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My family… and continued hopes that I was adopted

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Families are odd things. I’m not an anthropologist or a biologist with even a basic knowledge of which species stick together as families past adolescence, but we humans tend to. We maintain contact and loyalty to, and responsibility for those whom we share the closest matches of genetic code.

Genetics dictates that we shouldn’t reproduce with those whose genomes are closely matched with ours. And this is a good thing. Yet we are glued to those in our family units from birth until the various branches of the family tree die off an leave us.

Some families aren’t that close. Offspring move on and maintain little contact with siblings and parents. For some, this seems the only way to survive adulthood, but it’s more akin to budding off of yeast than the reproductive methods of higher organisms.

Like them or not, our families are our reference point. They’re where it all started, they helped to form us into who we are now. For better or worse.

I had to take my dad shopping this afternoon. I had to take my shopping to the worst possible place on earth: Farnworth. To Asda in Farnworth, to Lidl in Farnworth, to Tesco in Farnworth. My sense of duty to my family meant that I had to spend time in a place that I consider an inbred-ridden hell on earth with a dad who glares and shouts his way through life. He shouted at people crossing the road, the price of Fanta. He shouts to ask a question.

Still, I love him. He’s the one I used to follow around as a child, we were inseparable. He’s the one who used to come and wake me up at 6am when we were on holiday in Italy and we’d walk to the beach together in our matching flip flops and hats; we’d go to the bakery and store to bring back provisions for breakfast (focaccia over here is awful, by the way). He came to find me when I got lost on the beach. He’s the one who is quiet, observant and it’s him who knows when I’m “not right” without me having to say a word. He is kind, generous and gentle, with a huge heart, but a fierce temper.

My mum adores him, and he her. It’s a beautiful thing, their devotion to each other. They fall apart without one another. When they are together, they bicker and shout, but each night, my dad carries my mum’s handbag up the stairs to their bedroom.

I have been observing my folks for over forty years, wondering why they are together, how they stay together, what with my dad’s grumpiness, my mum’s pessimism. All the arguments and toil, my dad’s moods, us lot to contend with. I guess, they’re just soulmates. They love each other beyond doubt and always will.

They screw you up, your mum and dad?

Only if you let them.

Only when I laugh… or move… or breathe

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Saturday: the bad beginning
Saturday started much the same as any other: late waking; feeling tired, as per; wanting to get up and about and not waste the day. Feeling rougher than usual, I just blamed it on the excesses of my week off – too many late nights, a bit too much booze – and dragged myself into Bolton.

As I mingled with the other zombies, my head was empty, dull and dizzy. Autopilot took over and I spent £100 before I realised it, inhaled a hotdog and made my way to Sainsbury’s to spend even more. Indigestion was kicking in, but I ignored it as usual.

I prepared my dinner and sat down to eat while watching Bridesmaids. And then the pain really started. Radiating from my stomach, up into my left shoulder and down my left arm. It was just stomach ache, but it was bad enough for me not to be able to laugh at the pooing scene in the film.

Needing help, I called my sister and asked for omeprazole, but when I went to collect it, she insisted on taking me to A&E “I think you’re having a heart attack”.

“It’s just stomach ache”

But she won and I ended up being wired up to an ECG machine, having tube after tube of blood taken for tests, chest x-rays and stomach palpations.

Now, here’s a thing: always dress as if you might get murdered. I hadn’t shaved my legs for a week (electrodes for the ECG also go on your legs), my underwear wasn’t my best, but worst of all, I was in such pain when I left home that I couldn’t bend down to fasten my shoelaces so I’d just slipped my Crocs on. Yes, Crocs, in Casualty, in Salford, on a Saturday night. I fitted in quite well.

My ECG was fine, my blood tests seemed ok, but at 3am, it was decided that I should stay in overnight so the tests could be repeated the following morning. I was happy with this because the pains had now radiated across my chest, I was experiencing a tightness there and it was difficult to breathe in. I was wheeled to the assessment unit and settled down for the night.

Sunday: a nasty surprise
I didn’t sleep: my stomach and chest were killing me; the lady opposite me was snoring; the one next to me was saying her Sunday prayers; and the one across from me was whimpering all night, needing help from the nursing staff.

