Chuddy Time

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gum2

Now, I’m no Physisist … Phisycist … Phycisist. What I am trying to say is I don’t understand much about classical mechanics, quantum mechanics, thermodynamics and statistical mechanics, electromagnetism, special relativity and the like.

But I have been doing a lot of thinking about Time lately and reckon it is just like chewing gum. You can stretch a bit out here and another bit over there, but it is still part of the same piece of chewing gum although it is in three places at the same time.

And so it is. Time plays maddening tricks on you. Events seem to telescope out of all perspective. Things that seem to have happened only yesterday on closer inspection turn out to have been a quarter of a century ago.

It seems like yesterday I was reading bedtime stories, planning daft excursions and being ‘Dad’ to two little fellows who are now grown men.

Memories, like old gum, ambush you when you least expect them, stuck to your pants, shoes, the underside of your table; glueing themselves to your consciousness for ever.

gum

Andy Daly 2013

Put yourself in my shoes

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parks_weekparks_shoesI am pleased to have been asked to write a blog post on the theme ‘Put  yourself In My Shoes’ by Parkinson’s UK  for Parkinson’s Awareness Week.

docs

So, for starters I suggest we try and get you into my shoes. Size 8 black Dr. Martens boots. No, not necessarily a fashion statement: they are light, and provide essential support for my ankles when I walk. The dystonia I suffer from causes my feet to turn inwards when I walk and a pair of tight fitting Docs makes bit makes it a bit more bearable.

How are you doing with the boots? Got them on? Good. Now pop on this pair of oven gloves and tie the laces.

(It doesn’t really feel like you are wearing oven gloves when you are performing the task, they are simply to replicate the kind of frustration you feel at the complexity of doing this, the simplest of things because you cannot co-ordinate your fingers, or because they have no strength or simply do not respond to what you/your brain is telling them to do.)

Now, let’s put your coat on. You may have some difficulty … What is that? Yes, I was about to say you may have some difficulty getting your arms in. Yes, that’s because of the falls you had last year. You’ve damaged your  left shoulder, we think. That’s why you can’t get your arm any higher.  Here let me help you. Stay upright though! Don’t start to shuffle your feet! Take longer strides! Don’t … You’ll fall … Oh deary me.

Hmmm! Let’s have a look … I think it’s only a surface wound, I’ve got some iodine and some steristrips upstairs. You take your coat off while I go and get … Oh of course, you can’t can you? Well let me help you get the coat off and see to that cut. Pardon? It’s time for you medication? I see. Well let’s deal with one thing at a time shall we? Let’s get that coat off … Now I’ll just run upstairs and get the … What? You need to go to the toilet now? Is that before or after I clean your cut and get your medication? Before? … You think? OK, in you go.

What? You can’t go now? … I thought you were desperate? Turn the water on! It’ll help.

What? … Oh I see, you can’t go because you still have the oven gloves on …

… Well, you get the picture…

If you were in my shoes this time last year, it would have been a pretty miserable experience, because my shoes didn’t go anywhere. However, thankfully, due to the patience, care and dedication of the Functional Neurosurgery team at the National Hospital For Neurology And Neurosurgery who performed the Deep Brain Stimulation procedure and supported me through the hellishly complex programming; I am able to put my boots on, lace them up, put my coat on, leave the house, walk to the nearest Underground station and travel into London, visit an art gallery, see a film …. Whatever. On my own.

I have a life again AND not only that, but I have been able to reduce my medication to microscopic amounts compared to what I had to take before.

It has not been an easy road The DBS has not worked as well as we might have hoped. My walking isn’t pretty, my speech suffers when I have to increase the level of therapy to counter the wearing-off of Sinemet. But I am learning to work around its limitations.  It is not a cure.

But for the time being it’ll do me.

Links to posts on this blog specifically about Parkinson’s and what it is like to live with it. (Please note, the hospital referred to in the East Ward stories is not The National)

Rake’s Progress

Rake’s Progress 3

East Ward 4

East Ward 3

East Ward 2

East Ward 1

Sticks and bones

Brain downs tools

Who will make ammends?

