“We’re Doomed!”

To quote Private Fraser from the great British cult tv comedy classic, Dad’s Army, “We’re doomed, I say. Doomed”.

It would seem that the credit crunch is causing a fundamental shift in the British economy which is likely to have a devastating long-term impact upon the society in which we live.

Domino’s Pizzas have reported a 24.7% increase in profits. Apparently this is the result of a shift in buying habits, with people looking for cheaper alternatives to eating out. Yesterday, KFC announced that they would be creating 9,000 new jobsin the UK. This follows announcements from Tescos supermarket that they are recruiting heavily.

We are fast becoming a nation of shelf stackers and fast food junkies. Help. I need to emigrate. I’m normal – get me out of here.

Readers of these pages will know that I am far from a fan of KFC – read about it here. And, my past experience would indicate that if I am forced to go self-sufficient in order to get fresh vegetables, then I am likely to starve. Felicity Kendal (sigh), I am not! But, if we are to become a nation of obese couch potatoes sharing our lives and relationships in the full glare of Jeremy Kyle the I will have no choice but to consider departing these shores.

But, where to go? And, how to get there? If things continue as they are then I am even unlikely to survive the flight out of here. Undoubtedly, I will be crushed to death in my plane seat by a Fatty resting after a double pepperoni and zinger burger – read about it here.

Where’s my passport………..

Ear, Ear

 

Having spent the best part of the last two months frequenting the depressing environment of Tameside Intensive Treatment Unit (RIP Ken!) it was with some trepidation that I approached my ear operation yesterday.

This was my first operation (unless you count a semi-circumcision and I was too young to remember) and my first general anesthetic. I was somewhat tense as C drove me to the hospital. My fear was partly the result of my recent hospital experience (they are not healthy places – full of MRSA and the like), partly C’s driving (I much prefer to be in control), and, partly because my homing instinct is strong and I was fearful that they would keep me in overnight, and, partly because everyone has spent the last week or so giving me their worst “general anaesthetic” stories.

Why do people do that? You are getting married – people share their wedding day nightmares. You get pregnant (well obviously not…..) and people tell you their giving birth horrors. You need an operation and, well frankly, you don’t want to know what happens to people in the operating room.

To be honest, one of my greatest fears was that I might just begin to drift under the anaesthetic and I would look up to see the face of one of the medics I was at university with smirking at me from beneath their surgical mask. All of them were irresponsible alcoholics and I wouldn’t trust any of them near me with a sharp instrument. Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

Indeed, the whole lead up to the op was quite stressful. None more so than the whole process of buying pyjamas. Yes, pyjamas. Proper grown-up, adult night attire for adults. Not “PJs” or “jimjams” as C insisted on calling them. You see, I have not possessed a pair of pyjamas for………well, let’s just say that my last pair probably had teddy bears or super heroes on them.

Since being an adult I have much preferred to sleep commando, au naturale, in the buff. Calm down girls! But, with the prospect of an overnight in hospital, it was necessary to think of my dignity, the poor nurses, and, the not wholly unlikely need to hide an involuntary erection. Well, I often wake up with one, there are nurses about….in uniform…..and, to be frank those hospital gowns are rubbish and offer no protection. Nowhere to hide.

So, a week or so ago, C took me shopping for pyjamas. Jeez, when did anyone connect the words “pyjamas” and “fashionable”. Being a bloke, I wanted something traditional and practical – blue and white stripes, fly, draw strings. Oh no, no, no. “Far too old fashioned”. “Wouldn’t see you de..” (don’t go there). So, I spent two weekends….TWO WEEKENDS – it only took me two hours to buy a new car for Heaven’s sake – trying on every shape, colour and style of designer sleep attire that John Lewis had to offer. And, finally ended up buying a pair of M&S pyjama bottoms (lycra-type material, elastic waist, NO FLY….but trendy, apparently) and a white Polo t-shirt.

