams, the tracks, a ‘sufficient’ amount about the machinery to explain the reasons why riders did  the things they did and why events on the track took the turns they did. (No pun – honestly!- intended) with authority and humour. Watching speedway today, I sometimes find myself slipping into ‘Lanning-Speak’ as, distracted, I mentally commentate. (“Oh I say! What a fine piece of speedway!” “It doesn’t get much tighter than that, you could throw a handkerchief over all four of them” “He’s going out to the fence, he’s taking the high, wide and handsome route”)  

Do any of  my crop of six come close to the Big Man? Well let’s say they are at their best, when, like sharps of flint they crackle and spark off each  other with a vitality that the common herd can only watch and envy. Okay, maybe that’s going a bit far in some cases, but tune in to British Eurosport, or Sky Sports, catch this lot on form and you’ll see what I mean.

So, to business. My key areas of interest comprise:

  • PLOC
  • Background knowledge/Response to ‘On-Track’ events/Observational Skills
  • Favourite sayings and creativity in use of euphemisms for the word ‘Crash’

 My findings are attached below:

 

(On board chasing Moto GP traffic. Let’s face it, you’d have to be bloody nuts wouldn’t you?)

(Ben Spies: making some noise in his first season of Moto GP – I knew he would)

PLOC: (or to give its full title Point of Loss of Control) – usually with reference to voice, but may apply to bodily functions as well, this denotes a point in a race: a frantic start, a particular passing move, fierce tussle, spill, collision and so on which is momentous enough to cause our commentator to lose all self-control in relation to both his immediate environment (the commentary box, his partner and any guests) as well as his listeners/viewers: affects  the volume, tone, timbre of voice and its level of hysteria as evidenced in ‘breaking’, shouting, screaming and in one or two cases singing.

  • A particular feature of Moody’s work, where PLOC is often found to have been reached, before the end of the first sentence. For example at the start of practically every Moto GP. Toby’s voice shifts semi-tones, up and down mirroring the riders’ changes of gear. This is made even more entertaining if his commentary position leaves him unsighted and relying only on the local TV director’s footage. Toby gets more and more tongue-tied and frustrated as he is unable to see who is who, but continues regardless: …. and look! Casey Stoner’s made a BRIIIILLIANT start on the …(up semi-tone) oh! but he’s being OVERTAKEN by  who……? Now THHHHAAAAATTTS (up semi-tone) Capirosi. But No! It’s… ( down semi-tone ) NICKY HAYDEN … Loris Capirosi … (down semi-tone) as they go into the right hander (up semi-tone) But where’s Stoner? WE’VE LOST CASEY STONER! (up a whole tone) etc…

 

  • Ryder avoids the hysterics. He is the ‘Steady Hand’ to Moody’s emotional outbursts.  His main problems when excited are forgetting to breathe and using unfeasibly long sentences.

 

  • Nigel Pearson and KelvinTatum feature quite strongly here I am afraid. For example, Pearson continuing to shout in a most disagreeable manner, despite the finish of the particular race he is supposed to be commentating on: “WELL, HAVE WE GOT A MEETING NOW, OR WHAT, KELVIN TATUM?” I just wish he wouldn’t expend so much of his (apparently limitless) energy trying to convince us we’re watching great racing. I think we’ll be the judge of that, Ta.  If you want to get a better handle on what he sounds like, visit Pearson’s web homepage. It’s written exactly as he would speak/shout it! Priceless.

 

  • Tatum, too, is capable of allowing himself to rapidly spiral out of control, although he seems to take many of his cues from Pearson;  indeed, at times they will chorus in unison; for example, over a skilful piece ‘fence-scraping’  “Ohhhhhh! HOW did he do that?!” Nevertheless, he falls short of that daemonic, possessed quality that transforms Pearson from affable host to deranged nutcase: “IF YOU’RE SITTING AT HOME WITH PIZZA TAKEAWAY AND THE FOOD HAS GONE ALL OVER THE FLOOR DUE TO THE EXCITEMENT OF THAT RACE, PLEASE FORGIVE US!” Nonetheless, I do think it terribly endearing, however that Pearson and Tatum continue to model themselves on 70’s TV regulars, Fozzie Bear and Kermit. Next time you see the dynamic Sky Sports duo doing a discussion to camera, wearing their silly big headphones (What are they listening to: Deep Purple?) and nodding sagely in agreement at appropriate intervals, think Muppets.