After and hour’s sleep, I was woken again for more blood to be taken and for more questions and prodding from a rather lovely doctor. The repeated tests showed I was fine, I hadn’t had a heart attack, just a little bit of gastritis. The consultant said he’d write me up for some omeprazole and I could go. He wandered off, then came back. “Your calcium level is three!” He seemed startled. “I can’t let you go, we’ll have to wash you out and bring it down before you can go.”

Crestfallen, I lay in my bed as the drip went up, the chilled fluid flowing into the back of my right hand. Just one thing came to mind: how am I going to wipe my bum? If only they were euthanising me.

Things weren’t all bad though, the staff were brilliant, lovely, respectful, humorous and the food was great. I’d be able to cope. I told myself a number of things: It’s only one night, it’ll be fine. Mum and Dad are looking after Rocky, I have my phone and the 3G signal is good here. My bed neighbour was a little confused and deaf, but she’s fine and the lady across from me has quietened down at last. Oh fuck, she’s died!

My folks dropped in for a visit. “Do you need anything bringing? We can ask Alan to drop some things round later if you do.”

“No, it’s fine, honestly, they’ll let me out by tomorrow lunchtime. Anna brought some things this morning so I can have a wash and do my teeth. I’m fine.”

And then I got my period. This was turning into a challenging day, but things were made easier by the staff… and hospital toast.

Monday: carry on nurse
You wake up early when you’re in hospital. They come and do things to you at 6am, put things in your ear, light up your finger and make your arm explode. On Monday, however, I was woken by a strange, baleful humming coming from the right of me. My bed neighbour was stood up out of her bed, holding on the table. She’d completely transformed from the person she’d been just a few hours previously, poor woman.

Don’t get involved, you’re out of here in a few hours. The consultant confirmed this to me on his round, “We just need to get your blood results back to make sure they’ve dropped and then you can go home.”

I waited for a few hours before I asked my nurse if she could take the cannula out of my hand. “Better not just yet”, she smiled at me. What was that supposed to mean? Bored of sitting in the bedside chair, a snooze seemed appropriate so I got back into bed. And as if by magic, the doctor appeared, smiling.

“Hiya, your heart tests are absolutely fine, so you should be able to go home…” I beamed a smile “… hang on… but your calcium levels have actually gone up, you’re going to have to stay in. There’s some medication we can give you and we’ll put a couple more litres of fluid through your drip, but you’ll have to stay another night.”

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!! I can’t go another moment trying to wipe my bum left-handed. I can’t stay here, I’m fine! The soup is delish though…

And so another day had to be endured. Another day in which I’d perfected the institutionalised, slipper and gown, drip stand shuffle. This time though, I was becoming upset for the amazing standing woman and her poor, desperate family; for the lady opposite me who was inexplicably poorly; by the new woman across from me who refused to heed medical advice and who DIDN’T FLUSH THE FUCKING TOILET. It was getting to the stage where I wanted to staple her oxygen mask to her face. “You being poorly is unfortunate and of course you should be treated with the best possible therapies, but you not doing as you’re told is prolonging your illness, wasting these people’s time and costing money!”

Then my medication kicked in and I dozed off. Sleep was never unbroken and I woke, pondering things like, why are all the really fit nurses looking after the other bays? It dawned on me: the Crocs had been noted in my records and I’d been labelled a potential perve risk. The last thing a busy hospital unit needs is a Benny Hill chase scenario.

Tuesday: the ersatz ending
I woke feeling fuzzy headed, the ward was calm. My bed neighbour was sat up in her bed, looking alert. “Morning!” she said, as if the previous day simply hadn’t happened. We had our usual triple repeat conversation and I felt so glad that she was back.

The doctors came. If my calcium hadn’t gone down enough, they were going to admit me. This was getting ridiculous.

As the morning progressed, I started to feel groggy, but I put it down to lack of fresh air. I slumped in my chair waiting for more bad news when the lovely Jose gave me a thumbs up and said “They’ve come down!”. The next thing I knew, I was being turfed out.

Adios! Adieu! Ciao! I’m off!

