It wasn’t called Hempstead for nothing. There was watercress growing there. And hemp.

When I was about five, or so, I could already read and there was was a poster up in the Marlowes regarding Georgie Fame and his Blue Flames. This sounded good to me, like a circus or a magic trick. Well, I didn’t know, did I?

I was born in Hemel Hempstead in St Paul’s Hospital (which has been knocked down - probably because I was born there). Apparently there is a secret passage that comes up in the graveyard where I used to sit with my Grandpa and eat my Mivvi. I loved the the River Gade and I know where there is a Roman Bath under the fields with all mosaics and that.

It’s probably got crappy houses built on it now. Never mind, to cheer you up, here’s a bit of ‘Yeh Yeh’.

Enjoy!

My brother sent me this link and it really touched me.
VM says that the vocal is by Cilla Black.

Cop a load of this:

Vodka Mick mentioned this to me…

When he saw me struggling to empty the bog at one of the designated areas he thought to himself:

Chemi-Khazi pilot.

A good joke and copyright Vodka Mick.

And I just missed the train by 30 seconds. Bugger. I’ll just have to catch the next one.

Sad to say… But:
I no longer read books. I haven’t read one for years. I no longer look at art either. I no longer read blogs that much because I am no Fry and I do not twitter.

The reason for this is that I don’t wan’t to be accused of plagiarism and I can’t bear the thought of my head being all stuffed up.

You may, or might, have wondered why I have been quiet for a while. This is because I really, really need a quiet life; one in which I can sit alone and think about things.

It is probably what one might call depression or maybe a year of thoughtfulness. I’m not sure.

Maybe this mood will lift and the black dog will stop biting but I really don’t know; I didn’t make any of this up and I wish it would go away - but at least I recognise it.

In the meantime I read no books nor watch any films. I listen to no music. There are so many books to read but I cannot bear to have my mind infiltrated by anything any more, so, I think it best that I disappear for a while (World said, thank goodness for that; We’ve been wanting that for aaaages).

I might pop up from time to time but don’t put any money on it.

Thank you and love to all,

H.

It is a fact that people wearing ice-white trainers have just come out of prison.

A suit with arrows on and a ball and chain couldn’t make it more obvious.

To carry on; Blu, yes. Tac, no.

It is the most rubbish stuff ever.

Community service could be served by people wearing ice-white trainers to come round my majestic halls and try to stick my pictures back up using Gloy or Cow-Gum or some of the flavoured bubblegum that they flob all over the pavements.

Sometimes I get a bit annoyed.

You know that Jordan, that Katie Price, right?

According to the newspapers she likes horses and she has got a new boyfriend who is a bit odd.

Well, from what I’ve heard she likes to enjoy a jump or two with other people but her boyfriend sticks to a bit of cross-dressage.

I bet it’s not true though.

Doctor day. As I can never sleep I got there well early. I paid a visit to the bank…

How much?!?!?

Either someone has skimmed my card or about 850 direct debits have come out.

I spent this morning being really nice to people and watching how weirdly they behaved. At the surgery people were mostly nice but at the stations I got looked at as if I was a bit odd. It really doesn’t matter to me because it is a social experiment. You try smiling at people and wishing them a good day. It’s lucky for me because I do look a bit huge and, because of my previous, I’ve developed a face.

I always get out of the way of someone approaching because it is polite. If they don’t bid me some thanks I don’t really mind. If a car stops for me to cross the road I always make sure to wave and mouth a ‘Thank you’ because I am polite.

This reminds me, I want one of them fluorescent jackets that says ‘POLITE’ instead of police across the back. They are pink.

Anyhoo, where was I? Aah, I was going to have some grub in Worst Byfleet but I couldn’t really afford it. So home I came and this where I sit and it’s not even lunchtime.

Doc Holiday scripted me some tablets for my bladder disorder and upped the dosage on my diazepam because I never sleep.

And that’s what I did this morning.

I feel guilty.
I shopped my own mother. To the authorities.

I phoned about the whole family about what I had done but, to my surprise, they all agreed that I had done the right thing.

Now I am a bit of a disabled and I don’t have a car (’Thank goodness’ said the world) so there isn’t much that I can do. So, I shopped her.

I feel SO bad about what I have done but I can’t sit back and watch a disaster happening. She needs help, a help I cannot provide, so I did the only thing that I could.

Mum, I’m really sorry that I grassed you up and I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.

It is, with sadness, that I have report that John the Bosh is dead.

He had suffered cancer for a number of years and now, as we all must, he has passed into another world.

Dear John. Everyone knew he was on the way out but I only found out about this last night. He was cremated two weeks ago.

Dear John. I saw him up at the hospital when I was being wheeled one way and him the other and we waved. The last time I saw him was in the Queen’s.

