This morning I got hardly any sleep. This was a shame because I had to go to the fracture clinic and the bus takes 40 mins to get to the hospital. I haven’t been out for a while because I felt so ill and on the bus I started getting car-sick (it’s only a little bus and was going too fast and swerving about.

At the hospital I bought a nice cold tin of 7-Up Lite and went for a wait in the clinic. I thought I was due to get x-rayed again but the doctor that I saw asked me a few questions. He was a really nice bloke. He looked through my old x-rays and asked me to put my arms behind my head or behind my back and up in the air; all that kind of thing.

He said he was pleased how it was healing up and there was no need for me to come back again! We looked at the x-rays and he explained them to me. I told him about the horrible ‘clack’ that my shoulder sometimes makes but he said that this would pass with time.

So that’s about as good as it can be.

AND I weighed myself the other day and I’m down to 13.5 stone / 85 kilos. I probably haven’t weighed that for about 15 years. So I’m (apart from feeling horribly ill) I feel pretty good about myself.

Hope YOU are feeling well; have a good holiday weekend.

Waking up, surrounded by strangers, is not very funny but I lived through it.
Let me see if I can post this..
Ian Anderson is probably the best living musician in the country. I’ve seen him a few times and never been disappointed.
Today I talked to a certain doctor (now DO bear in mind that I know more than most of them if they clamped their heads together).
I said that I needed a prescription for Tram*dol and HypoStop and some Co-cod*mol. He said that he couldn’t give me all that. “Are you in pain?” “Yes, I’ve got a broken shoulder you idiot” so I plumped for the Tram*dol because I can buy the rest at Pestco.
Hope you enjoyed the Tull if the link works. ‘Wond’rin Aloud’ is such a lovely love song. She shakes her head and they’re crumbs in the bed. Listen to it right now.

I walked back from Byfleet and I felt a bit groggy. The pub of ultimate swearification had all metal shutters on and a notice on the door.
I thought that I should have a look and that is the last thing that I remember.

The next thing was some cars had stopped because they had seen me lying on the pavement. Someone called for an ambulance but I pointed at my bag and told them where my diabetic stuff was. I had a glug of HypoStop and soon was feeling much better. The ambulance got cancelled.

The horrible thing about all this is that I no longer get any warning signs. I just go over and that’s how I broke my shoulder. I can tolerate very low blood/glucose levels and don’t even notice it and then BANG, game over.

I was very lucky this evening. The people who stopped were kind and understood about diabetes. I got a lift home. I was incredibly lucky. The fellow who helped me home was the nephew of the bloke who I had been having a drink with after Buffs. Everyone round here knows everybody else. Sorry to go on but I have no one else to moan to.

Hey, nice to have you on board.
Have a quick whip around the old site and I hope that you find it funny.
I was walking through the carpark at Pestco’s last night and I was imagining what a horror it would be if I had to turn up at the JobCentre thingy (where my ex-wife now works. AAAAAH!) and explain what I actually DID.

The answer to that one is ‘Nothing’ but, if pressed, I would say that I construct jokes. “Construct jokes, you say?” It’s the only thing I’m good at. Human beans are the only things that can construct jokes or understand them so there’s no point in being miserable about that. In fact, when you think about it, it’s one of the most complicated gifts of them all.

Welcome Steve. You saved my life and now you are gone I welcome you into my little world. If you behave yourself I’ll give you a link to where this all started.

I now weigh 14 stone with my clothes on. I’m thinking of releasing a slimming DVD called ‘Stop stuffing your face, you fat bastard’.

Happy retirement but no thanks for leaving me alone with those two idiots.

Wishing you well,
H.

I KNEW I would get there in the end.
Here’s the picture of the green alkanet that I took today:

It’s a pretty plant and too overlooked.

I did take a picture of some green alkanet this afternoon. A lovely plant with blue flowers. The seasons change but this is a plant that I always like to see. You would be able to see it too except my compluter got in a muddle.

Instead, here’s a picture of the James Gang. Well, not all of them but this is a photo of Frank and Jesse James. I like this picture just like I like certain films. These were men; not nice but men indeed. Maybe I’ll make a t-shirt out of it. They robbed and killed people but here they are and look at where the right hands are. Over the breast like they’re taking an oath.

To the outlaw, Jesse James! (swig)

Thanks to SimonG I can now post photos.

Here’s a good one. Not only do you get to buy the pens but you get FREE INK inside them. A pen WITH ink?!

Thank you, Simers!

IT’S A GOOD ONE!

As I was wandering about, making a nuisance of myself, at about ten to the eleven I saw the blue flashing lights coming towards me under the bridge.

