Tag Archives: humour

Only When I Laugh

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The end of day three after my stroke. Or is it day four ? Who can remember ? All I know is this illness stuff is not all it’s cracked up to be.

I’ve already had a row with a doctor over my attitude (me!), been told to get off my blackberry (good luck with that one then) and almost be judged ‘nil by mouth’ twice (again, me!).

I’ve come to the very quick decision that I’m rubbish at being a patient, but then again who is any good at it ? So I’ve decided to moan and bear it and make the worst of it. For starters, blogging on a phone is a pain in the arse as I can’t type or spell properly in the first place let alone on this thing so apologies for the worse than usual grammar.

(I pause here to take in the delicate aroma of the bed next to me being cleaned by the nurse after it’s 87 year old occupant-a serial solier- relieved himself all over it. Sorry, what’s that ? No, no trifle for me thanks all the same).

I digress.

Those who know me will recognise my symptoms: I cannot move my head about, and have a constant dreadful headache. I have slighlty slury speech, a scary stare and I cannot walk around unaided. However I now do all this all day, not just before 11pm. So there’s no need to wait til pubs chuck out to see me in my natural state. I’m in constant pain, knackered all the time and terrified I’ll stay like this forever. But I know I’ve been lucky: It’s not as if I’m like poor old sods in my ward, lost limbs or woken up Welsh or anything.

The Incumbent has been truly terrific: feeding me in my prone position with paracetamol and choccie biccies, informing all and sundry of my plight and drawing up a visitors list. Only the nearest and richest get into see me. Forget a bunch of grapes and a get well soon card. You wanna see me? You’ll need a wad of cash, a litre of gin and some large-breasted physio with you (all the better if she’s female).

Having said that, thanks go to my old mates of The Still Thoroughly Decent American Press who had flowers delivered this afternoon, beautiful and welcome that they are, and Steve the Sculptor who brilliantly brought me hard boiled eggs and nuts (and if you don’t understand that you shouldn’t be reading this).

I’ve been feeding from the Hallal menu, it being the only place around here you can get a curry: Chicken Korma, Chicken Byriani and a Lamb with Lentils number have all been eaten by me on my back with plenty of relish but not the required outcome. On my notes beside my bed it reads “B/M: no”. This is nearly day four of no B/M and it’s starting to make tears well up in my eyes. I have tended to have a b/m 4 or 5 times a day, and have so ever since I was 16 yrs old. Often against my will.

What is happening to me? I shall let you know how I get on. Though you’ll probably hear it or smell it yourself.

Just after you start your trifle.

Enjoy your tea.

Luv u all xx

Short Square Legs

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I once had a row (no, honestly) with the bloke who taught me history. He stated that nothing was inevitable. Nothing. I took issue with this and, as is my wont, argued the toss. As I recall it was in a lesson that had supposed to be dealing with the outbreak of WWI—you know the stuff: The Serbs, The Austro-Hungary Empire, Rio Ferdinand, etc etc and after we’d gone through all the build up, I had noted that war was, therefore, inevitable. A debate/row ensued as Mr Lepine (for that was his name) listed the many different ways and points in time when war could have been avoided. Nothing, he repeated again and again, is inevitable.

I only mention this as I’ve just watched our glorious leader, Mr Brown (with my mind he runs), look the camera in the eye and state that no MP who has defied the rules on their Commons expenses will be allowed to stand for election as a Labour Party candidate. Defied the Rules. Hmmmm. Has anyone out there read anything by any MP who has actually admitted to breaking or “defying” the rules? No, of course not— they’ve all made “mistakes” or “errors of judgement” but all of them, of course, were working “within the rules”. I put it to you, Mr Lepine, that it is INEVITABLE that these shitbags (or is that manurebags?) will get away with the fraud and the skulbuggery because they were acting “within the rules”. Also, just look of the smugness as one-by-one, MP after MP queue up for the BBC and Sky News as they celebrate the demise of Speaker Martin— as if we’re supposed to believe the HOC is a good clean-living honest house again. One of them (faceless tory/labour backbencher) actually said “I’m relieved that we’ve put all this behind us”.

A wee dram afore ye go ?

A wee dram afore ye go ?

