Sly Old Dog- The Man From Del Monte Suit

I’m still mostly housebound. I can now hobble about without the aid of crutches or a walking stick, but holy shit; it is hard going.

Yesterday, I decided that I ought to bask in the short lived sunshine we were enjoying here in the Northwest. I also had to drop off my new and ill advised suit that I recently acquired off at our local Dry Cleaners. The suit itself was ill advised because it’s of a light colour, and needless to say that if you’re as clumsy and messy as I, especially near food or drink, then the odds are you’ll end up with food and or drink spillage on my garments. My usual charcoal grey suits I wear would for the most part adequately hide any such spillages; alas the new suit makes my food indiscretions painfully obvious to all and sundry. So having only worn it once, I was a little aggrieved to be having to take it to the cleaners, especially as I’ve been a suit owner for 7 years and this is the first time in my life I’ve ever taken an item of clothing that I own to dry cleaners. It was an experience to savour nonetheless.

I hobbled in and rang the hotel style bell on the counter and a rather jolly lady came bounding round the corner with a cackling laugh and a spring in her step. I complimented her on the bell, and she said I could ring it again, and I duly obliged.



I showed her the suit, and suggested that because I was foolish enough to purchase one in such a light colour I’d no doubt be giving them lots of business. She laughed and commented to the man who’s appeared from the back room.
”guess where this suit was made” she asked him
“Let me guess… Turkey?” He answered.
“Yeah. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!” She replied.

I gave her a strange look, and she explained.

“Oh I just love Turkey, I’ve been there 47 times! I’m off in a few weeks. I need to get away from all these bloody crap weather”
I just responded with the raise of my left eyebrow and a jocular smile.

She stared to write the ticket and read out loud as she wrote it out, chuckling away to herself as she did it.

“You can tell she’s new.” The man said to me in friendly manner befitting the laid back atmosphere of the establishment.

This time I responded with a raise of both eyebrows and a nod of my head.

I asked them if it would be ready before Friday and I was assured that it would be which came as a great relief to me, especially as Lisa had told me that there was no chance that they’d be able to do it in time.

“Phew. This is my only suit [a lie] and other wise I’d be going to the wedding in my jeans and trainers” I said making idle chit chat.

“Oh you’re going to a wedding.” she said with genuine interest but without looking up from her scribblings on the ticket.

“Yeah, my Dad’s.”
“Your Dad!” She said surprised looking up at me.
“He’s off to his Dad’s wedding…sly old dog eh?” She told the man who chuckled politely.
“Your Dad’s wedding…” she continued laughing and shaking her head disapprovingly.
“…that’s weird. The sly old dog, the sly old dog.”

I was taken aback with this statement. Granted, yes, it is a bit weird, as attending a wedding to any of your parents would be, but no need to call my old man a sly old dog! How does she know that my mum isn’t dead? How can she assume that my Dad hasn’t been a struggling widower for the past twenty years? As these thoughts ran through my head I contemplated for a split seconds suggesting that I take my business elsewhere and that my mum had died, but thankfully I stopped myself. This wasn’t because I didn’t want to get embroiled in a web of lies, but because they were the only cleaners in the vicinity.

She carried on muttering “sly dog” and shaking her head whilst continuing to slowly write out the ticket, when suddenly she looked up at me.

“Is your mum still alive hun?”
“Sadly no…erm… she died 9 years ago” I said without even thinking.

Fuck!!! Why did I say that?! My mum would bloody kill me if she found out I was telling people she was dead.

“Oh my God, I’m sooo sorry hun! There I am implying that you’re old man’s a sly bastard…oh I’m soooo sorry” She looked mortified but nullified it with her warm smile..

I thought that I’d gone too far this time a recalled that episode of Curb your Enthusiasm where Larry’s mum dies, and he uses it as an excuse to get out of things.

“Tell you what, I’ll only charge you for the one item” she said
“Really, there’s no need.”
“No honestly, you must have thought I was a right insensitive cow”
I laughed and re-assured her there was “no need.”
She insisted though and I reluctantly and sheepishly accepted.

I left the shop, and instead of basking in the sunshine, I was wallowing in self loathing and guilt. I decided to go home and contemplate where these heinous things I say come from.

Of course, when I informed Lisa of this little conversation, she looked at me with massive indifference.

“Well that doesn’t surprise me” She said in such a disapproving manner.

I think that could have been the cruellest thing she’s ever said to me.

I contemplated trying to justify it to her but knew she wouldn’t agree. I decided to appeal to her fugal side and told her of the discount.

“What? She’s only charging you for one item?!” She repeated concerned.

“Yeah, she said she’ll only charge me for the one item. It’s only going to be a few quid saved, but it’ better than nothing isn’t it?”

“What did you get cleaned again? Your ‘man from Del Monte’ suit?”
“(sigh) yes”
“And what else?”
“That was it.”

She started to laugh.

“Ohhhh Matt!!!”
“Whatttt!!!???” I snapped back.
“They’ve got an offer on saying that they’ll clean a two piece suit for the price of one item!!”
“What?”
“They’ve got an offer…usually you pay for the trousers and jacket separately…yeah?”
“yeah?”
“…but they’ve got an offer now saying they’ll only charge you for one item if you bring them in a two piece suit!!”
“So?”
“So?...She hasn’t given you any discount!”

It took a moment before I understood what she was saying and then the penny dropped.

“The lying bitch!!!” I thundered.
“Ha ha ha ha!!” Lisa cackled heartily, I could see the unbridled joy in her eyes at my unhappiness.

I do feel though that I can take the moral high ground on this though issue, after all as far as she’s concerned, my mum did die, and offering me a discount that already existed is no way to treat a potentially lucrative customer such as I. Lisa recons it’s karma, but I disagree. Regardless whether my mum is alive or not, she still shouldn’t have referred to my dad as a “sly old dog”.

As I said to Lisa; “Had she called him a ‘sly old fox’, then I’d have been okay with it.”

MP3:
(Follow links)


Ivor Cutler- Who Tore Your Trousers James?

Pavement- Easily Fooled

Jeremy Warmsley-Dirty Blue Jeans

The Young Knives-Tailors

Spite for spite's sake

I had an amazing revelation whilst on route to Harrogate to attend my father’s stag do, that all the major decisions I’ve come to make in my life have been either the result of guilt on my part, or more frequently the result of spite.

I’m not ashamed of my spiteful side, as it’s not in anyway meant to cause offence but it’s the fuel that gives me my super powers as Lisa so succinctly put it:

“You spiteful? No shit!! It’s what makes you the twat we all know and love.”

Saw the Hold Steady on last Wednesday, and they were fantastic. Sort of GBV meets Husker Du. I’ve since re-listened to their album and have been berating myself incessantly for not appreciating as much as I ought to have. I went with Tom and mentioned my spite revelation to him. He concurred. Though he did try and convince me I was often churlish and contrary. I disagreed.

So my father’s stag do eh? This was my first ever stag do, and it wasn’t as anywhere near as freaky as I thought it would be, in fact I had a good time.

The journey was a nightmare though. I had to leave the flat early as I had a college interview for this Dreamweaver/Multi media evening course I fancied. It turned out to be a bit of a farce. I knew I was going to get on the course when the tutor noticed I was more qualified than he was.

I had been notified that the interview could go on for 3 hours, so I brought my Macthel (my man bag) and had planned to head off to the train station straight afterwards. Alas, the interview was over by 9.45. I didn’t fancy getting a taxi home, waiting a few hours then getting another taxi back to the station especially as it was £7 each way, after all you can take the boy out of Yorkshire, but you can’t take the Yorkshire out of the boy.

