Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun

Well, it's Halloween tomorrow night! Samhain, All Hallows Eve......call it what you want but, as far as I'm concerned, it's predominantly another way of large stores selling shoddy merchandise to line their pockets and for mini-terrorists to extort goodies by Trick or Treating.

I've never had any experience of Trick or Treaters and am rather intrigued by what constitutes a "Trick"? The only one I've heard of is setting a paper bag full of dog poo alight and then ringing the door bell. Grown-up opens door, espies conflagration and does the obvious thing; stamps on it to put it out! I have to say, this appeals to my baser sense of humour as long as I'm not the aforesaid grown-up.

Halloween has become a bit of a horror fest for me already. Not from the ghosts and ghoulies aspect, but from an entertainment point of view. You see, following a fairly (OK, amazingly) successful last DJ session at my Local, I was asked to host a Halloween Party night. This would basically involve a Quiz, silly games and lots of dancing and general revelry. I use DJ software, my laptop and a gynormous amp and speakers for the whole set-up and, after the last gig, was really looking forward to it. I prepared a playlist of as many horror-related songs as I could find, loaded them into Cortez (my laptop) and was feeling quietly confident that all was in readiness for a great evening. Incidentally, I discovered a plethora of Halloween songs including "Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun" and "Drac the Knife"!

The fun started last night when Cortez died. Totally. Utterly. Dead as the proverbial dodo. Me being the cool,calm, collected person that I am took this in my stride. The fact that Mrs B, watching me lying on the floor kicking and screaming, enquired if epilepsy was a pre-requisite of modern DJ-ing brought me to my senses.

Right, contingency plans: early visit to the laptop doctor today but mirror everything I'd done on my new sooper-dooper PC, just in case, seemed to be the order of the day so that I could always take that if necessary. I "acquired" another copy of the programme via the internet and loaded it into the PC only to find that it had a penchant for crashing in mid-tune.

OK, fingers crossed re. today's visit then. I travelled to my tame repair man bright and early and he did a very good imitation of someone who knows fuck-all about laptops. "Hmm" he said, "it could be the charger. There again, it might be the battery." I politely enquired if he wanted the full set and wished to add the actual laptop to his diagnoses? "Oh, definitely, yes. That may well be the cause and that'll cost you", he replied cheerfully.

Muttering about that was the last time I would support the small businessman, I drove home and made a last-resort decision......... a decision made only by an insane or desperate man.

So, when we arrived at PC World, the nice man was very helpful and suggested we take it to a laptop repairer down the road. He even gave us their card! Bearing in mind he was standing under a huge price list which included the cost of repairing laptops, I found this a bit strange but took his advice and toddled off there accordingly. I really had little choice apart from seriously considering buying a new laptop but, given the problems with the software, I felt that this wasn't a logical move.

The recommended laptop shop people were awfully nice. I explained my predicament and told them I needed it working by tomorrow (Wednesday) night. He looked me straight in the eye and faithfully promised he would ring me Thursday morning with a diagnosis! Bowing to the inevitable, I accepted it was the PC or nothing and retired gracefully.

Then it was off into Brighton for the fancy dress stuff. I had already decided I would wear my QuizMeister gold sequinned shirt along with vampire makeup so the purchases should be simple. Imagine if you will, a normal-sized shop filled with the population of Lithuania, all fighting over witches hats, stick-on warts, fangs etc whilst the air was filled with shrieks of "Nah, I wanna be the buxom victim, you can be an old crone". We eventually purchased white, red and grey face paint, spray-on black hair dye, sponges, hair gel, blood and all the other accoutrements that would transform me from Superhero-about-town Bertie to QuizMeister G, scourge of virgins and sucker of necks and headed back to the relative tranquility of home.

Tonight, touch wood, the software is behaving, the make-up has been tried and I am reasonably calm once more. Hopefully, this time tomorrow night, I will be in a mildly alcoholic haze, celebrating a successful evening with a throng of happy revellers staggering home to put the willies up each other, so to speak.

No doubt, a full report of the Party will be forthcoming so watch this space!

If you've got it, flaunt it!

Last night, we went round to a friend of ours to transact some business. Sadly, due to illness he was liquidating a few assets, among which were a very large box of fountain pens and other writing implements.

Now, for those that don't know, Mrs B is a pen freak. She has about 150 pens at the moment, as well as a similar number of different inks and a plethora of (penal? penile?) paraphernalia like old adverts, displays etc. She prefers old pens and will sit for hours grinding nibs, polishing barrels and generally tinkering with them as they are all used by her as she writes for several hours each night just for the joy of improving her "hand". The two specialist pen shops in Brighton are frequently visited and many hours spent in them discussing all aspects of "pen porn" with the, similarly smitten, owners and staff.

