Beware the Front Row!

Recently, Mrs B was diagnosed as diabetic. Part of her "treatment" was an invitation to go to a seminar on all aspects of the illness including cause, types, dietary changes and even podiatry (I didn't know either - it's feet!).

Being the wonderful man I am, I volunteered to go with her and we accordingly arrived for what was billed as several hours of lectures but with tea/coffee breaks. Chairs were arranged in several rows and we, of course, headed straight for the back and sat waiting for this exciting event.

As I idly glanced round, I noticed that most people had eschewed the front row and I mused briefly on the reticence of people. What I didn't realise was that one should watch out for those that deliberately go to the front row. I knew this within minutes when a Front Row-er starting harping on about how some low-fat yogurts are 0.2gms higher in sugar than normal yogurts. He followed this with "I've been speaking to lots of people about diabetes". You could hear the collective sigh from the other rows as he launched into a long, rambling anecdote about how his diabetes was discovered, and there was no way he was going to take medication as he was going to fight it himself, and was drinking 11 litres of water and eating 274 bananas a day beneficial as he'd read this in a magazine?

The other Front Row-er had her daughter with her who was taking verbatim notes and asking all sorts of questions about as relevant to the rest of us as nuclear physics to an iguana so, of course, I got the giggles. The poor nurse chappie was desperately trying to move on and in the end had to just ignore them as he nattered about glucose and beta cells etc.

By this time, I was getting fidgety and spent my time doing origami with the little paper cups from the water dispenser and longing for a coffee, as promised. The nurse finished and passed us on to the dietician without any break.

This poor girl was talking to us like a bunch of 5 years olds as she explained the right types of food compared to the bad stuff. To demonstrate the bad, she showed a slide of a massive plate of fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms, fried bread etc which of course made me hungry. I had to do it: I sloped off to find some chocolate from those wonderful ladies at the WRVS kiosk in Out-Patients. I was a bit reluctant to wander back in with it but needs must and Mrs B was salivating as well. Of course, the kiosk had closed and I trailed sadly back, just in time to find Front Row-er 2 bitterly complaining that it was all too speedy and she couldn't write fast enough. Front Row-er 1 was then in earnest discussion about the merits of Tesco "I Can't Believe It's Not Melted Whale Oil" versus Asda "Utterly Crap" low-fat spread and which should he use on his Mighty Shite toast?

We had just about given up the will to live at this point and were deciding whether we could slide off and then it came to Podiatry.

Now, this intrigued me. Why should diabetes affect one's feet? However, with still no break in sight, Mrs B said words to the effect of "Well, golly gosh, I need a cigarette". We accordingly wandered out and were followed by another defiant smoker who was obviously of the rebel persuasion also.

We trooped back in once more, just in time to hear Nurse Feet thank Front Row-er 1 for his podiatological anecdote and thanked our gods that we had escaped the gory details. Front Row-er 2 had by now had a choking fit, rushed off to answer her phone and was still muttering furiously about people not talking more slowly. Well, I don't know whether Nurse Feet had a bus to catch but she regaled us with comments about how diabetes can lead to loss of feeling in feet, so don't walk around without slippers, followed by a cautionary tale about athlete's foot and dashed off.

We were left sitting there and, as if by some telepathy, we decided enough was enough and legged it. The rest of the people started getting up also - except for the Front Row-ers who remained sitting there, hoping against hope for an encore.

God forbid, but if anyone out there has the misfortune to be diagnosed as diabetic, don't go to the education session. 5 minutes on Google will be just as informative. If you do decide to go, take a hot drink or 3, a couple of magazines, I-Pod etc. and keep away from the front row. Better still, if you see anyone sitting there, tell them it's the ante-natal clinic and send them as far away as possible.

Geek or What?

As I've already mentioned before, my first computer was a Sinclair ZX Spectrum bought some 25 years ago . The reason I bought it is still very clear: I wandered into Dixons one day and saw some snotty little kids playing with the dispay model. Curiosity aroused, I gazed at this small black "thing" and realised that I has absolutely no idea what the hell to do, and that wasn't a good feeling. Payday came and I left the shop with a box tucked under my arm, convinced I was now part of the new techno revolution. More importantly, no more would I have to be envious of small children who knew more than me.

I have to be honest and say that I remember very few of the games but I next upgraded from my beloved Speccy to an Atari 520STFM. Oh, the joy of having a real size keyboard and the amazing games that now filled my world. I was Manager of a building society branch based in a sleepy little seaside town by now and, after the customer had been and gone, I would tell my staff I was off to see such and such a solicitor/accountant/broker and hurtle home to get another fix of Jet Set Willy. I was still amazed by the things this box of tricks could do and started experimenting with MIDI ports and synths. The living room slowly filled with discs, cables, books and all the detritus associated with my new addiction. Nights were spent pounding a hot keyboard and that's when I discovered desktop publishing and started a somewhat scurrilous journal for circulation amongst all the local branches of the firm. I suppose it was one of my greatest moments when my Regional Manager asked me if he could put something in it as he would then know everyone had read it.