The way of the hand, foot and the walking stick. Tae Kwon Do and Parkinson’s

 Love and other drugs

Know it all

Dub cutaneous injections: Aswad and the man who…

Please be aware some of the above contain language of a fruity nature and my not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition.

I ought to make clear is that what you have read is a fictionalised version of my experiences. Also, Parkinson’s, its symptoms and its progress differ from person depending on age, the type of medication they are taking, external stresses and so on. So please bear in mind anything you have read here may not be typical of your own case or that of the person you care for.

MY MUM 2 MARGARET THATCHER 0

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I feel compelled to not let Baroness Thatcher’s passing go unremarked.

Iron Lady. Rust In Peace

Iron Lady. Rust In Peace

So I’ll sum up my feelings by recounting a little tale about my dear old Mum.

Before I was born, in the late ‘50s my Mum was a social worker in the North West. She had a big patch and drove her Ford Popular to get to her appointments. (A bit like ‘Call the Midwife’ on four wheels) Back then, social work wasn’t tarnished with the brush of scandal and incompetence that rightly or wrongly it has been in recent years. All the same, it was about tackling poverty and deprivation and trying to improve the conditions for society’s most vulnerable.

After stopping work to have the family and a hip-replacement operation, she retrained to be a Primary School teacher, first in Greater Manchester and later in the poorest area of Whitehaven, in the shadow of Haigh pit and the Marchon chemical works.

She hated Thatcherism and its uncaring, hectoring style. I knew that from the way she would answer back to the news on radio and TV. But she never discussed her own politics. To this day I don’t know how she voted.

Anyway, the year is 1982 or thereabouts, in the run up to local elections. Mid morning one day there was rat-tat at our front door. I was upstairs and heard my Mum go to answer it.

‘Yes?’

‘Good Morning, Madam. Lovely day’

There seemed to be two visitors on the doorstep. I listened on.

‘I wonder whether we might be able to count on your vote in the forthcoming election?’

‘And you are ..?’

Well, it was the Tory candiate, long-forgotten; while the other introduced himself as one Piers Merchant, a young Tory smoothie and unsuccessful candidate for Newcastle Central in 1979. Presumably Central Office were allowing him to hone his campaigning skills ready for the next general election campaign.

‘May we ask what line of work you or your husband are in then we can give you an idea of some of the ways the Conservative Party are going to be able to transform your lives?’

‘As it happens we are both in Education’

‘Ah! Schools’ said Merchant ‘A subject close to Mrs. Thatcher’s heart and one that I think you will find the Conservative Party …’

‘What does she know about schools?’

Talk about ‘lighting the blue touchpaper!’ For a good fifteen minutes, my Mum laid into them, wiped the floor with them in fact, on every aspect of Tory policy Education, Health, Energy, Tax, The Falklands. I listened on in glee, getting prouder and prouder of my Mum as they got more and more uncomfortable. Eventually to resounding cheers from upstairs, she slammed the door on them and they scuttled off, tails between their legs.

Epilogue

Piers Rolf Garfield Merchant got his wish and was elected to parliament representing Newcastle Central in the 1983 election. He lost his seat in1987. He returned to parliament as MP for Beckenham in 1992. His resignation was precipitated by the ‘Sleeze Merchant’ Affair in which the married MP was photographed and filmed in what are generally referred to in these cases as ‘compromising situations’ with a 17 year old Soho based ‘Hostess’. In 2005, he was the UKIP candidate for the Torrington Rural ward in the Devon County Council election, but finished fourth of the four candidates.

The point being of course that the Iron Lady image was a myth perpetrated by the likes of spineless lackeys like Merchant. In overcoming adversity, battling a lifetime of ill health (not that often you would know it) my Mum was an Iron Lady, so was her Mum, and My Best Mate Aky’s Mum. And Jackie and Jane and Caroline …

 

CANVEY ISLAND CASTAWAY

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‘Bye bye, bye bye.