The chap whom we visited last night, used to work at the local Parker factory before his illness and he, Mrs B and another friend who was there (also a Parker employee) spent a happy couple of hours discussing Duofolds, Sonnets, prototypes that were never produced and other such things. I sat there as the discussion regarding the Acme 23-1A prototype milling machine which was used to ream the 1986 Laque barrel thread reached new heights of intensity and pondered on the enthusiasm engendered by such matters. Mrs B informed them that she had a Parker Victory (the first pen ever produced at the local factory) and there was an almost orgasmic excitement. We heard stories of boardroom wrangles, prototype pens produced and manufactured in their 1000s and then buried (quite literally) in a large field as the pen market changed, fond recollections of emplyees long gone and Mrs B was in her seventh heaven. Incidentally, I suggested that they pass on my brilliant "Homage to Thunderbirds" marketing idea - the Parker "Yus, Milady" but it was met by a spontaneous burst of indifference.

Now, this is the really sad bit........ I had been gently teasing about their enthusiasm all evening (although, between you, me and the gatepost, it was actually all quite fascinating) and the time came to pay them some readies for these pens. As I piled the notes onto the table, I noticed that one of the £20 had an AA serial number and made a comment about maybe they ought to hang on to it as there is a demand for such notes in a reasonable condition. Someone made the fatal mistake of asking me about banknotes and I was off! It was, I think, at the point where I was telling them the names of the last 10 Chief Cashiers of the Bank of England (together with their dates) that I noticed the glazed looks and the automatic nodding of heads as they drifted quietly into their own little worlds that I realised I was just as guilty as them about enthusiasm.

In fairness, I can generally relate notaphilic facts in an interesting way but it made me realise that what floats my boat is not necessarily anything other than the Titanic to others. Mrs B is lucky insofar as she has access to local people with whom she can discuss her passions. There are few who share mine, although I am fortunate that I am often passed the odd foreign note by friends and acquaintances who are aware of my peculiar needs.

Perhaps there are closet note collectors locally who, like freemasons, have secret signs of identification. Once they make themselves known to each other, they can revel in the joys of intaglio printing, lust at the Kilkenny Bank $4 note of 1820 and have heated discussions about the Trans-Caucasus 20 kopek forgery scandal.

For the moment however, I spend my time on the internet: Electronic discourse and image swapping. It's not the same doing it on your own, as many a schoolboy will testify, but it's better than nothing.

At least it stops me from being too much of a banknote bore, which reminds me, there was only one note ever produced that featured a boar; this was the 1927 20 kapeek note produced in .................................... Oops, sorreeeeee!

I suppose, in summary, I enjoy listening to people enthusing about their interests (apart from cars!). As an avid collector of information and facts, there is always something that I can glean and, really, you can't knock enthusiasm. The world would be a poorer place without it.

A forum to which I subscribe has a number of people talented in so many different ways. As time goes by and those talents emerge or are admitted, I am filled with admiration for their skills. To hell with modesty, be proud in what you can do and share that pride with others - their world will be the better for it.

Take Mrs B once more: she enjoys painting but doesn't really figure that she has a great talent in that direction. As someone who can't draw a comparison, let alone a picture, I totally admire what she does and, as I sit chatting on my forum, she's sitting alongside me either painting, drawing or writing. Much to her chagrin, I've scanned in one of her pictures, most of which are inspired by the Rackham and Tenniel illustrations from Alice in Wonderland, a book of which she has many, many different editions. As with all the uploaded images, just click on the image to see it full size.


She can knock out a couple of these a night and, although the scan doesn't do it justice, it's an example of the many talents hidden from the world by people that should celebrate and share their abilities. Incidentally, I've put a few in an album, together with some of her handwriting - if you're interested, here's the link.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Christmas, that time beloved by all small children, shopkeepers, credit card companies and admirers of Carry On films will soon be upon us. This small offering seeks to provide some insight into that overblown, lumbering and unstoppable machine that is the festive season.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. I love the interesting gifts that prove desperation can turn sensible people into panic-stricken buying machines (and special thanks there to Auntie Jean for those 12 different small pots of “Jams of the World” - a present I shall always treasure).I love the naïve hope that this year I will eat my Christmas lunch with its 7 varieties of overcooked vegetables, starter, pudding, various alcoholic beverages and STILL have room for cold meats, pickles etc as I watch the joyously festive murder/tragedy/catastrophe served up by the scriptwriters of EastEnders. I love the assortment of gaily coloured greetings cards from people met once on holiday many years ago with the brief note telling me that someone I have never met has had a baby and how festive Worksop looks this time of year. Most of all though, I love the build-up to Christmas.