Then came the first real, grown-up PC! Over £1000's worth of kit with such amazing spec. as 8meg of RAM and 256megabytes of memory. I know it sounds silly now but that was some hot mother of a PC. Well, time's moved on now and we currently have a setup of 2 PCs with 3 inline screens plus Cortez the laptop. I know enough now to be able to get my kit custom-built but am still a mere amateur compared to so many out there on the interweb.

The reason I suddenly thought of all this was because I decided i wanted a counter on my blogsite and came across the dreaded HTML. Now, I can speak a few languages enough to get by and can even say "Keep off the grass" in Urdu but HTML scares the wotsit out of me. I don't know why it is: I have nerdy friends who can reel off all sorts of programming language like C++. Perl and Java but I just seem to have a mental block. Perhaps I was scared by a syntax error as a child? What IS syntax (apart from yet another way for the Government to make money)?

However, you may well note a small counter on the blog now. The Great God Google quickly led me to a wonderful site that gives small fry like me , not only a customisable counter for free, but also does all the Java script and is really easy to install. Hail to you, StatCounter.com. It currently shows about 139 hits - not because I've had that number but because one is given the choice of a number from which to start. My pride wouldn't let me start at 1 because it looks like I'm Billy No-Mates and I thought 6,000,000 might be viewed somewhat cynically, so I chose 135. Reasons? Well, I know about 7 people have looked at it definitely and Zoë, my daughter (who demanded a mention tonight - Hello sweetie!) said even she had read it. That makes 8,which is pretty near three figures, so 135 it was.

Now I can rejoice if there are any more hits or dust off my Leonard Cohen collection if the counter remains stubbornly still. More importantly, Ive learned a bit more and am possibly now at Geek (Third Class) status.

You know the old phrase "In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is King"? My little computer knowledge elevates me in the local community (well, down the pub, anyway). People mention computers and I can drop in an occasional comment about overclocking or ISP configs whereupon they gaze at me in awe. Of course, they don't know I have no idea what I'm talking about but it means I can handle the simple questions and bullshit the hard ones with technical gobbledegook and my status as a total geek is assured.

God forbid that I ever come across someone who really knows what they're talking about!

Confession Time

I have a confession to make! It's not something I am proud of and I try to limit it to the secrecy of the bedroom. It's not something I've done for a long time either but, remembering the pleasure I used to get, I just couldn't resist it.

Let me explain: I was in the local Help the Aged charity shop looking for an application form when I espied a Famous Five book. After going home and creating a spreadsheet to justify the outlay of 20p and extrapolating the knock-on effects of such extravagance, I returned and later emerged triumphant with the book safely hidden in a plain brown wrapper. As a kid, you see, I can still remember discovering the joy of reading and this whole bookcase of rather boring looking books in my bedroom, which I had previously ignored, suddenly became my escape from the trials and tribulations of childhood. There was the whole series of Just William, the whole series of Famous Five as well as stories of pirates, cowboys and all sorts of other thrilling adventures.

I was all set to be disappointed when I opened the cover but, to my astonishment, I still loved every moment of it. Suddenly, Aunt Fanny, Uncle Quentin, Timmy the dog and all the rest of them came flooding back and I finished the book in a day.

I am now an inveterate collector of both William and the Famous Five once more, although the very books that lay in my room for all those years now cost up to £35 each depending on their condition.

It's a strange thing.....all of the amazing effects in movies these days, all the engrossing entertainment of computer games, not to mention the TV programmes available and yet I still get the utmost pleasure from the one thing that life has taken away from us - simple imagination.

It's like when I was a kid and I played constantly with my toy soldiers. My slipper was a boat, the rug was an island, the carpet was a sea, the armchair a mountain. Simple things where there were no limits apart from one's own mind.

Maybe that's where I get my love of books from and this apparent ability to draw pictures with words. A few years back I wasn't very well and I wrote an awful lot as a sort of therapy. Lots of writing, lots of poems. All of which I still have and still get something out of reading. I was told at the time I ought to write professionally but that's the paradox. If I write because I have to then it becomes a pressure. If it becomes a pressure then I lose the joy of writing.

I've written some pieces for a local magazine which are, I suppose, journalistic and written to order but the thought of getting up and thinking "I have to write" is not something to which I relate. That's one of the purposes of this blog, so I can see if I can discipline my writing and make my fortune. There again, what if I wrote and it wasn't accepted? Would I lose the confidence and enjoyment in the one thing that I feel I can do?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

Who am I? WHO AM I?