Bye bye Johnny,

Johnny B. Goode’

… and then it dawns, part way through the Chuck Berry number, that has become for me, at least, an anthem to mediocrity; that he is singing about himself. ‘Johnny’ is him. John Wilkinson. And at once the song takes on a completely different resonance and poignancy as its singer raises his hands to wave his goodbyes.

Last night, me and my minder, Stig went to see John Wilkinson play his second and final London full house of the week, under his stage name, Wilko Johnson. In fact, it was quite probably his last London show ever, because Wilko has been diagnosed with terminal Pancreatic Cancer. He is still in a state of ‘euphoria’ he describes it over the news which he received after falling ill during the tail end of a UK tour last autumn. Typically, Wilko decided that what was needed was a new album and a ‘farewell’ tour which has seen him play dates in France and the UK and which finishes in Guernsey at the weekend.

Dr Feelgood: you really wouldn't want to take these boys home to meet Mum and Dad.

Dr Feelgood: you really wouldn’t want to take these boys home to meet Mum and Dad.

Dr-Feelgood

A strange response you might think, but not if you know any thing about Wilko Johnson, probably best known as founder member of the influential Canvey Island upstarts, Dr. Feelgood.

For a start, he is no mug. In fact Wilko has a very interesting CV, of which the Feelgoods are only a small part. He went to Newcastle University where he read English, specialising in Middle English and the Norse Sagas. Got a good degree (though he never collected his certificate: he was ‘tripping’) Travelled widely in India and Afghanistan, and taught English in a secondary school, is an accomplished painter and a keen astronomer with his own observatory on his roof at home in Southend.

Stupidity. Wilko and Lee

Stupidity. Wilko and Lee

Interest in Wilko has been on the up over the last couple of years, largely thanks to Julien Temple’s documentary film about the Feelgoods  ‘Oil City Confidential’.  But it has soared since his diagnosis was announced. There have been radio, newspaper and magazine interviews as well as TV appearances.Tickets for the original show at Koko, Camden Town last Wednesday sold out within an hour so a second date was added. The touts last night were reportedly asking £200 a ticket

And it was rammed: nowhere have I experienced such a density of bodies within a given space. I don’t know what the capacity for Koko is, but I’d be willing to bet it was well over last night. They were even standing in the toilets, doors open so they could watch on one of the numerous TV screens dotted about. Also, I was staggered by the number of photographers buzzing around the stage.  All slightly ironic, since Wilko has been for years doing the circuit, performing to the same small hardcore crowd, forever it seems consigned to that dullest of musical genres: Pub Rock.

Dr_-Feelgood

Pub Rock it definitely wasn’t. Backed by the muscular rhthym section of drummer Dylan Howe and one of the world’s most underrated bass players Norman Watt-Roy, Wilko worked his way through All Through the City, Dr Dupree, Roxette, Sneaking Suspicion, Keep On Loving You, When I’m Gone, Paradise, Don’t Let Your Daddy Know, Back In The Night, Wooly Bully and She Does It Right – as only he can do. Eyes all speed-freak-stare with trademark robotic movements across the stage. There is no one else. He is a total one-off. But don’t be mislead.There was no room for sentiment. There was more than a glint of steel in Wilko’s performance.

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When I first saw him in my teens, I thought how does he move across the stage like that? Well part of the reason was evident from my vantage point last night. Wilko still uses his trusty red coiled guitar lead; last in fashion when the New Seekers were riding high in the charts, and it is plugged straight into his amp. That’s right, not an effects pedal or stompbox nor the plateloads of spaghetti that accompany them in sight. Thus reducing his chances of tripping over same by 100%.

There were no embarrassing speeches no ‘surprise’ celebrity guests, Wilko seemed genuinely  touched that people had bothered to come out and see him in such numbers and looked, as did the rest of the band, like they were having a blast.