Like the first cuckoo heralding Spring, the Advent Calendars melting gently in the September heat provide the first glimpse of that well-oiled machine, designed to rid us of our money, our sanity and any goodwill. You know then that the Christmas timetable is upon us and shortly, nothing in the supermarket is where it should be as all the everyday items have been pushed into small, dark corners to make way for far more important purchases like Mint Thins, cocktail cherries and cheesy footballs. Gift Catalogues as large as telephone directories crash through the letterbox reminding us to panic that there are only 2 months left to bankrupt ourselves, children start to compile the first few volumes of their Present List and we all utter those immortal words…. “This year, I am going to be really organised and get everything out of the way to save the last-minute panic”

Of course, it never happens. By early November, shopping centres see vast multitudes of people, secure in their smugness, wandering from shop to shop looking for that special present. By the end of the day, you see those same people, defeat and tiredness etched across their faces, clutching several rolls of wrapping paper, 2 calendars and a novelty kitchen implement trudging dejectedly back home.

And so it goes on. Week after week, we gradually whittle down the list with the main expenditure being the cost of NCP tickets and headache tablets. The joy of hearing When a Child is Born in every shop we fight our way around is only slightly increased by the sadistic pleasure derived from thinking of the poor sods that work there and have to listen to it all day. All this is guaranteed to send us into a fit of homicidal rage and even a turkey seems to have a better outlook on life. As the Day looms ever closer, we get to dread the sound of the front door bell and the 4 children standing there singing the first line of We Wish You a Merry Christmas before the youngest is pushed forward for their just reward.

By now, we have developed a siege mentality and are planning the final food shop. Cupboards are bulging with sweets, savouries, cakes, biscuits, chocolate and every conceivable relish, chutney and pickle so it’s only the fresh food left to get. Now this is where the strange quantum physics of food requirements kicks in. It goes something like this:

Allow 4 times the normal amount of food consumed per person and add sprouts. Multiply this by the inversely proportioned ratio of bodily sounds and functions as we sleep through the afternoon of Christmas day and subtract the amount of sherry consumed by any pensioners present. Failing this, just grab a shopping trolley and fill it with whatever you can find left on the shelves.

At last, you get to that wonderful moment on Christmas Eve when there is no more that can be done. This is that special time when one can sit down and relax, casting an appreciative eye over the decorations dropping from the walls where the Blu-Tack failed yet again and thanking all Gods that Noel Edmonds is no more a traditional part of Christmas Morning. Christmas Eve is also a good time to go and slip a card into an acquaintance’s letterbox if they haven’t sent you one already – guaranteed to send them into a panic of indecision.

Christmas morning! That special time when all the New Year sales are first aired on the box and the summer holidays adverts are tempting us to spend even more money that we haven’t got. ………………………….. OK, I give in, it’s a fair cop. I LOVE the thought of Christmas really. Every year I still look forward to it although I do hate the build-up and the commercialisation. I still think of open fires and children’s laughter, strangers wishing each other a cheerful greeting and happiness and peace. Being with friends and loved ones, remembering the sheer joy that Christmas brings to children and that special air of excitement.

Perhaps that is what Christmas is all about: what is in one’s mind and in one’s heart. You can’t buy Christmas – you can only live it.

Now, where did I put those Easter Eggs…………………..?

Tip Tip Hooray

Today was an interesting day. It was the penultimate (hopefully) visit to Dad's flat and involved several trips to the local tip. I was wondering how I'd feel about clearing the place; what memories there would be and what emotions it would arouse?

As it turned out, it was all perfectly OK and I found that there was very little that gave me a touch of whimsy. Strangely enough, it was little things that brought back memories, like his hair brush that he seems to have had forever and a kitchen knife that had a blade about 2 inches long where he had sharpened it constantly over the years and awoke memories of family meals long gone.

