Conversations with the Bearded Man (12) – Baby

At no point in my life had I ever considered the possibility of becoming a father. I was – I am – far too careless I know, to be responsible for the well-being of a potted plant, let alone that of a tiny, vulnerable human life.

The age difference between Sara and myself had never been an issue – well, except for when she insisted on playing her godawful nineties music – but she was forcing me to address it now.
“The clock is ticking, Jim,” she said. “I’m in my forties now. I’m happy and I’m settled and I want a baby.”
I toyed with asking her whether they sold them at Lidl, but fortunately I managed to bite my tongue just before the words left my mouth.
“It’s alright for you,” she continued. “You’re a man. You can still father children for years, like Charlie Chaplin or Mick Jagger; me, I’m on the timer.”
I sensed that the time was probably not right to unveil my long list of hastily assembled ‘buts’: they were both rich men, they both had – even in their eighties – far more energy than I had, they were almost certainly able to afford somebody to get up in the night for them. I couldn’t help but wonder if either of them had ever seen the inside of a shitty nappy, but then I remembered that Mick had spent over sixty years with Keith Richards. Our house is comfortable now (thanks to Sara) and big enough for a family. We are financially secure – at least the bills are always paid on time (by Sara) – we always have food on the table (cooked by Sara), we are warm, dry and contented and thinking about it, I have to admit my own contribution seems to be somewhere south of minimal.

Typically, she hadn’t pushed me. Having said what she felt she needed to say, she kissed me on the forehead, slipped on her coat and left for work as she always did, leaving me to climb the stairs to my desk, a mug of tea in one hand, a biscuit in the other and a further biscuit in my back pocket just in case of emergency. My mind was churning its way through what she had just said when the phone ringing on my desk snapped me out of my reverie. The house phone never rang, in fact I was pretty certain it was no longer connected. I picked it up.
“Hello,” said the voice from the other end: a voice that I recognised immediately.
“It’s you,” I said.
“Of course,” he answered. “Did you want to speak to me?”
As usual, when Lorelei asked me a question I was forced to really consider my answer, after all, he had rung me, not the other way round, but – and this ‘but’ felt quite crucial – I realised that I did want to talk to him.
“Do I strike you as the dependable sort?” I asked.
“Dependable?” He paused as if giving his answer serious consideration. “I think we can all be relied on to be dependable in some way, can’t we? Even if it’s only to be unreliable.”
“You think I’m unreliable?”
“Do you?”
“I think I could maybe be a bit more… steady.”
“Steady?”
“You know, strong, trustworthy, that kind of thing.”
“Well you definitely have strengths,” he said “but you probably have more weaknesses… overall.”
“Like what?”
“Like we all do. You’re no great shakes at D.I.Y. are you? You can’t be trusted to remember anything at all unless its written down for you, and even then you lose the paper. You can’t open jars and the last time you tried to play darts in the pub you took out two of the landlord’s spotlights…” I could never understand how he knew these things, although I could not deny the veracity of any of them. Nevertheless I was affronted. Those lights had always been too low. “…But Sara calls you her rock.”
“Does she?” I was intrigued. She had called me many things over the last couple of years, but never – to my face at least – anything even remotely rugged.
“She says you’re always there for her.”
“I’m not certain that she always considers that a good thing,” I whined. It was something he chose not to deny. “She wants a baby,” I said, painfully aware that I was not telling him anything he didn’t already know.
“And you don’t?” he asked.
As always he had managed to ask the question I was least prepared to answer. “It’s just…” I started. It’s just what? I had no idea. I thought of the possibilities: a little Sara around the house would be delightful, but a little Jim? I cast my mind back as far as I could, but I had to admit I had no idea what my parents saw in me as a child. babies are little human characters aren’t they? What if I didn’t like our baby? What if they didn’t like me? Babies are so vulnerable and I couldn’t help but think that Sara already had enough on her plate with me. “It’s just,” I tried again, “not something I’d ever considered. What if I’m no good at it?”
“You can get better.”
I tried hard to think of anything that would qualify me as a decent parent, but found myself stranded immediately after ‘can tie six different types of knot and identify twenty common British trees from their leaves’. I waited for Lorelei’s input, but the only sound from the phone was a low static hum which, when I came to think about it, was almost certainly coming from my ears.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered.
“Well, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About Sara having a baby.”
“About Sara having your baby.”
“Of course, yes my baby. I mean, who else’s? …You’re trying to tell me something aren’t you?”
I sensed, rather than heard him sigh. It was a sound that always flushed me with irrational guilt. At least I assumed it was irrational.
“Is this the first time that she’s ever mentioned a baby?” he asked. I nodded. I knew that he could not see me, but I also knew that he would know.
“It’s almost like she’s realised that she’s finally happy at last isn’t it?”
I blushed a little. I knew that he would have sensed that too. “If she’s so content, why does she want to change things: why throw a spanner into the works?” I heard myself say the words. I regretted them instantly.
“A spanner?” he asked, sounding for all the world like has searching for something in a tool box.
“A baby. I didn’t mean to say spanner. I didn’t mean that a baby is like a spanner, it’s just…” I was back-pedalling madly, like a duck in a weir. “I just mean, we’re happy as we are. Why would she want to change things?”
“Maybe she thinks she could be happier: that you could both be happier.”
“A holiday would be cheaper.”
This time I definitely heard him sigh. “Life is like a river,” he said, and I wondered, not for the first time, at his gift for the extremely obtuse.
“Cold and full of shit?” I guessed.
“When it stops moving,” he said. “It becomes a swamp… Anyway Jim, I have to go,” he continued. “I need to talk to a friend whose partner refuses to move on.”
“Oh, ok,” I said, reluctant as usual to let him go.
“In this world,” he said. “You can choose to be anything you like. On the whole, it’s probably best to choose to be happy.”
“Right,” I said with the usual conviction that the world had just washed over me.
“Don’t drown,” he said. “Be like a river.”
“Ok, but… can I just ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you get this number?”
“Number?”
“To phone me.”
“But you phoned me,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
“Probably,” I answered…

As ever, and I’m not certain why, the Bearded man occupied a little more time than usual. I hope you don’t mind.