Into a taxi I hopped, off to my folks’ to be reunited with my little boy and to spend the evening convalescing. Showered and refreshed, I lay on the sofa and started aching, shivering, sweating. Now, if I wasn’t savvy, I wouldn’t have taken note of and looked up the drug they’d pumped into me to find out that it commonly causes flu-like symptoms and I’d have been straight back into hospital, thinking I was dying. So, Mr Doctor, nil point on that one.

I spent the night feeling like I was dying, woke up drenched in sweat and aching like a bastard, but at least I didn’t have somebody poking something into my ear or making my arm explode. At least I could go to the toilet and I could wash my hands properly without fear of pulling a cannula out. And at last, my body was my own again.

Wednesday: we’ve only just begun
It’s far from over. There is still no confirmed diagnosis for my condition, and I left the hospital with very high calcium levels. I still feel weak, groggy and achy, but the sweats have stopped. My tummy is still a bit tender, but now I have antacids and I can steal omeprazole from my sister.

There are some things that I can do for myself too: cut down on fatty food; cut out the booze; stay away from the chillies; lay off the ibuprofen; get some exercise.

As far as hospital stays go, mine was fine and I was treated so well, but even if they do have the best homemade soup in the world, I’d rather not try it again.

Rain

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The rain is back.

It could be said, should be said, that we in the UK should count ourselves lucky for our climate that gives us our green and pleasant land. But when we live in times when we’ve not really had a summer for six years, when last year summer never happened and billions of pounds worth of damage was caused by flooding, we’d be justified in airing a grievance at the Jet Stream.

Having enjoyed weeks of dry and sunny days, the re-emergence of the wet stuff has mercifully only announced itself as a bit of drizzle, but it’s still enough to make you curse. Curse the walks with the little dog that will again be an assault course of mud, curse squeaking windscreen wipers, curse the interruption to the beautiful late winter sunshine that we’d been enjoying.

When all is said and done though, there’s something quite comforting to have the rain falling against the bedroom window at night time. It insulates us from noises that might otherwise interrupt our slumber, providing a kind of white noise that hypnotises the brain.

It also means that the dickheads who’d normally limp their way home noisily from the pub hurry along instead, forfeiting their customary shouting for the sake of getting home quickly.

This is me trying to see the positive side of one of the most miserable aspects of living in the UK. It’s not working. There’s enough water in this sodden land of ours to allow us a six month drought. I long for a long, hot summer that stretches from April until October. I want to get sunburnt. I want nights when I can’t sleep because it’s too hot. I want to have to use the air conditioning in the car and have my eyes stinging through wearing the contact lenses that allow me to use sunglasses like normal people do, rather than switching between normal and prescription specs.

Then again, normal people wear sunglasses on their heads indoors. They wear their sunglasses on their heads after dark. Even worse, they wear them on the backs of their heads. Why? I don’t get it. The sun goes down, put your sunglasses away. Nobs.

Perhaps I’m just jealous because my curly hair won’t allow me to be part of that cool gang who can do this. I once had a very uncomfortable hour long journey home from work with a pair of sunglasses dangling from the side of my head after they’d got caught up in my hair when I tried to push them up onto my head. “GET THESE FUCKING THINGS OFF ME!” I screamed as I ran into my parents’ house. They thought I was being attacked by a swarm of angry wasps until they saw the comedy unravelling before their eyes.

It must be appendicitis… or an aortic aneurysm… or something REALLY serious
My sleep was disturbed in the early hours of dawn today when I awoke with very uncomfortable abdominal pain. The possibilities cycled through my sleep, hypochondriac mind:

  • Period pain? No, the time’s not right and it’s in the wrong place
  • Need to go poopy? Too high up for that… oops… that trump was a bit of a gamble
  • Food poisoning? Definitely not – no other symptoms consistent with this
  • Appendicitis? Now you’re talking! It seems to be in the correct location for early appendicitis, but still no temperature, no sicky feeling
  • Kidney stones? I’ve no idea what the symptoms are, so yes, it could be
  • Aortic aneurysm? OHMYFUCKINGGOD!