The tip trips were also interesting and made me feel vaguely guilty about the consumerism of the Western world. There was a constant stream of cars disgorging perfectly serviceable goods and, seeing the mountain of detritus ready to be consigned to landfills, made me aware of just how well we seem to be screwing up this planet of ours. The YMCA have, very shrewdly, managed to get a site at the tip and I was pleased to pass them (what I thought was) a load of useful items. I was told that they didn't require the likes of glass decanters, brandy glasses and other glassware, neither did they require crockery or TV stands as they were awash with them. I pictured how this would seem to an awful lot of the World's population and quickly switched thought channels.

Tonight I was wondering what, of mine, the young Bassetts might look at fondly when I pass on to that great SuperHero heaven? As an inveterate collector, they'll have plenty to choose from. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they see I have kept every card and drawing they ever gave me. Perhaps they'll be surprised at what I have written over the years? Whatever it is, I hope that they will be able to understand the man as well as the Father. Most of all though, I hope that they will understand the deep joy and pride I have in them.

I learned something about my Dad today - he was a sock freak and had hundreds of the damn' things. Thinking about it, they were a stock answer whenever he was asked what he wanted for Christmas or Birthdays. I never bought them of course but it seems he had a secret sock pimp who, presumably, dropped off vast amounts in plain brown envelopes.

Sadly, there seem to be few avenues for sock recycling. Personally, I think they would be good for recuperating hyperthermic bats or perhaps the Shari Lewis Appreciation Society but my approaches in both avenues have been blocked.

The barefoot "Kinnellliscold" Inuit tribe have sadly died out otherwise I would be hailed as their saviour as indeed have the followers of St Robin the Unshod. It was he that expounded the theory of walking barefoot over 40 foot wide chasms as an act of faith (or perhaps a leap of faith?). In fact, his main claim to fame is as the antithesis of mass conversion. As he plummeted a third of a mile, his 20,000 followers immediately lost their religion and, with happy shouts of "Bleeding loony", reverted to their pagan but essentially life-preserving ways and ransacked the local Primark footwear department.

Anyway, as I say, it's been an interesting day............but then, aren't they all.

Banging on About Musicians

Tonight, the Cadbury advert with the drum-playing gorilla came on and Mrs B asked me my opinion of Phil Collins as a drummer? This got us discussing what constitutes a true musician and, as I seem to have had blog-block recently, this seemed a good subject to muse about and get back into the swing of writing.

As a drummer, my answer to her question was that he was a capable drummer within his own genre but I wondered how he would actually be classed as a musician (hence the discussion)? To my mind, there are several different types of drummer: the Keith Moons, who add a whole new dimension to sitting behind the "real" band members, the Charlie Watts', who provide a perfect rhythm, with no frills and the Ginger Bakers or Ray Coopers who are true percussionists and seek to explore their craft, its origins and its total diversity and relationship to art and culture.

A lot of bands have travelled a short road from their roots. Is that because they are happy with what they play? Are they satisfying their fans' desire to hear the oldies? They have the choice to introduce new material but who wants to hear something they don't know? I would suggest not many. What if they tried to revamp well-loved songs? Again, I think few would want to hear variations. In other words, are musicians hampered by a fan-base who have to be satisfied at the expense of progression within their chosen area of expertise?

This therefore takes us back to musicianship. Charlie Watts is well-known as a devotee of jazz drumming and, for the non-drummer, this is technically as hard as it gets. He has the fortunate choice of extending his musicianship but does that make him a true musician? There are many competent guitarists out there but does capability mean everything? Mark Knopfler has been referred to as a "journeyman" guitarist; technically, extremely competent but lacking the undefinable "something" that drives and motivates. The jazz musicians seem to be the real music disciples, always searching for another riff and their devotion to their art almost oozing from their pores.

There have been many great bands over the last 40 years. What has happened to their members? I'm sure some have travelled that similar journey of musical exploration as the likes of Sting, Baker etc. but, without the need to satisfy their fans any longer, can indulge this without the Great British Public demanding their musical pound of flesh. How wonderful must it be to get up, create within one's own studio and not have to worry about pleasing anyone else.

I realise that I have used an awful lot of question marks and you can perhaps therefore deduce that I don't really know the answer?

Certainly, from a drumming point of view, percussion is really the only way to move on in one's craft. It's really the only rock instrument that does not allow much in the way of variation insofar as, say, a bass line can be as simple or complicated as you wish, similar to a drum rhythm, but, with a bass, one can go off in a far greater number of tangents given the scope of notes available (John Entwhistle, Jack Bruce and Jaco Pastorius being my choice of the greatest exponents of this). A drummer however is restricted by certain rules that cannot be broken. A true musician drummer however has a multitude of other instruments at his disposal and therefore his restrictions as a drummer are more than compensated by his singular advantage over guitarists and "conventional keyboard" players.