For Mrs Underfelt, who likes this character.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Feasible to Forbid)

With Apologies for last week’s missing instalment.

FEASIBLE Possible. All things are possible, although most of the good ones are extremely unlikely.

FEEBLE Weak and without energy, strength or power – So there you are, a word invented just for you. Even your excuses are feeble. If your parents had any notion of how you were going to turn out, they would have given it to you as a middle name.

FEET Plural of FOOT – Always the best way to find them. If you have a deficiency in this department, your getaways are likely to be seriously compromised¹. You could become an Evil Mastermind – they don’t seem to move around much² – but, as most practical subversives appear to spend most of their lives running away from something or other, I can only suggest limiting your activities to those centred around the similarly pedically³ diminished. Alternatively, buy a scooter and ask somebody to push you.

The first thing to check is that you are not merely sitting on the other one.
Although you may need to buy a cat.
I appear to have made that word up. I will claim it as my own only if there is money in it.

FELLOW Used to refer to someone who has the same job or interests as you, or is in the same situation as you – Thus, a word you will never use (See ‘FRIEND’ below).

FIST The hand when tightly clenched Clenched fists are often associated with fights, but in you case it is far more likely to be a means of clinging onto small change.

FLAW A fault, mistake or weakness – Where to start? Unlike friends, you will have many of these: some of them major (See ‘PERSONALITY’ below) and some of them minor (Your tendency to annoy everybody you ever meet.)

FLEA Bloodsucking insect – Similar to a leech, but with legs. You will be compared to this little parasite often (seldom favourably). Don’t take it to heart¹. Even fleas have friends – although you wouldn’t necessarily want to meet them.

I have no idea why you would not, but I do know that if you do, you will spend a huge portion of your life feeling miserable.

FLEE Run away – Adrenalin is the master of the Fight or Flight Response. For you, it is only semi-effective. I have not included ‘FIGHT’ in this dictionary as I realise that it might upset you. If anybody ever suggests fighting for your rights, be happy to concede that you do not have, nor desire any. Rights come with responsibilities, another word I have chosen to omit.

FLENCH To strip skin or fat from a carcass – I have included this only because it is the best sounding word I have ever heard, and I hereby start a petition to have it given a new definition so that I can use it more often.

FLOG Beat with a stick. Sell, or offer for sale – I am unsure what the word is for selling a stick. Flogging a dead horse¹ (although I have no idea why anyone would want to buy one) is what you will spend most of your life doing.

Flogging a dead horse – to waste effort on something when there is no chance of success. For the average subversive, all effort is wasted.

FLOUR One of the main tools in the subversive armoury when faced with reasoned argument (along with over-ripe tomatoes and rotten eggs).

FLUID A substance that flows – in addition to the three historical ‘humours’ – wind, bile and phlegm – all three of which the average subversive has in abundance, there are the three other fluids – tears, urine and sweat – which he/she will shed whenever it is beneficial. Many scholars claim the existence of a fourth fluid – blood – but no subversive will own up to having that, let alone shedding it.

FOE An enemy – The human race in general: anyone with more money, more power, more charisma, better looks, better clothes, fewer hang-ups, fewer jars of ointment… In short, everyone. You cannot fight such an enemy, you can only cause them mild irritation (which you probably do by simply being alive). You may well find yourself unable to counter the logic of a greater intellect, but you will soon discover that putting your fingers in your ears and saying ‘Na-na-na-na’ very loudly can be particularly effective. Subversion is the art of not having to fight. Unfortunately it also often involves not washing and mixing with other subversives.

FOIL (1) A thin, light sword – Will not keep your sandwiches fresh.

FOIL (2) A thin metal sheet – Will not help you win points in a sword fight, nor toast more marshmallows simultaneously than anybody else at the village hall barbecue.

FOIL (3) To prevent somebody or something else from being successful – This is the ultimate aim of all subversion. Subversives do not actually want to achieve anything other than ensuring that nobody else does either.

FOOL A person lacking in wisdom or common sense. (See ‘Politician’ below.)

FOOLHARDY Foolishly bold; rash. You are almost certainly seldom bold, but you are similarly certain to have at least one rash requiring treatment.

FORBID To refuse to allow something – In a subversively ideal world, anarchy would rule¹ and nothing would be forbidden – except, hopefully, double-dipping at buffet restaurants. The lawless would be in charge² and subversion would lay in following the rules³.

Except it wouldn’t, would it? Being anarchy and all…
I’m not at all certain about the veracity of that statement. I don’t think anybody would actually be in charge – except somebody would have to make sure that nobody was obeying the rules (which wouldn’t exist) otherwise everything would just descend into… erh…
Oh, this is getting far too complicated now. Maybe we could just do away with a state of lawlessness and settle on one where you are allowed to yell ‘Bratwurst’ through stranger’s letterboxes on the occasional Bank Holiday.

Goldfish

I currently have the concentration of a goldfish: perhaps two hours a day squeezed in between a belated exit from the bed having spent the night before staring at the ceiling and an impromptu nap over a cup of tea immediately after lunch. Less rock ‘n’ roll these days and more elderly stamp collector. I am what is known as, in psychoanalytical circuits, a complete waste of space. I am grateful that I don’t have to live with me. I fear that murder would be committed.