So I arrived at Lime Street Station some 4 hours earlier than I had anticipated. I was soaked too and as I was hobbling along on one crutch it took my ages to walk there. I noticed that I was once again wearing my girl’s army surplus jacket again (I purchased it in NYC but wasn’t aware it was a girl’s jacket until I returned home), and with the bedraggled look and crutches, I felt that I resembled a Vietnam War vet a la Born on The Forth of July.

I had to kill 40 minutes once I’d arrived at the station and read a wide range of magazines in WHS Smiths.

I got to the platform with plenty of time to spare and a Chocolate Brownie and a cup of tea and got myself a decent seat once the train’s doors opened. I was still soaked and feeling peeved over the journey and the interview. The chocolate brownie was a good idea, and dunking it in my tea caused the cake to get stuck in my gums, but I didn’t care.

Alas, before the train departed I was involved in a altercation with a fellow passenger.
As I was happily muching on my cake I heard a woman’s voice ask:

“Does this train go to Manchester Piccadilly?”
No one answered and gave her blank looks.
“It goes to one of the Manchester stations- though I’m not sure which?” I said through a caked filled mouth.
“What?!” She said rudely shaking her head at me in a mixture of distain and confusion.
“It goes to one of the Manchester stations- though I’m not sure which. It’ll be on the screen on the platform.”
“I’ve check that and it doesn’t” She snapped back.
“It should do. If you just wait a moment, it changes screen and the destinations will be on the next screen.”
She tutted at me, shook her head and walked off chuntering that no one could be arsed helping her.
“Ohhh you’re quite welcome” I hollered back to her.
I was pretty outraged by her rudeness. I was only trying to help. A fellow passenger looked at me in agreement.

I popped my headphones in my ears and switched on my MP3 player and tried to forget about it.

After the train set off, this girl came back into our carriage and took the seat opposite me.
At the time I felt quite guilty for shouting down the train at her, so avoided any eye contact and just looked out of the window and the industrial landscape of the North West.

As our journey progressed, she was frequently on her phone arranging to be picked up from Piccadilly and bemoaning Virgin Trains and the fact that and I quote: “no one in this city seems to want to help anyone”. Of course I was listening in and had stopped my MP3 player in order to do so. I was pretty outraged with her, but being the easy going chap I am, I didn’t let it get the better of me.

The journey passed pretty much without any points of interest however, as we pulled into Manchester, I glanced over to my right and noticed this girl was asleep! I decided that me waking her up would be quite disturbing for her, and chose to let the tannoy announcement alert her to the fact we were approaching her destination.
The robotic and monotonous voice announced that we were arriving at Manchester Piccadilly yet she didn’t move. Again, I assumed that she would still wake up in time, but as we pulled into the station she was still fast asleep.

At this juncture, I convinced myself that she might not have been departing at this station, and merely wanted the information for a friend who wanted to catch the same train as her. I therefore chose to do nothing and let her sleep peacefully.
Deep down I knew this was the wrong thing to do and that I was being especially spiteful, but frankly I didn’t give a shit.

As we approached Huddersfield, her saw from the corner of my eye her wake, and switching off my MP3 player, I pretended to be asleep.

I noticed that she was quite calm, however when we approached Huddersfield, she looked a little panicked. She asked the Conductor, who was walking past, if we were near to Manchester? I found it so hard not to let out a sly and devious cackle when he told her we’d been passed Manchester.

She got off at Huddersfield which was only a few minutes away. She looked upset and was on her mobile. It felt good.

The rest of the journey was a nightmare, but thankfully no spiteful actions on my part.

I had to waste time in Leeds, and I got soaked.

I arrived in Harrogate at 3pm, and both my brother and father were at work until after 5pm, so I thought it sensible to seek refuse in the near by cinema.

“What’s the next film that’s starting; that’s NOT Harry Potter please?” I asked the fresh faced girl behind the counter.

“What any film?”
“Any film….except Harry Potter” I repeated.
“Shrek III is showing the trailers now and starts in five minutes.”
“One adult for Shrek please!” I ordered slapping a tenner on the counter.

The film was okay, but nowhere near as good as previous Shrek films.

I also looked like a kiddie fiddler, in drenched, bedraggled and sat on my own at the back. The rest of the audience consisted of young parents and there excited offspring. I was the only one there sans children. I felt weird and noticed a few odd lokks from the respective parents and guardians.

After the film, I went to the toilets to put in my contact lenses ready for the stag do. Whilst doing so some kid came in and asked me what I was doing.

“Just putting my contact lenses in” I answered.
“Why?” He asked.
“So I don’t have to wear my galsses” I responded whilst delicately trying to concentrate.
The kid, walked out without using the toilet.

20 seconds later an old lady knocked on the door and walked in. I could see her in the reflection of the mirror.

“Ohh I’m soo sorry” She said
“Erm…it’s okay” I said slightly perplexed.
“My grandson came running out saying there was man doing something strange in the toilet!”
“It’s okay. Just doing my contact lenses”
“Sorry.” She said again closing the door behind her.
As she closed the door I could hear a Odeon member of staff ask if everything was okay. I felt the pressure of trying to get these lenses in quickly.


Allow me to introduce my eldest son” my dad said proudly as I hobbled into the Old Bell.
“How was your journey?”
“Crap! It was full of Spite, arguments, chocolate and I was almost attacked by an old lady in the cinema toilet who thought I was a child abuser…” I answered.
“…Does anyone want a drink?”


MP3's:
(follow links)

The Hidden Cameras- Ban Marriage

Buffalo Springfield- On the Way Home

Calexico- Drenched

Superchunk- New Low

You don't sweat much for a fat chick.

Whilst still being off from work, normality is an ambition still on the horizon; however thanks to a sweaty Beth Ditto I am encroaching upon outer reaches of my familiar lifestyle.

It was my first social occasion since the op, and was the perfect remedy to my cabin fever. Sweet Johnny only really realised he was going to be in Normandy on a school trip at weekend gone, so had to send his apologies. I took it upon myself to locate a suitable replacement and thankfully my first choice of replacements, Tom, was more than happy to step up to the plate.

It was fairly clear from the get go this was not going to be your standard gig judging from the sight of my fellow audience. It would be fair to say that there was a fair few people there whom are not your ordinary gig goers, or more appropriately, not the usual gig goers that my friends and I see. I likened it to an England International football game i.e. the crowd was not built up of the ‘regular’ attendees of Association Football matches.

We handed in our tickets and entered the venue. Tom told me that someone behind us made some comment along the lines of “Oh I nearly knocked over the cripple” by which of course he meant me. The usually highly dangerous stairs in the venue proved even more troublesome especially knowing that there was a swarm of ‘big boned’ ladies wishing to get past me. I eventually made it to the top and was totally fucked. The non-alcoholic beverages I was drinking at the bequest of my pharmacist served as scant conciliation for the epic trek I had just endured. We found a suitable place for me to stand whereupon I wouldn’t get trampled and waited.

It wasn’t long before the main support act Robots In Disguise arrived on stage.
The band comprised of three girls caked in 1980’s kitsch make up and Chrissie Hyde/Russell Brand haircuts. It came as no suppose to me that despite all the gusto and enthusiasm they possessed, musically they were without any redeeming features whatsoever. The songs themselves were built around drum loops upon which the drummer (who looked like a cross between the Kiss’ Paul Stanley in his full stage make up, and kids’ TV cartoon Gem) mirrored adding little interest to them. Simple bass lines and guitar chords stabbed out in staccato style were played with no imagination or interest either. The vocals, which mostly comprised of the two guitar players moronic shouting really was the cherry on the cake. Of course though, the sell out crowd for the most part, lapped it up.

It was a depressing start to the show and with the increasing audience I was getting bustled about a fair bit and my crutches were knocked on several occasions. It was getting hot in there too.

Whilst waiting, Nik walked directly past us. I tapped him on the shoulder and he decided to stand with us. He was rather excited about the show and looked a little like a child on Christmas morning.