I digress; perhaps I should have made this a discussion, not about what constitutes a musician, but what happens to them? If they make their pile and then stop playing, are they true musicians? See, back to the original question again. Gosh, I'm confused. Are the semi-greats of my youth now postmen or social workers? Will I be mortified to find that Yardbirds are still knocking out "For Your Love" at Butlins, Pwllheli?

You can see that I am out of practice in this blogging thingy. What a pile of unrelated, unstructured poo! Still, at least I've started again.

I know some of my loyal band of readers must have thoughts on this and I' love to hear them. How about it?

Hiya SUC-ers!

One day, when I write my best-selling book and am besieged by paparazzi, agents and TV talk show hosts, I will be able to refer to this blogsite as the natal home of my literary creativity. No doubt, there will be offers for the serialisation rights from the likes of The People's Friend and Hello! but I shall probably hold out for the TV deal so that I can be networked on satellite TV, sandwiched between Discovery Home & Health and the Welsh Male Voice Sheep channel at 3 in the morning.

In the meantime, I can work on a few brief details like the title, content and dedications.

As, to be honest, the book will probably never materialise, I figured I might make a few dedications in the blog instead and, in particular, to a group of people that I've got to know, admire and whose company I enjoy. I have to say, also, that they've helped me through a few wobbly moments lately and have done more than they'll ever know to encourage my writing.

They all frequent a thread on the Digital Forum site which originated in a bid to marshal the forces of good against a certain housemate of the 2007 Big Brother programme. This person basically annoyed the shit out of me and, seeing that there was a thread which appeared to be of a similar inclination, I ventured in and was immediately made welcome. She is long forgotten but the thread has now become a meeting place for a group of disparate people who all seem to get on and offer an amazing humour, warmth and friendliness.

Taking them in no particular order:

Mikey - The Sarge. He drove the thread and made everybody feel welcome, dishing out badges and organising the troops in the fight against "she who cannot be named". As time went by, I discovered Mike was more than just a nice guy. He's a very talented guitarist and I totally recommend having a listen to some of his compositions. You can reach them here. A guy who has a wonderfully understated sense of humour and an overstated desire to participate in PE lessons.

Baldrick - Lover of turnips and Newcastle United (but he has his good points as well). A closet intellectual, Balders has the most amazing ability to find a pun in anything. He has now, through his passion for Sudoku, learned to count up to 9. Winner of Big Brother 2008.

chockie - Stalwart supporter of both the thread and the wine industry, chockie's favourite hobby is anything pink. A newly-fledged blogger (site sponsored by RayBans), she loves everybody (especially after a few glasses)!

Scots rool - A trifle-loving (but not much else) Celt, Sr manages to get through several keyboards a week posting on Digital Spy. An easy-going, tolerant individual who is always willing to settle any argument with violence (but with a heart of gold).

Gwenhyffar Milgi - Ace photographer, supercook and DNA specialist, Milgi hails from the land of clogs. Her experiments with dragon breeding have now ceased and her energies transferred to snails. The mind boggles! Has a thing about Vicars!

Kitty Wrinkle - Another blogger and fabled flapjack maker, Kitty has a brilliant sense of humour.Her ambition is to be George Clooney's shower mitt and her smalls are often mentioned but seldom seen. Quietly understated but a powerhouse of knowlege and tenacity.

Janet - Avid Blackburn supporter and fascinated by men with strangely shaped balls, Janet finds uniforms also strangely attractive. Last seen climbing into the Sarge's personnel carrier! Yet another genuinely lovely person.

Poblet - The Nork Maiden and aspiring leader of the Pink Pants Party. A predominantly nocturnal creature who lives on a diet of vodka, she has given plenty of bounce to the thread (especially in her SuperPob cossie).

Miniluv - A sadly misled talent who can often be seen gazing through the grey ladies underwear section of the Daily Mail. Ace teamaker and model prisoner, Miniluv's brevity of posting is only exceeded by his radical views on just about everything which can be analysed statistically.

Norma_Snockers - What can one say? A talent which brought nipple measuring to the fore. It was she who informed us that the distance between men's nipples is always 9" (go on, just try it!). Coincidentally, 9 is also the distance (in millimetres) between Carole (of Big Brother notoriety)'s and her navel. Norma is the Queen of the last word in her posts and is totally and deliciously loopy.

Well, there are plenty of others who deserve mentions and I hope that they know who they are. To each and every one of you; my gratitude, my friendship and my eternal admiration.