I have a growing determination not to bore you further with my medical travails because, if I am honest, I am bored to death with them myself. Nevertheless I feel that I must strive to fulfil my self-imposed mission: to catalogue the banal and inconsequential incidents that litter my life in a manner that could, by the most generous of readers, be described as mildly entertaining, but the truth is that such incidents have become ever more sporadic; ever more trivial. Truth be told, I’m not getting out much.

According to my fitness tracker I accumulated 6000 steps yesterday and I can only imagine they must have been in circles. I calculated (I have lots of time on my hands) that this accounts for 250 return trips from my chair to the fridge. I suspect that I am wearing a rut in the carpet. I feel a little like a seaside donkey with the whole of life on my back in place of a snotty six year old intent on sticking an unwanted stick of rock in my lug-hole. I am actively discouraged from doing anything that would prove taxing to a sloth.

Many years ago I saw the magnificent Jasper Carrott* on TV, bemoaning the fact that since he had become famous the regularity of anecdote-worthy incidents that littered his life had become seriously reduced due in part to not being able to get out and about so much without being recognised. He had become proactive, he said, in precipitating the kind of event that might previously have culminated in a tale worth telling – e.g. knocking a policeman’s helmet off – only to discover that those who might have previously reacted in an amusing fashion – something, no doubt, to do with a truncheon – merely rolled their eyes and said ‘Oh it’s you, Jasper’ and asked for an autograph. Fame conspired to ensure that nothing amusing ever happened to him. Well, from my position of total obscurity, I can assure him that inactivity does much the same thing. Life no longer hurtles headlong to meet you, which results in you sitting down to write a blog post with nothing to talk about other than streamed sit-com repeats (almost universally superior to today’s offerings) and daytime quiz shows (the contestants on which make me want to scratch my own eyes out. Why do say many people feel the need to demonstrate their total intellectual vacuity on national TV?) Well, I thought, needs must…

…And then, because life has grown tired of looking for a new groin to kick, I find myself back in a hospital bed. No blue lights, screaming sirens, whitened faces, perspiration-pocked brows or facial close-ups, but the admission papers do say ‘Emergency’ and within forty-eight hours I have been on the sharp end (quite literally) of two back-to-back medical procedures.

Sometimes you have to acquiesce and take what you are given. When life gives you doctors and nurses, as the famous saying goes (which I have just invented) write a medically-themed post. It’s not ideal. I feel as if I have probably said all that I can: the NHS system has many flaws, but the people that work in the wards and surgeries are beyond reproach and – if I may say so – living proof that (legal) migration is vital to our country’s well-being. That, fortunately, is somebody else’s drum to bang: I can’t face the abuse at the moment.

Suffice to say that I have completely forgotten what I intended to say when I started this little piece at my office desk less than a week ago and, as usual, although I can obviously re-read the first bit, it offers me not a single clue of where it (or I) was intending to go. I can see that I was whingeing about the lack of happenstance in my life that I am able to embellish in an amusing fashion, but then, I whinge about almost everything and humour is, after all, in the eye of the beholder. If funny whingeing is not amusing, it is merely whingeing.

I’ve got two weeks now – if blood tests are ignored – before my next bout of prodding (I have had four separate sets of blood tests and four attempts to site a cannula in the last few hours. I am home to eight separate taped-down wads of lint. I am a human sieve.) and if necessary, when I am up and about I will go out and knock a bobby’s helmet off in order to have a tale to tell. Except I’m self-evidently not famous and nobody knows my face, so what I could be left with would be a ‘The day I had my head cracked open with a policeman’s baton’ story and a hundred hours of Community Service to moan about. I have never actually seen inside a custody suite, but I suspect that my vision of an eau-de-nil painted, vomit and urine scented brick cubicle is probably no longer a reality. There will be nobody available – not, I fear, for the shortage of volunteers – to beat a confession out of me; there will be no good cop/bad cop interrogations; no maverick, rule-bending genius detective to bail me out, especially as – when push comes to pull – I am almost certain to chicken out of my own hat-whacking role in the first place. I am a certifiable coward who – for the time being at least – is more likely to fall asleep over repeats of ‘Pointless’ than de-cap a uniformed upholder of the law.

I am a goldfish staring out of my little bowl: at least I have the view to be grateful for…

*Unknown, I understand, in the USA – and I can only say that it is your loss. Carrott, in his prime, challenged my capacity to breathe more often than I can say in his stand-up tours over the years.