    • As I struggled with the pain and drifted in and out of sleep, nothing brought relief. I was staying with friends and asked if there was any ibuprofen to be had. Yes, thank goodness, but as I was abut to take them, that awful sensation of hypersalivation and a cold sweat rose from my neck and into my mouth and head. Sick? I’m going to be sick?? I positioned myself in readiness, but the wave of nausea passed over me as quickly as it had started. The pain relief was taken and I settled back into my bed. And then it was all over. Gone. Within ten minutes, it was like the previous five hours hadn’t been real.

    I’m guessing it wasn’t an aneurysm. Not this time at least.

    I’ll just about survive to see me through the spring and into the summer. I’m hoping that the government has been working on a secret device to reverse the North Sea wind farms and blow the Jet Stream back up to where it belongs.

    Roll on, roll off

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    Back in the day, my favourite album EVER was the Sneaker Pimps’ 1996 offering, Becoming X. It was the year 2000, I was living on my own an amazing flat overlooking the rolling hills of the east Pennines as they rose out of the western side of Sheffield. I was so depressed. I made the mistake of listening to music that contributed to my mood, music that provided a soundtrack to an unrequited love affair, music that filled the void left by the alcohol that I’d recently ejected from my life.

    It was a time before iPods, MP3 players and the iTunes Store. You bought a CD and you listened to it, even recorded onto one side of a C90 cassette to listen to in the car. Becoming X met Morcheeba’s Dead Calm. Both brilliant albums, both from the depressing music capital of the world: Bristol.

    And then there was David Gray’s White Ladder. Despite his oddly annoying vocal style, the songs were touching and thought-provoking. “Feels like lightning running through my veins every time I look at you.” It all seems a bit fromagificent now, but back then, having met the girl of my dreams, it had me punching my head in despair, longing and loss.

    C’est la vie.

    I got out of Sheffield, got over it eventually.

    What I’ve never got over and never will is/are toilet roll holders. These are truly exasperating items, whose potential functionality is generally negated by poor design, poor positioning, or poor fitting.

    How can anybody have a gripe against toilet roll holders? Well, I’ve been to a number of domestic and non-residential toilets in my time and I rarely encounter a toilet roll holder that isn’t depressingly rubbish.

    There are the ones that are never straight, with the bar that holds the roll never retaining its supposed horizontal position. The roll falls off.

    There are the ones with the central holder with the pinch points that lock it into its retainer on the wall. Only the retainer is too slack, so the roll holder falls out, or is wonky so the toilet roll doesn’t roll effectively. Instead, it bounces around an scuffs against the wall.

    There are the toilet roll stands that just get in the way.

    There are the toilet roll holders that are too close, too low down or just too far away.

    And then there are the industrial ones where the roll is too big and heavy to roll at all, so you have to struggle against it pinging back into its start position, tearing off one sheet of paper at a time. If you can find the end at all, that is.

    Or the ones with the metal or plastic flaps on top of them – why? Can somebody explain this please?

    Added to this is the “front or behind” argument: does the paper fall over the top of the roll and down the front, or does it drop behind? Am I allowed to be judgemental against those who get it wrong? I think yes.

    The only toilet roll holder in my property is on the inside of the outhouse door and that’s the way it’s going to stay. Like microwave ovens and toasters, I refuse to have one. They’re as useful as those stands for kitchen roll: it may have escaped people’s notice, but a kitchen roll is pretty awesome at standing upright on its own.

    Having toilet rolls placed on top of the cistern may not be becoming of a budding socialite, but it saves much stress as far as I’m concerned. And if Debretts won’t have me because of my stance, well quite frankly, they’re missing out.

    I’m off to visit friends for a few days from tomorrow. If they weren’t renting, I fear I may have to have words.

    Can’t use new technology

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    I’m on annual leave this week. As with other breaks from work, I always enter the time off with great intentions, only to be disappointed by my lack of activity and another task list left to gather dust; pretty much in the same manner as my window ledges and venetian blinds.

