the brilliantly leaping gazelle

March 23, 2015

How sports news is like Debbie McGee…

For those of you who don’t know who Debbie McGee is, she’s most famously known for being the assistant to the magician Paul Daniels whom he later married. (Or maybe she isn’t that famous if I have to tell you who she is!) And for those of you who do know who she is, you’re now thinking of the infamous clip on the Mrs. Merton show. Which you can find here.

My last blog – which was a few weeks ago – ended with the somewhat rash observation that in this one, I’d be concerning myself with the fact that whilst sports news might be an oxymoron, it least offered a simple and understandable alternative to actual news. I write rashly because in the strict dictionary definition of oxymoron sports news isn’t one. It might not be news as I see it, but if it is information concerning sports that wasn’t widely known to people who care about these things, is, then it qualifies as news. So I write instead that sports news is like Debbie McGee. Allow me to explain.

As every magician knows, if the audience is paying too close attention to them, then there is every chance that they will spot the sleight of hand or other chicanery they are is engaged in. (For the purposes of this argument all magicians are therefore less than handsome men, and it thereby follows that their assistants are attractive younger females wearing as little as the audience will permit). The purpose of the magician’s assistant is to distract the audiences’ gaze away from the magician and to focus instead on something more appealing. In essence the audience looks the other way, so that the trick can be successfully executed. In much the same way sports news acts as a distraction from actual news. Let me give you an example.

Consider the many problems that face the world today. There’s certainly enough to choose from. From arms control to world hunger and everything in between, the problems facing humanity are simple; the solutions to them are anything but. (Although changing its name is one way to make the threat seem less threatening. The most obvious example being when exactly did global warming become climate change? Several large hats off to whatever genius thought of that one!) And if you spent any amount of time dwelling on all these in a very short space of time you’d go mad. At any rate, you wouldn’t be a funster! Let us take what is on the face of it, an easy one.

ISIS as everyone – except for mental pigmies – would agree is a dangerous slide backwards into religious intolerance and barbarity. But how did ISIS come to be? It is an easy question but one that doesn’t lend itself to easy answers. It all depends on how far back you wish to go. One could argue with some justification that ISIS filled the power vacuum that was left after the American withdrawal from Iraq. Anyone with a knowledge of that whole sorry misadventure could counter that with the argument that the power vacuum only existed because the Americans had not only disbanded the Sunni dominated military but had also installed a weak and ineffective leader. Going further back one could also point to the American support of Saddam Hussein provided them with a regional strong man who was totally dependent on them for support. Mind you Iraqi oil revenues didn’t hurt him either and only a cynic would draw a correlation between Iraqi oil and American support. Nor would one think of the one known diplomatic realpolitik phrase “He might be a bastard but at least he’s our bastard!”

Going even further back, one could even point out that the map of the modern Middle East, which as we know it was drawn up after the First World War according the Sykes – Picot treaty. A treaty that, like so many peace treaties before and since, worked well for those not directly affected by its provisions. If anything was guaranteed to foster generational hatred and tribal rivalries for decades to come then this was it. ISIS is but one as an example of how complicated things can be when you start to look at them with any degree of critical analysis. No doubt my own somewhat sketchy overview of events that lead us to ISIS might well be criticized, but that is precisely my point. Complicated things ARE complicated and defy soundbite understanding.

So it is no wonder that sports news provides an easily understandable alternative to actual news. If you follow a football team you know the rules that both sides will play by. You also know that a football match normally lasts for ninety minutes and at the end of it your team has either won, drawn or lost. And you will also know that at the end of the season their place in the league is a certainty, and not open to interpretation.

News offers no such rules based easy to follow narratives. One is always in the middle of news. The beginning of any news event depends on your perspective and your own bias. There is no clearly defined black and white with news, although there are considerably more than fifty shades of grey. Sports therefore act as a magician’s assistant, it distracts one from more important concerns and in so doing it effectively inures people to the more deserving of their attention than sport. Don’t get me wrong. I loved sport, was in my schools football, rugby and cricket teams. But soon after leaving school, I found I’d no enthusiasm for being a spectator of sports. There were far more interesting things worthy of my attention. But not if there’s a scantily clad attractive woman instead!

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February 21, 2015

Never mind the glass being half empty or half full, at least I’ve got a glass!

Last week I posted a blog concerning how depressing it was to write a blog all about your depression only to have a handful of people read it. One of the people who ‘liked’ it, upon visiting their blog and reading some of their posts made me realise that whilst my depression might be all encompassing to me, viewed impartially, and most especially in comparison to their experience, I’m fortunate.

Judging by what they write, they have no family they feel they can speak to, and having no support network of friends only compounds the sense of isolation. They feel totally alone – aside from the thoughts in their head and that I suppose is part of the problem. If one is alone or feels there is no one to talk to about things,  then thoughts of suicide can necessarily grow and develop, eventually becoming quite rational if no one is there to challenge your assumptions.

No I’m not fortunate to have had a severe brain injury and neither was I fortunate to be in a medically induced coma for a month. Nor was I fortunate to wake up from the coma especially, as the me I woke up to was not the me I remembered myself to be. I don’t claim this to be anything unique, I suppose that this is a common feeling experienced by many who undergo a sudden reversal of fortune.

However the reason I say I’m fortunate – and I posted a comment to this effect on the bloggers website – is that I have two extraordinary loyal friends who are seemingly indefatigable in the energy they expend on my behalf. One of them, Old Blue Eyes, who lives in the same house as me, has gone not so much the extra mile for me but has run a marathon in record time. Mind you she does think that broccoli ice cream is an idea worth perusing, so her judgment is questionable. Likewise Avril. I’ve known her for longer than she’d care to remember, quite literally in fact, as she says the day she met me was the worst day of her life! It is she who has schlepped across London almost every night since my diagnosis with Bells Palsy – in November – to ensure that my eye is properly lubricated (why I can’t do this myself can be found here) thereby negating any serious damage. Mind you, she thinks that UB40 were a great band, so….