God bless you Wilko Johnson and remember when you get back to Southend if the ‘euphoria’ starts to wear off and the old black dog starts following you again:

‘Human existence being an hallucination containing in itself the secondary hallucinations of day and night … it ill becomes any man of sense to be concerned at the illusory approach of the supreme hallucination known as death’

IMG_0851De Selby

IMG_0852Wilko Johnson Koko Camden Town London 10th March 2013

See Wilko’s excellent autobiography written with Zoe Howe ‘Looking Back at Me’ Cadiz Music 2012

wilko

A Birthday Poem

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HERE AND THERE

barcawindow

It is strange: knowing you are there, nearer home than here, which is after all home, but almost a world away. In point of fact, here you’re definitely not there, but sometimes you’re not really here either. Not in your heart of hearts. Mind you, I can understand why. I suppose there are many many times that you are there when you are here. And it doesn’t help when people go ‘there there’, because you might not want to be there there, you might want to be here here or you might want to be a bit there or a bit here: a kind of cosmopolitan here there. The main thing is that no-one is nowhere, you’re always somewhere. Here, there … or thereabouts.

valenciavalencia2

Andy Daly 2013

THE OLD HAG DREAM

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I’ve never had much truck with ghosts and all that shite. Everything can be explained by Science, Art or both – and if it can’t, there’s probably a good reason for it: like we haven’t evolved enough to comprehend. Giving my great grandfather a mobile phone in his trench in Flanders would have been futile. To him it would have been nothing more than a small cigarette box with numbers on. No use for vital communication that may have saved his and his comrades’ lives. Besides what use is one mobile phone? Who do you ring?

Anyway, I’m getting distracted. Long time readers of blog may recall about 4 years ago I promised to tell the tale of my Old Hag dream. Well here it is!

In old London town back when George Michael was considering turning another corner (Ah! Pop Pickers, that’s got you thinking ‘Now…what year was that?’) I was going through quite a messy split from long term girlfriend, Ruby. The reasons for the split? Well they were complicated (Fred) and hard to explain (her boss) – it’s OK, I’m over it now, and I got custody of the Photo-Me booth strips of the pair of us. However, suffice to say I may have had this on my mind a bit.

One night I went to bed in my flat in Bow only to be awoken in the small hours, unable to move, for sitting on my chest was a cackling, wizened old hag with the unmistakeable, though distorted features of Ruby. As I looked up at her, still pinned at my chest, she suddenly grew incredibly tall, her head almost  disappearing from view in the madly distorted perspective. ….and she was gone.

Too much Guinness?

No. Its actualy quite common.  Sleep paralysis as it is known, is a phenomenon in which people, either when falling asleep or wakening, temporarily experience an inability to move. It is a transitional state between wakefulness and rest characterised by complete muscle atonia (muscle weakness). It can occur at sleep onset or upon awakening, and can be associated with terrifying visions (e.g. an intruder in the room or sitting on the sleeper), to which one is unable to react due to paralysis. It is believed a result of disrupted REM sleep, which is associated with complete muscle atonia that prevents individuals from acting out their dreams. It exists in a similar form in many cultures around the world . In Finnish and Swedish folklore for instance, the culprit is a mare, a supernatural creature. The mare is a damned woman, who is cursed and her body is carried mysteriously during sleep and without her noticing. In this state, she visits villagers to sit on their rib cages while they are asleep, causing them to experience nightmares. The “Old Hag” was a nightmare spirit in British and North American folklore. In Vietnam it is called ma đè, meaning “held down by a ghost,” or bóng đè, meaning “held down by a shadow.”

hag

Fuseli: ‘The Nightmare’ 1782

© Andy Daly 2013

One Word Book Review

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Here’s ‘Sitting Comfortably’s guide to what’s hot and what’s barely lukewarm in my world of books in the form of a one word review.

