Tag Archives: humor

Houston, You Have A Problem?

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We were at the dinner table one evening, talking school with our boys. Thankfully, this has always (up to now at least) been a thoroughly pleasurable experience: They do like to talk about school and especially since they have both been at secondary – they tend to ‘bounce’ stories off each other. Occasionally, you get some utter gems, such as this one.

Mission Control. Houston Texas

Our eldest told us this about his Year 9 (That’s ‘Third Year’ in £ S d) Science teacher ‘Miss Houston’. Miss seems a bit dizzy from what he’s already told us. You get the feeling that she’s not really fully in control. She is Greek, apparently, talks in a high-pitched singy-songy voice, and asks the kids “Houston gotta problem?” (As in Houston, Texas NASA. Mission Control: “Houston we gotta problem”) when she thinks they are stuck. She likes a challenge.

Year 9 Science classroom

Well, it’s a hot, tedious afternoon, almost time for home, but that bell is just far enough away to make it feel like an eternity. They are studying Human Reproduction and are labelling diagrams in their books as she points out for them the various key features. They are scribbling away with the parts of  the male reproductive system. They get to ‘Scrotum’ which she points out on the diagram and as they continue to write, heads down, suddenly, and to no-one in particular, she announces:

“Ahhh! ‘Scrotum’ I love the way it rolls off your tongue!”

(I swear this is true)

The kids carry on writing … then it slowly began to dawn first on one or two…then a few more. Lazily, the import of what she had actually said, coupled with her directness began to make  itself apparent to the class – and then, it was the end of the lesson. Bell went, students departed. So it wasn’t until outside that the real fuss began, with pupils scurrying down the corridors hurridly cramming books into bags (the Boys’ voluminous enough to carry a full set of the ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica’ the Girls’ about the size  of a postage stamp) “Did she really say what I think she said?” “I think so …” “Hey Shellie, guess what our Science teacher’s just said?…”

Well, after I’d recovered my composure (it was one of those cases where eventually you get to laughing at other people laughing. and our eldest’s laugh is the most infectious ever..Oh God , I was in bulk…) Well, I was horrified and impressed in equal measure. He had, in fact already told his Mum in the car after she’d picked him and his brother up for the Home Run. She nearly went off the road in hysterics; they thought she was having a fit, she eventually pulled up.

As we got to hear more and more stories about Miss Houston, it became clear that this was completely in character. Our eldest chose to study Chemistry, her subject at GCSE level (however not necessarily because of her, though I will strongly encourage his brother to do so too.)

Another example  from a GCSE class, again, courtesy of our eldest. She taught them about the ‘Bonding’ of atoms, by getting people from the class to act out scenes from a nightclub where each participant was an atom, the majority of who were out for a few drinks and a laugh, but basically to bond with another. Then there were one or two ‘kinky’ ones who wanted to bond in twos and threes! I began to wonder. Is she a dizzy, daft old moo who doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going, or is she (and this is where my money’s going) actually a very canny teacher who was using language, key words, vingettes, play-acting, kinaesthetic learning to make it fun, interesting and easy to remember.

I finally met her at our eldest’s year 11 parents’ evening and we had such a laugh (much of which was at his expense I’ m ashamed to say) she didn’t know I was a teacher and I didn’t let on. We were however, on the same wavelength immediately. He will never have any trouble remembering, or explaining what ‘bonding’ is or how it works. As for scrotum…

One very cool (if still slightly dotty) lady.

 © Andy Daly  2010

Ahoy Square! Feat. N-Dubz

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I know you hate it. I did too.

It’s that moment in the exam hall, when you’re desperately trying to concentrate You are dredging your memory, putting all your faith in the tricks you have been taught to release these vital golden nuggets: Associate, Visualize, Review, Read, Recite, Rewrite, Repeat, Mnemonics – Rhyme, Acronym etc.

What were the second and third singles off of the N-Dubz album ‘Against All Odds’?

One of the teachers invigilating decides at this critical point of the History exam to come and stand right behind you. They click their heels on the floor/very deliberately avoid clicking their heels on the floor (just as irritating)/jangle loose change in their pocket/have a conversation with another member of staff or just stand there; which is all the more infuriating, because you can’t see what they are doing; what they are looking over your shoulder at.

Oh come on, I’ve got to get this right, you think to yourself. What were they? Fire … Fire something … ‘Playing with Fire’  That’s it!  Single three? Over? … It ain’t over? No!  ‘Say it’s all Over’  – Bingo!

Thankfully, Teacher/Invigilator has moved off to wind up someone else now.