I was reminded yet again as to my incalculable good fortune when last week I had an assessment from someone from the local mental health hospital to gauge whether I was a suitable case for therapy. Because of my infirmity this was a home visit. Knowing that I had to present a case in a manner that would be both appealing and demonstrate some awareness of my behaviours and how they might effect any treatment they might offer, I decided to engage in strategic honesty. Understandably this might confuse you, this notion of ‘strategic honesty’ if, unlike me, you have a policy of telling the truth most, if not all, of the time. Some years ago when a friend asked me about my flexible attitude to truth. I suggested to her that she thought that truth was a valuable thing, and as I expected she agreed it was indeed valuable. So I continued. She’d readily agreed with the assertion that truth is a precious thing, naturally wanting to be well thought of. So therefore, I suggested, if indeed truth is so valuable and precious one should use it sparingly, if at all.

Strategic honesty is whereby you are truthful in pursuit of a goal, which in this instance was securing treatment and necessitated by the person carrying out the assessment stating that I would only have twelve one hour sessions to start with. This rather helped focus the mind on what was of real and immediate concern to me – and not one of the many demons in my past. I’ve had psychotherapy before and it was suggested that my depression was either a direct cause of the brain injury, me trying to come to terms with the effect of it, or possibly a combination of the two. Being strategically honest, I pointed out at this assessment that the failure for the previous therapy not having the desired effect fell squarely on my shoulders. This demonstrated that I was aware of the barriers I put up then, but was willing to properly engage with the process now. I was only telling her something she may already known, if she had read the previous psychotherapists notes (they work for the same NHS Trust). Because, as I pointed out, the attitudes and behaviors that had served me so well in the past were no longer suitable to my present circumstances.

For many years I was able to compartmentalize feelings, able to lock them away as they were not helpful at the time I was feeling them. This was born out of childhood necessity and became second nature for most of my adult life. But yet when I wrote I had functioning and not debilitating depression upon reading the bloggers posts I mentioned above, I realised that being able to differentiate between your depressions meant that I was in a markedly different place to them. I have two good friends to speak to. The fact that I sometimes choose not to burden them with my darker thoughts is neither here nor there; the fact is I could if I wanted to. But if that option wasn’t open to me I shudder to think what I’d be doing now. This isn’t meant to be a sombre post, rather it is me indicating that I’m aware just how lucky and how thankful I am that I have two such good friends in my life. And when I write ‘in my life’, that is exactly what I mean.

Because without them I doubt you’d be reading this.

On a wholly unrelated point, if anyone reading this could enlighten me as to whether there’s a search function on WordPress and more importantly, how to use it – or if there isn’t, how does one find posts? I ask, because for the last two of my posts, bloggers have ‘liked’ them, and I’ve no idea how they found them.

Next time..Sports ‘news’ may well be an oxymoron, but it does at least offer a simple to understand alternative to actual news…

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February 13, 2015

The Albert Einstein Guide to Blogging…

What is more depressing than writing about ones depression in a blog? Not having many people reading it that’s what!

When I first mentioned to someone I was toying with the idea of writing a blog they asked me what would happen if I didn’t get that many readers. Flushed with enthusiasm for this venture, I replied optimistically, that quality was more important than quantity when it come to readers.

How I laugh at those words now!

Because whilst I feel I have interesting things to say and interesting ways to say them it would seem that hardly anybody is interested in reading them. According to my subscriber lists most of my subscribers are based here in England but a glance at my stats for last week proved that hardly any English interweb users read my blog. This leaves me to the rather unpalatable conclusion that an email notification of my blog goes direct into their junk mail folder. And I’ve yet to get my head around harnessing the power of social media to publicise my blog, because whenever anyone tries, this happens

It put me in mind of Albert Einstein. When he was asked to describe his theory of relativity in language that could be easily understood his quote goes something like this. “When you are sitting on a bench next to a pretty girl an hour seems like a minute but when you are sitting on a hot oven a minute seems like an hour!” The amount of time it takes me to write a blog like the one I wrote about my depression is inversely proportionate to the amount of time people will spend reading it.

Another thing that works against me is that I don’t have a single, unifying theme or subject matter to my blog. It alternates – one week about me and coping (or not) with severe brain injury and the next about something altogether more interesting. Before my injury, lots of many things appalled, bewildered, fascinated or amused me about life, sometimes all at the same time. Quite how my change in circumstance has changed my outlook is beyond me. This blogger encapsulates the dichotomy rather well.

I know that such concerns only highlight the abject lack of any other meaningful activity in my life. As if to prove the point yesterday I had a trip to Moorefield’s Eye Hospital. I was fully expecting them to examine my eyes and to comment favourably on the relative health of the eye and that whatever ministrations I was receiving that they were working, namely keeping the eye well lubricated. (I could make a rather crude and obvious joke about eye’s elsewhere on the body being well lubricated, but I won’t!) I was not however expecting a consultant to suggest that I needed part of my left eyelid sown shut to prevent any damage to the eyeball caused by the eyelid not closing properly. And for good measure the consultant also added that after three months she would have expected to see more movement in the left side of my face. I was reminded not in a good way of my physiotherapist at the rehabilitation unit when he said to me that most gains are made within the first few months and after that it is a series of rapidly diminishing returns. I asked him if he was available as a motivational speaker! (No really, I did!)

Thus I went from being very low at the start of the week to be very, very low at the end of it. And given that tomorrow is Valentines Day (or V.D as I call it!)

Here are a couple of ideas for you.

Cajole a member of the opposite sex who is single and a good friend of yours to engage in an act of public theatre. Book a table in a restaurant on Valentines Day and proceed to have a nauseatingly good time, laughing loudly and with frequent displays of affection with big smiles to other diners. This of course, will have the effect of making everyone else feel thoroughly wretched. Or on the other hand if might unit them in a shared antipathy towards you, either way it’s a win win!

The other idea – which I’ve used many, many times – is a cheapskates guide to romance. If you are an urban dweller no doubt there are many fatal car crashes or fatalities involving cyclists or pedestrians near where you live, some of these see impromptu memorials springing up on the nearest lampposts. What I used to do was to find one of these near to my house with a fresh looking bunch of flowers and take the name tag out and present them to my significant other.
Although what it was signifying was another matter!

Next time I hope I’ll be in a less misanthropic mood.

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February 7, 2015

Depression and Bells Palsy? What could possibly go wrong?

