Bloody Lyres

There are many ways to not sit and watch Saturday night television. One of these is to cheat and lie down and watch Saturday night television but you can’t fool me with such technicalities. This particular Saturday evening I have avoided watching television (sitting or prostrate) by making a mental note of all the lies that were told by 80s pop groups in 80s bands who were from the 80s and did musics. Luckily for you, some of those mental notes can now be made available to stare at with your eyes on this very pages. I know, I’m too good to you but a leopard can’t change its trousers midstream.

 

 

What started me on the realisation of the lies I and all of my generation were spun by Western pop artists in the 1980s was suddenly clocking on to the fact that Kid Creole had a backing band called ‘the coconuts’. Rather than just tell random untruths in their songs (although I do think he protested too much when telling Annie he wasn’t her daddy) Kid and the band mugged us right off as a concept because none of that backing band even partially contained traces of coconut in their dna. To compound this, they went on to bring out a song called Stool Pigeon that had nothing to do with an urbanised woodland bird made out of turds.

 

 

 

Remember The Cutting Crew? They rehearsed next to my band in the early 80s in a freezing cold former stables block. They were called something else then and my band didn’t like them because their singer was right up himself. That singer went on to be internationally famous for a few minutes courtesy of the song ‘Died In Your Arms’ in which said singer claimed to have dropped dead while being embraced by someone or other. Not true. If he’d died while someone was hugging him there would have been a coroner’s report and how in the heck could he have been on Top of Them Pops if he was a stiff? Liar.

 

 

 

Def Leppard did not genuinely want people to pour sugar on them: I can’t prove it but I reckon the not-so-heavy metal band were colliding with Tate & Lyle to make people buy more of the addictive, grainy white stuff. No, not cocaine: sugar, you div.

 

 

 

Much as I enjoyed the musical stylings of Frankie Goes To Hollywood when I were a teenage fellah-me-lad, I’d still like to know why their lead singer, Holly Johnson, did not protect me from the Hooded Claw. Bored of tying Penelope Pitstop of railway tracks, that cartoon villain might very well have decided to leap out of his animated existence into our world and attack flesh and blood people at random. Possibly even me. I didn’t want to be tied to railway tracks in the 1980s and I continue not to want this to happen to this day. But has Holly ever let me know how to contact him so he can protect me against this scary, strawberry jam under a train form of death?

 

 

 

The lies of 80s pop music and its makers are so multitudinous that I may have to come back to this subject again and again and again until I stop foaming at the mind. For now I’ll leave you with the thought that Eddie Grant had so little respect for us listeners that he had clips of him dancing on a beach, in the surf if you please, despite the title of that video’s song being ‘I Don’t Wanna Dance’. Bare-faced cheek and a bare-faced lie, Eddie. Oh and I’ve checked out that avenue in Brixton you sang about in another song. It wasn’t wired up to the electricity grid at all, it was just a normal acoustic avenue. Thank god for the 90s when acts like Bjork told us nothing but truths in their songs.

Friday The Busyteenth of Some Month or Other

Friday has been busy. Not on a normal scale, not like your Fridays, but for a rusty old Steve it’s certainly had a whiff of the busy about it. My plans had solely been to get the bins out ahead of my admission into hopstical next week. I needed a few sit downs to get my breath but that job was done. I’d just had a wash to stop me being all bin-stinky when I got a call from the community physio. He was nearby and wondered if today was a good day for our initial assessment. I answered in the affirmative.

We mostly sat out in my yard at the weather was quite nice. I was still short of breath from my washing and change of clothing efforts (all too common for me to be shattered by such simple, important things nowadays) but I felt it was quite good timing as he could see exactly how I struggle to get my breathing slower and deal with the pain of my diaphragm hating me for the not yet slower breath. He seemed to agree.