Final Farewells

Well, at last Dad is free to be at peace. The Coroner's office 'phoned this morning and gave the go-ahead so now it's organisation time.

As I mentioned in my last blog, we'd visited the funeral director already to start all the arrangements so the worst was over in that respect. That evening, I was standing there making another cup of delicious caffeine and suddenly was overcome with total panic. It was a strange experience as I realised that, rather than be a bystander at such an event, I was the instigator and, for the first time in my life, head of the Clan. Fortunately it didn't last but I was faced with the responsibilty of creating a service that Dad would have wanted and enjoyed as well as something that would give us all a suitable remembrance and comfort.

Dad had wanted something simple and there aren't going to be many attending so I had to work on providing something that fitted both these criteria. There was certainly going to be no singing as a small group of people mumbling hymns that they don't really know is hardly the most uplifting experience. Having said that, Dad believed in a hereafter and I wanted to respect that.

One hymn that he wanted was the 23rd Psalm, "The Lord's My Shepherd" which he and Mum took great delight in listening to me sing as a pre-pubescent choirboy. Bearing in mind, my comments above, I was relieved that CD facilities were available so that solved that problem! What to do about other music? Well, strange person that I am, I sublimate a lot of emotion and tend to only be able to emote through music. I guess it's some sort of protection and therefore it was a pretty difficult time thinking it all through as the feelings and songs combined.

I wanted something suitably stirring for when we arrived and settled on "Jerusalem" by Emerson, Lake & Palmer. If you don't know it, I've put it on my MP3 player here on the blog. Its power and majesty never fail to move me. As to that horribly final moment when Dad makes his last journey; I wanted to celebrate his life rather than for it to be a moment of sadness so felt it was only fitting that something loved by Dad was played. He was a great lover of Sinatra and Perry Como and I thought along those lines but finally settled on Bill Haley's" See You Later, Alligator". This was an expression used by both Mum and Dad and were the last words Mum said to me as she died so it seemed eminently suitable. I hope the Vicar will understand.

Talking of vicars, he telephoned me today and we chatted about the service. I have to say, he seemed really genuinely interested in doing his best for Dad (and us) and started to ask me about what form I would like the service to take? I explained that, even with the best of intentions, talking about somebody he had never met didn't sit comfortably and tentatively suggested he read out something written by me after consultation with the family. He welcomed this with open arms and totally agreed with my idea so I've spent a while doing that tonight and it's all ready for when I go and see him tomorrow. I was really impressed with his very genuine desire to be involved and am so relieved that the worry of an unctuous "holier than thou" character has not materialised. I've met quite a few clerics over the years and they seem to be like wine - either very good or not worth the effort.

So, Thursday of next week is the big hurdle. In the meantime, Dad is now quite literally over the road from us. I was in two minds as to whether this particular funeral director's was a good choice, given its proximity, but finally decided that I wanted him near me so I could, figuratively speaking, look after him and keep him safe. Sadly, he was never able to see our home so at least he's nearby now.

Just one final word: I have been deeply touched by the love and care that people have shown here on the internet, as well as in the outside world. Thank you, all of you, I am proud to call you friends.

Ramblin' on my Mind

Forget the cohesive bon mot; these are my idle ramblings as I seem to have lost the power of cogent thought.

I read other people's writing and my confidence in my own abilities disappears faster than a summer dream.

I've changed my playlist and deliberately haven't thought about content - just picked what felt "right" at the moment. Music seems to be the only way that I can channel my emotions so I've immersed myself in that for the time being.

The Coroner has said that the results won't be ready until Thursday at the earliest so the hiatus continues. No financial resolution, no funeral, no closure. It's getting to me now.

Decided to visit the undertaker today. It was fittingly depressing weather. The lady's name was Betty Graves, which I found somewhat amusing.

See, I can't even string a proper sentence together.

Found some old photo albums today which showed that when I was 18 I was having a bad hair year. It's strange how the memories come flooding back: These days I have to phone from the supermarket as I've forgotten what I'm there for.

I'll take refuge in my rhyme-y stuff, it's easier.

Wake up, it’s time to rise and shine, to face another day.

To motivate my spirit, to work and rest and play.

It’s time to use my hairdryer, electric toothbrush too.

Labour-saving’s such a boon when there’s so much to do.

I’m glad I haven’t got a job, where would I find the hours?

To work to keep the bosses rich, within their ivory towers.

Oh no, my day’s so busy, each task and role assigned.