I could start by offering a similar warning to the one I offered here namely that “This is about MY personal experience of depression, how it makes ME feel and should not be misconstrued as advocating any course of action by any other person. Sorry about that, but there are some vulnerable people surfing the interweb and one has no idea who might stumble across this when they’re at an especially depressed state,” but since the amount of people subscribing to this is (barely) into double figures – and less than half of them are real people _- by that I mean NOT bloggers selling lifestyle / recipe / self-help nonsense – I don’t think I’ll bother. Not when this blog doesn’t feature high on any Google searches which means the chances of someone stumbling on this by chance are as remote as the creationist myth being anything other than trumpery moonshine.

Of the many things I’ve recounted in my blogs about my Bell’s Palsy, perhaps the most obvious omission is the most relevant. My mental health. Or, to be more exact, the lack thereof. When the villain in the last Bond film ‘Skyfall’ is captured, he recounts how after months of being tortured by the Chinese – and realizing that M had abandoned him – he decided to break open the cyanide capsule hidden in a tooth. Which didn’t quite do the job leading him to angrily point out, “Life clung to me like a disease.”. I know how he feels, because they may well have saved my life after the accident in the strict technical sense, but insofar as the practical day-to-day mechanics of life, what I’m left with is a cruel imitation of one. All I amount to now is loose change.

The Bell’s Palsy only worsens this, because not only does it highlight my own lack of fine motor skills – the ones that help your fingers distinguish between shaving your face or conducting an orchestra with the requisite precision needed for both – also by doing so, for an added confidence eroder, amplified my dependence on other people. The fact they do so selflessly and with good humour only makes it worse. At the hospital they gave me a prescription for eye cream; the fact that due to my lack of fine motor skills I couldn’t apply it was neither here nor there. Their records would show I’d been given a prescription for cream, told how to apply it and so they were in the clear.

However, as I alluded to in a previous blog, a hospital is perhaps the only place where less than bad news is interpreted as good news. My symptoms could easily been indicative of a stroke, so further tests could until conclusive proof to rule out that possibility, and until the results of a CT scan were known, I was outwardly as calm as one could be, but inwardly thinking, ‘Fine. If it is a stroke, we know exactly what we’ll do. We’ll enact the plan whilst I have sufficient function to do so’. The plan, it need hardly be said, is not a plan one communicates. Suicide is, when you take away all the emotion and break it down to its constituent parts, an achievable goal that just requires some thought. Mine has been refined such because I know it’s both viable and foolproof, I don’t dwell on it.

Meanwhile, back in hospital I just waited as thoughts – none of them cheerful – multiplied in my head like an aggressive virus. Not that my head is a good place to be at the best of times – and that certainly wasn’t the best of times. Winston Churchill famously called his depression ’The Black Dog’ and mine is more like Battersea Dogs Home. It has been with me ever since I woke up from the coma. Darwin, how I wish I hadn’t. But wake I did, and even though my waking thought some mornings is ‘Why did I bother waking up’ nonetheless I have a ‘functioning’ depression – one that gets me out of bed, partaking in my rehab (not the Amy Winehouse kind) and subjecting this on you. – rather than a’ debilitating’ depression where you can’t see the point of anything resulting in you not doing anything. Nevertheless, it is always there; sometimes more pernicious than others, but a constant unwelcome companion. And the irony is that due to the nature of my brain injury, most anti-depressant drugs are contra-indicated. Which in itself is depressing!

I don’t often write about my dark thoughts not just because it does me no good to do so, but also more importantly there are far more interesting things to occupy my mind. And therein lies the problem. To look at, I seem relatively normal. It’s only when I try to speak, or stand or do anything that requires smooth controlled muscle co-ordination, that one realises that the relative in question is a distant cousin I’ve never met. Never has the phrase ‘The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak’, been more apposite. My mind is as sharp as it ever was, but now the means of transporting it from A to B have been blunted.

When I was young – and not so young – when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, or what my ambition was, my reply was always the same. “Happy”. And this so isn’t happy. When I get in these moods, I think I should really take a long walk off a short pier. It all depends on the length of the pier, as unaided my walking is haphazard. And that in itself alarms me, writing about it so calmly. Worryingly calmly in fact. I know I shouldn’t. If anything, that exemplifies just how fubar the situation has become.
I endured childhood for this?

My childhood was a fairy tale. A Grimm one.

As I wrote earlier, whilst the depression has been with me since I woke up from the coma – and I have only a memory, of being happy, I have nonetheless learned how to live with it.

Despite, that is, not enjoying living.

So, in order to lighten the mood, a little musical treat for you, there being no similarities whatsoever between The Cures ‘Close to Me’ and George Michaels ‘Faith’.

Go on, hear for yourself.

Next time..Sports ‘news’ might well be an oxymoron but one that provides an easy to understand alternative to proper news….

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January 30, 2015

Is ‘Peppa Pig’ mind control?

Bear with me! It’s an audacious claim to make, to be sure, but if you’re a parent who’s ever been subjected to Peppa Pig you might well agree. If however you are not a parent – and are not likely to become one in the near future – count your blessings for ye know not of what I speak. As far as ‘Peppa Pig’ is concerned, ignorance is bliss. I am neither, but share a house with a charmingly delightful child, Little Miss Sunshine. This is why I ask if indeed ‘Peppa Pig’ is mind control, having been made to endure it countless times, as there not being a television in our house (the sewage goes out and not in!) and whilst she can watch it on her parents phones, my laptop has a bigger screen, and is therefore her preferred option. Believe me when I write that I’ve commanded by the tyrannical overlord to watch it. Again. And again. There are sadists out there who put three hour (!) compilations of ‘Peppa Pig’ on youtube, misguided individuals afflicted by the delusional belief that what one needs is yet more from the frankly painful porcine.

The first assault on the senses is the annoying theme tune, written, so the credits have it, by the same bloke who wrote the music for ‘Wallace and Grommit’. Barely have you recovered from that blow then another, in the form of a visual affront to common decency, in the guise of it’s animation hoves into view. I say animation in the loosest possible sense. ‘Peppa Pig’ is to animation what Primark is to haute couture. Using a palette of only bright colours, it must be nightmare for an adult first thing in the morning. Thankfully I’m spared that. But there is much, much worse to come. Now I know ‘Peppa Pig’ is not aimed at my demographic, but notwithstanding that, makers of childrens entertainment are aware that it is not only the children they have to entertain. Adults have to like it too.