 

 

  • Of the six, Burnicle and Whitham are probably the most restrained. In Whitham’s case, a riding career which saw him reach the heights of success, tempered by a catalogue of injuries that would make an orthopedic surgeon wince mean he has the ability to commentate with authority and experience. Add a touch of dry, gallows/paddock humour and he’s your man. Having been there, seen it, done it, he doesn’t tend to shout about it much. He finds more satisfaction teasing Burnicle, the enthusiast who comes across more like Whitham’s Dad. 

 

(The irrepressible Rossi. Doesn’t like hospitals! )

 

Background knowledge/Response to ‘On-Track’ events/Observational Skills

  •  Background knowledge I am happy to report is very good in all cases and in some excellent.

 

  • Jack Burnicle, for instance, can always be relied upon to give you that extra insight:  (Re: Colin Edwards, World Superbikes and his choice of tyres) “Colin  had a hard on in practice earlier, and I bet he wished he had a hard on now” and “Simon only weighs 63kg and most of that’s his ears!”

 (Casey Stoner)

  • Whitham: (My job) “is to get across the subtlties of what is happening, what strategies they might be evolving, what’s going on with the tyres and so on” In response to track action, the assured Whitham sometimes employs an elegant spoiling tactic. When something he has said is about to be contradicted by actual  events as they happen (to be fair, not very often):  He diverts attention away to another area of the race course ” Look, Jack  Now ah knew that were gunna ‘appen. I knew sooner or later someone were gunna open a Heineken umbrella on that bit o’ banking …. I mean … ” He wheelies over the line taking second place on the podium in this category.

 

  • Winning hands down, however is Ryder. He is eagle-eyed and has (seemingly at his fingertips) a mass of information about riders, and their pedigree, bikes, engines, teams, gossip, rumour, lap times, records and is able to – and this is where he scores trillions of points – put all this in context for the casual viewer. (Much to Moody’s frustration at times, I suspect) For example, as a result of watching coverage of free practice at the new Spanish Aragonese track, I now have a much more complete understanding of ‘wet’ tyre technology. It might not get me very far with the man on the Clapham omnibus, but if I ever find myself in the paddock on a wet raceday, I’ll be able to say: “Yeah! get the wets on, they’ll grip without compromising speed too much, Why? because … er … the heat … um … err … and the little bits … they squash … sort of … and …  Hang on a sec. I’ll just ask Jules”

 

(Going down the road)

  • In responding to on-track action, bear in mind that our six will know many of the riders personally. A close shave (or God forbid worse) for one or a number of  competitors elicit a uniform response, though these vary in their intensity and level of empathy depending on the circumstances. So we get:

“OOHHHHHHHHHHH!” (Ryder and Moody)

 “OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH!” (Pearson and Tatum)

 “OH NO! OOOOOOOHHH  AHHHHHHH  OOOOOOOOOOOH….!”  Poor Burnicle seems to feel every bump and scrape himself as riders come off and hit the hard asphalt or gravel traps: Then “Oh Leon, what have you done? You silly boy!   

Whitham is more matter of fact “I see what’s ‘appened,  he’s front-ended on braking, going int’ corner, so he’s hit the deck fast.  Aye, he’s moving across that tarmac, mind you he’s missed t’ kerb. Nah, he’ll be all reyt”

Tatum puts each spill under his ‘Pain Microscope’

“If we take a look at that again Nige you’ll see … Ohhhhh! Look at him getting thrown around like a rag-doll … and thump on his head! … And now the bike runs over him! That’s got to hurt. Let’s have another look …..”