It wasn’t long before they took to the stage. The crowd went wild and the atmosphere generated from their legion of supporters had us all wide eyed and excited.

She looked marvellous wearing a gold jump suit and a sliver glitter wig.
The difference in quality from The Gossip to Robots in Disguise was a vast a gap can be between bands. The understated drums and hooky bass lines left the space fro Ditto to fill it with her impressive voice…and what a fucking voice. Her stage presence is as good, if not better, than anyone I can think of ever seeing. Not only did she do it gusto and passion it was clear to see how connected she was with the music and the audience.

Lisa’s had the album on loop in our flat for the past month, and despite never actually sitting down and listening to it I know most of the songs-though with the notable exception of ‘Standing In the Way Of Control’ I couldn’t tell you any of their names.
Whilst Ditto belting out a number is a sight to behold, the understated playing of the rhythm section can’t go unmentioned. Tom succinctly put it that they were like Nirvana with glitter.

Please check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWTVMJWD4jE

Between songs Beth addressed the crowd with humility and respect which was reciprocated by the sweaty masses. Not one for being overly impressed all that often, I was in total awe of her stage presence and he voice.

If not ever so slightly predictably, they closed with ‘Standing In The way of Control’ and the place went fucking nuts! And I mean FUCKING NUTS! The floor was shaking, drinks were being tossed aimlessly into the air and the annoyingly too common spectacle of every other person’s mobile phone being thrust in the stage’s direction (which was handy other wise I wouldn’t be able to attach the above YouTube clip. It was awesome. Ditto, now sans wig and drenched in sweat, made her way down to the front of the crowd, connecting with the audience – by which time were foaming at the mouth coupled with the strobe lights, that the engineers had obviously been saving until the end.

After the show it was agreed by one and all that they were fucking amazing. It was a perfect antidote to the past few mind numbingly boring weeks. I also coaxed Tom to come and see The Hold Steady tonight too- so even more reasons to be cheerful!!!

It’s my house and I can be a twat of I want to

So the weekend came and went. It was devoid of anything interesting, Lisa’s friends arrived and it was nice. I left them alone for most of their stay and sat in watching the truly terrible Live Earth gig on the telly, occasionally switching over to watch Escape To Victory on ITV2.

The ‘great lie’ was pointless and I didn’t have the heart to execute it- informing them that my leg has improved drastically in the last week. They arrived at 2.45 ish and sitting down with a cup of tea, we scratched the surface of what our lives had entailed for the past few years. I tried to pretend to be interested in the blandness of some of their anecdotes, and I was mightily relieved when they trotted out to the pub at 4pm.

I watched most of the concert and with few exceptions all the bands were tosh. I was looking forward to The Foo Fighters but Lisa and Co rolled into the flat as they took to the stage and I had to answer three drunken girls who’d ruined my uptopia as to who was performing.

“It’s the Foo Fighters”
“Who?”
“The Foo Fighters!”
“Who is it Michelle?”
“The Red Hot Chilli Peppers”
“No it’s The Foo Fighters”
“I didn’t know they looked like that?”
“U-huh”
“God they’re really rocky aren’t they?”
“Yeah”
“You don’t think of The Foo Fighters as a ‘rock’ band do you?”

A just looked slacked jawed and made a mental note of the conversation for this ‘ere blog.

Lisa tried to motivate them to hurry up in order for them to hit the town. But it was clear they were half cut already. Both of her friends decided to ask me what accessories they should wear with their respective outfits and emptied the contents of their over sized bags on our sofa. After talking throughout the performance Dave Grohl started up The Best Of You and despite being mid conversation Michelle screamed at me:

“TURN IT UP, I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG- IT REMINDS ME OF PERTH!!!”

I rolled my eyes and turned it up- though the TV was pretty loud already to account for their loud shrill voices.

“C’mon turn it up Matt!”
“I have”
“Louder!!!FUCK!!! I Love this song!!”
“It’s loud enough””C’mon you boring bastard, turn it up”
I turned it up a notch.
“FUCK-louder!!! I love this song.”

I gave her the remote and got up to leave the room. I didn’t have many options of where to go as they’d decamped into the spare room and Lisa was getting changed in our bedroom. I found refuse in my fortress of solitude; our ‘little’ toilet and read a Select Magazine from 1994 whilst The Foo Fighter rocked it at Wembley. I could hear it clearly as it was blaring out from our TV.

I heard Lisa round them up as they were going to hit the town and the sound of high heeled shoes stomping on our poor quality laminate flooring ensued as they all relocated in our bedroom.

I got back into my chair and turned the volume down to a normal level, but the band were leaving the stage.

“Great.”

I’d already agreed to tape Madonna’s performance for Lisa so didn’t see the need to watch it and turned over to watch Pele’s overhead kick Sly Stallone save that penalty.
Her friends drifted back in to the room.
“Is Madonna on yet?”
“Yeah- I’m taping it for Lisa”
“Can I just see her for a bit please?”

I flicked over to see Madge with a Gibson Les Paul and the Gogol Bordellos. I let out a sad and frustrated sigh and turned back.

“Oh please can we just watch this song?”

Escape to Victory had finished so I reluctantly agreed.

“Do you like Madonna Matt?”
“I don’t hate her, but she is a Dick Head”
“Why’s she a dick head?”
“You know…just look at her”
“NO really why? I thought everyone liked Madonna”
“Aw c’mon? Really? You’ve been living in London too long.”
“Seriously – you think she’s a dick head? Why? I don’t understand? You’re the first person I’ve met, besides my dad , who doesn’t like Madonna”
“Why? Erm…I don’t know, but she is the personification of the term dick head isn’t she?”
“I really admire her…doesn’t she look good for her age?”
“I guess so. But that shouldn’t be a reason for admiring her though”
“Why not?”
“Because if that was a justifiable basis for admiration , then you’d have to admire Cliff Richard too.”
“Well…”
Hah! I’d got her with my legal reasoning’s.

“She’s still an amazing musician and dancer though”
“Oh- unquestionably!” I answered with the sarcasm dial turned up to 11 and watched here ponce around stage like the dock head she really is.

I watched her performance and laughed loudly like a Bond Villan throughout.

I could tell this wasn’t being appreciated but didn’t care, after all it’s my house and I can be a twat of I want to. It’s a good job Bono didn’t turn up.

Just Call Me Costanza (another web of lies ensues)

For once it’s Lisa who’s suggested a web of lies for me to perform, and as ever I’m ready for the challenge.

Lisa was due to go over to Leeds to meet up with two friends from college whom she hadn’t seen for a while. She was looking forward to meeting up with them and she was especially looking forward to a night out in the fine city of Leeds. The weekend had been planned for nearly 6 weeks now, but when texting one of these chums to see if it was okay still for her to stay at her flat she received a text saying words to the effect that they couldn’t be arsed going out in Leeds and preferred it if they could come to Liverpool to ‘reminisce’ and “it’s okay for us to stay at yours isn’t it?”

Naturally Lisa was offended by this, after all you don’t change plans last minute and assume to be staying at someone else’s? I agreed with her wholeheartedly when she relayed the correspondence, in fact I don’t think I had ever taken such a keen interest in any of her problems or stresses as much as I had with this particular predicament.
She did the sensible thing and text back stating that I was crippled with pain, on crutches etc etc and that it wouldn’t be a good idea and could they re-arrange for another time?. Of course I said that I didn’t mind if they wanted to stay.

“Really you wouldn’t mind?” A friend asked me when I regaled this scenario.
“Well that’s what makes me such a special person” I answered quietly confident they wouldn’t be staying.

…I was wrong.