After some general chat he checked things like posture, muscle tensions and most problematic areas of pain which then create add-on problems for my respiratory system. While we went through this I learned that he is a musician, like me. Well, probably a better one than me as he can properly play violin and read music, and he also plays drums. Real drums, not like the thumpa-whacka-tish programming I create when recording music on my computer. It was good to have another arrangement of discussion while I was having reflexes and such like checked. I’d already felt like he’s a good chap I can definitely learn from; this extra insight into the person not just the physio made me feel what I always feel when I meet other musicians: there are things he will understand without too much background information on my part.

It’s true, musos can often have this unspoken understanding even if the genres or instruments they play are worlds apart. I’ve only ever seen that sort of instant camaraderie in one other line of work: soldiers. It is probably true for air force and naval types too but I’ve not seen it first hand. Growing up in a town with a large Marine camp just outside you get to know a few soldiers here and there. Those I call friend are people who have taught me down the years that ‘squaddies’ aren’t mindless drones jumping when told to just for the sake of it. They put themselves in danger for the protection of others, see things most of us don’t even want to watch in movies, and if they consider you a friend they’re loyal for life. And, I’ve watched them spark instant connections with strangers who are also serving or ex-soldiers in the same way I seem to with other musicians.

Anyhoo, that’s all a digression. There will be another physio session when I come out from my IV treatment. I went back indoors and felt like I’d already exerted myself for the day and it was only 3pm. Yet I went on to cook a nice bit of grub so my stomach would like me, and to put a load of washing on then hang it out (laboriously slowly) to dry. So NOW I’m cream-crackered. But also divvying out some self-congratulations for having a busy Friday for a rusty old Steve.

Preparation H!

I imagine I might be blogging with a little more frequency from the middle of next week, for a fortnight or so. Because MORE HOPSTICAL. That’s right, you heard right, my big prize tonight (well, next Wednesday) is to go in and have another two weeks of intravenous antibiotics. And while I rarely feel I have anything wordy I want or need to spunk out all over the internet, anxiety and boredom on the ward can be quite inspiring. Not actually inspiring, in truth; it’s more that I need as many mental occupations as possible to take my mind off the fears, indignities, inability to have genuine personal space and the worry that accompanies being in a hopstical bed for a while.

I’m preparing for the admission already, sorting through laundry so I have sufficient tops and pants and ordering non-spray deodorant and a couple of other toiletries along with my grocery shop (the ubiquitous presence of oxygen tanks on a respiratory ward is one of the reasons why roll-on deodorant is the only permitted option). Weeks ago I bought a copy of Bob Mortimer’s ‘The Satsuma Complex’ and have held off reading it as it should give me a laugh or two while I’m being all full of IVs. I’m also reading a great book about Two Tone Records and that whole late 70s, early 80s scene so I’ll take that in too if I haven’t finished it by next Wednesday.

Time was I used to prep for upcoming holidays like this. Now I’m too feeble and unwell for jetting off to see my favourite people in other lands and while hopstical is very far from being like a holiday resort there is the same need for clothing, toiletries and small tokens of home that I’d take on vacation. I think my emotional support ape this time around will be my orangutan, Ayesha although I did love hearing a couple of the Filipina nurses pronouncing “Attenborough” which is the name of the gorilla who kept an eye on me in there earlier in the year.

Speaking of Attenboroughs, the king of nature documentaries my gorilla is named for was 98 years old last week. And still making tellybox delights, still telling us about the devastating ways human behaviours impact on animal lives – sometimes positively but generally negatively. It ought to be law that Sir David of those Attenboroughs is never allowed to die. Can’t they splice giant tortoise dna and extract of Great Basin Bristlecone Pine into him so he lives at leat as long as them? The longest recorded lifespan of one of the tortoises is almost 200 years, and that tree has examples which are estimated to have lived 5000 years! That’s as long as Stonehenge has existed. Trees are great.