    Things haven’t started too badly this week. I have three main tasks:

  • Tidy up the yard
  • Have fun with the little dog
  • Sort out my unruly patch

    • Any other things that I manage to achieve will be a huge bonus (aim low, etc)

    The yard is sort of tidied: I swept it yesterday and jet washed the garden furniture. I now have to jet wash the paving slabs to get rid of the patterns left from jet washing the furniture. The furniture in question is now highly flammable after being soaked in teak oil. Everything within a 10m radius smells of the stuff. It still needs more.

    That’s the thing about cleaning and tidying, it never ends its expanding cyclical pattern of mess and disorder. How can a mere human fight against the universal laws of thermodynamics? These efforts are futile, so why bother? One word: neighbours. I’m the new kid on the block so I feel like I have to make a good impression still.

    And so it comes to my patch. It’s rather unruly and I meant to tidy it up and pull out all the dead bits back in the autumn, but it was just too damp. I can feel my neighbours talking about it now. “It never used to be that unkempt when Ali was here”. Errm, actually, dear neighbour, I only tackled that particular jungle after she’d fucked off and left me. Anyway, it needs sorting so that it’s ready for a horticultural vajazzle once the frosts have subsided. I consulted with my man today and apparently, 4-6 weeks is what we’re looking at.

    I’d love to have fun with the little dog if he wasn’t such a cunt. We had a lovely walk down the woods today. He ran like a loon, didn’t jump into any residual mud, kept relatively close by me, then attacked the most docile dog he met. If she’d have had anything about her, she’d have ripped one of his ears off, but she was too nice. And what can you say to the other dog’s owner in those circumstances? “He really is usually absolutely fine, I’ve no idea what came over him, I’m so embarrassed and very sorry.” I’ve just got my own back by playing with his ingrowing dew claw. And he might get shot by an angry farmer at the end of the week; there’s always hope.

    Virgin on the ridiculous
    Mother’s mobile phone has been annoying her since her hospital stay in the autumn and she decided that she wanted to take telly provider Virgin up on their offer of a new on and go pay monthly with them. I happened to be there at the time. Why always me? I have a brother and a sister and neither of them get dragged into these dramas.

    “Get your bank details and a Virgin Media bill ready and I’ll phone them”

    It was all going really well until the chap I was speaking to needed to talk to Mum. The first problem was that he was obviously overseas; Mum’s hearing is shocking and she gets easily confused these days.

    I’ve never seen somebody panic so much when they’ve been asked for their bank account details.

    “QUICK!!! BRING MY HANDBAG!!!”

    She retrieved her cheque book. A cheque book?? And read out the sort code and account number. How can she not know these things off by heart? Because she pays for everything by cheque and refuses to save money by setting up direct debits for things.

    Then she had to read out her card details. You’d have thought she’d have been asked to belly dance for Camilla.

    But it all went really smoothly. The order was processed. She’s getting a smartphone. Jesus, Mary and all the saints. Who’s going to have to show her how to use it? Who’s going to move her contacts over? Actually, I should be exempt because it’s an Android phone, but I’ll still get embroiled in the drama. And then there’s getting her current number switched to her new provider. I’m just going to kill myself to get out of that one.

    On the positive side, my Hannibal Lecter heart rate training seems to be going really well – I managed to keep mine at 62 during the whole process. A bit more practice and I’ll be able to deal with taking my dad to the shops without it exceeding 120.

    The dos and don’ts of afternoon drinking

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    Waking to be greeted by a beautiful Saturday morning, my emerging consciousness was hurried along by the urgency of the little dog’s pacing around the bedroom. When he wakes up, he WAKES UP. Like any of us, his first thought, other than where the hell am I? is I NEED A WEE! I’m not as agile as him so I never reach the kitchen before he starts shouting at the back door. He knows this, he knows I’m coming to let him out, yet still he throws an epi until I finally get to let him out.

    It was 9am.

    I’d normally just open the curtains, go straight back to bed and snooze for another hour before starting to wake up properly, but today was special, today was burrito and beer day!

    Despite my best efforts to wash out my sinuses the previous evening, I woke with a headache. I’m certain that this had absolutely nothing to do with the bottle of strong red wine that I’d consumed the previous night. Nonetheless, there was only one thing for it, actually, five things for it: three cups of strong coffee, ibuprofen and Sinutab. My system revived, I got my arse into gear and left the house… on foot. Ahead of me was the twenty minute walk uphill to the main road followed by a bus journey, on actual public transport, into Manchester.