Once Lisa had sent this text message she immediately received a phone call from the friend in question. Lisa, who’s preferred method of ‘text lying’ Is to ignore the message and say that she hadn’t seen it until the following day, by which time of course it’s too late or she has time to conjur up an excuse (the world’s worst excuse I frequently tell her) so when she answered the phone she was out of her depth and comfort zone and in a muddle of panic and guilt agreed to have them over.

“No….really? they’re coming?”
“You said you didn’t mind” She informed me.
“I know, but I was confident they wouldn’t come”
“Well it serves you right then doesn’t it!?”

It was only for Saturday, so I could cope I suppose. After all I’ve always got on with them. One of the girls in question lived with Lisa for a few years and went to my halls of residence so I know her quite well. A nice girl but who swears way too much in her loud Northern Irish voice. “Fuck NO!!!!” is her favourite line and is used in place of a “no way” type scenarios or just generally yelling “Fuck!!” at the top of her voice for no apparent reason.

Her other friend we haven’t seen for about 6 years, in fact I think the last time I saw her was the day of my first ever gig with the band! Both of her friends always laughed a little too heartedly at my jokes, which at first is flattering but after a while becomes grating -“your SOOO funny” and applauding over zealously at the merest whiff of humour.
There was a caveat to their staying however:

“I told them you’re bed bound…”
“What!?”
She found my reaction hilarious.
“Well I had to make Michelle feel as if it’s really bad so they couldn’t come.”
“But I’m getting better- I’m only using one crutch now!”
“So- you’ll just have to use both of them when you get up- but I told her you spent all you time in the bedroom.”
“Why should I!? They’re your friends- I can’t get to the Playstation/computer?! Can’t you just explain that I’m recovering much better now?”
“I can’t- I laid it on pretty thick.”
“Then why the hell is she still coming?”
“Because she reckons the three of us won’t be able to meet up until 2013!!!”
“Okay- but why can’t you go to Leeds still”
“She wants to reminisce!”
“What she wants to go the Student Union, drink watered down larger, play some pool, cop off with some spotting hair straightened stripy top wear emo student go to the Jackeranda and spend the remainder of the evening dancing in Baa Bar?”
“Oh I don’t know…but I thought you revelled in your excuse making and web of lies?”

She appealed to my ego....

“…I mean, how many times have I got embroiled in one of your lies to get you out of anything?”
“When!!??” I demanded to know.
“Yesterday you fat head!!…You made up a back story so if Steve asks me where you were when he asked if he could come over.”

She had a point. When I told a friend that I wasn’t home without giving an explanation I told Lisa to pass on the story that I was at the hospital waiting to be X-Rayed and had to wait an eon to get it done and hilariously (and typically me) I left my copies of the X-rays in the back of the taxi. OF course I was just sat on the bed watching The Pink Panther and couldn’t be arsed seeing anyone.- but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

So reluctantly, I’ve agreed to have to ‘put it on’. If ever there was a challenge I relish, it’s providing people with elaborate excuses- after all I’ve so frequently been called the master. So with much gusto I shall try to pull the wool over Lisa’s two friends. It ought to be easy too- just lay in bed watching TV.

Just call me Costanza!

MP3

(follow links)-

Broken Family Band - Honest Man’s Blues

Sugar- Feeling Better

The Earlies- Burn the Liars

The Kingsbury Manx- New Old Friend Blues

video (games) killed the radio star

Since my operation I’ve had many well wishers enquiring as to how I’m feeling ‘in myself’. I’m not a fan of this phrase; however I have been very civil and honest in my responses and confirmed that I’ve never felt better and that I’m actually having a whale of a time!

Sadly however, Lisa is off sick too, which is obviously terrible for her, but it bad for me too as it has slightly affected my daily routine. For starters at 1pm when I’m usually in the font room listening to some records and reading, Jeremy Kyle was on our telly! I couldn’t stand it so I had to leave and start watching Seinfeld in the bedroom earlier than scheduled. I even decided to forgo my nap and Lisa’s presence even affected my daily movie watching. According to my schedule, Citizen Kane was Monday’s movie de jour, however we watched Rocky Balboa instead.

I’d like to point out at this juncture that with the notable exception of Rocky V, I’ve not seen any of the Rocky films. I’m often laughed at by peers of mine when this fact is brought up but despite enjoying boxing I’ve never felt the inclination to sit down and watch any of them. (It’s the same with Rambo too, though I saw First Blood for the very first time the weekend before we went to NYC) Anyhow, Rocky Balboa was lent to me when Jon and Eve came round to visit. Jon thought I may be running out of films to watch so loaned me a few choice DVDs from his impressive collection which included the aforementioned Stallone ego fest. Safe to say it wasn’t the worst film I’ve ever seen, but it amongst the worst films I’ve seen in a very long time. Not all that surprising is it?

Anyway, so Lisa’s not well, so I decided to get up after her alarm had woken me. I came down to the back room and switched in the radio, which was still on Radio 6 from last night. On a whim I decided to enter a competition for a new X-Box. I e-mailed my name etc via the BBC website.
About a minute later I received a call from the producer, who was from what I can ascertain calling me to make sure that I’m succinct and not going to freeze on air. Safe to say, a minute later I received another call from another producer to inform me that I’ll be on air in 30 seconds….coool!

Anyway- you can listen back here (aprox 8:40am):

HERE!

I didn’t win, but it was fun. I was squashed between Blondie and Interpol.

Oddly, it was on this day about 4 years ago that I made my second Radio 6 appearance, when the band recorded a live session for Marc Riley, I remember the date as it was my Dad’s birthday (as is today obviously) and at the time he was attempting and subsequently succeeding in walking Mt. Kilimanjaro at the time.

My first ever live interview performance was for Radio 6. At the time I’d already done several recorded sessions for Radio 1 XFM etc, which at the time was nerve wracking enough (though the second Peel session wasn’t- that was just a joy to do!) so going down to London to appear on Gideon Coe’s mid morning live BBC Radio 6 show did have the butterflies going in my stomach.

Sadly, it wasn’t a very pleasant experience.

I was supposed to be picked up by our (now ex.) manager who was to drive us to the BBC HQ on Great Portland Street. We’d planned to set off at 6am in order to make good time. Our manager had even hired a car for it, however after waiting for him for 40 plus minutes I had the feeling it wasn’t going to be so straight forward. I tried to call him but there was no answer. I called Tim and Ellen who were the only other band members travelling down for this acoustic session, and they’d been trying to reach him too but to no avail. We re-assured ourselves that because he’d made such a big deal of the session, there’s no way he’d have forgotten…or would he?

After another twenty minutes or so we had to come up with a contingency plan, and despite never driving further than Hull before Helen stood up to the plate and offered to drive us to London. Of course, they live the other side of the city, so I had to wait nervously for another thirty minutes before I saw her car arrive. At the time I had an acoustic bass guitar that had been leant to me by our ‘other’ manager. It was awful and looked the type of thing that the lanky cunt from The Manic Street Preachers would use or a session musician (the scourge of we crappy indie band musicians), but I was just happy (as a bass player) that I was permitted to attend an acoustic session.
I sat in the back of the car and laid the guitar, which had no case, across my lap and proceeded to chew my finger nails for 4 hours until we’d arrived.

After we’d crossed the Runcorn Bridge our manager, Glenn called me panicked and flustered to say that he’d slept in because his house mate’s toddler had unplugged his alarm clock. We didn’t believe him but he said he was going to set off and reckoned he’d get there before us and we could follow him as he knew the way. He didn’t but called every 30 minutes on route to check on our progress and being generally as unhelpful as someone can in these situations.

By the time we’d started to leave Liverpool, the traffic on the motor way had started to get heavy- and continued to do so until we reached the outskirts of a pre-toll road Birmingham and the motorway was at a virtual standstill. It was a proper race against time.

At one point it was looking like we weren’t going to make it and Ellen had refused to go over 75 mph he shouted down the phone at me “Tell her to out her fucking foot down” I decided not to pass this message on for fear this may cause more problems and in my own style suggested that if possible and safely we could go a little faster.