Intravenous/Interactive

I’ve just checked my calendar; it is the month of May, apparently. I’ve tapped the calendar, looked for a battery to replace, sworn at it, threatened it with being thrown in the bin then finally admitted I don’t even have a calendar because – duh – digital age and all that. But even with modern technology it is hard to accept that this is May. It continues to be cold, like late winter cold. This has been going on for about two weeks and my nose, lungs, fingers and all my other pieces are right fucked off with it.

Those pieces of anatomy I specifically named are most fucked off because they are the ones suffering the most from this always-winter-never-Aslan type weather. Somebody needs to invent a wee little hot water bottle for the nose. And one to pop inside the lungs. For fingers there are gloveses but wearing gloveses indoors in the May times is a depressing kind of thing to do.

In truth, everything is depressing. But my sessions of Cognitive Analytical Therapy began a few weeks ago, via the Zoom-alike system used by the NHS. One of the things we are working on is preparing me to take a more interactive stance with life, once more. Since the Covid times I’ve retreated deeper and deeper into myself and do not go anywhere to see anyone other than delivery drivers. It would be good to feel able to cope, both physically and emotionally, with going to therapy in person. And with going to other appointments.

On a related note, it now seems my several failures to tolerate potential new nebuliser medications means I am now going to be having IV antibiotics every three months. The next fortnight of up the arm meds begins on 22nd of this month and will likely be another treatment spent entirely in the hopstical. But another therapy goal is to return to doing most of the IVs at home. Until 2018 when my health nosedived quite badly, IVs were maybe a once a year experience and, after a few days on the ward to fit a line and check my kidneys didn’t hate the meds, I was doing the bulk of the treatments myself in the comfort of my own home. More recently I’ve been too ill and frail to trust that I could keep on top of this process but I owe it to my own sanity to at least try again in future.

But hey and ho and a nonny ninny no! If you’re here who’s grooming the Harry Hills ready for the Harry Hill Parade? D’oh!

Thinkses

Sometimes my brain attaches itself to the whirling funkpool that masquerades as my mind. Sometimes it merely treats passing thoughts like leaves on the surface of a fast-running stream and lets them bobble their way downstream unimpeded. Unimpeded yet not entirely forgotten: the initial impact can stay with me even if I put no further reasoning into operation. As an exercise in proving I don’t just sleep and eat bacon, here are some of the downstream things that just are what they are – uninformed, unresearched, ill-considered (perhaps), scrawny indicators that I’m vaguely aware of the world despite my preference to write and speak nonsense.

Beyoncé Knowles, whom I think of more personably as Bouncy Nolly, has released a country album and lots of people have been critiquing her take on ‘Jolene’ a song written and made famous by Polly Darton. This information connected to nothing else in my head for a couple of weeks until a few days ago when I wondered why nobody very mentions the fact that Ciley Myrus does a wicked live version of the same song now and then.

The death of 7 aid workers in Palestine made Western leaders, especially the American president, so furious that the Israeli defence forces behind the attack have come in for serious criticism for the first time. As has their Prime Minister.

The death of upwards of 20,000 people, predominantly Palestinians, which the Israeli defence forces are estimated to have caused since their military response to last October’s inhumane acts of terrorism began, has not appeared to make Western leaders, especially the American president, so furious that they felt any need to offer genuine criticism of the action.

Hmm, now I come to think about those last two a little more, they seem to have some kind of connection?

The latest named storm to hit British shores has the same name as my father’s mother, a woman I both despised and was somewhat frightened by.

A hope a malevolent gust of wind doesn’t send something deadly crashing down into my flat, making me all maimed or dead.

Hmm, now I come to think about those last two a little more, they seem to have some kind of connection?

The two former members of The Beat who went on to form Fine Young Cannibals with that squeaky voiced geezer from an arty British 80s movie, also produced the one of the Top 30 singles by Wee Papa Girl Rappers.

Tell Me Now How Does It Feel?

Good evening viewers, how is your week going? Was Wednesday humpy? Was Monday the colour of a New Order song? Did you do ok when you went for that eye appointment?