At the risk of coming across all Jerry Falwel (pardon!) – the former spokesmen for America’s Moral Majority, who denounced the ‘Teletubbies’, on the grounds that it didn’t provide a good role model for children because Tinky Winky was gay – ‘Peppa Pig‘ presents a one-dimensional view of the world, one that to an adult celebrates conformity and eschews anything outside of that. ‘Peppa Pig’ is to me, as entertaining as I imagine being buried alive is. Here’s why.
First off is the lazy way the character of ‘Daddy Pig’ is depicted. Always unshaven, frequently getting things wrong, as lazy as he is fat, if a woman was portrayed in this way, there’d be an outcry. But hey! We all know men are crap. ‘Mummy Pig’ is by contrast, an oracle of common sense and cool, calm, logic. It’s as though there’s a deliberate attempt to invert the sexist stereotype of the past by creating stereotypes of their own. And of course, ‘Peppa Pig’ herself. She is as annoying cheerful as she is permanently seeking to control both events and others. She is not, I need hardly add, lacking in self confidence, aided in this dubious emotional grounding by her indulgent parents, who are seemingly unaware that in later life she will turn on them with a vengeance, blaming them for them for the car crash that has been her life.

I’m aware that any children’s programme will, when scrutinized in detail by an adult will be found deficient in some ways. But ‘Peppa Pig’ abuses that level of scrutiny. Just because millions of under fives watch it, doesn’t therefore mean it’s any good! Viewing figures don’t equate with quality. Eastenders anyone? Exactamudo. It’s the parents who are woken at far too early o’clock to watch it I feel for. Their children see a warm and reassuring view of the world whereas their parents know a doctor won’t make an immediate home visit for a cough.

There is one episode in particular that annoys me though and Little Miss Sunshine never seems to tire of it. In the episode ‘Recycling’, ‘Peppa’ learns all about recycling. Fair enough, we don’t recycle enough. But it was when ‘Peppa’ first said, “Recycling is fun!” I knew something was wrong. For a start, I can’t imagine anyone of any age saying that, and second, it reminded me of those ‘Blue Peter’ fundraising campaigns, whereupon children were encouraged to send in milk bottle tops – remember them – and they’d be turned via charity alchemy into wells in drought ridden Africa. It is the same, rather paternalistic worldview that existed then which is prevalent now. That is the whole mind control thing, or to be less chilling but more cunning, behaviour channeling. The prevalent societal attitudes of now are introduced and then reinforced over time by the media we consume, which in turn influences the choices we make. Or are they our choices?

Did you know that the nephew of Sigmund Freud – the one with all the theories about the unconscious mind and how essentially everything could be reduced to suppressed sexual desires – applied the theories of his uncle to advertising with predictably successful results?

If ‘Peppa’ Pig’ proves one thing, then it is the truism of the Jesuit maxim “Give me the child by the age of seven and I will give you the man.’ because all of us remember television when we were children as being much better than it actually was. That is what adults do, remember a mythical childhood of majestic sun drenched summers that lasted forever, Christmas’s where it snowed, where really bad things seldom happened – and if they did, they happened to other people, people you only know briefly from newspapers – and that is what the children of now will think when they’re adults. I’m aware that to some extent, I’m highlighting the flaw in my own argument.

But as I’m fond of saying, “The only constant thing about me is my inconstancy”]

From an egregious use of the medium to an excellent use of it, in the shape of Adam Curtis and his new documentary, available on iPlayer, ‘Bitter Lake’. Curtis – who bought us ‘The power of Nightmares’ one of his award winning documentary’s’ – combines challenging yet interesting ideas with a visual flair that is breathtaking in its audacity. Watch a short film he made for Charlie Brookers Screenwipe here (only 5mins) or watch ‘Bitter Lake’ on iPlayer (until 2015).

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January 20, 2015

Trying to keep a put on a brave face with Bell’s Palsy is difficult when half your face is paralysed….

Trying to put on a brave face with Bells Palsy is rendered somewhat problematic when half of your face is paralysed. In an earlier blog I’ve outlined the benefits of the Bells Palsy diet, namely that having only the use of one side of your mouth and only then being able to eat soft food necessarily means a weight loss, in my case that amounts to 6 kg. all the more impressive when you consider that it was lost during Christmas, traditionally a time not renowned for abstention but I don’t want to tell you about that, I want to lead you by the hand into the murky world of conflicting health advice. Ladies and Gentlemen I give to you the interweb or as its otherwise known the Charlatan’s playground!

In the case of Bells Palsy the advice concerning facial exercises is worryingly contradictory. On the one hand one is advised that under no circumstances must one undertake any form of facial exercise, but on the other it is suggested that gentle facial manipulation started early, will encourage the activation of muscle tissue that would otherwise have lain dormant for a long period. On another blog I have written that a neurologist physiotherapist had suggested that exercises were a good idea as in her experience and her full time job is at the national neurological hospital so she’d know, was that gentle exercises could help. Quite what constitutes gentle exercise as opposed to vigorous exercise is another matter. She also suggested using different kinds of touch on the face, in order to stimulate the facial muscles. Rubbing ice cubes and make up brushes, as well as all manner of tapping. It was for this reason amongst others I fond myself on an acupuncturist’s table. Anyone who knows me will know how unlikely that seems because I’m with Richard Dawkins regarding alternative medicine. If alternative medicine worked it would be called medicine. Everyone who believes in alternative medicine really believes in is the placebo effect. But I was willing to try and trick my mind into alleviating some of my facial paralysis.

The acupuncturist listened most attentively – well he had to because thanks to the brain injury I have a speech defect which the Bells Palsy makes worse – and spoke in a soft reassuring tone his whole manner was quite unlike visiting a busy G.P. Once I was on the table and after explaining what he was going to do he gently inserted some needles around my cheekbone. My sense of relaxation was in no way helped by the fact that he looks like Malcolm McDowell! Alex, Clockwork Orange, aversion treatment eye, No? No sooner had I thought of that filmic reference then another one more chilling popped into my head. No doubt you are familiar with the first ‘Taken’ movie in which Liam Neeson takes violent revenge upon those who kidnapped his daughter. In one scene he has chained one of the baddies to a chair and proceeds to violently introduce two metal spikes into his thighs. He then attaches leads to the spikes that run to the electricity supply with wholly shocking results. I tell you this because not only did I have needles sticking out of my face, but also the acupuncturist attached little cables running to a small generator to stimulate the muscles. What was being stimulated was my sphincter muscle

Which is as nothing to the story my support worker told me when she enquired about my acupuncture. Some time ago she told me she was seeing an accupucnturist and that it’d neccessitated her removing her clothes. Not some. All. I know! Asking the questions that statement required, I asked exactly what kind of ailment required nudity to facilitate needle placement. Well, originally she’d gone for treatment to alleviate backache and insomnia but when told she couldn’t afford the fee asked, the accupuncturist asked if anything else was wrong. Yes, she replied, period pain, and he kindly offered to treat that as well for the same price.