Obviously he had called ahead to inform them of our impending lateness and from text messages I received from friends listening to his show told us that they’d announced that we were running late, stuck in traffic etc on air.

We found the BBC Studios easier than we thought possible and screeched up outside and ran into the building with guitars in hands. Our radio plugger met us in the reception and he wasn’t pleased, but we did the only thing musicians do in these scenarios; we blamed our manager. I don’t think I’d apologised so many times for something that wasn’t directly my fault before.

We had a few minutes to tune the guitars and discuss what songs we were going to do.
I remember Tim asking our radio plugger if we had to do our new single.
His eyes widened so much that they encompassed the entire of his skinny bald head, making him look like a Tex Avery cartoon.

“OF COURSE YOU HAVE TO DO YOUR FUCKING NEW SINGLE! That’s what they’ve invited you here to play!!”

I wanted to reason with him that surely the DJ plays the new single and we play non-single tracks, but decided ‘not to go there’.

We were then bustled into the studio and met the DJ. We sound-checked and were on air with 15 minutes left of their show. The DJ, as nice as he was, just asked us what food we’d eaten on route. “Ginsters Pasties or homemade sandwiches” and other question of this ilk for seven or so minutes.

“What a buffoon” I thought and laughed along with his quasi humours musings.
We played the two songs okayish, though the acoustic bass was a terrible idea. At the time, as Simian was still in the band there would have been no way he’d have let me get away with playing his guitar parts to the songs though he couldn’t attend the session. I recall the band being a political nightmare at the time, Steve and I ensuring that the equilibrium was maintain between the other band members- a tough job to say the least.

It all went very quickly. After we’d finished and exchanged niceties with the DJ and production staff our sweaty and stressed looking manager burst in dispensing apologies all round. I thought the whole thing was hilarious, but it appeared I was the only one in the band who thought so at the time.

Glenn then offered to take us for food where he grovelled some more, and took us to meet some more radio pluggers and PR type folks, most of whom we’d met before and all of whom were very nice. I loved grassing Glenn up about him sleeping in. I really got a kick out of it. I think I heard him say in response “Christian’s baby had unplugged my alarm clock!” at least two dozen times. Also I remember it was the day after Jemini had got nil points on the Eurovision Song Contest. This was slightly embarrassing to us as our ‘other’ manager was at the time their manager and released their single in his own record label!! I think at that point I knew we were fucked but stupidly remained optimistic.

Things got tense as we’d been up since 5am and it was a 4 hour journey home and Ellen by her own admittance was getting cranky and wanted to go. This just made our manager more cantankerous and argumentative. “I’ve said I’m sorry, you still made the show…it wasn’t my fault it was Christian’s baby who must have unplugged his alarm clock!”

I remember saying: “We were on a break!!!” in reference to ‘that’ episode of Friends in a hopeful attempt to clear the air. It didn’t work though Tom laughed.

We had to leave early, and as ever I was left to pacify the ‘artists’ and ‘the management’ individually. Glenn said he could give me a lift home though he was visibly upset at the way he felt he’d been treated. I did actually feel sorry for him, which I did throughout his tenure as our manager, though I felt he had it coming as he’d been pissing the band off now for sometime. I politely declined his offer as he was unquestionably the scariest/fastest driver I’d ever had the misfortune to be in a car with- something of a joke amongst those who knew him- plus he smoked heavily and I couldn’t be arsed listen to him bitch about the band. Instead I opted to go home with T&E.

Considering Ellen had never driven to London before she did a bloody good job at getting us there on time and in once piece, though I can recall on the journey home wishing at some point that I’d gone with Glenn instead as we pulled into two service stations to sit down take a break a coffee etc. and arrived home some 5 and a half hours after we set off.

This was a clear sign that I must have been thoroughly shattered as in the cold light of morning I would never in a million years have got in a car again with this oaf.

Rock n’ Roll!

MP3:

Richard Thompson – I’ll Tag Along

Micah P. Hinson- Patience

McFearless

I had my staples removed yesterday, and for the most part it was without incident with the notable exception of the large woman who looked like Baron Silas Greenback from Dangermouse who took it upon herself to sit next to me in the waiting room and insist on talking to me and minor curiosity that my taxi driver had a blue biro in his right hand whilst he drove.

I’d clocked Greenback the moment she waddled in to the medical centre. She had the deepest voice I’ve ever heard in a woman, so much so when I heard her speak I assumed her to be a fellow member of the male gender until she gave her name to the receptionist. She squashed into the chair next to me with her fat rolling over from her seat and actually touching me. She also had especially poor body odour. I did my best not to look directly at her whilst I answered her intrusive questions until my name was called.

15 of the 18 staples were removed from my knee without any real discomfort, but 3 hurt like a bitch and bled a little. I was glad that I’d pre-warned the nurses that I was a big coward with no tolerance to pain whatsoever. They were very kind and told me I was “very brave”. This made me feel like I was 7, rather than a (currently) heavily bearded 30 year old, but I kinda liked regressing. I’m not entirely sure when I become such a wimp- but my own cowardice and squeemishness often takes me by surprise.

MP3 Toongae:

Neal Casal – Tonight I’m going to Bleed

Super Furry Animals - Short Painkiller

Pavement- Sensitive Euro Man

Stevie Wonder- Ordinary pain

Phat Kat- Nasty Aint It

Kings Of Leon- McFearless

Should have stayed in bed

After a week of cabin fever I finally left the warm(ish) and safe confines of the flat this morning to go to my first Physio appointment. My pre-ordered taxi arrived on time at 8am and Lisa helped me down the many, many stairs and waved me off on the door step in her dressing gown with a look of concern across her face. I felt like it was my first day at school or something.

The taxi was in fact, rather confusingly so, a minibus and the driver was ever so helpful as I struggled to get in the passenger seat.

“Easy now” he half heartedly muttered.

He was in his early sixties, and had Reg Varney type Brylcreemed hair and the aura of some one who is, or was a heavy smoker. Should you ever had attended my school and were unfortunate enough to get the Acheason’s busses-namely the Knox/Jennyfield ones as I did and recall Ken and Ken then you’ll know where I’m coming from.

I’d given myself 45 minutes to make my appointment but hadn’t counted on my driver not knowing his way around Liverpool and he took me the longest way that was possible. Not only that but he insisted travelling via the notoriously busy Queen’s Drive. The conversation was okay until he started to slag off the Council and the City of Culture. Although I kind of agreed with most of what he was saying but after 15 minutes of being stuck in traffic with a painful knee and some oily cabbie shouting from his soap box I’d had enough and tactfully changed to conversation to the weather.

It became clear after twenty five minutes I was going to be late. So I tried to call the hospital to let them know, but my cabbie chum told me we were just around the corner and not to worry, so I hung up before anyone answered. After all I’d never seen this Hospital before so could only take his word for it.

Ten minutes later and we were only ten feet closer to our destination, I decided to call. As I dialled he started banging on about the state of the road and the lack of decent car parking facilities for the local people. I gestured towards my phone to indicate that I wasn’t being rude, but I needed to make a call. He didn’t stop gassing though. Eventually after waiting for a polite moment for me to make the call I just dialled the number, held the phone to my ear and waited for an answer, all the while he was still bemoaning the Council’s so called efforts to get the city’s roads road worthy. When the receptionist answered I couldn’t hear her because of the combined noise of the mini bus’ engine, the radio, his taxi C.B and his incessant chatter. I told her my name and appointment time and apologised that I was running late and that I couldn’t quite hear her.

Ten or so minutes later we’d arrived at Broadgreen Hospital. I told him the name of the building and he calmly told me that I’d have to go to the main reception. I paid him (£8!) and thanked him before struggling to get out of the taxi. I almost slipped and fell.

