I will have blood

I am in blood
Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

Macbeth

Next time I need a blood test, remind me to stab myself over a Tupperware bowl and convey said container of my vital fluid direct to the lab. Little did I realise how much life could be expended in the simple taking of a test. More fool me for reporting to my GP not only with protracted nausea but also a crook knee. Nausea is of course a notoriously vague condition, a symptom of practically any illness, a side effect of any number of medications, a by-product of a heat-oppressed brain as well as a reaction to a disagreeable food. So first things first: get a blood test to rule out a few potential suspects. And why not, while at the hospital, get an x-ray too, of the aforesaid crook knee? What could be simpler? Hah.

I arrived at the hospital promptly at 9am to find the waiting room already almost full. Pouting, I took my ticket, and was not best pleased to find some 40 people ahead of me. However I consulted the ineffectual guide that is experience, and told myself that in former times the wait was never too intolerable, and with a team of three bloodletters (as was usually the case) it should not take too long to whittle down the queue. Hah. Someone sitting near me grumbled that they’d been in yesterday, and it was even worse, so they gave up and came back today. It was mystifying that the few people called in to the bleeding room stayed there for an age. How long does it take to prick an arm? Were patients being bled to death? Were bodysnatchers at work?

Equipped with at least a modicum of foresight, I had brought with me Dickens’ Dombey and Son, and so was able to immerse myself in the domestic travails of Florence and Edith. With most unfortunate timing, however, Mr Dickens opted to conduct the reader into a digressive indictment of the manifold ills of human society. I had little stomach to swallow the metaphor of the “poisoned fountains that flow into our hospitals and lazar-houses,” and so I put down my book and sank deeper into my chair.

Time ticked along with its usual brazen indifference, and still the flow of patients was more a turgid sewer than the required steady stream. The interminable wait reminded me of an airport departure lounge – but at least when one knows one has nothing to do but sit and fester for six hours before boarding a plane, one can hibernate a little. Here, with no indication as to the cause of the prodigious delay, one was left to entertain all manner of unhelpful meditations on the arbitrary waste of endeavour. Had I not been heartsick when I stepped into that place, I assuredly was when I left.

Some two and a half hours elapsed before my number came up. How I pitied the elderly couple sitting next to me, who had some fifty or so people ahead of them. In the bleeding room I observed three staff, but two were occupied with other things, and I soon surmised that the creature working the needles was being trained (poorly). Given that the blood was thundering through my angry veins, I was taken aback at the slowness with which he managed to extract a single sample. Even so, the procedure could not have lasted more than two minutes, which left me all the more befuddled at how it was taking an average of four minutes per patient. Far be it from me to tell halfwits how to do their jobs, but surely it wouldn’t have stretched the other two staff too sorely to help out with the odd bleeder, just to reduce the abominable delay by a fraction?

After such a wait I knew I would be satisfied with nothing less than a diagnosis of haemorrhagic fever. Detesting all humanity, I prowled the corridors to radiology. The waiting room was neither as large nor as full as that for blood. I took a seat and observed the receptionist examining her split ends. The exactness and attention with which she did so augured well, I hoped, for the competence of the medical staff. Hah.

Forgive my unkindness, but the first radiologist to show its face (and a very greasy face at that) resembled a retarded Dawn French. I was relieved when she did not call my name, and attempted to settle back into Dickens. However the mental stagnation so capably harnessed in all such waiting rooms soon reduced me to nodding my head in weak dismay. There was at least a greater sense of camaraderie among the hostages than in the blood room: one after one people began voicing their dissatisfaction at the protracted delay. Staff would wander through, and chat to each other, oblivious to the seething unease before them. A few people got up to avail themselves of a ‘patient feedback form’ and so alleviated their malaise with a dose of regulated hatred. The folly of an Irishman using his mobile phone in the x-ray department (well d’uh) provided scant relief.