There was no sirens sounding but every time I see them it takes me back a few decades. In a wireless car you can’t actually hear the ‘twos’; it just sounds like clicking because the sound is projected forwards. In the olden days when the blues went round and round you could see the light reflected off the walls especially when negotiating the railway bridge up Coldharbour Lane on two wheels and a wing-mirror at about 70mph.

Tonight it was an ambulance. ‘Ah Hah’, thought I, Ten to eleven. I know what that’s about. Someone has been glassed in a pub.

When I had a proper job there was a Class 1 driver who used to hear a shout coming over the main set. Then he used to put the blues and twos on and drive extremely fast. He didn’t know where he was going at all. He used to wear a dog-handlers’ jacket and really tear the arse out of the poor old Rovers that we had.

From the canteen I used to look out from the balcony and admire the boat-shaped tail of the wireless cars.

There was a colleague who used to go out into the yard and smell the tyres and brakes after certain occasions.

There was a tannoy in the canteen and if a ’suspects on’ or an ‘urgent assistance’ came over there was a right bundle to get down the stairs and fill the vehicles.

When I saw the Ambulance tonight I wished them luck. Gawd bless ‘em all.

Having spent the last two days lying in bed and feeling depressed I really did have to visit the shop. And I wasn’t disappointed. In the queueueue for the till I became aware of some small commotion.

Radios were being used.

Security type men in hi-viz descended.

I was gawping as my special offer rubbish was totted but I did hear a few things…

“I don’t know - he’s just gone".
“He was here but now he’s not".

The object of all this activity was a trolley. The front bit, you know, where you put the baguettes and things, had a 12 pack of bog-rolls stuffed into it. The main body of the trolley (ew, that sounds like Danny Kaye) contained two flatscreen tellies and about ten boxes of wine.

I couldn’t help it, I just started laughing. This was at the middle door which was bang next-door to where I was paying.I asked till-man whether someone had just tried to nick it all and he said ‘Yes’. He was trying not to laugh, I was trying not to laugh.

Shoplifting is a serious offence, an arrestable offence (which probably doesn’t mean what you think) against, erm, section 1 of the Theft Act of 1961 and because it’s ‘arrestable’ (punishable by 5 years in the Clink) YOU TOO can nick people (under certain circumstances).

And the ’security’ bloke had lost his perp. Oh dear.

A few days ago I was having a bit of a chew on something chewy (a Braeburn apple or something - yum, my fave kind). ‘Hello’, I thought. ‘Hello, that feels a bit toothachey at the back there’. So, I did what all sensible people should do and ignored it.

Here’s some history for you. I go to the dentist once a decade whether I need to or not. I last went to a lovely dentist in Weybridge but they had a falling-out with the NHS so I got left in dental limboland.

Looking at my speshul certiflicate I realised that it had expired a year ago. No problem, I shall ring up and get a new one. Oh no I won’t. The entire procedure is made as difficult as possible. Then there would be the problem of finding an NHS dentist that I could visit by bus instead of space rocket. The wretched forms haven’t even arrived yet, let alone the speshul certiflicate, let alone there being no dentist.

As I dentally limped through my dinner I thought I detected a gum-boil situation. As well as being a doctor I am also a dental surgeon so I should know. My prescription pad had run out (must get a new one) so I couldn’t prescribe myself any diam**phine or antibiotics. What was I to do?

The answer to that, ladies and gents, is simple (Quick sidetrack - once I was up Atlantic Road heading for Railton Road and I saw three getting-on-a-bit local folk enjoying a refreshing Red Stripe or Spesh in a shop doorway. “Morning Gents!” said I. The reply I got was, “Don’t call me a toilet". You can’t win, can you?)

Anyway. The answer is simple. Sort it out yourself otherwise your railings will look like you’ve got a gobful of burnt chips or they might start falling out. So, I sorted my surgical equipment and anaesthetised myself and set to work. I figured that there can’t be much difference between a narrowboat cooling system and a domestic central-heating sytem and my gob so they should ALL be mendable by someone as crafty as what I am.

Now then, I really must get around to writing a paper for The Lancet or Dental Weekly emphasising the virtues of using a wooden barbecue skewer in this kind of procedure.

I can’t give away all my secrets. My ability to fix things has taken me years to develop but let me assure you of this; I no longer need to visit a dentist and plunder the coffers of the NHS. Yeah, it DID bleed a bit but seeing as the contents of my mouth are about as toxic as that of a Komodo Dragon I don’t think that mere bacteria will survive.