I’m working ‘til I’m dizzy. Just emptying my mind!

Why do I feel a strange, red mist rising when I see that little shite on the Glade Touch 'n Fresh commercial going on about "it's all gone, it's all gone"?

I wish there were postal strikes more often - I'm getting loads of post at the moment including 2 deliveries yesterday. Perhaps I have struck lucky and the blackleg (can I say that?) sorting office workers and postmen are all just making sure I get the vicarious excitement of seeing the envelopes on the mat? I even got a free pen from Saga today whilst offering me the exciting prospect of staying at a Hilton hotel approximately 20 minutes drive away at a specially discounted rate for old farts.

Oh the joys of growing older. What else is there to look forward to?
taking a trolley to the "quick service" aisle in supermarketsfree TV licensestalking about the good old daysthe triumph of getting your socks on in one attempthaving the right to walk across busy roads because you're waving a walking sticksaying "eh?" interminablychoosing which tartan the shopping trolley's going to bebed sorestelling people your agerealising you actually like WerthersGosh, the therapy of writing is working. Please ignore the self-pitying earlier but I'm going to keep it in as this is my diary. Just think yourselves lucky you can't see the unpublished entries!

© BertieBassett (TransGlobal) Inc

What's Up Doc?

It all started a few months ago when I was admitted to hospital for an operation to sort out an abscess at the base of my spine. As expected, there was a follow-up appointment to which I duly went.

As this was the second time this had happened, I was naturally anxious to find out if there was something causing them: a possibility that my GP had hinted at. The young, bored Registrar asked a couple of questions, peered at the scar, triumphantly informed me that was where the operation had taken place then pondered the matter. He obviously had no clue whatever as to cause or effect so relied on the tried and tested medical maxim of passing the buck and suggested sending in a camera. Well, my first thought was where? ......... and then I realised! Why he wanted to do so was not made clear, especially as the abscess was approximately 6 inches above the "launchpad". My second thought was a sudden picture of my trusty Olympus OM10 with 70-150 zoom lens and suddenly I wanted to be elsewhere.

Anyway, I was duly dispatched home with explanatory leaflets to await my appointment which, it transpired, was this morning. I received a large package with what I can only described as a guinea pig cage water dispenser with an extra long nozzle. "You can shove that" I thought, which turned out to be a remarkably prescient comment, as I had to make sure my innards were all nice and clean. Having never had anything like that, I wasn't really looking forward to losing my rearward virginity but I gritted my teeth and performed the deed at 6.45 this morning. I won't dwell on it but let's just say that the pebbledash effect in the bathroom is quite fetching!

Once I got to the hospital, the nurse took over.

"Right, so you're here because your bowel habits have changed?"

"Nope"

"Ah, it's because you've lost weight"

"Nope, one more guess or I win today's star prize - a week in a private ward"

Once we both knew why I was there, I was plonked on a trolley wearing a rather tasteful gown and had a wonderful 15 minutes suddenly imagining all the things that they could find during the examination.

My time came and I went into the sigmoidoscopy suite where I realised I could actually watch it all in living colour. I was told that air would be blown in as the bowel had to be inflated in order for the camera to see everything and warned that this air would come out naturally over the course of time. Oh, deep joy, this was turning into a really terrific day all round really!

Glossing quickly over the initial moments, I was suddenly assailed with the most amazing picture of my insides. The clarity and size of the picture almost took my mind off the interesting sensations going on behind me. I gazed entranced as I thought back to the movie "Fantastic Voyage" whilst the good ship "Uranus" went travelling through my tubes. A nice nurse stroked my arm as I lay there, ensuring I was relaxed and explaining all the various places of interest. There were a couple of diverticula (little knobbly things) which are apparently quite normal but they decided to remove them. They were about an inch wide on the screen although, in reality, about the size of the ball of a ball-point pen. Suddenly, this pair of seemingly enormous cutters appeared and ......snip! No pain but when they appeared on screen it was quite a surprise and, for one moment, my mind pictured it as a giant, realtime version of PacMan!.

We had some fun trying to find the other one but eventually trapped the little devil and off he went to that great offcut heaven in the sky. Perhaps there are possibilities of a whole new gaming concept here? " Wander through your intestines trying to escape from the voracious jaws of GutMan!" The mind boggles as to where you'd plug in the joy pad!!! Finally, it was all finished and I was told I would go for a little rest and a cup of tea. I did try and explain that it was customary to have a cigarette after consensual sex and then quickly realised that they must have heard every pun conceivable regarding their daily task.