Ninety minutes elapsed before a different receptionist (the other having sloped off to examine her hair in greater detail) apologetically advised us that they were very short-staffed, but that someone from another department would be along shortly to assist. And indeed this welcome auxiliary called my name and escorted me to the big machine. Two x-rays later I was asked to wait once more, while she ascertained whether there were any major complications to my hobbled kneecap. Apparently there were not, as after a mercifully brief pause I was told to see my GP in a week and begone. Never have I left a building with such haste.

As an incentive to steer clear of hospitals at every cost (dying slowly in a pool of one’s own pus now seems preferable) the experience proved a tremendous success.

Manchester Crack Whore

“I never wonder to see men wicked,

but I often wonder to see them not ashamed.”
Jonathan Swift

[While perusing my archives I happened to unearth the following tale from March 2001. I was on my second expedition to Australia, and Roz and I were busy laying down the groundwork for a charity event to take place the following February. Below is an account of one of the obstacles to such undertakings, and a salutary warning not to do business with the standover merchants of the Australian ‘pub night’ mafia.]

Every happy story traditionally includes a bleak, disturbing episode that throws our joy into perspective. In our case, the deceit and iniquity stemmed from an unusual source: the local BackPacker King Neighbours theme night. You may recall that one of the excursions of the original ‘21’ was a night out at St Kilda’s resident British theme pub ‘The Elephant And Wheelbarrow’ (what a wacky English name (?)), where I shared/inflicted an intimate moment with Dan Paris (Drew Kirk). Roz had avoided the event like the plague, having grown blasé of such meagre fan-exploiting entertainment. This time, however, we saw the opportunity to network with BackPacker King (which is after all promoted by international back-packer publication TNT). Roz phoned its front-man (a character known only as ‘George’, but known to us hereafter as ‘Fat Cunt’) and explained our venture to him; he warmly offered to do everything he could to help. At his invitation, we e-mailed him our proposals for next year’s gala; although he did not deign to reply or acknowledge us, we duly sent him another e-mail to confirm that we had booked tickets for the next Neighbours night, where we looked forward to meeting him to discuss mutual benefits – we would happily promote his events if he supported ours.

The actors advertised for the evening were Jacinta Stapleton (air hostess Amy), Ian Smith (Harold, aka Ted Douglas and Prisoner writer par excellence), Daniel McPherson (the lovely Joel), and our very own Janet Andrewartha (Lyn Scully – or rather Reb Kean). We were particularly excited at the thought of meeting Ian: Annie Phelan had expressly asked us to talk to him on her behalf, and Roz had just appeared alongside him on UK TV in I Love 1988. I even put to rest any plans to examine the depths of Daniel McPherson’s tan in favour of apprising the much-sought-after Janet Andrewartha of next year’s plans.

And so we took ourselves to the pub, Roz bedecked in an Oz-flag bandana as I braved the streets in a dangerously shiny mauve shirt. We were greeted at the door by George himself, who appeared cordial and stated that he hoped we would enjoy the night. Handing over the dubious $28 entry fee, we were ushered to a table by one of George’s minions. “The stars will be on stage in about five minutes,” he assured us. BackPacker King operates on a different definition of time to the rest of us, as we were kept waiting well over an hour and a half. During this time we had already drawn the melancholy conclusion that the procrastination was a blatant effort to keep us drinking in the pub all night. Roz in particular was already looking supremely pissed off at the unprofessionalism of the proceedings – perhaps, she mused, it would not do us great credit to be seen promoting these rip-off scams.

At great length George, MC for the evening, introduced us to the actors – not to those whom we had been expecting, but we were grateful for anything by that stage. Rather than Jacinta Stapleton and Janet Andrewartha we had Kate Keltie (Michelle Scully) and Ian Rawlings (Philip Martin, aka Sons and Daughters’ wicked Wayne); Daniel McPherson and mainstay Ian Smith were at least there as planned. Our disappointment at missing Janet was mitigated by Ian Rawlings’ presence – although never in Prisoner he remains one of Australian soaps’ most familiar figures. Even so, BackPacker King’s false advertising did begin to unsettle us, the more so when George announced that due to the large number of people in the pub, the actors would not be able to sign autographs. Would we be refunded any of the $28 that we forked out for the privilege? I think not.