He wanted to start all three treatments at the first session. Wisely she demurred but for the good of this blog, she agreed after a few sessions – knowing this man for less than five hours – to willingly remove her clothes and climb onto a table to allow him to try to alleviate her period pain by acupuncture. Now I’m presuming you all know what the perineum is – the gap between your genitals and your anus. I don’t have to tell you what’s coming, but I will. He placed (!) needles there and she paid him to do it. And if you think that’s shocking, it didn’t happen just the once. Oh no. She went back on numerous occasions to have this done. And if you think me divulging this is shocking, I asked if I could use this. No, what is shocking is that he tried to ‘friend’ her on Facebook! Her initial concern to me asking if I could use this tale of medical malpractice was not, as you might think, that I’d identify her, but that I’d reveal what part of London it was. Being polite, and not having replied to his request to be friends, she avoids walking past his shop, in case he see’s her. But he was Chinese, and she figured there were some cultural differences at work, rather than as I fulminated, deeply inappropriate behaviour.

It got me thinking; exactly how sadistic could an acupuncturist be without one realising? Not maybe as this one from Jam (Yet more Chris Morris. And yes, there will be more from him…)

Next time…Is Peppa Pig mind control for toddlers…?

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January 10, 2015

How Charlie Hebdo is distantly related to Nick Griffin…

I know that this is a rather ambitious claim to make in the light of recent events but bear with me and afford me the opportunity of making my case. After all, much has been written about the atrocity at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, not least that it was an assault upon free speech, so in the spirit of free speech I make the following observation.

It was widely suggested that the ability of cartoonists and anyone else that blows a satirical raspberry to lampoon the great and the not so good was itself under attack. It has also been argued that any attempt to curtail people’s freedom of expression is a fundamental affront to democratic norms which we in the west hold inalienable, a line in the sand which cannot be crossed.

Except of course when it can.

Free speech is easy to defend when you agree with what the person is saying or writing, but less so when you find what they’re expressing offensive. That is the dichotomy of free speech. If you believe in it you have to believe that it applies to everyone or else it applies to no one. As Voltaire said “I may not agree with what you say but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it”. This simple and rather obvious truism has been lost in the tsunami of words all championing free speech in the light of the murders at the offices of Charlie Hebdo.

If anything this championing of free speech displays an almost enviable amount of breathtaking hypocrisy in some sections of the media and some politicians. Whilst they agree with free speech, it is only the free speech of people they agree with. They have seemingly forgotten or more likely never heard of Voltaire’s maxim.

Some speech, it seems, is freer than others.

And now, for the first and I hope only time in my writings, will I call forth Nick Griffin as an example of how the critics of the attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo were conspicuous by their absence in launching a robust and forthright defense of Nick Griffin. Early in 2009, you will recall, Nick Griffin, who was at that time leader of the British National Party and an elected member of the European Parliament, was invited onto BBC One’s Question Time. Cue inevitable media outrage and handwringing at this. Basically, it was felt that by giving Nick Griffin an opportunity to espouse his views – which incidentally I find abhorrent – the BBC were in effect giving him a platform that they shouldn’t have.

In all of this there were a couple of things that were conveniently overlooked. The first is that he was a democratically elected member of the European Parliament and no matter if you disagree with his policies or the way he chooses to express them, nonetheless the fact is that he had garnered enough support to win an election. The second more worrying aspect to all of this is that in attempting to deny Nick Griffin a platform to speak they were in effect handing him a tailor made opportunity to make the claim that ‘THEY don’t want you to hear what I have to say because THEY deem it so prejudicial to the established order of things because if you heard what I’ve got to say, you’d question everything.’ In effect that is precisely what one achieves doing when you prevent anyone from speaking. You make their silence so much louder than their words. His appearance demonstrated he should’ve been wearing a mouth nappy. So when I write that the atrocity at Charlie Hebdo is distantly related to Nick Griffin I am not comparing the two. The atrocity at the former is in no way comparable to the latter, but it is distantly related. They are two extremes of the same principle; one can’t defend one without the other.

Which leads me nicely on to Section 57 of the Crime and Courts Bill 2013, which replaced Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986. Under the 1986 Act ‘A person is guilty of an offence if –
a) uses threatening, abusive or insulting words or behaviour, or disorderly behaviour, or (b) displays any writing, sign or other visible representation which is threatening, abusive or insulting, within the hearing or sight of a person likely to be caused harassment, alarm or distress thereby.

Under Section 57 the word ‘insulting’ was removed. Free speech campaigners saw this as something of a victory, whereas I would contend it was nothing of the sort because threatening or abusive behaviour is highly subjective and is not clearly defined What you might find as such I might not and vice versa. This led to the farcical situation where in 2005 a student protestor was arrested by the police for asking a mounted policeman “Excuse me, do you know your horse is gay?”

Or this, more recently, when someone accused Katie Hopkins of committing a hate crime by calling her fat. In doing so, she proved that the only thin thing about her was her skin. You might find that rude, but then, if you believe in free speech……

Next time…I’d try putting a brave face on my Bell’s Palsy, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve got temporary facial paralysis….

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December 22, 2014

My Christmas present to all (!) of you…Christmas Liffs…

As I in no way wish to dampen your festive mood, I present for your delectatation my own Christmas Liffs. Liffs are, as I’m sure you need no reminding words than describe a feeling for which no word yet exists, by using place names (These are all places in the United Kingdom I assure you!)

No doubt you’ll have heard of the phrase “As camp as Christmas and so for your added enjoyment, I suggest reading this while listening to the musical expression of that sentiment here.