Dear God, please take him into your loving arms and give him peace, a bottle and a crossword.

John, rest in peace. You were a good man.

I went to a little party,

Then there came a problem. The number to dial is 999 and ask for the fire brigade. Having a barbecue on a coffee table INSIDE your house is a tad short of foolish but here we go…

No, don’t cry. The ceiling didn’t didn’t actually catch fire.

Sweet dreams!

What does he do?
No one seems to know and I don’t think that he knows either.
‘Hey, Fatty, your job is to walk up and down and don’t do anything.’

If you want to see something that will make you laugh then (bearing in mind this is not suitable for children, schools, places of work and blah de blah) cop a look at this.

Or, maybe, at this.

Thank you, Onion, for brightening up my life.

Here we go:

“You know Flemish people, Flemish people, right?

Do they come from Qatar?”

I made this up when I was asleep so I thought I should copyright it before I forgot it.
If you don’t get it then let me explain:

It’s a double-play on words.

Well, I thought it was funny.

Fed up?
No, I eat very little although I’m quite keen on sushi.
The rain is falling and I like the sound. Inside the Charley the sound of rain on the roof was very soothing and the knowledge that there was nowhere or nothing to reach was special.
Do you know, the ability to park up for a day or two and keep the stove going, makes everything worthwhile.
As the rain falls all you have to do is check the lines and keep the stove going.

Once, when the Ocean had fallen had fallen out of the sky I did set off (I’m sure I’ve told you this before) and as soon as I had done it I knew I had made a big mistake. It’s so lucky that I am such a brilliant boatman; I cut the corners (which you should never do) and took the surge behind me as I wound down through Guildford.

Look, I’m still fed up. You would be if you were me. I might have cancer and I have fuck all to live on. I have no boat. I am depressed out of my fucking arse.

Beep, beep fucking squeak is all I have to listen to.

On the other hand, I still have a moderate walking ability albeit about 2mph. I still have the Buffs and my interest in wild flora. So I shouldn’t moan, really.

Thursday was rather a busy, medical day for me. First up was a blood extraction so that I could be tested for this, that, and indeed, the other.

An HBA means a fasting blood test so you can have nothing but water for 14 hours. In the small hours I woke up, asweat, but I didn’t dare have anything because the HBA would have been ruined. It’s a historical blood test which shows how shite you are at controlling your diabetes. I could have had some glucose but I didn’t wan’t to muck it all up so I sweated my way through. In the morning I staggered into the surgery and gave up the usual armful. On the way I bought a tin of Fanta and, as soon as it had been done, I glugged it down and started to feel better. But this wasn’t it, oh no, there were other tests to be done.

The day before I had to have an ultrasound on my prostate and I was told that my kidneys looked good (bit like in the shop) and that my prostate looked normal - BUT…

If your prostate looks normal it doesn’t mean that it is.

So, some of my tests involved a PSA which involves checking for a prostate cancer indicator. Doc Holiday had cunningly slipped in a blood/glucose check and a liver function check.

Anyway, on the Thursday, I had my phlebotomisation and then went to see DH and then had to go away for an hour before I could have my swine-flu jab.

When I went back the nurse had gone off soo DH had to do my swine-flu jab and it didn’t hurt one bit. It’s an IM jab but it didn’t hurt, I promise, and then I caught the train home.

That was Thursday. At 04:00 on Friday morning I had been awake for hours because my sleeping patterns are so knackered. I was listening to the radio. Briing briing… off went the telephone at 4 in the bloody morning.

“Hello, is that Mr W? This is ThamesDoc”

I was sober and I expect that he was too.

“Speaking. How can I help you?”
“Did you phone earlier?”
“No, I did not.”

Mental flurry - had I phoned ThamesDoc? I can’t have done because I haven’t got his number.

“Have you had a blood test recently?”
“Yes, at 10:30 yesterday morning - a fasting blood test”
“Hmmm, well I’ve had an alert that your blood/glucose came back at 2.1″

Yeah, well, I’ve had readings at well less than that (oh, and the problems THAT caused), but what if I had not answered the phone all sprightly and brightly at 4am?

It’s quite a funny thing. What if I had not been sober and answered the phone? Would the door have been kicked in? I really don’t know.

As for the rest of the results, I shall have to wait until next week to find out if I have prostate cancer or anything ghastly. My blood/sugar levels are about what I thought and here’s a funny thing; I’ve been doing this for twenty years, every day, and THEY think that they know more than me.

When I go over I do a couple of things. I either go over and smash myself to bits or I get on the phone. Obvously it’s easier when there are people about but, living alone, I have to try a bit harder.

It’s a bit sad when the overworked paramedics turn up and one says to the other “I know him".

I’ve had this bitch for twenty years and if I can get another score out of it then I shall think myself lucky.