Furthermore, were we alone in pondering the irony as George, resplendent in an obtrusively loud, glittering blue jacket, delivered breathlessly unfunny homophobic ‘jokes’? (e.g. “We don’t like Home and Away – we call it Homo and Gay.” – laugh? We almost shat.)

After the most perfunctory of chats – each star was asked a single question from a member of the audience – the personal appearances were over, and the actors were let loose on the crowds. To kill time and keep us drinking, a quiz night ensued. Roz and I roped in our quartet of seating partners and exercised our collective intellects over such probing questions as: ‘Who plays Paul in Neighbours?’ and ‘What company does Fred Flintstone work for?’

But we almost didn’t get to compete in the quiz.

The illustrious members of Melbourne’s acting community had left the stage, and Ian Smith was moving in our direction: Roz and I readied ourselves for the pleasure of meeting him. We were ambushed before we could even rise from the table. With no introduction a gaunt, raven-haired woman (“a Manchester crack-whore” as Roz was later to describe her) lunged across the table and demanded that we leave. “We don’t want you poaching our stars!” she screeched (one of the few comprehensible sentences that she managed to deliver). Hmm, last time I checked professional actors were not in fact the property of BackBacker King. Startled at the unprovoked tirade/hissy-fit (despite being accustomed to them from another source), Roz assured her that our intentions were simply to invite Australian soap stars to our one-off gala night next February; this cut no ice. Nor did the fact that our event was a charity fundraiser for AIDS – the hatchet-faced harridan snapped that she didn’t care (albeit in words of a more expletive nature). Unable to concede an inch, she three times demanded that we take back our money and leave. We reminded her that George had been happy to let us in, that he knew from the start what we were proposing (and that he had offered to do what he could to help), and that we had specifically contacted him to arrange meeting him that night. All this fell on deaf ears: obviously the ‘George’ figure was a mere puppet with no authority, at any rate we could conclude little else, given the blinkered determination of the mystery woman to eject us at all costs.

We stood our ground, declining the offer of our money back. As the woman had failed to introduce herself we had no obligation to accede to her bullying tactics. If she was a colleague of George, then she would have been required to explain why he had made us welcome on our arrival if the company’s intentions were indeed to harass and intimidate us in public. As far as we were concerned, we were here much like everyone else to meet some of the Neighbours cast (albeit not the cast we had been duped into believing would attend). We consented not to hand out any flyers to the cast at this time, despite the bare fact that any actor, from Neighbours or elsewhere, was not the property of BackPacker King. The woman’s assertion that they were “our stars” was of course relayed at a later stage to Ian Smith: if BackPacker King honestly believes it has the right to deny an actor work and publicity, then it is only just that the actor be informed. Pearson’s/Global TV were likewise apprised that a cowboy outfit were claiming ownership of Neighbours’ contracted actors. Perhaps most importantly of all, it was our duty to report the incident to Equity themselves, who tend not to take a rosy view of unscrupulous Mafia-style entrepreneurs exploiting their members.

Confronted with our peaceful resistance, the woman retreated into the throng; she was later seen conversing with George, leading us to conclude that he had sanctioned her animosity. He was the only BackPacker King representative to whom we had introduced ourselves, or who knew our business, so no one else could have loosed the rabid bitch on us. So much for doing whatever he could to help. The woman proceeded to spy on us with all the subtlety one would expect from a thug. When I took myself to the bar for a much-needed drink, there she was standing next to me: did she imagine I was going to ‘poach’ the bar-staff (or maybe liberate them from her tyranny?)?

For the remainder of the evening Roz remained entrenched in her corner, too revolted by BackPacker King’s threats and duplicity to mingle with the cast. Refusing to be cowed, I made the acquaintance of Messrs Smith, Rawlings, and McPherson, wondering if things would get any sourer if I gave a repeat performance of last year’s tactile encounters. But I reasoned that the actors had been sufficiently abused that evening, and contented myself with a few photos – presumably I should be grateful that the shrew had not confiscated my camera.