    Don’t buses stop an awful lot? Every 200 yards, some fucker wants to get off or on. If I have to walk twenty minutes UPHILL to my bus stop, why can’t these buggers walk a bit further to a stop and save the rest of us the whip lash induced by the constant acceleration and braking? Seriously, when I’m in charge, there’ll be lots of changes.

    Eventually, I arrived in the city where I had to run the gauntlet of the idiots on Market Street as I fought my way up to the shithole that is Piccadilly. There, I was met by crowds of my two least favourite types of people: trades unionists and police. The former were getting shouty against racists. The latter were allowing their horses to poo all over the pavements. My friend rescued me before my frown lines caused my entire head to fold in on itself. And then our day began in earnest.

    Burrito. Beer. Put the world to rights. Laugh like idiots. Move on. More beer. More laughter, a bit of gossip, put the world to rights in a slightly more surreal fashion. Move on. More beer.

    And so that’s how it went, in a descending spiral of ever so polite drunkenness. We finally found ourselves in a bar sat opposite some “le’bians” drinking half pints of real ale, who I actually sort of knew, but my disdain wouldn’t allow me to acknowledge them. They’re the sort who are humourless, overly serious and offensively just fucking serious and humourless and sour faced and humourless. And they look like lesbians. You know, it’s fine being gay, I’m fine being gay, it’s nice, it’s who I am, just the same as it’s fine being straight or asexual or whatever the hell. But why the fuck do some women need to wear a uniform to display their sexuality like a bloody badge? I just don’t get it. I wanted to grab these women by the shoulders and shake them up. YOU GIVE LESBIANS A BAD NAME!!!!

    I was fairly drunk at this stage, my friend asked if I’d ever been to Cologne. “Have I ever been to Clone Zone?”, I responded at the top of my voice. I could feel the Guardian-reading disapproval stabbing me in the side of my head from the other side of the table.

    We left shortly afterwards and by some miracle I made it to my bus without getting run over. Retrieved my ticket in an almost dignified manner, and found a seat without falling over and burping beer and fag breath on undeserving MOPs. With some foresight, I’d taken my earphones with me so I listened along quite merrily on the bizarrely convoluted journey, tapping my feat and concentrating very hard on not bursting out into song as I’d normally do in the car. And thus I made it home.

    So, afternoon drinking. Do it. It’s great in moderation when you’re with excellent company. Know when to stop and know how to get home. But just don’t even think about making any plans for the evening. Twelve hours after waking, Tina is back in bed and lights out is fast approaching.

    Most days can be beautiful if you do them right. I’d be wise to remember this.

    High on Sinex and Vaporub

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    Oh my life!

    These holes in my head have been blocked since December and they’re showing no signs of releasing me from the daily torture of nasal gore.

    Each morning, I awake with the instant need to expel the demons from my nostrils and I am met with at least three tissues worth of vileness. Hardened pea skins mixed with blooded bleurgh and red and green snot. The rest of the day my drips constantly, but no sneezing, which is one minor saving grace to this predicament.

    My poor brain is lacking in oxygen; I could be doing anything that I have no awareness of. Your honour.

    Even the milder nights that afford the opening of the bedroom window bring little relief.

    So much stuff has been shoved up my nose and in my mouth in an attempt to bring some blessed remission, yet nothing works. Tonight, I have resorted to this:

    20130302-010455.jpg

    It’s a sinus washout pot and you do this with it:

    20130302-010542.jpg

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    That’s it: you fill it with a warm solution of whatever it is they provide with the thing, shove it up your nostril, tilt your head, et voila! it comes out of the other nostril, supposedly cleaning out all the sinus crap along the way.

    I’m not convinced. I just feel like I’ve been swimming upside down in chlorinated water.

    But don’t I look young in those photos? They’ve been retrieved from my old blog, which was far more entertaining and not at all censored like this one is. Poor me, life has aged me beyond my years. Or maybe it’s my sinuses, eating away at the life force within me.

    I’ll report back in tomorrow and let all ten of you know whether it’s worked. Of course, any sinus headache will have nothing whatsoever to do with the bottle of wine I drank tonight.