I told them that my embarrassment of the procedure would be overcome by my desire to blog it and even had to give them the blog address. If you read this Chris and Matt, I hope it was good for you!

Fortunately, all seems OK although I am no nearer solving the original problem. At least though, I know that I am clear of the Big C down there and it gave me something to write up....or possibly, right up!

Oh, and by the way, remember that air they had to pump in? Trying to type hovering 6 inches above my chair is not easy.

Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Goodbye

OK, ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls: tonight's subject is ..........Death!

Before you you think "Here we go, he's getting maudlin again", let me explain. The Coroner's Office have taken a liking to Dad and won't be letting him out for a while yet so I can't do anything practical about funerals. I have no idea about what to do etc. so I Googled and was staggered by what I found.

I know funerals are pretty personal things and perhaps I'll try and put my thoughts on that in a minute but, for the moment, let me talk about funerals on offer. How do you fancy a vintage lorry funeral? No? Let me quote the accompanying blurb:

This package creates a truly unique style of funeral, but still maintains standards of the highest level. The Truck Hearse is a distinctive and a fitting tribute for anyone looking to add an individual touch to that final journey.

Alternatively, how about a "4 x 4" package?

The Zambesi Silver Land Rover Defender Hearse is a distinctive and a fitting tribute for anyone looking to add an individual touch to that final journey. The Land Rover Defender is the benchmark by which all other off-road vehicles are judged. A "faithful old friend" to many Vehicle Enthusiasts, Farmers, Country Folk, Equestrians etc.

Bizarre enough for you? Well, this is my real favourite: "The MotorCycle Funeral Package"

This package creates a ‘different type of funeral’, but still maintains very high standards. By sending them off in style, upon a motorcycle and sidecar, last memories are of a person young at heart, someone with serious attitude. You can relive many precious personal moments of the person who was a character in life, a rebel with a very clear cause, or the senior citizen who reminisced about their biking days.The rider, Revd. Paul Sinclair, who was a church minister for 13 years, can provide a tribute run prior to the service to a favourite bikers spot or café.

I'm sorry but I find this totally obscene and can't believe that anyone would want to spend thousands of pounds on such an undignified and tasteless send-off. I mean, if we're going to have customised funerals that epitomise our lives then Dad will be borne off on a Ford Anglia with accompanying Morecambe and Wise videos.

What exactly is the reason for a sumptuous funeral? Is it the attitude of "giving them a good send-off"? Is it possibly a way of demonstrating to the world that the deceased was a person of standing? Personally, I'd be really miffed to have an OTT funeral and a wake of gargantuan proportions seeing as I'd be missing out on it all! Is a funeral a celebration, a farewell or is it just a morbidly expected ritual that's taken out of the mourners hands by the undertaking fraternity who, naturally, try and subtly imply that one must honour the dearly departed by spending loads of dosh?

Before you all get angry and defensive, yes, I know that it's a "closure" and I accept that. I am also fully aware that many people (including me) believe (or hope) that there is an afterlife and that their loved one is at peace. It's the glorifying in the whole contrived ritual with which I take issue. You all stand there in the Church, mumbling the words to hymns that you don't know whilst vicars talk unctuously about someone they've never met (and are hardly likely to in this life!). Then it's off to complete the ritual of admiring the flowers whilst anxiously compiling a "league table" of who sent what and making sure yours aren't in the relegation zone. Finally, it's off to the tea and buns afterwards.

Now, that's a wonder to behold. Everybody seems to be in a mood of hysterical relief that the whole pantomime is over and can't wait to make the snidey comments about the gently curling egg and cress sandwiches and "oooh, these sausage rolls are a bit cheap". There is laughter and gaiety in the air until the close relatives of the departed are near whereupon a studied look of solemnity appears and appropriate words are uttered. Personally, I'm quite happy to have my wake now so I can have a bloody good time and enjoy it.OK, perhaps I'm sounding cynical at the moment but dammit, it's my blog and I'm feeling cynical (and perhaps a bit wicked).

The one thing I really want is to have some last good words or an epitaph befitting me. Sadly all the good ones like "See, I told you I was ill" and "Under this sod lies another" have been taken although I sometimes idly wonder about something suitable. Perhaps something like "I'd rather be here than in the Big Brother House" or even:

Here lies the body of Bertie
His earthly life is spent
I'd like to be there with him
But I'm not sure just which way he went

Anyway, I seem to have run out of steam so I'll stop now. I can't seem to get into writing at the moment but I'm trying (another good epitaph!)