So you sum up: that’s  ‘Playing with Fire’ released in July 2009. It reached its highest UK chart position of 17 on downloads alone falling back to 36 the following week. So … it’s 36/17 and July. ‘Say it’s all Over’ was put out on 4th January 2010 and charted at number 39 … That  gives me 4/01 or 01/4 and 39.

17th July 1936 to 1st April 1939: Spanish Civil War dates! Hah! Sir would be proud of me! No thanks to the roaming invigilator.

Where are they now? A quick look up confirms that the restless teacher is over the other side of the hall.

Right what’s the next question? ‘What did Germany contribute to the Spanish Civil War?’ Oerr … Now what was the name of that third track off the last B-Tight album ….?

To be fair, the regulations for examination invigilation require that teachers/invigilators should actively patrol the exam hall at all times. But what do they think about? It must be so boring.

Well, sometimes they play games. When I was a teacher, back in the days of chalk and talk, we used to play Battleships! That’s right, the old ‘guessing game’ invented by Clifford Von Wickler (not a made – up name I promise)

We’d ‘divvy’ up the hall using the columns and rows of exam tables to make our battle grids on squared paper; one on which we would arrange our ‘battle group’ of 5 aircraft carriers, 4 battleships, 3 destroyers,  3 submarines and 2  patrol boats and on the other we recorded our hits and misses. It worked equally well as a group game, or in single – player mode.

All you simply did as the game (exam) commenced, was amble over your opponent’s territory and stand by the desk you wished to attack. A signal from your opposite number would tell you whether it was a ‘hit’ and if so, what class of vessel or ‘miss’.

So if you ever heard a teacher in the middle of an exam, momentarily forgetting where they were, stifle what appeared to be a triumphant yelp, or punch the air with glee; you now know what it was. They had just sunk someone’s last remaining aircraft carrier.

As for those folders crammed full of sheets with lists of names and huge numbers of letter/number combinations such as A1, B 1, C2,  B2, C3 etc. that you see some teachers glued to, such that they take them everywhere (even home) or that fill every available space in Heads of Departments, Faculties, or Assistant Deputies’ offices. Don’t be fooled! They are not  Target Minimum, Attainment or Report grades, merely old ‘Battleship’ game cards. Though I can’t say in all certainty that no teachers have ever got the two mixed up.

© Andy Daly 2010

PS. Yes, yes I know: Proof read before you publish it. I will get the hang of it – Promise!

Art Attack

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Attachment

Finally! Today I get round to E Mailing my tutor with the outline plan for my dissertation. I’m studying Fine Art at University and typically, like all Art students, can’t string a written sentence together and resolutely leave any written work until the very, very very last minute. So, anyway I finally send the wretched thing off as an attachment to a grovelling E Mail in which I plead forgiveness for the lateness of my proposal. It is still a long way from being finished (The Plan that is) but I am pleased with my morning’s efforts and satisfied that it is just enough to keep her off my back, treat myself to a lazy lunch of fish and chips and a couple of beers.
 

Unable to open this

 
The reply from my tutor is terse.

“My dear Andrew, thank you for taking the time to send me your proposal. I read your letter” (at arm’s length holding my nose” – she might have added) “However, I was unable to open this.” Referring to the attachment. “Unless of course you actually meant to send me a line of tiny grey boxes, surrounded by the letter a.”

Bugger it! 

Bugger it! The file must have corrupted. A bit of quick thinking needed here:

Horseshit

“But Miss Bliss” I reply. “I am surprised you didn’t spot the fact that it was  a reproduction of Ephraim J. Goodenough’s entry for the Turner Prize “Opus 32”, which is (and I quote) “A clinical, objective/ introspective examination of the Post-Modern dilemma which faces us all: Concrete or concept?”

I am beginning to warm to my theme.

“As sophisticated viewers – or consumers of visual statements: both contemporary and historical (once known as ‘Art’) Are we more likely to respond to the concrete (ie. a physical entity which exists in this world or any other, including – but not exclusively the mind of their makers)  Or do statements which exist wholly and totally in the cerebellum and visual cortex of the visual entrepreneur (once known as ‘Artist’) meet our dietary aesthetic needs?”

“In short,”  I gather myself triumphantly, “Are we to find visual/intellectual sustenance in the form of objects or ideas?”

And now the weather: It’s looking decidedly wintry as gales (some gusts reaching up to 70 mph)  together with sleet, snow and now horseshit begin to spread across the country.

© Andy Daly 2010

(Please note the author takes no responsibility for pandering to any form of stereotype. In addition,  the characters in  this story bear no relation to anyone living or dead, and especially not the author) (Nor any of his Tutorial staff: University of Newcastle Upon Tyne 1979-83, University of London Goldsmiths College (1984-5) University of London Institute of Education 1995-6)

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

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

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

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

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

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