Meantime, I shall try to copy the beardstyle of Will Self what I saw the other day. The smaller the ambition, the greater chance of success. Innit?

In the year of about 1979 I moved to West Berlin. It was shortly before my 20th and could only speak about three words of German.

Anyway, I’ve been watching this programme:
The Secret Life of the Berlin Wall.

I can only understand a little bit of German now so I had to rely on the subtitles.

This was all long before the Wall came down and the VOPO got on the train as we were going through East Germany, the DDR. They ran dogs under the train and had all machine guns and everything.

It was bitterly cold and I never even saw a blade of grass for months because of all the snow. I never even realised that there must have been a STASI file on me for a few months yet.

As the ice flowed down the Havel I just went to work and in the summer I went nudey swimming at the Glienicke See which is a lake out near Kladow. In the middle of the lake were a string of buoys and on the far side was a machine gun tower. I got told that in the towers they have a young man with a family and an old geezer. One will shoot the other. I also got told that if you swam the wrong side of the line that the DDR had divers who would pull you under.

All day long there were helicopters patrolling the wall (I lived out in Spandau) and every now and then the Russians would let off bloody great guns to scare us.

Until I watched this programme I never thought the STASI might have a file on me. You were supposed to carry ID everywhere but I never bothered, I just used to get a bit boozed-up and go round riding three on a motorcycle with no crash helmet on.

Anyway, it was a lot of fun and I was just a boy. Until I got home to dear old Blighty.

Off the train I got and I was wandering about and a man in a greasy mac (bit like Columbo) came up to me.

“May I see your passport please?”

“Yes, of course but, err, what for?”

Knowing what I now know I realise that he was Special Branch (or worse) and they knew exactly where I had been to and come back from.

I think that the trouble was that the Germans were going mental about [not published]hoff and other [not published]ist organisations. But it really made me think. I couldn’t give a frying pan about what anyone wants to find out about me; all they have to do is ask.

Berlin is a nice place, it’s very green.

Have a good weekend and don’t stick a sparkler in your eye.

H.

I read Private Eye a lot and there was a cartoon in a recent edition that I found most amusing. You know how if you want your video (eh, wassat then, Grandpa?) or your alarm clock to work you have to get your kids to do it for you?

Now I don’t understand how my stupid mobile phone works and I wish that I could just shout at it and it would do what it was told. Hang on, I’m going to spoil the joke at this rate.

Anyhow, there was this cartoon in the Eye but I’ve thrown it away (err, I’m sure I meant ‘recycled’) so I don’t know who to credit for this great joke. Sorry, cartoonist, but you really made me laugh and I don’t laugh at much, let me tell you.

Now you will have to use your imagination (unless you saw the original) and it’s a one-frame drawing and I think the caption beneath might have been something like ‘Ha ha, very funny’.

The drawing was of a bloke sitting at his compluter with all, like steam coming out of his ears and he obviously can’t make the bloody thing work. Coming through the door is a little kid who is about three or four or something.

The child is wearing a t-shirt and printed on it are the following words:

TECHNICAL SUPPORT

Sorry, cartoonist bloke, I would credit you if I could but I’m bigging you up big-stylee anyway.

Thanks for the laugh.

Today I was looking at my prehensile toes and thought how disgusting they are.

I remember way back when and I was reading, oh, Cosmopolitan or something and the laydees all thought that mens’ toes were gross. I quite agree; having studied mine.

Were I to visit a chiropodist for a pedicure then they had better have a sick-bowl handy.

Hating your own toes? How weird is that?

Mind you, at least I can count up to twenty.

I have had yet another brilliant idea.

You know how porksters keep whining that ‘it’s my glands!’ Well, let’s swap glands with thin people. If massive porksters swapped their glands with some thin people, say in some parts of Africa, then the fat people would get thin and the thin people would get fat!

Err, except it wouldn’t work at all.

It only takes a brain the size of a lentil to work that one out.

Come on, Fatties. Swap those glands NOW!

Every now and then, as you may know, I go trawling with the magnets along the navigation. I have only been bollocked once and that was because I made a dog bark at Triggs. Well, haha, because I had already found a windlass.

I usually just bother with locks and I do the moorings below and above and when I do the lock itself I concentrate on the steps and near the paddles; after all, that is where most windlasses go in. Windlasses are what I’m after because they are worth something. When I lived in Brighton I used to see people fishing of the beach or off the marina wall and maybe they might catch a Sea Bass (Suzuki in Japanese) and then they would flog them on to restaurants. I gave up fishing years ago because it didn’t seem right to me but magging is different.

Magging locks is easier when the lock is full. Whatever you pull up weighs less by the amount of water it displaces and when you feel the click you just have to draw it up ever so slowly and then catch it in your hand before it breaks the surface. I rarely bother with the middle of locks; I just do the edges but Omally had a spectacular at Pyrford where I never thought he’d get anything. He got a windlass out of nowhere. Pyrford is so full of windlasses (it’s next to a pub) that it’s surprising that you can even get a boat in there.