A’Chill
What one gets from rashly agreeing to a Chila.

Acha
People on a Chlia clearly having a nauseatingly jolly time, which you think they’re purposely doing to wind people up

Acha Mor
People engaged in Chlia, obviously wearing presents.

Adlestrop
Realising that nobody has picked up hints dropped in the run up to Christmas about what you’d really, really want.

Alcol
When the life and soul of the party has had too much to drink and then becomes thoroughly obnoxious.

Azeley
The worried looks which express concern for the mental state of the teller of a Fanellan after a Fazerley.

Badcall
Leaving it so late that by the time you get to the buffet at a Christmas party, all that remains has been pawed, breathed and touched by everyone else, before they decided they didn’t want it.

Buck’s Green
A feeling of increasing jealousy that occurs when your partner is on the opposite side of a crowded room and watching them enjoying the company of an attractive stranger rather too much for your liking.

Bucks Cross
A Bucks Green that is magnified when, after being distracted by long Maunby, you cannot see either of them.

Chiia
The name given to the post Christmas dinner walk, which is claimed to “Be just the thing we all need!” but seldom is.

Chislet
Duration of the dilemma one feels about the probity of asking if the receipt has been kept for a present that is wholly not what you need, want or ever choose to own. Duration of which is proportionate to relationship with giver.

Chittlehampton
The feeling of nausea that is felt either watching someone sitting opposite you eating their Christmas dinner in messy and off putting way.

Dacre
When an someone experiencing a Alcol proceeds to boorishly holds forth on a subject on which they clearly knows nothing but which you have considered, reasoned and well thought out opinions and which you can defend articulately, so much so all you want to do is punch his lights out.

Edith Weston
The elderly friend of the family whom your never told exactly how and in what capacity they’re a friend of the family, as you only ever see them at Christmas.

Enochdhu
Stony and awkward silence that greets a joke that you found on sickipedia and that everyone else you’ve told it to found hilarious.

Fackenham
Exclamation frequently heard at supermarket checkouts when the grand total of the Christmas food shop is revealed.

Fanellan
An often repeated, interminably long anecdote concerning people whom you don’t know but whom nevertheless you are meant to find fascinating. Sometimes delivered by an aged relative, normally in a very tired and emotional state.

Fazerley
When the thread of the Fanellan has gradually drawn to end, although one isn’t quite certain, on account of increasingly lengthy pauses accompanied by wistful eyes and sudden bursts of laughter.

Feckenham
Frequently heard repeatedly and at full volume by householder one month after Christmas upon opening of a utility bill and realizing that your partner’s relatives had taken the invitation “to treat our house as your own” rather too literally

Foeck
Just before you enter a room, hearing a parent exasperatingly observe to your partner, “But darling, that’s what you say about all of them!” only for them both to become all smiles when you appear.

Freeby
Knowing that the relationship is only being kept alive just so you can get a free holiday, and you will end after Christmas. Until then, and for utterly mercenary reasons, you maintain the fiction of happiness to her them and their family.

Fulking
Moment when the pleasure one gets from an unexpected visit from relatives becomes irritation at them being in your house, and them showing no sign of leaving.

Funzie
A Fulking exacerbated by knowing you have somewhere much more enjoyable to go to and that the longer they stay, the less likely it is you’ll go.

Glamis
A female relative of advanced years that dresses in a manner more befitting someone at least twenty years younger and behaves accordingly.

Glenis
Male equivalent of a Glamis.

Gonalston
Playing Trivial Pursuit with members of your partners family who know rather too much about things you consider irrelevant.

Gospel End
The curious silence that descends on a gathering by osmosis when carol singers can be heard nearby.

Grimmet
Whereby food that really should’ve been thrown away by Boxing Day, mysteriously finds its way into sandwiches.

Gushmere
An awkwardly affectionate and long lasting welcome hug from which there is no extrication from, usually given by a Glamis or a Glenisa to an attractive partner of a much younger relation.

Hasings
Presents wrapped in a ham-fisted and slapdash manner, indicative of a being done in rush, suggestive of a recently being undertaken after Sheet

Herstonceux
A cook who believes that what Christmas dinner lacks is the wow factor. And therefore convinces themselves that condensed milk glaze for the turkey together with balls of stuffing with centers of sherbet is going to achieve this.

Hipswell
The embarrassing dance at Christmas party that a Glenisa does, after which he proclaims “Oh yes, I’ve still got it.” when he just proved the very opposite.

Hurtiso
Accident caused by rather enthusiastic pulling of a Christmas cracker.

Huish Episcopi
Being introduced to your partner’s distant Eastern European relative whose name sounds like a Latin name for an infectious disease.

Hynish
Suppressed rage when exhorted to open something you’d wanted to do either a Worthington or a Littleworth to.

Kippax
Assorted excuses to avoid partaking in a Chlia which conceal the fact that is one is perfectly content to slob out in front of the television in an agreeably comfy chair, where it’s warm, and where one possibly snatch a bit of shut eye.

Lagganlia
Regression common in adults when entering childhood homes

Littleworth
Effusive thanks that conceal the fact that an unwanted present of little financial worth will be re-wrapped and passed on next year

Mark’s Cross
Usually following a gonalston, saying to your partner later that you’d have a far better chance of winning if you’d been playing on your own, and when the conversation becomes an argument, rashly suggesting that they were “mental pygmies who’re as thick as a whale omlette”

Maunby
A pervading sense that you are stuck with the most boring person at a Christmas party.

Memus
The trepidation one feels throughout Christmas dinner when an aged relative repeatedly accepts brussell sprouts and cabbage.

Minnigaff
When the person who made the Terrible Down realises their mistake and brings the call to an end to preserve their own good humour

Morphie
Despite everyone sharing the same opinion of the Dacre, when you cannot take anymore and challenge him on every point, displaying a knowledge they lack, the Dacre inexplicably becomes the recipient of everyone in the rooms’ sympathy.

Nasty
The sudden and almost violent gag reflex one experiences upon entering a toilet which someone has recently done aTrumpington in.

Neaton.
Presents wrapped in an overly elaborate and neat way, suggestive of an O.C.D.

Netherhoy
The cheerily effusive Christmas greeting that one gives to neighbours that one quite happily ignores for the rest of the year.