The Analogue Kids #3 – Seaside

“…Well, that was a lovely day wasn’t it?” said Muriel.
“I enjoyed it,” answered Harry. “Although I never realised how absorbent chinos can be.”
“Pale cream was a brave choice for such a rainy day,” she said. “And I don’t suppose your suede shoes have come out of it too well either. You’ll need to stuff those with newspaper when you get home.”
“Newspaper? Do they still print newspapers? I haven’t had one of those in years. They don’t even wrap fish and chips in them anymore do they?”
“No, they don’t. And seaside chips are not quite the same out of a cardboard box are they?”
“They’re not quite the same in the pissing rain either.”
“Oh come on, it was fun. We found a space in the bus shelter didn’t we?”
“Oh, it was a bus shelter was it?” asked Harry. “It smelled like a public toilet.”
“It wasn’t the best, I must admit.”
“I’m not sure which was worse: the smell of urine, Evo-Stick or the woman with the farting dog in the pushchair.” He sniffed his coat. “I can smell it now.”
Muriel wrinkled her nose and laughed quietly. “Alright,” she said, “I’ll admit that the bus shelter was a bit of a low spot, but we had a good time otherwise, didn’t we?”
Harry smiled. “You were particularly impressive on the darts at the fairground.”
“I told you I hadn’t thrown a dart in years,” she said.
“I didn’t even know that it was possible to throw them backwards,” he laughed. “I wonder if that bloke has still got it dangling from the back of his hat.”
“That dart man made me pay for the dart,” she pouted. Harry laughed and Muriel slapped his shoulder. “Yes, well you were no great shakes on the coconut shy,” she said.
“They were nailed down,” he protested. “I hit one right on the button and it never flinched.”
“He lifted it up to prove to you that it wasn’t,” she laughed.
“He turned his back when he did it,” he whined. “Could have been releasing a catch or something.”
“Don’t be so defensive,” she giggled, offering him a seaside humbug. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, being a bit limp-wristed at your age.”
“Limp-wristed? I am not limp-wristed! I’ve always been above average wrist strength-wise. I’m a bit of a jam jar opening Ninja actually.”
“You couldn’t even open your own tomato sauce sachet,” she laughed. “You threw it on the floor and stamped on it.”
“It was clearly defective.”
“Tell that to the woman who got it splattered all over her dog.”
“I tried. She hit me with an umbrella.”
They both laughed. Muriel rested her head fleetingly on Harry’s shoulder. “I enjoyed The Waltzer,” she said.
“They spin around a lot don’t they? I don’t remember them spinning around so much when I was younger.”
“I think that’s just what they do. Always have. Maybe it’s just that your head spins for a bit longer as you get older.” She glanced at the soft toy that rested on her lap. “And I love my teddy by the way,” she said. “Fancy you being able to win that on the crane machine… and in less than an hour too.”
“They’re fixed as well aren’t they, those machines. Grab the loot fair and square and then, just at the last second, watch it fall out of your grippers – it’s like trying to understand the Universe after an afternoon in the pub.”
“Well I love it anyway,” she said. “It was a good day. It’s lovely to get some fresh sea air in your lungs.”
“I don’t know about my lungs,” said Harry, “but it certainly got inside my vest. I’m sure it blew straight in from the Arctic.”
“You’re such a wuss,” she laughed. “Look at you. How many layers of clothing are you wearing?”
“I don’t like the cold.”
“Really,” she laughed. “I would never have guessed.”
“Can you believe that they were even trying to sell ice cream down there today? The man in the cabin on the prom had a paraffin heater going. His flakes were wilting. You wouldn’t have got your 99 out from under his canopy without it washing away.”
“Oh listen at you. Didn’t you like anything along the front?”
“Whatever happened to the slot machines? Flash your credit card to get a pocketful of tokens and try to win a three metre length of paper tickets. Push yourself up to about fifty metres-worth of tickets and you can exchange them for a packet of Fruit Gums. What’s wrong with using coins and winning coins?”
“Well I don’t suppose anybody has a pocketful of coins to put in the machines these days do they?”
“No they don’t. Even the Prize Bingo is cashless – and what the hell am I meant to do with a penis-shaped toilet roll dispenser? Five wins that was. The seaside used to be all Candy Floss, Mr Whippy in a soggy cone and a pot of winkles with a wooden fork, now it’s venison smash burgers, fifty shades of exotic Italian Gelato and a million ironic uses for a plastic dick. It’s all gentrified tat. Remember when you needed to ‘spend a penny’ in the loo? It cost a pound and you had to do that ‘contactless’ because somebody had nicked the toilet seat.”
“The soap smelled nice though.”
Harry shrugged. “That’s ok then. I think I’d sooner save my pound and not have to wash my hands.”
“You are such a grump,” laughed Muriel. “Did you hate everything?”
“No, I liked the pub.”
“Because it had a fire?”
He nodded. “If I’m honest, yes… And beer.”
“Yes, you didn’t mind that being cold did you?.”
Harry grinned and closed his eyes briefly. “You’re right,” he sighed. “It was a good day – maybe not for Hush Puppies – but I really did enjoy it, thank you, even if I will have to buy a new pair of trousers.”
“Make them darker,” she said. “And maybe get an elasticated waistband. You know how difficult buttons can be when you’re a little bit limp-wristed…”

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Face to Faux Pas)

FACE The majority of subversives have at least two of these. Most politicians would commit the country to war rather than lose one.

FACT Thing that is known to be true. Don’t worry, you won’t encounter many of these, and those that you do are likely to be Governmental Facts and therefore ‘unverifiable’. Unverifiable facts are also known as Lies – you will encounter many of these. The author Mark Twain quoted Benjamin Disraeli as originating the phrase ‘Lies, damn lies and statistics’ to describe the persuasive power of erroneously employed figures in informing opinion. I would like to propose my own alternative: lies, damn lies and facts. The practicing subversive will have a million ‘facts’ at his disposal, any of which can be used to back up his particular version of the truth. Facts merely have to be believed to be true. The more facts you can cram into an argument, the stronger your case will be, and the greater your chances of conning cash out of someone.

FACULTY An inherent mental or physical power – Don’t worry. If you are intent on following your current path, you will not need (and almost certainly will not have) any of these.

FAIL Be unsuccessful in achieving one’s goal – If your goal is a grandiose one – world domination for example – it is probably best to remember that many before you have shared this simple ambition and, to date, none have achieved it. Some have come close viz. Genghis Khan, Adolf Hitler, The Emperor Ming, but ultimately, they have all met a (thankfully) sticky end. If you are honest, they are not people with whom even you would want to be compared – especially unfavourably. Others have tried to rule the world through rather more subtle means, viz. Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, but we all know that it is also unlikely to end well for them: they will go mad (at least one of them is already half-way there) miscalculate the public mood or (the cardinal sin in the UK) simply get too big for their boots. They will not come to their death beds as ‘Ruler of the World’. Indeed, if history teaches us anything, they may be lucky to own their own underwear¹.
If your ambitions are rather more modest: to seriously annoy a politician; to convince the local bobby that you are actually building a time machine in your garage and not an illicit still; to teach next-door’s big ginger Tom that it is much more fun to shit in his own garden², then you stand a greater chance of success although, if we’re all being honest here, failure remains the far more likely outcome. Learn to embrace failure: it is the subversive’s only true route to contentment.