I’ve caught loads of things, the biggest was a bicycle and I got a nice mooring line off the cill at Pyrford. I’ve had two Coolies out of Newark in exactly the same place.

At one time I must have had about half a ton of windlasses but now they have all gone. The only pound that I actually trawl is between Parvis Bridge and Pyrford because the towpath is so soft. I still have a mooring pin from there which is at least 100 years old. It’s really beautiful and might even be 18th C. I keep it for hitting burglars with.

People often stop to ask me what I’m doing. Usually I say that I’m teaching my dog to swim underwater or that I have a pet dogfish but if they are really interested I tell them all about it and maybe give them an old nail that was popped from a barge or a horseshoe in years gone by. These old nails are so obvious; all made by hand.

And then Millmead.

Millmead lock is in the middle of Guildford and I caught a windlass. You can tell when you have one just by the feel of it. There were people watching so I pulled it up and did a happy dance. So then I threw the magnet back in and caught something but I couldn’t tell what it was; it could have been a Spam tin (lots of them about) and up came a spoon.

No ordinary spoon, this one. As soon as I saw it I knew what it was. It had been bent right over for the sole purpose of cooking up heroin. The flat of the handle keeps it stable and the bowl is bent right back so that it can heated from beneath. I knew what it was and I threw it back in. It’s probably still there.

Thursday. Doc Holiday day.

The usual rigmarole. I told him that I was really depressed. I have lost so much weight that I can take my trousers off without undoing them or my belt. Doc Holiday always has to try to outdo me so that made him miserable. Apparently I now have planar warts on my left hand and he hasn’t got any at all; that made him more miserable.

He said that I should seek some therapeutic work so I asked him, like, from where? But he didn’t know.

I left the best bit until last.

I said, “You know how patients present and then, when they are going out of the door, they say ‘Oh, and there’s blood coming out of my arse’ and he said “Yeeeeesss".

So I told him that sometimes I wake up because I need a wee so I go and have one and get back into bed. Thirty seconds later I realise that I need to go and have another wee.

With the medical alacrity for which he is famed he informed me that it was because I hadn’t fully emptied my bladder. Well, goodness me, I hadn’t even thought of that one. Then I mooted that I might have prostate cancer seeing as I have lost a lot of weight and all that. He said that I might have an enlarged prostate and, instead of sticking his finger up my arse, I now have to be ultra-sounded and have yet another fasting blood test.

I asked if I could have seven morphine tablets and he said “You’ll be lucky” which, funnily enough, was what he said the last time I asked for some. There must be some doctoring manual with a script in.

As I was unlucky I went to the chemist and handed in my usual, boring, prescription and went for a half-hour trot round the shops before my train was due.

Passing by a job shop I had a look in the window to see if they had any therapeutic work on the go. They didn’t seem to but the notices certainly therapised me. One was for a ‘LETTINGS CON'’ which seemed obviously honest and another that boasted ‘four week’s holiday’. Now, I wasn’t even pissed-up but I couldn’t help myself; in I went.

Seeing as how they wanted literate people for some of their rubbish jobs I stuck my head in and informed them that their posters could do with someone literate to write them. They told me, after getting a bit shirty, that CON was short for consultant (Oh, really?) and I pointed out that ‘weeks’ needed no apostrophe.

Rub hands, job done.

Then I went back to the chemist (bollocks, forgot the zopiclone) and just made the train.

And now I’m back home.

In the past there has been correspondence relating to if you posted some helium to yourself would the Post Office owe you some money because it weighs less than nothing.

Well, I was loafing about today and thinking about how, if I only had some short scaffolding planks, I could get into my bedroom that I had when I was seven. Then there was some cobblers on the wireless about how moo-cows are to blame for polar bears having to balance on a Fox’s Glacier Mint and all the monkeys in the jungle dying.

This started me thinking - and we all know how dangerous that can be.

So I did some intense research (five secs on Google) and found that methane is, indeed, lighter than air.

But, hang on there, a lot of ‘anes’ are heavier than air. Butane, Propane, Windowpane… I know all this because I am such a fab boatman.

Stay with me and listen to this. Ahem. If you done a massive blow-off would that mean you were heavier? The answer has to be YES. See, if you had a balloon full of methane and weighed it, it would weigh less than nothing but, if you popped it, it would weigh the weight of the balloon itself.

I’m going to start a business where fatties can come and eat sprouts and baked beans and see the weight drop off. Okay, so they might get a bit visibly bigger and (until they blew off) the weight loss would be great.

copyright Henry the Thirst at whatever date and time this goes WWW