Why Bertie Bassett, I hear you cry? Well, I suppose I needed an alter ego and as I just happened to be tucking into a large box full of liquorice allsorts at the time. I guess, had circumstances been different, I could have been John West or Aunt Bessie or even Dr White!

Bertie sort of evolved from a name into a whole persona who inhabits certain portions of the Digital Spy forums where he is identified as an unassuming forum member who transforms into SuperBertie in times of world crisis. Wearing his lime-green Speedos, he zooms across continents salvaging near-disasters, righting wrongs and generally being a thoroughly good egg.


He has attracted several followers including the inimitable Reg McDuff - a ginger haired Scot with an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene and a penchant for a certain lady poster who continually rebuffs his attentions. Reg's hobby is compost heaps and he is now a world authority on the subject. It goes to show that a failed Wimpy employee can make good, after all. This is Reg:


It's rather nice having Bertie to hide behind but I feel it's time to bring Graham into the open. People appear to enjoy my humour but i can't promise a laugh a minute. This blog is going to hopefully show the many facets of my convoluted mind: the good, the bad, the indifferent and maybe even the bits that I don't know about.

We shall see.

Check This Out!

For someone who aspires to be a writer, perhaps I've been a little tardy in making a new entry. So why have I suddenly become inspired? I suppose I could ramble on about thoughts are something that need to come out when they are ready but the truth is a) I'm lazy and b) I forgot my password.

>The reason I am goaded into action is the near-death experience that occurred at the Sainsbury checkout queue this evening. A time when it appeared the whole population of the South East decided to shop at my little superstore.

Why, oh why, did I buy 12 items? I couldn't face the reproachful stares and mutterings as I stood at the "10 items only" tills so I decided to be fair. I did the usual scan of the other checkouts to see which had the longest queues, biggest trolleys and cashiers who looked dexterously intelligent and were not busy chatting to their mates and finally made a beeline for checkout 11.

There was one person in front of me which was the good news although the conveyor belt had more on it than the Generation Game at Christmas. Of course, the moment I arrive, the Great Checkout God starts giggling and the very first thing to be plucked from this mountain of shopping is a DVD. Pause whilst spotty youth is holding up his hand for 5 minutes waiting for the harassed supervisor (or Captain, as they are known) to come and wrestle with the locked plastic box holding an empty DVD case. Who is going to nick an empty case, for crying out loud?

Of course, Checkout Charlie isn't going to carry on scanning whilst she goes and forages for a copy of Thundercats (presumably to shut up one of the several whingeing, snotty little brats clustered around the customer). He just sits there and idly sneers at my few small purchases which I am desperately trying to cram on the miniscule space available. Finally, she comes back and suddenly the air is filled with beeps as the 28 bumper packs of crisps get passed through the scanner.

When I tried to select the right queue to join, I was really careful to go for one where there was a couple doing the shopping - double speed packing, see? He, however, resolutely stood there gazing into space and occasionally bellowing at the bratlets whilst she struggled with packing 253 carrier bags and gradually disappearing under a morass of assorted purchases.

The last items were a couple of boxed metal cars and bratlet #1 insisted on checking they were still there by elbowing his way through and standing on my feet
so he could gaze at them. I politely asked him if he would like to wear them: but very quietly as his Mother was bigger than me.

We then had the reduced items! Of course, they didn't scan properly and Checkout Charlie tried all the usual tricks, manual input, gazing at the ceiling for inspiration, etc. I suggested human sacrifice might help, gazing pointedly at the bratlets but this was met with stony indifference as he tried the scanner once more. Success!

Finally we got to that wonderful moment when the final total was calculated. "Allelujah" thought I. "I might make it out of here before my Onken chocolate & hazelnut mousse reaches it's sell-by date". Nope, she suddenly found various coupons in her purse and it took some time before he had the microscope set up to read the small print on them.

When it was finally my turn, he looked blankly at me after I turned down his sincere request to help me pack but enquired if he happened to have a defibrillator handy? I congatulated him on the loving way he crushed my breadsticks and dextrously double-somersaulted my Sainsbury "I Can't Believe it's Chicken Kurma" Chicken Kurma into the pile of empty DVD security cases and even managed to grimace nicely at his request for my Connect card. The final straw was when he turned to me and graciously presented me with a twinpack of loo rolls to thank me for my continued custom!

At last, I was free! Mrs Bassett had cunningly wandered off to the kiosk at the start of all this and was busy attracting cobwebs as she waited for my eventual exit. She and several others had had a fun time fomenting revolt as cigarettes are apperently exempt from the free loo rolls offer and there were mutters of "yet more discrimination to smokers" as I led her back to the car park.

If you ever read this, Lord Sainsbury, a curse on you and your company. May your baps grow stale and your BOGOFs bog off.