Unless, of course, it is tax-deductable.
World-wide, cats do not shit in their own gardens – they shit in mine.

FAINT To suddenly become unconscious for a short time – What you will do whenever you find yourself in a sticky situation from which you cannot run away. The longer you can maintain the subterfuge, the greater your chances of escape. Stop immediately if a man in a black suit and a cravat starts measuring you up and pulling out samples of satin linings.

FAIT ACCOMPLI Something that has already happened or been done and cannot be changed – The ill-advised tattoo from the dyslexic tattooist; the fact that the holding cell at the police station has been given your name following one-too-many ill-judged, smart-arse comments about the policemen you considered to be less intellectually acute than yourself¹; general ostracisation, these things were always going to happen. If they haven’t, they will. There is no point in fighting it. All you can do is whine a little – mind you, come to think of it, all you ever do is whine a little.

Despite the fact that they have never been arrested for being caught short in the park on the way home, nor had to spend the night on a concrete bed in their socks and underpants with nothing more than an extremely iffy-looking bucket for company.

FALSE Not real, but made to look or seem real – The number plates on your car, the meter readings you send to the electricity board, the money in your wallet, the stories you tell, the credit you demand, everyhting you claim as true…

FALSEHOOD The act of deceiving; a lie. The inevitable result of you opening your mouth to speak.

FAME The state of being known or recognized – This is not as alluring as it sounds when all the people who know or recognize you are either police constables, social workers or shop-owners who won’t let you in their shops as a consequence. You are unlikely to ever walk the red carpet, unless they’ve just had the stairs done at the Magistrate’s Court.

FANATIC A person who is excessively enthusiastic about something. This might be universal emancipation, freedom of speech, the right (not) to work, or blue Smarties¹. Fanatics wear multiple enamel badges, have multiple misspelled tattoos and grow mushrooms in their socks. Fanaticism is seldom regarded as in any way unusual at Film Award ceremonies, Political Party conferences or anywhere that sells nothing but organic cider and mung bean salad.

Similar to M&Ms, but inferior in every possible way.

FARCE A situation that is very badly organized – See ‘LIFE’ (below)

FAUX PAS Words or actions that are socially unacceptable or impolite – Faux Pas is almost a language to you. You will do little that is socially acceptable – particularly if you have a spouse – and as for impolite, just ask the barman that served you the cloudy pint that time. Social revolution can never be socially acceptable because it has such terrible manners, breaks wind and jumps queues. As a subversive you will commit many faux pas, don’t worry about it too much – at least it means you’re in company.

Red Squirrel Day

Photo by Siegfried Poepperl on Pexels.com

The main grist of this blog, I am ashamed to admit, has always been me: how I respond to a changing world and the ever multiplying challenges of age. This year has increasingly allowed itself to become entangled in all things medical: doctors, nurses, consultants and obscure medical terminologies have all begun to dominate my existence. Understanding the minute differences between the specialist practitioners of varying ‘ologisms’ is a required skill in itself.

My most recent sojourn in a hospital ward has added a further two unsuccessful procedures to my back catalogue as once again we await a decision on where we should go next. In the UK we do not have groundhogs so, I suppose, it is not possible for me to have a Groundhog Day. Google tells me that the closest thing we have is a red squirrel, so that is where my life is at this moment: Red Squirrel Day – operate, fail, repeat.

Disappointingly I have found a greater portion of my attention is daily being drawn into me. It is frustrating and embarrassing. Age was meant to make me more outward-looking, but illness has sucked me so far into myself that I can actually view the inside of my own trousers without taking them off. Obviously, sleep is what I need, but I have never been a great sleeper and recent nights spent in a hospital ward were far from restful. Lights stayed on, nurses chattered, patients snored and beds were trundled in and out with all the intrusive regularity of newly-throned British Prime Ministers. At 2am you would find greater peace in the middle of Piccadilly Circus which would, without doubt, itself feature far fewer people attempting to extract a phial of blood from you. It is surprising how many people talk in their sleep. In my little ward of eight poorly souls, three of them talked loudly through the mid-night hours – snatches of one-sided conversations, often set on random repeat – and one of them actually sang quite loudly (a selection from Les Miserables if I’m not mistaken, or The Jungle Book if I am).

Morning light is the most welcome of sights through ward windows as it usually means that all efforts to find sleep can be shamelessly sidelined. 6am sees the morning ob’s, 6.30 morning tea and 7am the breakfast trolley. By the time the slow snake of elderly men on the way to morning ablutions has dissipated, half of the ward is asleep again and the other half is talking loudly on the phone. Only those awaiting a change of catheter sit in pallid, contemplative silence whilst everyone else waits for the exquisite agony of Ward Round, when a giant phalanx of clinicians casts shade around the beds: senior consultant, consultant, junior doctors, nurses, clipboards, ipads and an unidentified uniformed person pushing a surgical trolley descend upon the beds one by one, curtains remaining open if the news is good, but closed when it is not. The consultant uses your Christian name (which is written above the bed) but all too clearly has no idea of who you are or why you’re there. Massed bickering erupts when it becomes clear that you (an elderly male) are not called Gladys and are not recovering from a hysterectomy, and the woman with the trolley is sent off to retrieve the correct notes, returning ten minutes later with the news that they’ve amputated the wrong leg.

I came home this morning and my wife has gone to the hairdressers this afternoon – a trip that will swallow up most of the day, a good slice of disposable income and end in inevitable disappointment – so I’ve pottered around, emptying the dishwasher, the washing machine and the biscuit barrel. I have drunk far more coffee than is good for me because… well, because the machine is just sitting there quite frankly and all it requires from me is the push of a button. I’d have tea but all that pouring the boiling water and stirring the teabag is so irksome. I have become some kind of inverse superhero capable of doing almost anything extremely slowly and deliberately. It has just taken me I-dread-to-think-how-long to hang out a batch of laundry one peg at a time. The transition between normal, fit and healthy to doddering old twat has been swift and merciless.