“easy now”

“cheers!” and called him a dick head under my breath.

I was 15 minutes late and was sure that they’d have given my appointment to someone else. As I walked- well crutched (what word describes the motion of moving under the aid of crutches?) my way to the reception I started to concoct excuses in my head.

The receptionist, a pretty thing in a black polo necked jumper was on a phone call and put her hand over the receiver when she saw me.

“Therapy Dept please?”
“Down the corridor turn left then right. You can’t miss it”

I followed these directions but ended in the Osteoporosis Department. I had to wait in a queue for five minutes before being told that the receptionist was crap and that I was on the wrong side of the building.

I raced off as fast as I could down another generic hospital corridor over a bridge, down some stairs and down another long corridor past the blood transfusion department to the physiotherapy section, but even going as fast as I could took ten or so minutes. I raced past the elderly gentleman on a Zimmer frame and almost collapsed with exhaustion at the reception.

“Hi- I’m sorry I’m late…I’m here for my 8.40 appointment”
The chubby but pretty faced receptionist looked up at the clock which was at 9.10.
“The taxi driver was a buffoon and your main receptionist is hopeless” I gasped still trying to catch my breath.
“That’s okay- did she send you to Osteoporosis?”
“As a matter of act she did?”

“That sounds about right. I’m sorry about that- you can’t get the staff these days. Okay, what’s your name and the first line of your address please?”
I gave her all the necessary data protection answers she asked.

“Hmmm; there’s nothing on the system for you. Are you sure it was today”
I grimaced and pulled out the piece of paper I’d written the info on after they’d called me last week.

“Yeah- today at 8.40am"

“Can I see that?”

“Sure…I guess?”

I handed her the scrap of paper which was by now covered in doodles and other messages and the word ‘MILK’ written in huge ink letters that Lisa had scrawled on as a reminder to herself along with my details for my staple removal of Friday. I couldn’t see why she’d want to see this it was hardly evidence.

“Hmmmm” She said examining it closely.

She stood up walked over to chat to another clerk who was in the ‘record room’ located behind the desk.

The other clerk came over and asked me the same questions and I responded with the same answers-patiently I may add. She eventually went and checked in a massive tower of paperwork.
“Ah ha! Found it!” She exclaimed after thumbing her way through this truly impressive stack of paperwork..

“Phew- thought it was going to be one of those days” I said to the chubby receptionist who reciprocated my relieved smile.
“Oh- it says this appointment was cancelled by phone toady”
“What?”
She walked over with the appointment sheet with ‘cancelled by phone 26/06/07’ written across it.
“I never cancelled it” I said stubbornly.
“Are you sure?” asked chubby.
“Oh- quite sure”
“I don’t know how this could have happened? ” She called out to a man with a white shirt and awful Daffy Duck tie on.
“Have you taken any calls to cancel any appointments today?” She asked.
The man shook his head.
“Not today…why?” He replied walking towards us.

By now my good leg (ole righty) was hurting from taking all the weight from my left leg and I could feel my temper getting shorter and my eyes were starting to roll.
“Does it matter? I still want the appointment” I asked politely and hopefully.
“Of course, do you want to take a seat please sir”

I duly obliged and slowly sat down in the waiting area.
They were still discussing the cancellation and a rather large black woman tottered over to join in. She looked annoyed and turned around to me.

“You phoned up half an hour ago to cancel”
“Nope. ‘fraid not” I answered.
“Yeah you did, Matthew yeah?”
“Yes- but I never phoned to cancel. I called to say I was running late because of the traffic”
“No- you definitely said ‘to cancel the appointment’ as you were unable to make it”
“Sorry- I think there’s been some confusion. When I called I was literally around the corner. Why would I cancel when I was so close? I was just trying to be courteous.”
“Well it would have been more courteous if you’d been on time!” She said emphatically and walked off.

I tried not to let it get to me, but it had. I sat there twiddling my thumbs looking over at chubby and her cohorts.

“We’ll try and fit you in soon Matthew” she said apologetically.
“thanks….sorry about the confusion” I said and regretted apologising instantly.
“Yes well can you try and make it on time next time please?”

After nearly 45 minutes of waiting the Physio called me in.

I ‘crutched’ over and sat on the bed.
After three simple manoeuvres, she asked me to continue doing what I was doing and to book an appointment for next week.

“That’s it?” I asked.
“Yes, unless you’ve got any concerns you want to ask me about?”
“Errr…oh yes! When can I get the wound wet? I’m dying to take a bath”
“Well I’d leave it at least a week after you’ve had the staples removed.”
“Okay then…thanks”

She helped me put my trainers back on and led me towards the reception.

“After next week we’ll try and get you using your crutches less- a bit more weight baring on it- but if you want you can go swimming- front crawl only though!”
“I thought you said I couldn’t get my knee wet?”
“Yeah….oh? Erm…actually don’t go swimming. See you next week!”

‘How reassuring’ I thought.

She left me with the moody black woman to book another appointment.
“Next Thursday okay?”
“That’ll be great thanks…what time?”
“9.30am.”
“Okay thanks…”
“..Better make it 10am, as I know you find it hard to get out of bed early in the morning”
“I…oh, okay. Ta” I said shaking my head with contempt.
I hobbled down the corridors and to the main reception where the fit girl in the black polo neck jumper was still on the phone and filing her expensive looking nails.

“Is there a taxi rank anywhere please?”
“Just go out the door and turn to your left…you can’t miss it!”
“Ta!”
I walked out and turned right finding the taxi rank within seconds. As I waved it over I realised that I’d left my piece of paper with the info regarding my staple removal at the reception.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!!” I thundered.

Reluctantly I hobbled slowly and angrily back down the corridor over the bridge, down the stairs and down the annoyingly long corridor past the blood transfusion department to the physiotherapy section.

Chubby was sat at reception.
“Back again? What did you forget?”
“I gave you a piece of paper with some info on it- which I need when I get my staples removed”She looked blank at me the clicked her fingers once the penny had dropped..
“I remember! Just give me second, though I think I may have thrown it away”
She searched in vain for a minute or so on her desk.
“No sorry. I must have thrown it away.”
“Perfect.”

I thought about asking her to look through the bin, but realised it was futile, after all as she said ‘you can’t get the staff these days!’ Anyway, surely the NHS treatment Centre where I’m getting my staples removed would have all my information on their system…surely?

When I eventually climbed wearily into the taxi drenched in perspiration I realised that I’d have to go through this rigmarole on Friday and imagined the scenario “I gave the info to a chubby woman working at Broadgreen!!” and shuddered and the prospect.

“Where to hop-a-long?” Said my cheerful cabbie.
“Stationary Box! And step on it” I replied.

Only When I Laugh...

So hospital eh?

What a cool experience! I love hospital…seriously. What could be better? Laying in bed, pleasant nurses bringing you food, tea, drugs etc. I had a blast!

I wasn’t all fun, fun, fun though I did have to wear a pair of pants that resembled the little white net you put your washing powder tablets into. I also had to have several injections, which whilst not all that unpleasant made me act like a child.

As I commented of the day of my day of arrival to the ole’ hospital I was slightly nervous, though this was cleverly disguised as hunger. I was frickkin’ starving. I just drank as much water as I could and chewed my way through as much chewing gum as Big Sam Allerdyce and Alex Ferguson combined.

My taxi driver who drove me from Runcorn station to my impending date with the surgeons looked a lot Dan Castellaneta and didn’t ask me what I was going in for. The fucker should have seen I was anxious and at least given me a token conversation. This rudeness cost him his tip! (He won’t be doing that again I fear)

Having already been to this particular facility I knew where to go and I was mentally prepared as I could have been.
After a ten minute wait and more water and chewing gum, my name was called along with anther chap’s. He stood up and I followed the porter, the other patient and his tidy looking blonde girlfriend whom I’d clocked as soon as I walked in. This made me feel ever so slightly ill at ease. We were led into a lift and a two minute walk later we were in a ward. There were four beds, two of which already had people in their gowns. These two guys were both in their late fifties/early sixties and one of them was a rather hefty looking chap who was laying on his side reading a copy of the Express. The other look quite sensible as if he’d been an Bank Manager or something.