Happy days. Munch, munch, munch.
H.

Here’s a word of advice; don’t ever bust your shoulder.

I have been given exercizes (Oxford Z) to do but as per usual I know best so I don’t do them. What I do is to ignore the sling of misery that I was given at the hospital of St No-Use (honestly, I could have made a better one myself and my brother DID make a better one using the triangular bandage from his shop first-aid kit).

What I do is pretend that that it never happened and I try to get on and use the bastard like an arm instead of a dead thing that just happens to be stuck to me. It still hurts. Sometimes it goes ‘clack’ which I don’t like. After all, I am sinister and I can’t cope without it. I haven’t written (properly) nor drawn or painted for a long time.

Now it’s three of the morn but I had to get up to find some painkillers.

But ‘I’ve got to admit, it’s getting better, getting better all the time’.

A nice Swedish massage might help (not now Sven, you perv) and my ribs don’t hurt any more.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. Mallers clipped my hair off and a couple of days ago I finished the job and my Victorian beard has gone. I no longer look like a right paraffin and like I might start a fight with myself in a park after a soothing 6 litres of Shrieking Witch.

Sometimes I make myself laugh. I might be just walking to the shop or typing in my pants but there is a quiet snigger to be had along the way. Last night I heard some suspicious noises so I looked out of the window. As usual it was the train persons but when I looked out I could see that the downstairs flat had steam or smoke or something coming from their boiler. I only had my heating on for two days this winter. Thank goodness for hypothermics and that the sparks fly upwards.

Tomorrow I might attempt a press-up or two but I doubt it. I now weigh the same as I did a decade ago. When my arm and legs get chopped off I’ll weigh even less!

Nighty night.

Today, on my compluter, I watched a programme, all 90 odd minutes of it. Should be still available on BBCi if you are interested.

It was a concert by, largely, people that I had never heard of and was dedicated to the music of Nick Drake. I think that Danny Thompson (on bass) was the only one who had ever met him.

I will never forget the first time that I ever heard Nick Drake. I stayed in a farmhouse in Kent for a weekend and somebody put on ‘Bryter Layter’ which was his second (out of three) album.

My friends, at the time, mocked me for my fondness for ‘Nick Duck’ as they called him, but my love for his music never died and never will. I believe that when Chris Blackwell sold Island Records he did so on the understanding that none of his work would ever be deleted.

Horrible as this mess was (to the purist) it was strange to hear those old, familiar songs through other people. Some of it was a horror-show with guest vocalists showing-off and middle-eights piddled about with BUT.

It was like hearing these songs through new ears. Bits that I loved were missing. Bits that I didn’t want were stuck in BUT.

I listened and I realised that almost without exception his songs were about

Loneliness

Loss

Death.

It’s no wonder that his young life was taken from him. It was almost as if I had never heard the words before although I had listened to them so many times. Oh, Nick, I think I get the message and I’m truly sorry that I wasn’t there for you.

God love you.

As we are all well aware, Iceland has its problems.
Someone told me that they grow bananananananas there on account of the thermal doings but I don’t believe it.

Iceland is severely expensive to visit even though it is stuffed with pretty girls. And Bjork.

What the Icelandic Government should do is convert the ASH into HASH and then we could all live in beautiful harmony. If they had thought to squirt Europe with hash they would soon be rich enough to pay us back and we couldn’t care if we went there or not because even tyre mechanics would look lovely.

As per usual, they should have asked me first. Tchoh!
Frustratedly,

H.

Those magnificent men near their flying machines
They went up diddly-up, they came down diddly-own down.
They’re not especially clean
‘Cos they ain’t had a wash since they left Aberdeen.

Down, down, hanging around
Smoking a fag and defying the sky (?)
The Captain keeps his goggles on
While he knobs all the stewardesses in the Hilton.

The passengers say, ‘Well, this day is our third’
But from the loudspeakers, not a word is heard
To get bloody home they’re terrifically keen
Those magnificent plebs on the fruity machines….

(continues ad nauseam)

I must say I love this Vulcan malarkey. There is a difference ‘twixt want and need, you know.
On the wireless a question was posed along the lines of ‘What about all the people who need to fly back-and-forth regularly from here?’

Apart from pilots I couldn’t think of anybody.

I WANT a wheelbarrow full of diamonds but I don’t actually NEED one.

We have telephones and compluters. We have ships and ferries and submarines full of atoms and trains and lorries and cars.

Just because you CAN travel doesn’t mean that you HAVE to. If it ain’t worth the walk it’s not worth going.

Mind you, when all the food runs out I’ll be a bit miffed.