Now I don’t want you to misunderstand me here. I believe that the plan is still for me to return to something approaching full strength in the foreseeable future, as soon as all remedial works have been completed (including tidying site and making good). When the scaffolding has gone and all plumbing and drainage is back in place, I should be good to go. Unless the roof blows off in the meantime.

So, I’m home now, sitting at the kitchen table and the whole point of this little post is to inform you that as my life has settled into what I hope is a temporary slough of despond in which the same old rubbish just keeps coming on round again, my intention is to stop writing about myself week in week out for a while, and instead to write about others now and then. As I have so very few real friends – and as those that I do have will almost certainly not want me writing about them – this will inevitably involve me making some up. I will revisit some old pals – Muriel and Harry, Frankie and Benny, Dinah and Shaw, maybe even spend a little time with the Bearded Man if I can find him a path – and perhaps I will try to make some new ones who might just have something different to say. None of it, I hope, about Red Squirrels…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Emergency to Eyesore)

EMERGENCY A sudden, urgent and unexpected occurrence requiring immediate action. Usually the result of a late-night kebab from a take-away that you wouldn’t have gone within thirty feet of without a flame-thrower and an economy-sized spray of industrial-strength DDT when sober.

ENCUMBER To load with debt, to impede, to embarrass. Obviously it is the embarrass bit that is relevant here – particularly if you thought this was a green, phallic salad fruit.

EQUIPMENT Anything kept or provided for a specific purpose. Machine guns, ground-to-air missiles, fast cars, Swiss Army knives etc. may all prove to be beyond your means. Don’t Panic! Equipment does not need to be expensive to be effective. A loaded pea-shooter in the ear can be very disconcerting, particularly in the dark. A tumbler applied to a joining wall can be just as effective as expensive electronic bugs – and you can’t drink out of a bug when you get bored of waiting for something to happen. A certain amount of creativity will be required when gleaning information in this manner, as the conversation you hear will unfailingly be muffled, repetitive and exceedingly boring to all but Alan Bennett. The juice of an onion (readily available at Waitrose I believe) makes perfect invisible ink (although it does make all your correspondence smell of onion) and a house brick is the ideal substitute for expensive skeleton keys.

ESCAPE To get away from confinement or restraint. Technical word for what we practiced subversives call ‘running away’. Escape is the only logical response to all types of danger. Much is made of the Fight or Flight effect of adrenaline, produced by the body’s adrenal glands in response to danger. I suggest you strive to develop a Flight or Fight effect. Learn to respond instantly to your initial instinct and run. Run every time. That way, if for some unfathomable reason you should decide that you do not want to be seen as a pathetic little coward and you take the decision to fight, you will already be too far away to do anything about it.

ESPERANTO A language invented by Dr Zamenhof (c. 1887) to enable people of all nations to converse together. – Also known as ‘shouting’ in English.

EXCREMENT Ordure, dung. Try not to be around when this stuff flies, sticks or hits the fan. Can be used in a number of subversive ways – none of them terribly pleasant – and none of them I can list here on grounds of taste, decency and the fact that if you subsequently go out and try to execute such an action, I may find myself hauled up before the beak for ‘Putting ideas into the heads of the mentally challenged’ or similar. Remember, if you get caught in the act of using ordure in the course of subversive activities¹, you may well find yourself right up to the neck in it.

Being caught in somebody else’s garden, whilst in possession of poo is something that you are unlikely to be able to pass off as a harmless hobby.

EXPLOSIVE Anything likely to explode eg gunpowder. Let’s face it, as an amateur, you are extremely unlikely to come up against anything more explosive than a prawn vindaloo – actually, I’m not certain that there is anything more explosive than a prawn vindaloo. You could try to feed it to your enemies, but honestly, it’s not the sort of thing you can slip into their muesli without them noticing. A bit like an atomic bomb – it’s the fall-out that causes the real trouble.

EYESORE Something ugly to look at. The world is full of such things, every single one of them man-made. Turning beautiful things into eyesores is an inexpensive and effective subversive ploy: try sticking an imitation wart onto the face of the Mona Lisa¹; build a dirty-great coal-fired power station in the middle of our green and pleasant land; attend an EDL meeting. Please remember that an ‘eyesore’ is not the same as a ‘sore eye’, which is what you will get if you forget yourself at the EDL meeting and reprimand the speaker for using racist language.

I say ‘try’ as the French security guards are unlikely to take kindly to it and you might find yourself nose-down on the floor with a knee in the back of your neck quicker than you can say ‘Zut alors!’ Ultimately, you may wind up in a French prison where you will be forced to share a cell with a large number of blue-chinned men wearing striped pullovers and neckerchiefs, all of them missing wives and girlfriends (plurals are intentional – they are French after all.)

EXERCISE.

Translate your subversive Manifesto into Esperanto and see whether anybody either notices or cares.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Emasculate)

EMASCULATE a) To castrate b) to deprive of strength or vigour; weaken. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? Emasculation is of limited use as a weapon for the DIY subversive, particularly the males, who are unlikely to have the stomach for it, although I am sure that most of us could make up a very long list of those who should have been emasculated – fathers mostly – before the damage was done. If you truly believe that the man next door is about to spawn the devil’s child (although exactly how that might be possible, I’m not entirely certain) or a future politician, you may consider this a justifiable course of action. I would urge you to consider the following: is defeating the anti-Christ really the role of a subversive? Wouldn’t it be better left to someone with religious convictions¹? Why not contact the local vicar and inform them of your suspicions? It will certainly provide relief from the usual diet of ox-coveting or extra-marital contrition, and offer a subject for a sermon that almost certainly has not been covered by ‘that other lot up the road’. If you are fortunate enough to have one of the keener vicars, they may even consider blessing the Stanley knife for you, although it is most unlikely that they will carry out the act themselves.