Mhairi McFarlane

‘You Had Me At Hello’ – Yes

Pete Townshend

‘Who I am’ – Disappointment

Maggie O’Farrell

‘The Hand That First Held Mine’ – Touching

‘After You’d Gone’ – Bereft

Nick Hornby

‘Everyone’s Reading Bastard …’ -Bitch

Jojo Moyes

‘The Girl You Left Behind’ – Stunner

‘Ship Of Brides’ – Epic

‘Silver Bay’ – Convincing

‘The Peacock Emporium’ – Tiresome

Danny Baker

‘Going To Sea  In A Sieve’ – Affirmation

Paul Myers

‘A Wizard A True Star: Todd Rundgren In The Studio’ – Genius

David Nichols

‘A Wizard A True Star: The Unusual Career Of Todd Rundgren’ – Unreadable

John O’Farrell

‘This Is Your Life’ – Implausible

‘The Man Who Forgot His Wife’ – Read

‘May Contain Nuts’ – Nuts

Anne Tyler

‘The Ladder Of Years’ -Minutiae

Ken Follett

‘Fall Of Giants’ – Masterstoryteller

‘Winter Of The World’ – Masterstoryteller#2

Chris Welch

Genesis: The Complete Guide – Shite

P G Wodehouse

‘Jeeves Omnibus’ – Spiffing

© Andy Daly 2013

No-one likes a smart arse

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I’ve just finished reading Pete Townshend’s autobiography.

I was going to write a review, but I don’t think I’ll bother.

maximum

© Andy Daly 2013

The KILLING [FORBRYDELSEN] 2

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killing_bannerI am having a Killing spree.

No, no I don’t mean I have just been into the nearest Wal-Mart and bought a semi automatic assault rifle and a shedfull of slugs to put in it and am heading for the nearest school (Now here’s a thought: why don’t these tough guys ever try to shoot up a prison maybe, or a military establishment: find themselves a bit more challenging opposition than unarmed toddlers?). No, I mean, since getting hooked on the Danish TV thriller, ‘The Killing’ I am watching all the back episodes of the first two series. And very satisfying it is too.

So if you are suffering withdrawal symptoms from  Lund’s jumpers, dense plots, and impossible language, then suffer no more. ‘Sitting Comfortably’ is right here with a bumper collection of ‘Killing’ – related facts and activities to tide you over until Soren Sveistrup can be persuaded to write more.

Did You Know

The word ‘Forbrydelsen’ means ‘Killing’ in Danish. ‘Killing’ means ‘Kitten’

Actress Sophie Gråbøl often phones freinds by mistake on her mobile while on the set. Actually it happens less often these days, as her number of contacts has dwindled.

Denmark is such a small country that it has only ten professional actors. So they have to double up. That is why you sometimes get confused: is the guy I’m watching Lund’s police partner – and perpetrator, or is he the Prime Minister’s husband in ‘Borgen’? (Oh! you haven’t seen series two yet? … I’m sorry)

Sarah Lund has had to work with many  partners in her police career. Here are just a few:

johnthaw

cagney-laceystarsky

‘The Killing’  is shot one episode at a time.

The actors never know who the guilty party is until the penultimate episode.

Identify Lund

Study the two pictures below. List discrepancies between the two. Which is the real Sarah Lund and which is the imposter?

Picture A

Picture A

Picture B

Picture B

Having trouble understanding Danish?

Allow ‘Sitting Comfortably’ to give you some help. English and Danish are related languages which share a comon root in Old Norse.  Read the following:

Funex?

Nonsense isn’t it?

Not when you translate it into English:

Have you any eggs?

Now try this example yourselves. Ordering breakfast at your hotel.

” Hi, Funem?” “Hi, Svfm” “Funex?” “Svfx” “Okmnx” “Tak” “Tak”

Did you get it?

“Hello Have you any ham?” “Hello Yes, we have ham” “Have you any eggs?” “Yes, we have eggs” “Okay, ham and eggs” “Thank you” “Thank you”

© Andy Daly 2013

STRICTLY COME DANCING

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School PE: Football, Cross Country, Rugby, Tennis, Athletics, Basketball … So where did the Ballroom Dancing fit in?

One of the most hated aspects of the P.E. curriculum at St. Wilfrid’s my middle school, was the dancing. Learning, with a partner of the opposite sex to do the ‘Gay Gordons’ or a ‘Dashing Sargeant’

In the winter; possibly because it was too wet and cold to do anything else or posssibly just because sadistic PE staff wanted to embarrass the fuck out of us, we had to do so many lessons of Ballroom Dancing

Now before you get all dewy-eyed with mental pictures of Artem, Flavia and Aliona, beautiful costumes, sequins and the wigs of TVs ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ We are in a totally different situation:

Imagine the humiliation.