    Tally ho!

    A chill wind blowing

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    I was a bit stuck as to what to have for my tea tonight, so perused my cupboards and fridge for inspiration:

    Sausages, mouldy mushrooms, piece of parmesan cheese, half a packet of reduced fat grated plastic cheese, celery, months old potatoes, older parsnips, carrots.

    Having worked myself up to have braised sausages with crushed old new potatoes, it just seemed too much effort (bung some sausages in the oven with onions and a bit of stock, boil some potatoes, I know). I went for the easier option of nachos.

    I have hit rock bottom.

    With some degree of self-loathing, I switched the oven on an layered the corn snacks with salsa and a jar of pickled jalapeños then topped with the plastic cheese. After twenty minutes in the oven, my hearty snack was ready, after a further four minutes the hearty snack was giving me heartburn.

    My love of spicy food is bound to contribute to my downfall one day, but the pleasure/pain high is hard to beat.

    Obsessive compulsive cleaners
    This TV programme is genius: pair somebody who is obsessively compulsively clean against a filthy scumbag and try to let the OC cleaner sort the scumbag’s house out for them.

    Having come from a household where my dad refuses to throw anything away, I can’t stand clutter. I do still have a terrible habit of keeping things just in case, for example clothes that I keep just in case I ever lose three stones in weight, but generally, I chuck stuff out. I also love to keep my home clean and tidy, but although dust depresses me, I can tolerate it to a certain degree.

    My house wouldn’t pass muster with the volunteer CC cleaners, but I’m normal.

    The thing that amazes me about the filthy scumbags is that they know their houses are full of shit (quite literally in some cases), that they’ve not been cleaned in over ten years in some cases, and that they want help to change things, but they are so resistant to letting people help them.

    Amanda is a nature loving pagan who hasn’t cleaned her house in twelve years. She collects stones and twigs when she’s out and about. Her friends won’t visit her. Cheyza’s cleaning amounts to four months a year. You just know from the outset that this is going to be bad, but so bad that it’s brilliant. It also becomes apparent that Amanda’s friends don’t want to visit her because she’s a fucking crackpot who needs a kick up the bum with an open toed sandal. “No, you can’t throw that used tissue away, it’s a life!”.

    Of course, some of the best scraps are between the cleaners themselves when they insist that their own methods for cleaning are better than the others’.

    I think the natural evolution for this televisual delight is to have everybody thrown into a house together for a year. Cleaning products would be rationed, or earned through the group performing tasks, such as the dirties having to make their bed every day. There’d be a scrap within the first ten minutes.

    Bed
    Fatigue has taken over somewhat this week, hit my poor ageing body quite badly. The bonus to this is that I’m perfectly justified in coming to bed at 9pm. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m asleep any earlier than usual, but it saves me from smoking an extra couple of fags and from searching for something that might be worth watching in the usually crap 9pm telly slot.

    So hooray for my bed, hooray for me not having a TV in the bedroom, hooray that I’m not one of those filthy bastards who only changes their bedding four times a year.

    Things that go bump

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    Defeated by fatigue, I have brought myself to my bed. The neighbours are making a racket with their bins. What on earth are they up to? It sounds like they’re practising a street performance act or something.

    You often see that sort of thing in the centre of town: a group of kids spinning on their heads while a boom box thumps out hip hop music. This is fine, they’re doing something they enjoy, maybe making a little bit of cash. What isn’t fine is the way passers by congregate around to watch, but give them such a wide birth that the circle of onlookers leaves no space for others to get by and woe betide anybody who encroaches on the huge empty space of the impromptu performance area.

    People are stupid. I must try to remember this and see them as no more than cattle being herded through town, driven along by the call of the retail giants who try to lure them into their emporia to buy things that they don’t need or necessarily even want.

    Shiny thing make it all better.

    Sleepytime make it all better.

    A comedy of terrors

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    I’m going to make my fortune as a star of radio and TV comedy drama. It’s been decided, all I need to do now is to make it happen.

    Maybe I should leave this post right here.