You may be able to ‘accidentally’ disclose your suspicions to members of the WI in an ‘unguarded moment’, adding that the person you suspect is also single, has six children by six separate married women and almost certainly votes Labour – that should do it. Never leave your address.

Remember the victim is almost certain to put up significant resistance² unless heavily sedated. Are you yourself strong enough to control a violent victim³? Even those rendered insensible by alcohol or drugs are likely to kick up a bit of a fuss when they realise what you are about to do with the knife, the bowl and the Marigolds. Do you have sufficient equipment to restrain a desperate man? Gaffer tape does not come cheap, and you can’t really trust the stuff you usually buy from Poundland when it’s not even strong enough to hold the broken zip together on your trousers – at least that’s what you intend to tell the judge.

It is important to prepare: are you planning a single-hack emasculation or are you aiming for a total removal? If you envisage a full castration, you will probably need a really big box of plasters⁴. What will you do with the victim once the appendage has been removed? You’ve watched a great many films – alone, of course – and you know all about staunching bleeding with the application of hot tar or by setting fire to gunpowder, but you can’t expect your victim just to shake your hand afterwards and wander off to pursue his hormone-lite life without a by-your-leave. You could perhaps leave him in the care of an isolated order of Dominican monks – the kind that would kill him if he tried to escape – or, failing that, you could remove his tongue⁵. He may even prefer that to the emasculation itself. You are nothing if not compassionate – why not give him the choice?

What will you do with the appendage once removed? Do you have a cat? Is it a fussy eater? If your cat is likely to turn its nose up at this additional source of protein, try next door’s dog – anything that will eat three week-old fox poop is almost certain to relish a freshly severed member. If you have gone for a total castration, you could leave it to dry for a few days before selling it to the hippy couple down the street as some kind of traditional African maraca. The full set may make an unusual novelty door knocker, paperweight or garden ‘dibber’. Alternatively you may choose to pop it into a sealed plastic bag and hand it back to your victim with a note for his doctor.

Not, incidentally, convictions for holding religious convictions, which are all too easy to get in some of the world’s most ‘enlightened’ nations and may, indeed, lead to emasculation – probably with something blunt and rusty.
It may be wise to reconsider if he does not.
This is a rhetorical question and, as such, does not require an answer. If you are the kind of pedant who, none-the-less, requires one, it is ‘No’.
Band Aid in America. The really big ones with the 360˚sticky bit.
I have seen an ox’s tongue in the butcher’s and if human tongues are anything like them you will need a very long-handled pair of scissors indeed. A mouthful of superglue may serve as a less gory and noisy alternative.

The Great Scheme of Things

I have been in and out (and in and out) of hospital. I have been admitted as an emergency as a result of a scan that I had weeks ago for an operation which, after an overnight stay, did not happen as it transpired that I did not actually fulfil the ‘Emergency’ criteria but was, in fact, ‘Red List Urgent’, which boiled down to being sent home with instructions to turn up again a few days later having had nil by mouth from 3am (meaning that I set my alarm for 2.30 in order to fill up on chocolate). I did as instructed, was re-admitted three days later and, this time, operated upon. The operation was, unfortunately, unsuccessful and I was ‘kept in’ overnight before being discharged with the promise that an alternative procedure would be carried out ‘within a few days’. It goes without saying that, to date, it has not, nor will it according to my latest telephone conversation. They wish, I am informed, to assess me after an MRI scan, despite the fact that I have had two previous MRI and three various CT scans in the months since I became ill. My internal organs have been photographed so often that my innards are considering getting an agent. I’m not sure how much more assessment I can take. (This does, I hope, explain my reasons for missing my regular post last week. It’s not much in the Great Scheme of Things, but does have, at least, more timbre than ‘the dog ate my homework’.)

It is a strange thing that every single medical professional I have encountered over this little journey has been top class: caring, efficient and keen to do their very best for me. It is very clearly the organisation itself that has problems. My own issues, I think, stem from the fact that I have two specialists in two different hospital ‘departments’ and they clearly do not wish to talk to one another (let us call them Abbott & Costello), and neither of them with my GP with whom I have just managed to get a ‘non-urgent’ appointment a mere six weeks after I asked for it.

Now, other than an initial spell (December and January) during which I was unusually unwell, I am and have been – despite the evidence of more blood tests and scans than those accorded to a blue-tongued sheep – well… well. I remain fitter than most of my contemporaries; I am (otherwise) healthy and active and – whisper it in case it is held against me – happy most of the time, although I must admit that, unusually for me, my mental welfare has required a little husbanding through the last few months. I have drunk more tea and eaten more biscuits than Tiger Woods has had car crashes.

Earlier today my wife prompted me to write down what I wanted to know from a scheduled ‘telephone consultation’ with a consultant – Lord only knows which one – set for tomorrow and, having considered it for a little while, it transpires that the answer is everything. I want to know why – other than assessment – nothing was done, during which time my body endeavoured to ensure that when arses finally did shift into gear, nothing could be done. It will almost certainly be some time before I find out whether or not it has succeeded. I want to know what went wrong with what they tried to do, what stopped them doing what they then planned to do and most of all, what the heck they intend to do now. I’m pretty certain that the answer will be that they are “awaiting scan results in order to assess the situation, thank you for your time, we’ll be in touch…”

I’m a couple of months short of 68 years old and I realise that the concept of any general improvement in my physical well-being is an aspiration on a par with world peace, a quiet half-hour in a hot bath with a cool whisky, or correctly locating the exact mille-second that lies between raw and overcooked scrambled egg, but I find it very difficult to accept that after so many medical professionals have viewed my internal workings in 3D – one or two of them actually having had a good old rummage around in there too – nobody is able to tell me “This is where we are, and this is where we’re going.” Good news/bad news – any news would be good. I am in the perfectly happy place of eating well, drinking sensibly, exercising regularly and staying healthy that I would have been in without any of this medical intervention and worry – a worry that, like a despot’s democratic majority, continues onward and upward with new uncertainties at every turn. Nothing can turn back this particular clock, but it would be great to know what time it is now, and what time it will be in an hour.