I drew a very clear line when it came to the prospect of buying slippers. I am not an old man yet! I have fought hard to fight off my working class, Midland background. I only wear white socks when doing sport these days. Consequently, I never wear white socks these days. My family still won’t leave their houses to visit anyone without their slippers. It is the first thing they do upon arrival – take off their shoes and don their slippers. Me, you get in my shoes or, if I think I might dirty your carpet, in my stocking feet (socks that is – I don’t wear stockings……..often).

No slippers for me. I took my flip flops (or “thongs” as the Aussies call them). I was hoping for that trendy, looks-younger-than-his-age, surf dude look as I walked the corridor to the operating theatre. But it was not to be. To be fair I was not helped by the fact that my friendship bracelet had fallen off just two weeks after we returned from our Thai holiday The hospital gown, my fluffy dressing gown, and skinny legs sticking out the bottom didn’t help. Oh, and the look of sheer terror on my face!

I actually wasn’t feeling too bad as I arrived at the hospital, despite the fact that I had had nil by mouth for the previous five hours. I was hugely relieved that my insurance company were refusing to pay for an overnight stop unless required so the hospital were happy for me to go home as long as there were no “complications”. Also, my environment was pleasant. I was going private. I had a private single room with en suite and a plasma screen. A nurse came, filled some forms, took my blood pressure, pulse and temperature. I left my urine sample (I’m never quite sure how much they need so decided to fill it as much as I could without “spillage”). The anaesthetist came, cracked jokes, filled some forms. And, then my Consultant came………….and he scared me.

He was clearly having a bad day. He was in a bad mood. It seemed to be my fault. He was annoyed that BUPA had refused to sanction an overnight stay (I think it messed his schedule). He was annoyed that the person who should have showed at 1pm to do a hearing test hadn’t, so I had to wait until 2pm, which meant that he was running late. Then it came to the consent form. Then it came to him telling me all of the things that could possibly go wrong requiring drilling of bone, skin grafts, pierced eardrums, deafness, hearing aids and the like, if I every survived the anaesthetic and post-operative infection. Help! At this point I was all for going home with an “actually, I feel much better, thank you”.

But, I needn’t have worried. I went in. I went to sleep. I woke up – no erection, phew. I went back to my room – C fussed and looked please to see me. Within quarter of an hour I had had a drink and a sandwich. Within the hour I had had a wee (hospitals are obsessed with the need to urinate). The, now much happier Consultant, turned up to tell me all had gone well and, despite the fact that they had had to drill bone and do skin grafts, he was happy for me to go home.

And at home I am. I have a huge dressing on my ear which makes me look not unlike Van Gogh following his self-harming incident. I am not allowed to drive or operate mechanical equipment for 72 hours which means that I am under a strict regime as laid out by she who should be obeyed.

And, my advice to you all – don’t broddle*, if you get an infection go to the doctor straight away, and, if you can, go private.

* Broddle = to insert an alien object such as a cotton bud or finger or pencil end for the purposes of scratching or cleaning your ear.

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My Neighbours – The Good, The Bad, and, The Ugly Part 3

I lived in London twice. The first time was just after university. I moved because I had got a job in London. 1987. Twenty years ago. I had to share a flat with another bloke who had joined the Company on the same day as me, Simon. Simon was a drinker. He was a drinker who thought he was bright and was owed a living on a plate. He was not as bright as he thought he was. He was a drinker, a diabetic and a crack addict. I forget the number of times that I had to revive him with a sugar cube or an emergency Mars Bar.

We lived in St. John’s Wood in an ex-council flat above Barclays Bank. Most of the other flats on our floor were still council flats. The tenants were quite elderly and doddery. Many were house bound. We rarely crossed paths. The only time that I would see the old girl across the corridor would be on Sunday mornings. She would struggle across the landing using her zimmer frame to knock on my door. To inform me that my flat mate had passed out on the landing or at the top of the stairs. It was quite a regular weekend occurrence. What must she have thought of us? How embarrassing.