Oh wait, the eye appointment was me and it was yesterday which is why my Wednesday wasn’t humpy. It was my initial assessment to see what needs doing with my right eye, even though it has been clear for months that what needs doing is laser surgery to remove the cataract that currently makes that side of my vision all hazy, phasey and sometimes crazy. Tiny pieces of Damon Albarn and his band mates are swimming around in that eye – yes, it’s blurry.

The eye department at the hopstical has equipment Specsavers can only dream of, and they have these eye drops that dilate your pupils so that a) they can see the eye in even better detail and, b) you are unable to focus on anything for about five hours afterwards. I was okay with that but it was a bad day for me to be volunteering as a bus driver. I’m joking, of course, Wednesdays are my volunteer Jumbo Jet piloting days.

The obvious having been confirmed, to whit that Steve’s right eye needs to be lasered, I am now awaiting a date for the surgery in question. My appointment was at nine in the morning which meant I came home exhausted from the effort of being in public, breathing in public, moving around in public and being anxious in public. Yet since then I have been able to steadily do some chores – laundry, cooking, bins etc – and even did a little exercise this afternoon. I therefore declare that I have earned myself a Friday of Doing Fuck All. That’s how to really break up the week: Blue Monday, Hump Day, Doing Fuck All Friday.

And Here Comes The Icepick In The Forehead

Hi, it’s me; I’m back.

And I’m back with my usual bunch of nothing to say and a shit ton of words to say it in. This past week has been a very upsy daisy downy dandelion sort of a week. Yesterday I had to postpone a visit from physio as I was too busy going pukey puke to be able to concentrate on phys-ing. Not sure what the pukey puke was about as today I have been not pukey, although I’ve also been not especially hungry. Inasmuch as a man with fucked up lungs looks forward to physio I was actually keenly anticipating the visit as it would have been the first time they’ve come to me rather than me having to go out into the outside places – something that generally uses up more energy and breath than the physio itself and adds a lot of anxiety to my day.

I did go to an outside place last Tuesday: I went to have a poke in the arm on both sides. This is technically called having a flu shot and being brought up to date with my pneumonia shots (usually once every five years). My recent stint in hopstical included an injection every night to prevent blood clots so I was accustomed to feeling a prick or two. Even so my left arm was particularly hurty for a day or so. I forget which concoction went into which arm so I don’t know which jab my body liked least. Whichever one it is I bet I still like that jab a whole lot more than I’d enjoy getting flu or pneumonia.

The other days of the week were a mixture of feeling lonely, or succeeding with one or two chores but having to abandon attempts at one or two others, or being awake at stupid hours and asleep at clever ones. Exciting, eh? I wonder whether the coming week will offer such wild adventure. The white zone is for loading and unloading only.

My Nonagenarian Mum

I’m still processing the weekend which was filled with happiness yet also contained fear and pain. Forty and more of my family gathered up in Somerset to celebrate my Mum’s 90th birthday on Sunday. Her actual birthday was in the week but obviously lots of people were more likely to be free over the weekend.

Without the extra mileage of my brother I wouldn’t have got there. He drove from Sussex, past Taunton and an extra 30 miles to pick me up then drive us both back upcountry to the venue before dropping me back home later, then heading back to Sussex. Long day for him.

Long enough day for me too as in truth I wasn’t well enough to attend so soon after coming out of hopstical. But our own frailties have conspired to mean I hadn’t seen Mum in person since Covid times and I decided only being dead would stop me celebrating such a landmark birthday with her. The amount of people gathered was overwhelming as I spend so much time alone, but the good thing about this crowd was it was made up of people I know and am related to. When I (inevitably) went all wobbly and began to feel dizzy and afraid, I had cousins to hand who chatted with me once we’d moved to a quieter corner, thus grounding me and enabling me to stay present and not have to run off and hide in my brother’s car (a contingency plan I’d thought up beforehand).