 Favourite Sayings and creativity in use of euphemisms for the word ‘Crash’

  • Pearson insists on wishing stricken riders “All the very best” – Is it just me ? Isn’t that  the sort of thing you write on a Christmas Card?
  • Pearson: “Chris Louis in the pits there, and apologies if you heard one or two words which you may have found offensive”
  • Tatum: (Every week) “Y’know Nige, very often in the re-run it is not the rider who was leading the race when it was stopped who wins”
  • Tatum: “Well, Nige they’ve just not come to the races”
  • Ryder: “Valentino’s shoulder”
  • Whitham: “I knew that were gunna ‘appen.”

 Crash Pronunciation:/kraʃ/: collide violently with an obstacle or another vehicle. Not to be confused with a ‘Moment’ (When a rider almost comes to grief) Crashes are otherwise known as an ‘An Off’ ‘, ‘A Front/Back End’, Dropping It’, ‘High Side’ (When the machine bucks the rider off after going into a rear wheel slide),’Going Down The Road’  ‘Throwing the baby out with the bathwater’

but by far my favourite is from Toby Moody ‘The carbon fibre ‘s in the kitty litter!’

INTERACTIVE BIT!

Perhaps you’d like to add your own. (Incidentally, there is one ‘bogus’ in the above list. Can you spot it?)

So in conclusion, between them, in spite (or perhaps because of) their foibles, idiosyncracies, things they say that drive me nuts, I enjoy their company. After all, if  it gets too much, I just turn the sound down.

Closing note: The Spanish Aragon GP: King Juan Carlos presents winner Stoner with the trophy. Event sponsor’s logo given pride of place!

 

 

Links:

Moto GP

British Superbikes

World Superbikes

Elite League Speedway

Let me take you back to the dirtrack

James Whitham

KelvinTatum

Julian Ryder Twitter MotoGPJules

Toby Moody Twitter tobymoody

Jack Burnicle

Nigel Pearson ‘Take Away’ Quote: Jeff Scott ‘Showered in Shale’ Methanol Press 2006

This post is affectionately dedicated to those brave men who risk life and limb week after week at racetracks around the world for our enjoyment, namely Julian Ryder, Toby Moody, Jack Burnicle, James Whitham, Nigel Pearson and Kelvin Tatum

 © Andy Daly  2010

Postscript to ‘Getting a kick out of Picasso’

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I’ve just been proof-reading ‘Getting a kick out of Picasso’ – Yes, I know you’re supposed to do it before you publish something, not a month and a half after (I never have the time …) When I remembered that it was on the eve of  a half term holiday, that the students were given their ‘slices’ of the ‘Three Dancers’ (carefully planned and cut to make it as difficult as possible to figure out what it was) and from which they were to make their own scaled up versions; accurate, in terms of proportion, colour, texture of paint. I’d already set them homework, and there were a couple of minutes left till the end of the lesson.

As a bit of a ‘throwaway’ remark, I said

‘I bet no-one can come back after half term and tell me exactly what these are …. If anyone can, I’ll give you ten merits (worth about £35 in today’s money on the school’s black market – and an unheard of amount to win at one go) Remember, they knew nothing about the project whatsoever yet. Picasso’s name hadn’t been mentioned, nor the ‘C’ word (‘Cubism’) They hadn’t even had time to figure out that they actually joined together.

‘The only clue I will give you is the word Pimlico’

Well, bugger me, if only halfway through the week after the holiday, and before his Art lesson which was on a Friday I am sought out by one of the class members; a delightful lad by the name of Robert Fone. (Real name, don’t think he’ll mind) 

Story was that at a loose end over the half term, he turned to the ‘optional homework throwaway thingy’ (Nowadays, of course, it would be called an ‘Extension Task’) It didn’t take long for Robert to work out by consulting some of his friends that some (all?) of the pieces joined together. He visited his local library (Again, this was before the age of high-speed Broadband Internet access to this, that and the other) Eventually, Rob came across an image which seemed to connect with colours and shapes on his section, as well as those of his mates. What was it? Who was it by? –  Time to enlist the help of Dad – a postman.