The evening was dragged out further as we awaited the results of the quiz. Plumbing new depths of bad taste, members of the audience were invited to give karaoke renditions of the Home and Away theme tune, amongst other more squalid party games (who can kiss the longest – not quite the cabaret we would care to endorse). But justice, that elusive phantom, cut her double-edged sword into BackPacker King’s own flab when it was announced that our team had romped home in the quiz. Rarely does victory taste so sweet and opulent as when seized in the heart of the enemy camp. Although the $200 prize money, split six ways, barely covered our exorbitant entrance fees, we took to the stage to wave our winnings in the general direction of George (who funnily enough chose not to congratulate us in person).

The moral and financial victories were ours, although we left the establishment with our wits about us, wary of revenge attacks. But we were neither waylaid by mercenaries nor thrown under the path of a speeding tram. Returning to HQ at the Warwick apartments, we conducted a post mortem on the night. We now knew that we had misguided rivals, who genuinely acted as though a one-off charity night posed serious threat to their weekly low-budget, lower-taste star-fests. It is difficult now to convey the sense of indignation and disbelief that had hold of us following the mystery harridan’s unwarranted verbal assault. In the cold light of day we might even extend a modicum of sympathy to the evidently disadvantaged individual. But will BackPacker King ever find a favourable mention in Blockade? Will we ever recommend any of our readers visit ‘The Elephant and Wheelbarrow’ if they find themselves travelling through Melbourne? Will we ever take seriously any company promoted by TNT magazine?

Don’t fucking think so.

The Dolphin Dash - Sunday 13th May 2007

"Imagine if we could put one tenth of the study and effort of our indifference into our convictions..."

A. Scriabin

I was about to launch, in the style of the epic poets, straight into the midst of the action, but I must instead step back to Saturday when a most curious incident occurred. I had trekked into Uxbridge to stock up on lucozade, and bumped into Susan and Michael in Boots – great minds thought alike, for not only had they procured some of the aforesaid beverage, but also some ‘energy sweet’-type substance (apparently it’s true, the body can acquire energy from something other than chocolate and pathological hate). Upon my return home I set about the most important preparatory task of all: selecting an ipod playlist guaranteed to inspire me on the day.

All of a sudden there came a knock at the door. Bah, I thought, no one calls on a Saturday afternoon but salespersons and misguided half-wits hell-bent on ripping my soul from the loving grasp of Baal. I had not risen from my chair before the unexpected visitor announced rather brusquely through the letterbox that it was the police. Damn. Had I forgotten to rinse the last remnants from the acid bath?

With my best scowl I opened the door – to be confronted by four uniformed officers. Four! I know I had just been listening to Celine Dion’s cover of River Deep, Mountain High, but even when it’s a murder in The Bill they only send two cops (unless dramatic expediency requires they send one character to an untimely demise). Perhaps nonplussed that I was neither covered in blood nor holding a knife to a hostage’s trachea, one of the policeman advised that they had received a call from this address.
“Not from me,” I said rather crossly.
“Is your wife in?” the policewoman asked.
I made a perhaps not entirely involuntary twitch to direct my eyes and theirs to the Britney Spears poster on the hallway cupboard behind me.
With their keenly honed detective skills they were able to deduce that I did not have a wife.
One of their number then had the bright idea to radio the station to confirm the address.
Hmm. Well it was an easy mistake to make. 16, 17, there’s barely a difference. Without so much as an apology (although one of them did give a rueful little shrug) they scampered away to the real crime scene. I have not yet discovered what gruesome atrocity was being committed at number 16, but let us hope that the wicked marauders did not have too much extra leeway to rape and pillage before the boys and girl in blue found the right address.
With such a dramatic interlude to my day you will all be asking the same question: did he remember to include Celine Dion on his ipod playlist? The answer, gentle reader, is yes.