Anyway, enough of the moaning – you clearly do not need to listen to that! – I just felt that I should explain last week’s absence and warn that there may be more ahead – or not, obviously.

Today I’ve played football with my old-fogey team-mates, loaded a skip with the contents of the old bathroom, mixed sand and cement and patched up the floor, mixed plaster and patched up the ceiling. I’ve just had a bottle of beer and I’m about to put my feet up in the certain knowledge that every muscle, bone and joint in my body will ache like buggery in the morning and that, of course, is exactly as it should be. In the great scheme of things I am in excellent shape: I am old, growing older and, fortunately – for me, if not for you – perfectly capable of writing at least one blog a week as long as I am not in hospital while my laptop remains at home…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Ear to Email)

EAR The organ of hearing. The external part of which can be removed with relative ease (compared, for instance, to little finger, thumb or nose) and sent to relatives in a jiffy bag. Blood loss is minimal, as is the effect on auditory sensation, although earring wearing may become a bit of an issue and the amputee may have to address the problem of his spectacles constantly sliding diagonally across his face.

EARLY Before the usual or appointed time; ahead of time. It is a good idea to make it your business never to be early for anything, unless it has a free buffet.

EARNINGS Money earned; wages. You will almost certainly be completely unfamiliar with the verb to earn, but, according to my little dictionary I find that it means to ‘acquire through merit’. As you are likely to be equally unfamiliar with the word merit, I decided to look that up as well. Merit, apparently means, ‘claim to respect and praise’, which, I must admit is something I have never personally encountered in all my years associated with subversion.

EAVESDROP To listen secretly to a private conversation. You might as well – you’re unlikely to ever have one of your own.

EDIFICATION Morally or spiritually uplifting improvement or enlightenment. The kind of thing that many Americans pay one third of their income for, only to discover that the humble man-of-God to whom they paid it, has emigrated to the Bahamas upon discovering that he has, apparently, misread the signs and turquoise, shell-suited Gods are actually extremely unlikely to descend to earth aboard a cigar-shaped silver craft on this, or indeed any other, Thursday teatime.

EDUCATION The process of imparting or acquiring knowledge or skill. Well now, this is an impossibly huge and alien concept for the subversive, so I will tackle it in two parts:

a. Knowledge

1. The sum of what is known. So, what is known? Well, that depends upon where you’re sitting, doesn’t it? I once met a man who could recite pi to the thousandth place, but didn’t know how to tie his own shoelaces. I know what I have tucked away in my belly-button, but I very much doubt that anyone else will want to. Einstein was the most intelligent man who ever lived, but did he know how much fart-powder should be added to the tea urn at the women’s institute meeting on Thursday mornings to produce the most devastating effect?¹ A great deal of knowledge is totally surplus to requirements unless you aim to make a living out of winning pub-quizzes and, in fact, you will never win a pub quiz by knowing anything of any significance whatsoever.

2. sexual intercourse (archaic). Intriguingly, used in this context, the word is almost always accompanied by the word carnal, which, as we all know, means fleshy, which just goes to show why it’s no fun being a supermodel.

b. Skill:

The ability to perform a task, especially when acquired by training. So, it stands to reason that if you have a particular skill, based upon many hours of practice and selfless devotion, possibly behind closed doors, you are per se ‘educated’. Now we all understand why boys get such a particular education at public school don’t we? That kind of skill would have got me a clipped ear as a boy, not to mention the threat of incipient warts and blindness. But let’s face it, the fact that we can exhibit our education through the ability to pick our toenails at the dinner table is a great thing and an achievement that can only serve to narrow the class divide in our country.

The answer is almost certainly ‘Yes,’ isn’t it? The man was a bona fide genius. It is possible that he knew more than my mother.

EFFORT Exertion; an attempt, try. You are extremely unlikely to put any amount of this into anything that does not involve free food or alcohol. In order to maintain a balanced view I took the liberty of looking up ‘Try’ which means ‘to put a strain on’ and is something that you do to the world in general and the Welfare State in particular.

EGO When your ‘girlfriend’ sighs ‘God, you’ve got a big one…’ this is what she is talking about.

ELBOW What you don’t know your arse from.

ELECTION Selection of a person or persons for office by vote. Unless you are in an unusually democratic gang of one, this is highly unlikely ever to happen to you. If you choose to try and follow this path, might I recommend local politics to you. The turnout for local elections is traditionally below 40%, the winning candidate might be one of eight or nine¹, which, by my calculations, means that you can win an election with the support of substantially less than 5% of the electorate. In certain rural constituencies, this might be bought with little more than a decent size bag of sheep-nuts.

Conservative, Labour, SDP, Green, Reform UK, Restore, Various Independents (including single issue candidates), Monster Raving Loonies, Mr Bin Face, Your Party (First four listed in order of wealth and the rest in order of sanity).

ELECTRONICS Concerned with electronic devices. Mini cameras, covert listening devices, position trackers… face it, they are of very limited use to a person who cannot change a plug without fusing the entire neighbourhood and melting every filling in his/her mouth.

EMAIL The act of writing, sending and immediately regretting a message.