My brother and I have an odd relationship.
It was his birthday on the 6th but, although I have actually bought him a card, it has yet to be delivered.

It’s a triple roll-over on Wednesday so I thought I’d get him some tickets.

Anyhoo, he hates David Essex nearly as much as I do so I wondered if anyone felt like it they could call his shop number and ask for Matt and sing him the Essex number of your choice.

He’d like that.

Anyone know how to bung photos into WordPress?
There must be a way, surely.

Hah!
Well I’ve got the bastard going again.
I’m not sure if it was someone else or if it was just plain old me but let me tell you what I did.
At the bottom of the horror/death message was a tiny clue. Ah Hah. I fired off a message to the server and then went to see my unlovely new doctor.

“What do you want?”
“Well, I’ve got an appointment to see you.”
“You saw Doc Hid the other day”
“I did, and I found him both rude and unpleasant”

There was a pause in the conversation.

My blood pressure was super normal (120 over 80 I think) and then we went on. But he is a young man and keen to prove hinself. Fair enough but he failed to prove anything with me. I’ve seen loads of doctors and I know more than most of them on certain subjects.

This one said that I should have no more C**alopram and then promptly prescribed me some more.

As I left the surgery I noticed a rather lovely painting.

“That’s nice. I wonder who did it”
“I don’t know; he left some things for me”
“I’ll tell you who did it - ME”

The painting is of a woman changing clothes, in the dark, backstage. The original is on my sister’s wall. I only paint from my brain. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. But when they do…

He said that he wanted to see me in three weeks (why?) and that I should make an appointment. I asked why he couldn’t do it from his compluter but he said that it didn’t work like that any more so off I went.

My Nude Octor is a ’scuse me.

At least this bag of shite seems to be working again.

Have a good day.

When I was a very small I was whipped and made to go to school. I had to wear a gaberdine coat but I did the belt up so tight that my mother said that I looked like a sack of potatoes.

This was in Hemel Hempstead (so named for growing hemp - for the fibres, you see, and also my place of birth. After I was born St Paul’s Hospital was knocked down, probably because I was born there. I am one of the few people who can remember being born. No, I can, I really can).

At school we had to say our prayers. Mine was probably for Scalextric or Super-Powers or being in ‘Man From Uncle’, something easy like that but NO. So I realised that praying was rubbish.

But there was this boy, his name was Richard, and he couldn’t put his hands together to pray. His right hand was straight and orderly but his left was a bit floppy. His left fingers could only reach about halfway up the erect fingers of his right. Now how cool is that?

Well, now I know. Having bust my arm my 46 year old wish has come true. Poor Richard. Maybe he had polio or something. Is this something that I prayed for? Good job he hadn’t had one of his legs chopped off. Being a diabetic, that delight is looming.

Be good and take care,
H.

Nope,
I still can’t post pictures or do links.

Today I had the, ahem, plops so I stayed indoors and suffered most bravely. Still, I did get on the radio and made myself laugh so that was a good.

I DO hope the man nextdoor wasn’t listening or I might suffer a kicking but humour is the best thing of all so it might be worth it.

It’s my brother’s birthday tomorrow (well, now I suppose) but can I face the four-mile walk? I’ve got him a card and stuff but four miles is a long way with a leak.

Mum’s phone is broken. I bet I could fix it because I love fixing things. The thing to find is the master socket. Then you unscrew it and use the socket that is inside it. Honestly, the things that I have found out by being inquisitive are quite amazing. I can mend loads of things (not fridges, don’t ever touch fridges. They are poisonous) just by looking at them and seeing how they work and understanding why they don’t work.

I can’t make a compluter work but that doesn’t really matter. I can make old cars work - it’s a shame that I can’t make myself work. My arm IS getting better though.

Happy birthday, dear boy.

love,
D, x.

here

Type yourself into You Tube and have a look at the wonderful collection of John Martyn (Oh FFS, will you never shut up about blooody John Martyn?) and the biographical stuff that’s on there (not suitable for work or children aged less than four).

Mallers came to stay and we had the most deeeelish curry. Now THAT’S a through the door menu I’m going to hang onto. Pizza? No. More shitty pizza from Maddlestone? No. BUT… Curry from the Jholpai in Parvis Road, Worst Byfleet, YES, YES AND YES again. It cost a mere 26 of your Earth Quids for starters and main and boy, were we stuffed. That’s 13 quids each and you can spend that on three pints and a packet of salt and vinegar in the boozer. So, we kicked off our shoes and watched Steptoe and Son. Then we stayed up until 4 o’clock of the morn watching the Rutles and refreshing ourselves.