[I am advised that the average dribbling muppet chancing across this page, like Actaeon stumbling upon the naked Artemis, would probably be torn to pieces; much as I am loath to do their research for them, I will tenderly insert my original explanatory note on the purpose of the Dolphin Dash:]

As I may or may not have mentioned in passing, on Sunday I will be partaking in that most celebrated of local fun runs (or more plausibly 'droll strolls') the Dolphin Dash, come rain or shine (most likely the former).

While disappointed to learn that no actual dolphins are involved (apparently not many are sighted in the limpid waters of the Grand Union canal), I was won over by the promise of a banana and Mars bar for every person crossing the finishing line (I've killed for less).

On a more serious note, the aim of the run is to raise money for Cancer Research UK and local cancer charities, which as you probably know are causes close to my heart. If any kind soul would like to sponsor me, or indeed make a donation direct to Cancer Research, please let me know.

Also if anyone has any spare vicodin, please forward them to me urgently for my anticipated post-run agonising leg pains. Even better, feel free to send me a young and deeply impressionable physiotherapist (sadly the big-biceped kiwi physio-boy who used to work at my GP's surgery has moved to Essex... story of my life). While you're at, a psychotherapist would also be a good idea…

And so to the day itself. Heavy rain was forecast, but as I gazed through the window there was barely a drizzle. Ever conscientious, I filled my tiny belly with healthy carbs (if Tesco value porridge can be so named) and a banana, and waited awhile before necking a can of red bull. Wary that my body might go into shock at the ingestion of red bull without half a glass of vodka, I pocketed a few codeine.

I set off for the rendezvous, which was a little too close (i.e. practically outside) Mill House for my liking (Mill House being the nesting place of the borough’s NHS psychiatrists). I was a little apprehensive of the rain, and the fact that I had not even arrived at the starting place before my legs were aching. Gloria Gaynor expediently intervened with the original six-minute mix of Never Can Say Goodbye, and I felt positively sprightly as I rounded on Susan, Helen and co. Some people were sheltering under umbrellas, as if to acquire some mystic protection from six miles in the rain, while others lamented the cold. Much to my perturbation I felt fine. I recalled at once that prior to his complete mental and physical breakdown Friedrich Nietzsche, that fellow social commentator and all-round super-humanitarian, also reported feeling remarkably well. To be fair, while I may share Nietzsche's crippling psychological ennui, I am (thus far) not riddled with syphilis.

In a poor show of faith none of the area’s glittering panoply of celebrity residents were on hand to start the race – surely Shane Ritchie and Claire from Steps can’t both have been busy? The contest began and I was soon enjoying not only the malicious joy of overtaking poor old gits who should really know better, but also those who appeared even younger than me (hard as it was to break the habit of keeping a good stalking distance between myself and anything decent in front).

It was some two miles into the run before I paused to suck on yet another glucose sweet (I could practically feel my teeth dissolve) and realised it had stopped raining. So this dampness clinging to my top was more sweat than precipitation? I stamped ahead, buoyed by the thought that I must have run off at least half a stone by now [editor’s note: hardly – 3 pounds at most. And so to weight loss plan B (a severe bout of depressive illness - on the plus side, I'm long overdue a relapse)].

Pausing to a dull canter as I took a swig of lucozade, I looked round to see Susan and Helen gaining on me. Never one to be outdone by a girl, I rushed ahead, Whitney exhorting manfully that Love Will Save The Day (all well and good, but a little of Whitney’s chosen nose candy would have saved my day even more demonstrably than love).

Some way past the halfway mark I finally yielded to my gentlemanly decorum and graciously permitted Susan and Helen to overtake me. Never one to peak too soon, I was nonetheless a tad weary. Was the squelching sensation in my feet a simple case of waterlogged socks, or a nice set of weeping blisters? It is, I am told, not uncommon for the toenails of marathon runners to drop off (I had therefore not spent time reapplying a coat of my favourite whore-red). However my toes were all able to wiggle at will, without conveying any sense that they had atrophied into sore, leprous stumps. Anyhoo, I was enjoying the novelty of a new source of pain. My first run bestowed me with crippling calf strain (which afflicts flat-footed men a lot more than women, whose penchant for high heels renders a more pliable calf); my second excursion blessed me with aching thighs, and thence came the irresistible shin fatigue.