Mum’s frailties are less physical, which is a real blessing at such an age. Less of a blessing is her dementia which I was already well aware of from our often two hour long telephone conversations. She typifies one element of dementia in that she repeats things a great deal but these are generally things to do with what’s happening in the present. When she talks about her younger days the memories are much clearer, which is also typical I guess. It was sad to see her sometimes befuddled by the moment but heartwarming to see her smile every time she spotted each and all of her family members around her. And she did seem to have a reasonably consistent understanding that we were all there for her which, though she has never been one to relish being in the spotlight, was casual enough for her not to feel too uncomfortable. 

Those family members who organised the event and the joint present from those of us who made donations are shining stars. All too often, as my Uncle Stephen acknowledged in his speech, this many of us generally only get together for a funeral. Maybe the odd wedding now and then too, but to mark the 90th birthday of the oldest of eight siblings when three of them have already passed on, sadly, is a fantastic reason for a great gathering of the clan.

A few were unable to come because there’s been a nasty flu thing going around. They were missed, none more so by me than my son who was in bed in London feeling pretty yuck. Nevertheless it was an incredible turnout and the many photos I’ve seen (family WhatsApp is a thing, guys) will hopefully offer Mum a chance to revisit and remember bits of the day in the future. And I have my own memories to cherish, of conversations, of hugs with Mum (and others) and of defying my incapacities for a few hours to be there. Huge thanks to all who helped me get there, get through and be able to share the joy. For a solitary man I do rather love my family, and I love my Mum most of all, as is only right.

Where My Thought’s Escaping

It’s good being home from hopstical. Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m home from hopstical. Tuesday’s expected discharge was postponed after my poor reaction to the nebuliser trial but yesterday I was not showing serious after-effects and was allowed home after lunch.

There has been a lot of napping today, my first full day home. There has also been some looking at stupid daytime television shows, largely so that I could shut their noise off when they irritated me too much. It’s been sixteen days since I could just switch off annoying noises in my vicinity and my ill-ease with being in close proximity to strangers for so long has been seriously tested. I think I coped quite well; even my request that the guy in the next bed “put a pair of bloody headphones on” when he was listening to boxing commentaries, could have been more forceful and sweary from me.

Whether I coped well or not, such confinement and subjection to – ugh – humans, kicks my soul in the nuts. And it kicks my nuts in the soul. So home is great. Especially great since my wonderful son came in and did a lot of housework while I was in the hopstical. He sort of played down what he (and a pal) had done so I only discovered yesterday that I was returning to a much cleaner and tidier apartment.

And to fresh bedding, which is always a treat when one is often too short of breath and muscle strength to attempt to frequently change duvet covers and sheets. I love my son for many, many reasons, all of which can be translated into me loving him for being the person he is. In my cosy clean bed I smile and somehow love him even more.

I Don’t Love It When A Plan Doesn’t Come Together

Oh boo, and indeed, hoo. No, not a ghost haunting Horton, my sentiments when today’s nebuliser trial prior to me being discharged from hopstical went badly and has seen me not be discharged today at all. With luck and no prevailing wind from the other patients’ bottoms I should be given the go ahead to go away tomorrow.

I have in the past become intolerant of several nebuliser medications and the rapidity itch which it was clear I wouldn’t be getting on with the new one had created uncertainties about whether nebuliser treatments are suitable for me. But they’re suitable for virtually everyone with my kind of respiratory condition so yet again I have found a new way to be weirder than most people.

There are other options, I’m assured, and I’m just about acceptant of the extra night on the ward because I really was knocked back by the trial run. I’m still feeling the muscular reaction of having to deal with my lungs tightening up and my oxygen levels dropping. On a drug which usually loosens people’s breathing and helps keep their oxygen levels at a good level. Like I said, weirder than most people.

I managed to speak to my dear old mum on the phone as it was her 90th birthday today. What a marvellous age to reach. I really, really hope I’ll be out and well enough to attend her big family meal get-together on Sunday. Fingers crossed. Send me your kindnesses and prayers please.