Inevitably (see!) Martin will be blamed for everything from trouser presses to to ghost mortgages. Between them, the election of a new speaker and Gordon turning a blind eye (oops) to the robbers in his own party AND the imminent parliamentary recess will go a long way to the disgraceful behaviour of MP’s becoming a faint memory sooner rather than later. Yes, GB will get a kick up the arse at next month’s elections, but he was gonna get that anyway. Knacker of the Yard is having meetings about having meetings about whether to meet about investigating the scandal. Sir Christopher Kelly’s Committee who are looking into the scam doesn’t report back to the house until November— that’s six months away. So we’ll be left with the corpse of Michael Martin, who seems to be carrying the can for the lot of em. Sure, Douglas Hogg is stepping down to spend more time with his moat and a couple of instantly-forgettable Labour MPs will be shown the door over their houses-that-never-were. (Why didn’t Nick Brown eat the evidence?—he seems to have eaten everything else), but the real news is that they’ve hounded out the fat wee mon, to pay for the sins of others. Dodgy little sod? Yes. The most dishonourable man in the chamber? Not even close.
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In other news, this weekend sees the start of the cricket season for yours truly— time to oil my bat, apply the liniment, strap-up the knees and squeeze into the flannels. Think of me this weekend as I wobble about a corner of a English field that is forever foreign to me, while younger types run around chasing, throwing and hitting balls. I always greet the start of a season with a mixture of glee (I get to see all my mates again in lots of nice pubs) and dread (it fvcking hurts). Thank god for the upcoming bank holiday monday—it gives me one more day to recover the power of walking after I will inevitably be asked by the skipper to bowl several overs (I reckon he’ll get two out of me). As I plummet inevitably towards my 45th birthday Captain David still believes I can bowl quick(ish) out-swingers for over-after-over. I was sure that my puny performance last season would finally prove to him that I’m fat, flatulent and fragile. My little legs no longer have the strength to carry me around at anything faster than glacial pace. I should be making the sandwiches and opening the biscuits, not opening the bowling. Season after season he cocks a deaf’un to my entreaties. Surely he’s found a 20 year-old quickie to take over the duties? Or is he really just trying to kill me? If it happens again this season I am thinking of tabling a motion of no confidence in him. I fear it’s inevitable.

Right arm over(weight)

Right arm over(weight)

Saturday Titfers

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Unknown Football ground photographed somewhere or other, circa dunno. Probably not the Valley.

Unknown Football ground photographed somewhere or other, circa dunno. Probably not the Valley.

In a quiet side street of the charming hamlet of Charlton, (as in ‘Charlton Athletic Nil’), South East London once stood a little pub called The Valley, named after the local football team’s home ground. A pretty unremarkable little boozer, which my brother and I used to go in for “just the one” at lunchtime on match days (we were supporters, you understand, not players. The players were in the boozer across the road).  It was suitably scruffy, unknown to traveling opposition supporters, and mercifully free of the formica and stainless steel decor favoured by the Slug and Pianos, the All Bar Funs and the Trout n Tillbox pub chains so popular with the roof of today.

But the feature of this pub which will stay with me forever was an old photograph on the wall. Or to be precise, a photo so large it stretched across two walls, floor-to-ceiling, in the main bar. It showed life as it was 60 years ago, a life sadly no longer with us. The photo at the top of this page , similar to the one in the pub,  will give you an idea of what I mean.

Pictured was the old, massive, main terrace at Charlton’s ground, presumably photographed just post-war. Several things struck you when you looked at the picture: That they used to sell-out home games; Some of the supporters were smiling; No-one was kicking seven shades out of anyone else; and everyone in the photo was male. But there was something else: of the nigh-on 20,000 people in the photo everyone, and I mean EVERYONE was wearing a hat. Be it a trilby, a flat cap, or whatever, EVERYONE wore a hat. Question: when the time came to throw your hat in the air in celebration of Charlton scoring a goal (quiet at the back!) how did you get your own hat back? It must have been carnage.

Charlton beating Liverpool 3-0 (yes, honestly). Not a dry hat in the house.

Charlton beating Liverpool 3-0 (yes, honestly) December 1959. The home goalie, Willie Duff, dives to clear some smudges from the photograph. Not a dry hat in the house.

I have a particularly big swede and I suspect I would have often walked home with someone else’s cap, 3 sizes too small perched, at a jaunty angle, on the top of my head, while some other poor little sod wore my one, having to walk four yards before the hat moved.

In 1953 Charlton beat Middlesbrough 8-1 which presumably meant that some of those present changed hats 8 times during the match. I wonder if after twenty minutes you ended up with a real corker of a titfer you just buggered off home and sod the result? Were you refused entry to the ground if you were hatless? What if your chapeau was a birthday present but the bloke standing 7 yards away caught it during the melee after a late equalizer? My mum would have gone Garrity if I returned home without it.

Sad I know, but it’s something that’s always bothered me.
The pub’s not there now. Demolished for yuppie flats, A Costa Coffee bar or somesuch. Gone the same way as epidemic hat-wearing, a thousand proper boozers around the country, and home goals at The Valley.