    How on earth can somebody with no experience and a mediocre command of the English language suddenly become the next big thing? Well, I’ve heard Milton Jones on the radio and he’s utter shit, so if he can make a living out of it, anybody can.

    Something that brings confidence is the knowledge that no matter what the situation, somebody will find it funny, whether appropriate or not. In addition to this, I have a ready made comedy partner who can actually read and that’s got to be worth something.

    So where do we start? We need a setting and we need think of something funny happening in that setting.

    Setting: Tina’s bedroom, almost sleepytime, school day tomorrow.
    Players: Tina, Tina’s imagination, the little dog and… where the fuck has that massive spider gone that was on the ceiling above my bed a minute ago?

    I’ve already moved the sleeping dog from on my feet once and now he’s lying beside me, snoring loudly. He makes a noise like a pig, he must be fast asleep, so I take the opportunity to see if I can get to his ingrowing dew claw. Our telepathic link kicks in and before I even touch his foot, he jumps off the bed, flaps his ears indignantly, and goes to sulk underneath the bed.

    Somebody who has a dog with a troublesome dew claw might recognise this scenario, nod knowingly, and smile. Others might think, why the fuck don’t you just drug the dog and get him when he’s unconscious?

    Of course, situation comedy requires very clever people and teams of writers and lots of other things that I haven’t got a clue about. I’m going to leave that to my comedy partner to find out about while she’s sat twiddling her thumbs, pretending to be looking for a job,

    Job Centre Plus person: “So, Miss Unemployed Executive Type, what have you been doing to look for work since you last came in?”

    Miss Unemployed Executive Type: “Well, I’ve signed up to this site, searched here, here, here and here, looked at these positions and approached these employers, but I have a very specialist background and I’m actually looking for part time work as I’d like to try to set up my own business.”

    JCP: “Tesco are recruiting in your area, they have lots of part time positions.”

    Miss UET: “Did you take the blindest bit of notice to what I just said to you, have you read my CV?”

    JCP: “We’re not here to take notice of people. Unless they don’t show up, then we notice that they haven’t been in to be signposted.”

    Miss UET: “Signposted? What does that mean?”

    JCP: “You know, S-I-G-N-P-O-S-T-E-D!”

    Miss UET: “Saying it slowly doesn’t really help, please explain what you mean.”

    JCP: “Well, it’s not really my field of expertise, you have to speak to your personal adviser, but I think they show you where to look for jobs, how to put your CV together, tell you how to attend for an interview, what to say, what not to say – you know like, don’t swear – that sort of thing.”

    Miss UET: “Do you think my specialist adviser will signpost me to these job searches and employers that I’ve already done?”

    JCP: “Oh no, they’re really thorough, they take you through all the jobs in the Evening News.”

    Miss UET: “Really. Has anybody ever told you that you’re a useless waste of space?”

    JCP: “Yeah! How did you know that? My HR manager told me, they put me on retraining, that’s why I’m on the front desk now!”

    Stand up
    There’s always stand up of course. I’ve been to an open mic session at the women’s comedy night at the local comedy club. The audiences are VICIOUS. There is no way a novice would get a laugh at that sort of event, unless they managed to get some audience members fighting.

    It’s a worse scenario than when you have to give a presentation at a mandatory training event: as soon as you ask “has anybody been in this situation/seen this/done that?” you are toast. They’re wanting whoever has the mic to make them laugh with as little effort from themselves. Do not rely on audience participation.

    So without that, you fall into the safe sort of areas that are deemed to be funny for women, or were in the 1980s: men bashing; willies; sex; periods; shopping; being fat. Oh, that’s still Jo Brand’s routine today.

    Or you could dress like a dwarf wearing a latex Mrs Doubtfire mask, talk like Stephen Fry and call yourself Sandi Toksvig then Radio 4 will be jumping over itself to drag you onto its oh-so-funny-here-are-the-same-Oxbridge-types-again panel shows.

    Comedy isn’t for me. If was to do comedy, it would have to be at least as good as Frasier and nothing, absolutely nothing I could think of could ever come within a million miles of that genius. Although the idea of being a Sandi Toksvig impersonator who goes to bingo and shops at Aldi might have some legs, even if she doesn’t.