Nevern
When you meet your partner’s parents for the first time at Christmas and immediately know from looking at them that marriage is so not going to happen.

Patching
The art of decorating a Christmas tree that is twice the size of the one you normally have, using the same decorations.

Patchway
Concealing a Patchway by only decorating the front of the tree.

Phantassie
The Christmas truce between a married couple that are on the brink of divorce agree to in order to maintain the fiction that all is well when out visiting.

Sexhow
Even though they know you live together, your partners’ parents have seen fit to put you in single bedrooms located at the opposite ends of a creaky wooden hallway, of which their bedroom is located in the middle.

Readymoney Cove
A person who notes the disparity between the value of gifts given and those received, causing them to think they’ve been the victim of a Littleworth

Runtaleave
The belief that one can plant this years Christmas tree in the garden when finished with and dig it up and use it again next year.

Raggra
The suppressed anger one feels when, having given individual presents to a married couple and their children, one gets one in return.

Shatterling
The interval between you unwrapping a Christmas present, wearing it, and then it being permanently and prominently stained.

Sheet
Person who leaves it until Christmas Eve to all their Christmas shopping.

Swaffham
Guests to a Christmas party who bring cheap alcohol and then drink much better quality alcohol throughout.

Terrible Down
A phone call made by a caller on Christmas Day, throughout which they have to repeatedly shout in order to be heard over the sound of boisterous party, to wish a Happy Christmas to someone who clearly isn’t having one.

Trashbush
The amount of alcohol required so that a Glamis will permit a Glenis who has earlier done a Hipswell to have sex with her.

Trumpington
The noxious, prolonged and inevitable percussive accompaniment that follows soon thereafter a Memus.

Worthington
Effusive thanks which conceal the fact that an unwanted present of financial worth will be going on eBay, as soon as one can get online.

….and whatever – and whoever – you do, enjoy it….

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December 11, 2014

Is Ebola doing to humans what humanity has done to the planet…?

Charity is a wonderful thing. Indeed so wonderful that one cannot say a word against it. Therefore I’m going to say quite a few words against it, specifically the Band Aid 30 single, ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ (DTKIC) Leaving aside the rather obvious fact that the people currently suffering from Ebola are not likely to celebrate Christmas, there’s also the equally obvious fact that of course there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas, mainly because there never is! (Although, actually, it er…does, as I discovered after writing that, only hardly ever and winter for us isn’t winter for them.)

And don’t for one second imagine I’m making light of the very serious humanitarian crisis that’s facing everyone confronting the horror of Ebola. However, what I am making light of is the somewhat patronizing attitude of some ‘pop stars’ – admit it, you have no idea who the vast majority of them are either – who under the guise of seeking to do the right thing, do the right thing by their careers. Oh what a happy coincidence! Only a cynic of the very highest order would suggest of course, that all of the artists taking part have a vested interest in being seen as concerned individuals who are doing their bit to help – hey, they’re just people too, they watch and read the same news we do – which is all very laudable as far as it goes.

However, let us examine the actions of Bono.

Whilst he exults everyone to try and make poverty history, certainly no one can accuse him of not practicing what he preaches, insofar as he’s made his own poverty history. This, after all, is a man whose estimated net worth is $600m. And has transferred for more advantageous tax purposes, any payments to him from Ireland to the Netherlands thus reducing the amount of tax he is liable to pay. I am not suggesting that he has done anything illegal in this, but one wouldn’t have to be cynic to point out that someone who channels their income through a more tax efficient country is hardly best placed to pontificate about the need to eradicate debt. They say ‘charity begins at home’, which for Bono must be something of a headache, because he’d got three of them (and they’re not too shabby either!) Mind you, fairs fair, it’s his hard earned money, it’s up to him what he does with it but…

Equally I cannot find any information about exactly how much from every sale of ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ actually goes to help combating Ebola. Given that even if it was the full £3.50 – or 99p if you download it – it would still have to be a massive seller to make any substantial difference to charity. But the biggest selling record of this century sold 1,790,000 copies and if DTKIC equaled that, then it’d raise just shy of £6 million. Perhaps the assorted ear botherers’ could instead have each donated 1% of their income. That would have made considerably more money – Chris Morris time, only two minutes long this one! – and another thing, shouldn’t a charity single by definition, be given away for free?)

With this in mind one has to hand it to Adele, who was condemned in the press by Sir Bob for not taking part in his single. However it emerged that Adele had made a private and anonymous donation to Oxfam and that this was made in lieu of her taking part. Similarly Mark Zuckerberg (you know the Facebook bloke!), Zuckerberg faced criticism for not doing anything to help the victims of Ebola. Only for him to respond to that by pointing out that he donated $25m to the Ebola fight.

Lest you’re thinking I’m quite happy to criticize others but what has he done in the last few months? Well I’ve donated funds to the White Helmets – volunteers who race into bomb hit buildings in Syria to rescue survivors – so that they can purchase essential life saving equipment and I’d urge you to do the same and to ‘Save the Children’. I mention this only because when one considers my charitable giving as a proportion of my income –which is only benefits – I would contend that it’s much higher than Bono’s.

(Maybe Bono is heavily into charitable giving? He might be! And anyway, can’t you write it off as tax deductible?)

In a similar vein, one feels some sympathy for Katie Hopkins – the former Apprentice ‘star’ who was hired by ITV to be a controversialist on the This Morning programme. When she tweeted something entirely rational regarding Ebola – basically Ebola might be seen as a preventative check on population, citing the work of Malthus, – she was widely condemned on Twitter. But just not to be controversial or anything, but from a purely objective standpoint, when one considers the global population’s rate of increase and the effect on the planet, is it too far fetched to see what the Ebola is doing in Africa is small payback for what humanity is doing to the planet?

Equally there is the irony that this Christmas is going to be a boom time for retailers, with an estimated consumer spend of £90.7billion. This makes me think of Karl Marx, Robert Cialdini and Black Tuesday. Bear with me here. In his book, “Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion” Professor of Psychology, Cialdini identified six universal themes common to retailers to persuade consumers to buy. Scarcity was one such technique, by which he suggests that the less there is of something, the more we want it. This want, he elaborated, can be enhanced by time limited offers and discounts. And then one thinks of the chaotic pandemonium of Black Friday, where shoppers acted like savages in their desire to get a bargain. Given that, seven people have died in the U.S. during Black Friday bargain hunts, it puts a somewhat macabre meaning of, “It’s simply to die for, darling!”