This morn we went fishing. No! Not for smelly gudgeon because fishing is out of bounds for the time being. No, we were after a much tastier catch. Fully magged up we only hit one lock, New Haw, and I have had successes there before. I had the first worthwhile hit on what I suspect was a crayfish trap. Minutes later, Mallers bought up one the same except his was a bit bashed. Still, nothing that a workbench and a ball-pein hammer wouldn’t put right. The lids were missing but nothing that couldn’t be put right with a knackered old lady’s pair of tights. Sorry, I meant a pair of tights that were knackered. I think they got left on the bankside. I might go up there tomorrow and see if they are stilll there. A quid’s a quid, you know.

Now Mallers has gone away to buy some cat-shit grit and I’m all alone once more.

I still don’t know how to do links or upload my fab photos of my new Apple lappy. Still, he did cut my hair for me. Now all I need is a Strimmer for my beard.

Don’t eat all your Easter Eggs at once (Trouty).

Have a great holiday!

h. x

Have I bored you with this before?
Well too bad if I have.
We got sent up to St James Park or somewhere for a demo and then we got let out to go and get some grub.
I was walking with this bloke and I’ll call him Cody for the sake of the tale. Cody was enormous and for my first two years he really hated me but in the end we got on after I had proved myself by walking straight through trouble and being set on fire. He used to be the first to go into a ’suspects on’.
We were walking through Green Park or somewhere and I saw this trampy bloke slumped over on a bench.
I said to Cody, “That bloke’s dead".
“Yeah, he is".
“Don’t you think we ought to do something?”
“Yeah, we should go and get our grub".
“But he’s dead".
“Do you you want to spend the afternoon filling out an IRB or do you want some grub? It’s not our manor anyway".

We went and had some lunch and walked back a different way.

At least he had looked peaceful. Some of them that I saw were certainly not.

Birth, taxes, nurses and death.

I have decided to hate my doctor. It’s not his fault that he’s rubbish, he just is, so I can hate him without feeling guilty.

The receptionist said that I can send a card to Doc Holiday (marked Poisonal and Confidentional) and that they would send it on to him. What a bitter note that will be. I can’t believe I have been left like this with a sour-faced quack who could not give the proverbial.

So be it. I need doctors about as much as they need me. The trouble for them is that I KNOW and they know that I KNOW. Your average GP is supposed to know most things about everything, but they can’t, and they are scared, because they don’t and they can’t. But I do.

Well, I don’t know how to ride a horse or build a bridge but there are some things that I DO know about. I can cut glass, drive a forklift and nick people. And I can read. I can smell lies and draw and, oh, loads of things. I can drive a boat and I can smell a doctor who isn’t quite sure.

I used to keep snakes and I could see them waiting for the mouse.

There will come a time. There will.

H.

Doc’s today for the first time since Doc Holiday retired.
I had to see Doc Hid.(eous). He looked at me like some kind of monkfish with facial necrotising fasciitis and bubonic plague who had flopped into his insulting room.
He is supposed to be a specialist in diabetes but he didn’t ask me a single question about my case which I have had for twenty years.
“Why have you come to see me?”
“Because Doc Holiday told me to. I come to see him every week, you see, and so he told me tha…”
“Well, there’s no need for that".

I don’t suppose that he will ever realise how close he came to defenestration.

Bedside manner? More like a roadside manor if I had my way and could boot him onto a bench with a P45 for a duvet.

There will be trouble ahead, of that I am sure. Maybe he just likes looking at fannies and all that stuff and I disappointed him.

How does he know there’s “No need for that"? I’ve been seeing Doc Holiday every week for YEARS so how come, all of a sudden, there’s “No need"?

Maybe Dr Hid thinks he knows better than Doc Holiday. I don’t think so.

As medical professionals go (and, believe me, I’ve seen a few) he was, ahem, fucking pathetic.

I could hear the cogs in his brain going round as he thought to himself ‘I’ll have this bone-idle, broken-armed, agoraphobic, incontinent, OCD, diabetic, brain-apostrophic, mentally-ill, chronically depressed, lazy twat back to work in no time’.

Or will he?

It would be awful if I started complaining because, although I have time on my hands, I do realise that doctors are very busy.

I’m 51. I’m busted. There isn’t an employer in the country would take me on. “Any questions?” - “Ooh yes, which pub do we all go to at lunchtime?”

Why don’t people understand? There isn’t any point. I know more about medicine than your average nurse (except the poo bits) and I will never be forced into anything, thanks very much, so just leave me alone.

That’s all.