Eventually a young and not particularly good looking nurse arrived and drew the curtains around me. She asked me to get changed into my gown and pants. I wanted to make sure that I wore the gown the correct way round this time and regaled my story of putting on backwards last time. She found this hilarious (as did a nurse friend of mine when I told her) especially when I explained that the nurse then told me they could be worn either way- though she failed to point out that my knackers were on display. She proceeded to ask me a slew of boring but necessary questions then shaved my knee with a electric razor.

About ten or so minutes later I was led by the not particularly good looking nurse to where I’d be getting ‘cut’. I had to wait outside for several minutes whilst a women (An anaesthetist I’m guessing) asked me more of the same types of questions. She was wear clogs and the archetypical surgeon’s scrubs. She was alarmed when I told her I’d drank lots of water and had chewing gum, in fact she looked so concerned thought I’d put the kybosh on the whole procedure.

“No one said I wasn’t supposed to do this!” I repeated apologetically.

She gave me that look as if to say it was obvious. My life was in her hands so I decided not to argue.

I was led into the operating theatre where there was a solitary and scary looking table and approximately 5 people cleaning and sorting surgical apparatus (I assume it was surgical apparatus) wearing the mask and cap and scrub type regalia. Some beardo hippie looking type doctor attached a valve into my left hand (which hurt) and the anaesthetist strapped a huge tourniquet across my thigh. I winced with pain as the velcro on the tourniquet removed several hairs on the inside of my upper thigh -millimetres from my tackle. She laughed and told me not to be a baby- I demanded the drugs and they duly obliged.

“You’re going to stat drifting off shortly” Beardo said as I could feel the anaesthetic entering my veins.

“I’m going to count…1…2…3”

I felt my face go funny- sort of pins and needles, which was akin to the first time you smoke a cigarette, I felt dizzy and before I could get a remark about him being like Derren Brown I let out a girly giggle and I was out….



I can sort of vaguely remember a female doctor telling me to remove my oxygen mask. I was very disoriented and I wanted to go back to sleep.

“How’s the pain?”
“Huh?”
“How would you rate it? 1 out of 10?”
“11”
“It really hurts does it?”
“yeah- you’ve done the wrong leg”
“What!!!”
“Only joking….” And I drifted back to sleep.

I awoke again and tried to crack the same joke. In fact looking back at it now, I regrettably said it six or seven times to this very patient soul who was still stood beside me.

“We did the ACL
reconstruction”
“Woooo!”
“All went well…”
“You’ve done the wrong leg….zzzzzzz”

I awoke again and she was still there. “piss off and let me get some kip” I thought but didn’t say out loud.

She chatted to me trying to rouse me from my slumber taking about iodine and other complex medical issues. My doctor came over and said something, but I couldn’t hear him. It was like the teacher in Charlie Brown; “wa wah wa wah wah wah wa”.
I noticed a clock and it said 4.30pm. I walked into the operating theatre at 12.20...some sleep huh?

I was wheeled back to my ward on the bed and I felt like a child. It was great. We slowly glided through corridors, in a shiny metallic lift, past some pretty nurses sat behind a reception. As I trundled past them they gave me a sympathetic smile and I in turn gave them the thumbs up as if I was a RAF pilot who’d been shot down during WWII- their hero!

Soon I was back in my ward and one of the two gentlemen from before greeted my return and I saluted him.
All I wanted to do was fucking sleep. This was thwarted by nurses who insisted on taking my blood pressure and temperature every 15 minutes. It seemed that every time I closed my eyes I was awoken by them with their kind smiles and reassurances. I must admit I was starting to like it there.
In between nodding on and off and having my temperature and pulse taken, the phone by my bedside rang and Lisa was on the other line asking how it went. I grunted down the phone for five minutes but was feeling pretty lousy and extremely thirsty and from what I gather from speaking to her afterwards – I made little sense.
The two guys opposite had knee replacements. I lay on my back thinking this was a pretty sweet life as another nurse pumped some drugs in me via the valve on my left and.

The heft patient laying next to the guy opposite me was something of a character, something of an old sage if you will. He had a Ricky Tomlinson type scouse accent and cracked jokes at any given opportunity to the nurses and patients alike. As I tried to sleep I could hear him chatting to the other knee replacement guy opposite me about how he only had an epidural and was awake during his procedure.

“I could hear them sawing my bone and stapling me back together.”

He then spent the next hour or so ringing around his huge family, kids, grandkids, nephews etc. He had a very sweet way of saying “hello” when the person he was calling picked up the phone. It was the kind of ‘hello’ you may expect a dear old cleaning lady to say as she popped in the office to give it a quick Hoover before calling everyone love and discussing Coronation Street.
I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t exactly make out what he looked like. He was a hefty fella though and no mistaking.

After a good snooze I awoke to the sound of the guy opposite my puking and apologising whilst doing so.

“I’m dreadfully sorr---bluuuuuuueeeugh!!! This has never- bleeeeugugh oh I’m so sorry Speeeeeewwwughhh” I awoke feeling much fresher and was offered some tea. This made me feel sick and I got the spins. Despite not feeling hungry I accepted some sandwiches which I ate with my head in my hands, knowing that I must be hungry so this will make me feel better and fighting the sickly feeling in my head and gut.

Thankfully they stopped checking my temperature and blood pressure and they wheeled in the chap who came in with me (the one with the fit girlfriend). He looked very sleepy and didn’t answer many of the inquisitive questions asked by the hefty chap. I chatted to the two other patients and the big chap relayed a dozen or so anecdotes about when he was a copper in the seventies/eighties and the injuries he’s had. Despite my reservations that this man was a twat of the highest order, I was entertained by these stories as was the nurses and other patients.

I felt very comfortable on the bed, and listened to my MP3 player whilst the other patients had their visitors. Despite insisting Lisa didn’t make the arduous trip to Runcorn (From her work this would almost take and hour and a half there and the same back) I wished that some of my friends had offered to drive her there.

Groggy, I watched Gordon Ramsay’s ‘The F Word’, was given more tea, biscuits and drugs. I asked the large and friendly African nurse how I was supposed to take a piss. The nurse drew the curtains and gave me a bottle.
“Can I not walk to the toilet?”
She pointed to the valves and other apparatus coming from underneath my bandage and out from my knee.

“bugger”

After nearly fifteen minutes I finally managed to squeeze some dark yellow urine into the bottle. It smelt funny.

When the nurse collected it she gave it an impressive look and congratulated me.
”If you hadn’t passed any urine we’d have had to have out a catheter on”

“And trust me YOU don’t want THAT!” shouted the big bloke whilst the other knee patient pointed to his and winced.

The pressure was on.

I went to sleep fast.



I awoke to see the nurses switching on the lights above the big patient. ‘Wow! That was one of the best night’s sleep ever’ I thought. I looked at the time and it was 12.30am. Great!

After more blood pressure test I was finally left to sleep until 4.30 when I woke up to the dulcet tones from the snoring of the hefty patient and a full and bursting bladder.

“Don’t think about the catheter, don’t think about the catheter, don’t think about the catheter” I muttered to myself as I tried will much gust to take a piss in the bottle in the dark in my bed. By 5am the bottle was almost full and I was fully awake.

I stayed awake and listened to the loud snoring from the big patient, who when he awoke at 6.30 claimed it didn’t sleep all night.