‘Dad what’s at Pimlico that might have something to do with Art?’

‘That what? … that might have something to do with Art? … Well I dunno, son. Let me finish this and we’ll have a look in the ‘A to Z”

Which they did; and sure enough, finally spotted the Tate.

‘That’s got to be it!’ So they set off bright and early the next morning – which they needn’t have bothered doing since the Tate doesn’t open till 10am – armed only with Rob’s sliver of the picture and the suspicion that it involved Picasso.

In a wonderful dénouement, after some time, they found what they thought to be the painting and sat in front of it as Rob took out his slice and his notes from the library. Both of them, tired with ‘gallery legs’  looked for corroboration in the cobalt/cerulean blues, contorted and distorted shapes before them. And sure enough, there it was. Fitting indeed that the ‘moment of realisation’ happened in the gallery in front of the work.

‘Sir! I know what it is! … I’ve got it!’

Well, I’m going to keep my distance if you don’t mind Rob, cause whatever it is you’ve  got I don’t want to catch it’

‘No, no, no I mean …. (Actually this all for comic effect. Rob, bless him, was very quietly spoken and unassuming) So it was almost apologetically that he told me the cut-up picture was called ‘The Three Dancers’ painted in 1925 by Pablo Ruiz Picasso (1881 – 1973), measuring 215.3 x 142.2 cm and that it hangs it the Tate Gallery near Pimlico.

‘The largest and most important piece by the artist in the Tate, it fully justifies the epithet ‘masterpiece’ and as such, lays a claim to being the greatest work in the collection; which owing to its fragile condition, it is unlikely to ever leave’ said Richard Calvocoressi.

Ahhh, yes. If only you knew, Richard. If only you knew, mate …

And my pocket was lighter to the tune of 10 merits.

His Head of Year saw me:

‘Ah, Mr. Daly, Is it true you gave Robert ….’

© Andy Daly  2010

Clive Jarvis

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I am not a teacher, but an awakener.

Robert Frost

East Ward #2

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Chapter 2

I have been admitted for observation. Well that’s interesting, because I don’t know where they are doing it from. Maybe from a tiny hole in the ceiling above my bed. It certainly isn’t being done as a matter of course by the nursing staff, who seem a bit bemused by my presence. In fact, I sneak a look at the ‘Observation sheets’ only to find them incomplete and incorrectly filled in. But wait: I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I have been admitted for observation by my Neurologist after spending a miserable summer fighting to adapt to a new drug: Rotigotine (or ‘Neupro’, a non-ergoline dopamine agonist formulated as a once-daily transdermal patch which provides a slow and constant supply of the drug over the course of 24 hours, for those of you who are interested in that kind of thing) For it to have any impact, I was having to wear patches the size of your average single duvet. They made me nauseous and left painful red weals on the skin, such that you weren’t supposed to use the same area of the body more than once a fortnight. Now then. Take away the head, chest, midriff, hands and feet which were also ‘no go’ areas and you’re left with? Well, you’re left with the fact that dripping wet I weigh about 9 stone (57.15kg in Euros) I didn’t have enough skin! None of which was fully appreciated by the consultant concerned as at no point during the whole pitiful saga was I examined. Indeed all our calls and correspondence to the hospital in question were fielded by another (junior) member of staff. Meanwhile, I was spending hours  a day in a near catatonic state, trying to make light of it to the kids – being as upbeat as possible (Of my waking day, more time was spent like this than with any degree of mobility.) Anyway, cut a long story short, I’ve wound up in here to ‘iron out’  the problems with my medication.

I arrive promptly on the Monday morning (A miracle! Once punctilious to the point of obsession, these days it’s a case of  ‘Give me a window of about 3 days and I’ll see what I can do…’) I find my way to the ward via main desk and lifts and am shown to a bed.