I was glad to leave the flat in St John’s Wood. And Simon. He left the Company. By mutual consent. Something to do with expense claims I think. Or it could have been his regular afternoon naps in the toilets. He was an odd one. He ripped off a bunch of colleagues by organising a fictitious trip to Moscow. He was a raving lefty. And, I once had to bail him out of jail after he had been caught stealing books from Waterstones. We didn’t keep in touch. I suspect he will have drunk himself to death by now, or have been killed by some victim of a scam, or, he may well be a millionaire.

My experience with Simon made me adamant that I would never share a place again. Except with C and Maslow of course.

On my second spell spell in the Smoke, I lived in Kilburn. Little Ireland. Well, not so little in fact. Kilburn has the largest Irish community in the world outside of Dublin. It was the safest place to be during the IRA bombing campaign of the late 80s. The only time I remember Kilburn being effected by a bomb scare was on St. Patrick’s Day evening. I suspect it was a hoax aimed at disrupting all of the Paddy’s Day celebrations.

I lived in a one bedroom flat on he first floor of a two-storey house conversion, opposite a launderette where the local hoodies would hang out and which once figured in a Crimewatch reconstruction following a murder. Nice.

I only met the girl who lived below me maybe twice to talk to. The first time was on the night I moved in. Not being a southerner I “knocked on” to introduce myself. She was very welcoming, invited me in, and offered me a glass of wine. An hour later we were exchanging spare keys, in case of emergency.

The second time I saw her was a bit more embarrassing. C and I were in the shower. This was not long after we had got together. Apparently, C and I were oblivious to the fact that the spray from the shower was hitting the tiled wall at the side of the bath, running down a hitherto unnoticed crack, and exiting through the light in the kitchen of the downstairs apartment. My neighbour had been knocking, apparently, but we hadn’t heard her. She had let herself in – with the spare key –  and was coming up our stairs as I was walking out of the bathroom. We avoided eye contact How embarrassing. We didn’t keep in touch after I moved.

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Freedom of Speech?

So, Carol Thatcher, daughter of “She Who Should Not Be Named” and Queen of the Jungle (and therefore half witch/half failure) has been kicked off the BBC’s One Show (Christine Bleakley…….sigh) for an off-camera remark in which she referred to a tennis player as a “golliwog” – read about it here.

This prompted a lot of media coverage which ranged from “the English are fundamentally racist” to “political correctness gone wrong” to “it’s only a soft toy” to “I’m black and I’m not offended” to “whatever happened to freedom of speech”………  The furore has been akin to that which followed the revelation of Prince Harry’s reference to a fellow officer as a “Paki”.

Well, this at least goes to show one thing – being high born doesn’t make for brains or common sense!

People throughout the ages have used “colourful” terms to describe those who are different to them – read here - be it as simple as our use of “Froggies” to describe the French or their use of  “Rost Beouf” to describe us – presumably in the days before ecstasy…….

This reminded me of an instance shortly after I had joined the oil company Shell as part of their graduate recruitment many, many, many moons ago. The graduate intake had been dominated by Oxbridge (Oxford and Cambridge) students. There was one particular Cambridge gentleman that I didn’t warm to. I was caught referring to him as a “Tab” and a colleague asked me to explain. I explained that “Tab” was short for “Taberdar”, describing the short academic gown worn by Oxford students known as “Commoners” , differentiating them from the long gowns worn by the superior “Scholars”. Referring to Cambridge students as “Tabs” was, therefore, derogatory, suggesting that they were in some way / every way inferior to students from Oxford. My colleague turned to the Cambridge gentleman and asked if Cambridge had a similar term to describe Oxford students. “Yes, ” he explained, “we call them wankers”. That put me in my place and we got on much better afterwards.

Now I will not go into the rights and the wrongs of Carol’s use of the word “golliwog” and her unwillingness to concede that it might have racial overtones. I will not defend her argument that as she had not seen it as racist or intended it to be racist then it wasn’t racist. Let’s just put it down to the stupidity of the upper classes and remember the wisdom of my gran, who I am sure would have commented “If you haven’t got anything nice to say, say nothing!”