I was then met by the doc at 7am who told me it was unlikely that I’d be leaving that day. Half and hour later a nurse told me the opposite, and after a bed bath- which I’m glad to say I was allowed to do myself my small Indian physio told me the same.

After the physio session where I was given some crutches, I the had to wait until 7pm to speak to the doctor who was to give me the all clear. It was 10.30am. This time dragged. I spent most of this time trying to sleep but chatting and to a certain degree, bonding with the fellow patients. When I was finally told to piss off home, and wheeled out of the ward on a snazzy looking wheel chair I felt very sad to be saying good bye to these men whom I’d spend so much time with, but never once enquired as to what their name’s where.

The taxi driver who drove us straight home, didn’t say much but had strong B.O and a photo of his kid bluetacked on to his dashboard.

When we got home and up the miles of steep stairs, I tried to make myself comfortable and raised my glass (well my tea- I’ve been booze sine I went in) to the hefty chap and the other guy, who were to remain in the hospital until Sunday at least. 5 days!!!! The Lucky cunts!

MP3:

Cold War Kids-Hospital Beds

LCD Soundsytem- Never as Tired as When I Wake Up

Noah John- Infirmary

Tiger- I’m in love with RAF Nurse

ALIVE!

I lived...

The doc's have signed me off work for six friggin' weeks- so as previously stated expect lengthy rambles more frequently.

My knee is swore and uncomfortable but other than the fact that I haven't washed my hair since last Tuesday all is well, except my carer (Lisa)is starting to quietly air her grievences at the situation.

"Shut up and bring me a sandwich"

The pics above is what my knee looks like at the moment

'clear liquids'

Well I’m off to hospital today for my knee operation. I could be out by later today or I could very well be in there for a couple of nights. I'm not allowed to eat and can only drink 'clear liquids' i.e. black and or green tea.
I'm rather hungry too.

I’m going to be off work now for a few weeks- so expect frequent blog entries unless I become so self absorbed in watching daytime TV and sit waiting for a message on Facebook- which I am thoroughly bored with already I’m hasten to add.

Sadly, due to a thoroughly bizarre two weeks, I’ve not been posting any blogs. Rest assured I’ve been writing them (well amalgamated into one lengthy one) and no doubt this tale of self-indulgent woe , disaster and cowardice will be on this hallowed pages soon…unless of course I die during the operation…oh shit…I could die I suppose?...great!!

Okay- if I do- then will someone please tell Lisa that I still (despite her not believing me) that I want ‘The Monster Mash’ to be played at my funeral!

here we go again....

After the recent Big Brother race problem- in which they were dead on in kicking her out of course- the resulting furore has caused a tidal wave of poor responses from our good ole British public. Nothing irks me quite as much as white folks trying to justify using the 'n' word by saying "they" use it all the time...or "its in hip hop lyrics" etc. I picked up the Metro-the free paper- on the train this morning and this was the opinion of three fuckwits who decided that their opinion on race and racism is so important that they felt the need to write to the paper to express their views and some dim schmuck in the paper's office snorting loudly in agreement. (I do appreciate the hypocrisy in that statement) The emphasis of these letter's was that it was people in the black community who are to blame- which is the biggest pile of tosh I've ever heard. Not only that but some fool actually wrote in to say something along the lines of how come no one has pulled up the Housemates on there bad language which is just as bad!! I think not madam, I think not….

Thus far no one (that I've heard at least) has brought into question the role of white writers/directors etc who use the word frequently and somewhat unnecessarily in their work such as Quentin Tarrentino (does the sign say 'Dead N***** storage' to you?) , Kevin Smith (Porch monkey's -we're taking it back) or even Simon Pegg (whazzup n******?). Now that the taboo seems to have been lifted and it’s seen as okay to use the word are you surprised that someone with no brain cells comes out with this sort of clanger? Surly recent events; notably Ron-I'm not A Racist-Atkinson, Michael I'm not funny anymore and I'm not a racist either- Richards ought to have put his issue to bed- I thought it was quite simple-just don’t use the word!!!

I mean; how stupid do you have to be to say that word on a TV programme that picks up ever utterance and whisper and with whom had been embroiled in a race storm previously. What is worrying is a) her justification and subsequent statements saying she didn't cause any offence-when it was quite clear she had b) a large number of the good ole' flag flying, Sun reading, overweight, Findus' Crispy pancake eating, England shirt wearing fuckers making up a portion of the British public people not seeing any harm in using the word and most importantly c) how that word could just slip out?! One of my all time favourite songs uses the 'N' word some thirty plus times-but I've never felt the inclination to use that word in any other way except for waving my hands in the air and hollering the badass lyrics to all and sundry (MP3 below).

Alarmingly, it has caused us to watch the damned show after I pleaded with my missus for us to forgo the programme this year and up until then we'd been successful!

I'd been thinking about this clip before this recent fiasco-as it's one of my favourite Family guy moments- with a nod to Curb Your Enthusiasm, which may I add is about the only damned clip not on effing Youtube!

Brian: It’s like that time you faked being racist to get out of Jury duty …
(Cut to Peter sitting on a Jury of which half are black and half are white)

Peter: There sure is a lotta’ Honkeys here today…

Wu Tang Clan - Shame on a Nigga

NO yoke

Since returning to Blighty, I've been putting off writing a brief description of our little excursion. I did make an earnest start on the following day, but due to the jet lag my enthusiasm waned somewhat and it can be added the ever increasing half completed blog entrees I've written over the past few months. Suffice to say that it was a most splendid holiday, and the Big Apple is indeed a fantastic city to visit. There was plenty of amusing moments, notably my row with the snotty American air stewardess on the way home where I uncharacteristically lost my rag in a very public way.

Since returning home and appreciating all things English/British/Uk'ish/European again I've had little time to spend with my feet up relaxing due to my semi-annual leaflet delivery duties and nipping home to see the family.

After returning to work on Monday, it already feels as if I'd never been away except for the gargantuan amount of e-mails in my inbox and having to repeat the same answers about our holiday- which wasn't a problem until he 20th time a well wishing colleague asked "how was it? What did you get up to?"

Some shocking events however, have lifted my re-crushed spirits, namely the fact that I'd received an e-mail from our HR Dept, informing me that due to some admin error, I wasn't getting paid enough for the whole of last year, and a backdated payment of over £400 will be in my next wage slip, not to mention last April's pay rise which they also neglected to give me. I've tried hard to be pissed off about it, but I can't as a nice big lump couldn't come at a better time....huzzzar.

Then today, the good luck continued when I was struck by an egg thrown by some twunt from a speeding car.

The good luck part was that it pounded into my doughy gut and then proceeded to bounce to the hot pavement before breaking. I looked around to see a boy-racer style black Vauxhall Nova speeding off into the sunset. An egg drive by no less and I had remained unharmed. Joy o' joy! I checked my shirt and trousers to see what damage had been caused from this unnecessary projectile and I genuinely punched the air with glee when I realised that in fact I had escaped unscathed.
I felt exhilarated and I've had a spring in my step since my lucky break.

Of course should the egg have exploded on impact, I would have had to have gone home to change especially if you consider the unnecessary hot weather we're having. Seriously, what are the odds?

This isn't the first time I've been struck by an egg I'm hastened to add, on Aigburth Road about four years ago, I felt as if someone had thrown a golf ball at the back of my head. When I turned around to see what had just struck me so venomously, I spotted a broken egg lying on the concrete. I checked my head for any yoke or shell, but there was nothing, zip, zero, nada, nowt. That time I was slightly freaked out as I was on safe and familiar ground and was extremely paranoid that I had egg in my hair, not to mention slightly shocked (kudos me or not writing 'shell shocked') with the event. I'd gotten away with it then too.

Perhaps I'm blessed, and if I was to be a Superhero this would be my superpower. If it is, then it does no good to mankind or me as far as I can see?