Sometime later – I have lost track of time and dozed off I think, a waspish Filipino Ward Sister comes to take my details. This is a painful procedure as although we appear to be talking the same language, we are both hearing something quite different. That hurdle finally surmounted, I am left to my own devices – for the rest of the day. No one comes to tell me what the plan for the day was, where I should go, stay; what I should do etc….

In fact, this Ward Sister was to provide endless amusement as the week wore on, doing the pre- op checks on unwitting and skittery patients. It took me a while to decipher what she was actually saying, but it was worth the effort.

Example: heard issuing from behind curtains on my second morning –

“Okay, you okay? I take your details … You gadanny medalinyabaddy?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Medal? You gadanny medalinyabaddy?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t …’

‘Any medal inside, before?’

(Have you got any metal in your body? ie. implants, plates, screws etc)

‘You gottadrawen? …. Your harm … ‘You gottadrawen?

‘What??’

(Have they – the surgeons – done a drawing (ie made a mark to indicate which) on your arm?)

Priceless was the look of complete incomprehension on patients’ faces as, interrogation over, the curtains were drawn back and once more they joined fellow inmates …

… who were to include the Junkie, who first woke me up in the early hours of my second day.

© Andy Daly  2010

East Ward #1

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Chapter One

It is 1:15 am. The sublime sound of Phyllis Hyman’s ‘You know how to love me’  fills my head as I lose myself to its pumping beat and intoxicating rhythm. Through my half open eyes I can see a myriad lights sway and swim. Feeling the cool floor beneath my feet, I dance like there will be no tomorrow. Where? The Gardening Club, Covent Garden? Deep Funk at madame JoJo’s? The Wag? I stop and take a swig from a bottle of water. The lights in question are those of West London. I can see them all the way out to Heathrow, for I am high up on the tenth floor.

Welcome to East Ward, the Neurology/Surgical Assessment Unit, at a well-known (No, I’m not going to name it!) London Hospital. My ‘dance floor’ is otherwise known as the ‘Day Room’. I am the only patient who seems to use it during the day, largely because I cannot bear the company of my fellow inmates, ‘Jock the Junkie’ and ‘Captain Birdseye’ who arrived during my first night and second morning here, respectively. As a consequence of a painful hour spent here with the pair of them earlier in the week, I now blag the Day Room for my own exclusive use in the evenings by removing the batteries from its TV remote control after first selecting channel 5. Jock and the Captain soon tire and this leaves me a good three hours to watch TV and try to ‘shake off’ the maddening diskynesias; the uncontrollable, jerky movements characteristic of long-term Leva-Dopa use by those with Parkinson’s. Leva-Dopa (or L-Dopa as it is sometimes known) is prescribed to replace the missing Dopamine: the Brain’s chemical ‘messenger’. A very effective drug, it is unfortunately notoriously difficult to get  to reach its target, as the body, in addition to any protein at loose in the system, will quickly break it down. My Neurologist once compared it to putting rocket fuel in a car. Diskynesias happen when there is a surplus, which ends up sloshing around the central nervous system, causing the body and limbs to go here and there. Somehow I  found that dancing (in an embarrassing ‘all-action’ wedding-Dad style) to Disco, Soul, Funk and Punk helps a bit to soak it up.

And so here I am. 1:30am. I’d better get a move-on and clear off. The nurses have first shout on the room from 1:30 am onwards. As from then, each night, there is a certain amount of furniture-moving goes on – It seems, to prevent entry as they bed down inside to sleep or otherwise – I’m not sure; I don’t really wish to know; waking me as they leave at about 4 am.

Of course by then, I am safely tucked up in bed in my room with Jock, the Captain and his ‘minder’. The ward is organised into a series of small rooms or bays, some are general purpose, like this one; others high dependency. The bays are identified by letter.

It goes without saying that I am on E-Bay.

© Andy Daly  2010