Boys and girls, as if it were not enough to be thrown headlong into the maelstrom of adolescence, already (with the exception of a lucky few) despairing of their body image, being forced to dance with each other, in the smelly school hall! The boys in their house rugby tops/shorts (Southworth, Arrowsmith, Rigby and Dumbledore) Clothing, that in most cases had lain undisturbed at the bottom of their bag since the previous week, if not the start of term. They line up to be paired off with the girls, God love ‘em who were forced to wear their leotards.

I can’t imagine a more sphincter–clenching embarrassment. Boys in my year ranged from 6 footers, with such dark 5 0’ clock shadows they had to shave twice a day, smoked twenty fags a day, had gruff, deep voices and probably joined their Dads down at the Club of an evening for a few pints – to those who looked like they would be much more at home, playing with lego and the Hornby train set. As for the girls… well, I can’t think of a more cruel exposure of one’s pysical attributes than a black nylon leotard. It was perfectly obvious to one and all who’s ‘equipment had arrived’ and who was still deperately waiting to take delivery.  Mind you, with or without ‘equipment’ it was a complete mystery to me how girls at around this time went from being uncomplicated friends, our best winger out on the playground, to wearing blue eyeshadow and eyeliner that appeared to have been applied by an epileptic monkey, writing ‘David Cassidy’ on every object they owned and becoming a Mormons because they ‘liked Donny Osmond’.

Still, it was the ‘70s and this is what was presented to us as our PE experience for this particular series of lessons. God knows why. Perhaps it was thought we ought to be prepared should someone out of the blue ask you to do a Gay Gordon with them. (With the benefit of hindsight that’s one club I would be wanting to make a very hasty exit from)

So! the first dance. Girls chattering nervously or standing mute in terror, the purple veins on their legs looking like maps of Britain’s inland waterways. The boys behaving like idiots; the more aware hoping that they get someone who has had a visit from UPS and that they can avoid the one with the impetigo and warts.

There is nothing quite like wrapping your hand around clammy fingers which feel like they are covered in Rice Krispies, still a vivid indigo from the wart stuff the nurse puts on them, the white ‘burnt’ bits showing round the edges. The leotard has a stiff sandpapery feel as you gingerly place your hand on the small of your partner’s back.

And we are off.

This it wasn't

This it wasn’t

“Not-Like-That-Daly, Get hold of her Lad. You some sort of Puff or what?” shouts our PE teacher who to save his blushes, (for I gather he still roams the streets of Whitworth, Rochdale minus the ‘70s sideburns I hope) I shall simply refer to as ‘Sir’ Whereupon, he snatches the poor girl out of my hand  and wheels around the floor with her, feet off the floor, her head bobbing from side to side like a rag doll. Meanwhile, Sir’s nylon tracksuit bottoms and money belt threaten to fall down at any moment.

“That’s how you do it” he laughs as the poor girl is unceremoniously dumped back in front of me.

Can you imagine this happening in school these days?

For those of you who may be interested. This is how the ‘Gay Gordons’ goes.

Bars

Description
1-2 Right hands joined over lady’s   shoulder (man’s arm behind her back) and left hands joined in front, walk   forward for four steps, starting on the right foot.
3-4 Still moving in the same   direction, and without letting go, pivot on the spot (so left hand is behind   lady and right hand is in front) and take four steps backwards.
5-8 Repeat in the opposite   direction.
9-12 Drop left hands, raise right   hands above lady’s head. Lady pivots on the spot. (The man may set).
13-16 Joining hands in ballroom hold,   polka round the room

17        Ad Lib (Ad Lib?)

Dreadful, dahling, just dreadful ...

Dreadful, dahling, just dreadful …

Affectionately dedicated to all my dance partners over the years.

© Andy Daly 2013