Karl Marx predicted that the working class would become ‘the grave diggers’ of capitalism. Witnessing the scenes of mayhem over heavily discounted merchandise, one thinks not only that this capitalism at in its basest and simplest form, one thinks of the grave diggers Marx wrote about. And we spend more on sales than we do on saving lives. Indeed, shoppers are the grave diggers of capitalism.

Except that if you die of Ebola, your body has to be burned.

 

My next post will be altogether a lot jollier, as it is not the time one wants to think about less than cheery things, so it’ll be nothing more than a collection of Christmas Liffs. And as everyone wants to open their presents early, here’s a few….

Barmouth
The exact moment when the life and soul of the party has had too much to drink and then becomes thoroughly obnoxious.

Dacre
When a someone experiencing a Barmouth proceeds to boorishly hold forth on a subject on which they clearly know nothing about, but on which you have considered, reasoned and well thought opinions which you can defend articulately, so much so all you want to do is punch his lights out.

Fackenham
Name given to an expletive laden outburst traditionally heard at supermarket checkouts when the grand total of the Christmas food shop is revealed.

Feckenham
Name given to an expletive laden outburst by householder one month after Christmas, upon opening of a utility bill and realizing that that partners relatives had taken the invitation “to treat this house as your own” rather too literally.

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December 7, 2014

The Bell’s Palsy diet. Extreme (but effective)…

Last Wednesday the NHS in Devon announced that they were restricting elective surgery for those who were morbidly obese. This was amongst a number of measures that they hoped would go some way towards having reduce their deficit of £14.5 million. Which kind of makes sense if you think about it. Someone needing elective surgery – that is a planned surgical procedure not an emergency – you would think would have a vested interest in maximizing their chances of a successful outcome. You might also think, that given that two-thirds of Britons are overweight and that the change needed to effect better surgical outcomes requires simple lifestyle choices, exactly how comfortable can comfort eating be when one is culinary challenged, the challenge being to say “No!” to food.

(At this point I must point out that I have very little sympathy for people who are no stranger to the light of the fridge at midnight and who consequently look like a bin bag full of yoghurt. If you find this and other comments about the abstemiously challenged distasteful – no, no, no, too obvious – I ask you this. Exactly which part of the first line I ever wrote on my first post did you not understand??)

Therefore in this spirit of wishing to do a public good I give reveal free to the world a revolutionary – some might say unorthodox – approach to dieting. It’s extreme but I say no to the wishy-washy and yes to the demonstrably effective. Because far too many fat people look as if there’s a thin person inside them waiting to get out, the problem being that they look like they’ve eaten the thin person. With this diet ones ability to consume what one used to is severely restricted. This state of affairs is however, not one you can opt out of and can last for some months. Ladles and jellypoons I give you the Bells Palsy diet.

Whilst I concede that temporary facial paralysis might be seen as a radical – some might say idiosyncratic – means to lose weight, as it can potentially be necessitated by having one of your eyes taped shut – seeing things properly isn’t really an argument against it. And not only does it reduce ones ability to eat, it also reduces ones desire to eat as well. It’s a win/win situation (or maybe that should be a thin/thin situation?) The N.H.S could deliberately infect people with it; namely the people you hope don’t sit in front of you on a long flight. With Bells Palsy, if you are lucky one side of your mouth is as much use as a eunuch at an orgy. By this I mean one side of the mouth is effectively on strike. The first intimation I had that anything was wrong with my face was a couple of Sundays ago, was when I was attempting to spit out some mouthwash. It felt like when one is at the dentists and the dentist has finished and invites you to gargle with some mouthwash and you spit it into a bowl provided. Even though you are consciously aware that your mouth has been numbed, you foolishly think it can’t be that bad. Until that is, you realize the mouthwash is dribbling down your chin.

Consequently, I eat only soft food and only then food that has been cut up into small chunks that I then carefully place in the right side of my mouth. If for some reason some the food makes a dash to the left side of my mouth then by a combination of either tilting my head to the right, or by a suction motion borne out of necessity, whereby I maneuver the errant food back on the right side of the mouth. However this suction motion proves that the law of unintentional consequences is undeniably true. Because when I engage in this suction, the noise that is produced invariably leads to what Avril calls ‘mouth farts.’ This occasions much hilarity on her part, but which for some reason I fail to see the funny side of. (Which is ironic, given that I frequently make much ruder and personal comments about her, yet expect her not to be in a grump about. Although to be fair, she hardly ever does.) And because I have no control of the left side of my mouth, food can get stuck there, without me always being aware. Therefore, I wash my teeth in the shower, for reasons of practicality when you consider the dentist comparison of my mouth action given previously.

One of the other less edifying aspects of temporary facial paralysis is that when you do manage to eat it can often feel as if I’m trying to paint using only my feet to hold the brushes; messy, humiliating and ultimately frustratingly annoying, with effort not matching reward. Having only one fully operational eye – because Bell’s Palsy also limits my spatial awareness – is much the same as having a blind spot, so as the eating utensil gets closer to your mouth, the less of the business end of it you can see. Thus it becomes a very messy affair and soon you grow bored of wearing and not eating your food. This again could be of some benefit to people who look like barrels with arms. Because, as we all know, a diet can be summed up in four words; eat less, do more. Everything else is just garnish, which of course you can eat on a diet because they’re low in calories. Another painful lesson concerns the exiting of what goes in. By necessity I can only eat soft foods, which by definition are not high in fibre with, wholly predictable results. (If any does know of a soft food that’s high in fibre, I implore you from the heart of my bottom to share your knowledge in the comment section) So Matthew has been making me high fibre smoothies which are not as worthily tasteless as they sound, containing as they do raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, various seeds, bananas, apples and orange juice. Right now I’ve urgently to take the kids to the pool because I can feel the smoothie working…..

I know I wrote a few posts back that the next series of posts would be about me coping with Bell’s Palsy, and I meant it then but I’m bored now, so next time…How the maxim ‘charity begins at home’ is true in the case of Bono, with his Dublin mansion, New York apartment (and not forgetting his beachfront villa on the French Riviera….)

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