I discovered that by digging my not inconsiderable nails into my palms, I could sublimate the searing pain in my feet; and so with the visionary poetry of our Madge ringing in my ears (“You push me to go the extra mile/You push me when it’s difficult to smile” – a well-planned playlist if I do say so myself, although I was almost disappointed to finish before Let’s Hear It For The Boy) I hastened my pace. For the last two miles I had kept sight of a woman always a hundred metres or so in front. As the familiar scenery of tender Uxbridge shimmered into view, I realised I owed it to myself to be a right little shit. I sprinted ahead and overtook the poor bint (realising it could be construed as poor sportsmanship, I abstained from accidentally elbowing her into the canal).

Long distance running may indeed be well suited to the solitary malcontent; and yet what warmth, what elevation of the soul, when readmitted into human company? How rare to see not apathy but keen and willing welcome. Or perhaps I was simply craving a king-size Mars bar down my throat. How did Shelley [after Wagner and Nietzsche the most profound influence on my precocious intellectual development - these were days before I discovered 'those Russians'] once describe himself? "A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift" (by pard he did of course mean leopard, but the iambic pentameter would have none of it). Truly I must have struck the onlookers as a similarly speedy yet graceful tour de force as I sprang across the finishing line in 57th place (and yes, there were more than 58 participants). Six miles in the (for me at least) record time of 65½ minutes - history will indeed know my name.

A young lady graciously handed me a medal, but alas no caressing sheet of baking foil – has this gone out of fashion? Radiant, like a fallen angel finding once again its wings, I could have believed that my achievement was reward in itself. Then my eyes fell upon the table bearing innumerable bananas – never had I seen such a burgeoning temptation of fingers. I took two, and of course a banana should rightly be eaten with chocolate, so I had to have a Twix and Snickers. A medal and free chocolate? I almost cried.

Once I was standing still and able to prise my talons from my palm I realised that my legs did ache a little, and yet I felt alarmingly well. Was this the fabled endorphin rush of which I’d heard? Was I to believe it truly possible to experience sensations of elation without chemical intervention? Or was I simply gloating at all the poor bastards who still hadn’t finished? In fact no, as I looked out at the array of runners I was touched with tender compassion, such as a revered but modest sage feels for the less enlightened. Have no fear, I am confident that this philanthropic giddiness will last but a blink of an eye, and I can revert to bludgeoning people who block the aisle in Tesco [stop press – within 24 hours of my initial head-rush, normal service vis-à-vis my zero tolerance for fuckwits has resumed].

Susan and Helen lauded my marvellous performance – I had surpassed expectations: that is to say I did better than one would imagine for a scowling, churlish, bloated old git with a chronic hunger for sleeping pills and vodka. What can I say? A mind and body reared to shoplift are a force beyond mere nature. Not only had I confounded preconceptions of my indolence, but also the received medical wisdom that declares, "Men with a strong mix of anger, depression, hostility, and anxiety may be more likely to develop coronary heart disease." Hah. If that were so I should have dropped dead many years hence, and yet here I was, supposedly at urgent risk of a coronary and yet able to run six miles without so much as a twinge. What does a man have to do to kill himself these days?

Replete with chocolate and the nation’s favourite fruit, and collectively spattered with mud and grime, the heroes of the race dispersed our separate ways. Once home, I peeled off my clothes, showered, and rinsed the blood from my socks. And thence to the victory feast. In the past I have rhapsodised abundantly at the almost indecent joy of that first taste of steak: rarely have twelve ounces of sirloin, oozing blood in perfect harmony with my lymph-seeping blisters, aroused such yearning in my now purified soul. The medicinal bottle of rioja went down rather nicely too – well it was essential to protect the heart after all its unaccustomed pumping.

Later that day I visited Daniel. I laid my medal on his grave and reflected that I had run just one kilometre for every year of his life.

https://donate.cancerresearchuk.org/donate.asp?id=197