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 Abstinence makes the  last longer. |
| I sat in the back of the ambulance as the paramedics worked on Mandy. I thought I was losing her. Do you consider blogging a form of personal essay writing? How are the two the same and different? Today, spend some time researching how to write a personal essay and, if you choose, take a stab at writing one of your own! I don’t think blogging is anything other than what it is. I mean, I don’t wish any disrespect to those who puzzle and ponder the deeper meaning of blogging, but why do we try to complicate things? I blog, therefore I blog. A blog is a blog and if I write a personal essay and post it in my blog, it’s a blog entry. The reader can then do the puzzling and pondering and decide whether it’s a blog or a personal essay whilst I’m writing my next blog entry about vajazzling, anal waxing, or Trump’s Stumps. Whatever. I don’t feel like writing about my wife dying in the back of an ambulance now. I’ve read the other offerings in today’s 30DBC and I’m a little melancholy. Let’s laugh at cancer instead. Laughing at cancer is a bit like using the ‘N’ word. Like, black people can use the ‘N’ word, but white people can’t. We get that, right? Well don’t you laugh about cancer unless you know what your laughing about. You need to have been touched by the ‘C’ word to be able to talk about it. I qualify. I can say whatever I like because I’ve joined the fight. I’ve been in the trenches and faced the big ‘C’ as it attempted to invade my space. The ‘C’ word is a cunt, and a funny one at that. Following Mandy’s surgery, she had to undergo 30 weeks of chemotherapy. Every Friday afternoon for seven and a half months she had to endure the immune system sapping, life-saving treatment. On the occasion of her 20th chemo treatment, I visited the chemo ward earlier in the day and left her a card at reception. I instructed the staff to pass it to her when she arrived. This is it…… ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Forgive the bad poetry. If you can’t read it, and I don’t know if you can yet because I haven’t posted it, I’ll type it out and post it later in the month. Anyway, this was typical of the sort of silliness that accompanied our encounter with the ‘C’ word. It was about this time, around the 20 weeks of chemo period when Mandy developed a needle phobia. She never had this phobia before, it just suddenly came on. For the final few weeks of treatment she had to be sedated in order to undergo the chemo session. So, do you think this is funny? It was hilarious. You see, at the same time as receiving sedation for chemo, she was receiving aversion therapy for the needle phobia. This meant I had to hide really scary pictures of needles around the house. Like, inside cupboard doors. In the bathroom cabinet, behind the sun visor of her car, in her purse. Just anywhere where she wouldn't expect the find one, so that she was surprised by the sight of some giant needle poking into someone’s eyeball. Honestly, I kid you not, several of them are still pinned up in their original position. There’s one, right now, in the cereal cupboard. I was going to tell you about the day Mandy nearly died, and I’m sorry I changed my mind. I just think there was too much profound blogging, or personal essay writing today. Oh yes, nearly forgot. Did you know that following a barium x-ray, when you have to drink the delicious barium fluid, your poo turns white. Really, white poos. Who couldn’t laugh at a white shit. And finally, I think most of my entries qualify as personal essay's. Just not this one, on purpose. |
| I know you shouldn’t have favourites. You should love them all the same, and I do. But my love is a sort of left-wing love. A red-bellied Commie love that has no place in the Grandpa, Grandma, grandkids relationship. You see, I love all my grandchildren equally, but I love this one more than the others. Not by much, you understand. Just by a little. By a whisker. A hair’s breadth. A Gnats knacker. It’s a miniscule amount of love so small that if you stood in it, you wouldn’t be able to swing a cat. A stone’s throw of love. Love so small you could blink and miss it. This is not a lot of love. It is, coincidentally, a mere heartbeat of love. You see, this grandchild lived with us (Mandy and I) for several years, so it’s easy to see that a bond was created that is stronger than all others. And because his Mother, my daughter, has faced some difficulties in her life, we have fed him, clothed him, taught him right from wrong, taken him to school, attended parent/teacher meetings, made his dentist appointments, been his moral compass and his role models. We have been the ones who were there when he fell over, and when he cried. We have been there for all his successes, and his setbacks. We love him. I adore him. Mandy never had children of her own, and she has said to me that the grandchildren are the best gift anyone has ever given her. I sort of agree, but I think she’s overlooking that night in Blackpool when my Brother-in-law gave me a little blue pill with a big consequence. Oh boy, am I ever waiting for a prompt to tell that story. Okay, let’s get to the point. He’s me, but smaller. He looks identical to how I looked at his age. He’s a mini-me. He is, Connor. Connor and I have what we call, Grandad day-out adventures. We just go off for the day, or the weekend and do exciting stuff. We’ve been to the National Motorcycle Museum, The British Motor Museum, The National Space Centre, The London Eye, Villa Park to see the greatest football (soccer) team in the country, and in 2012 I took him to the London Olympics. He was only 4 years old, bless him, and my little mini-me had the time of his life. Tickets were hard to come by, so although he really, really wanted to go to the velodrome in the Olympic Park, we actually only had tickets for the women’s football at Wembley Stadium. It was France verses Japan, and it was wonderful. My little mini-me said three things to me that day that I will never forget. We got up ay 6am, got ready, had breakfast, then set off around 7ish. We drove to Kidderminster Train Station, got the train into Birmingham. Changed trains and travelled to Wembley Stadium. We arrived about 10.30am. The stadium opened at 12. When the doors did finally open, we were the first people in the queue. The game started at 2pm. The first magical memory came just as the teams walked out onto the pitch. Connor looked up at me and said, “I don’t like football anymore.” Everything we’d been through to get there, and seven hours after we left home, he must have been exhausted, he decided he didn’t want to be there. Fortunately, a Mexican wave started, and it distracted him. The second one-liner that will live with me forever came at half-time as the teams were walking off the pitch. He said, “Are the bikes coming on now?” “No, mate, that’s the velodrome, remember.” The final statement from heaven, the second-best thing anyone has ever said to me, after the women on the first date whom I didn’t like until she said, “I own a pub,” and I moved in with her…… The final statement from heaven came as I woke him up on the driveway at home and lifted him out of the car. It was about 9.30pm. Fourteen and a half hours after we set-off. “Grandad, this is the best day ever.” It made me cry. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| What do I think makes a good blogger? A good talker. A conversationalist, a thinker, a person with an opinion, a past, an idea or an imagination. A person outside the box. A person with wisdom, or experience, or a person with the intension of acquiring either, or both. A person who’s been there and done that, who knows it all, a busybody, an extravert or an introvert. Someone funny, light-hearted, frivolous, or someone serious and intense. You, perhaps, or me. Anybody. I’ve heard said that we all have a story inside us. Well, if that’s the case, everybody has the potential to be a good blogger. All you have to do is put your message down on paper, or pixels, and anybody can do that with practice or assistance. No one has no opinion on nothing, or anything, or something, and this sentence proves that you don’t even have to be good at writing and grammar. Sure, writing snobs might not read what you have to say, but you don’t need anyone to read your blog at all to draw some benefit from it. More people should blog. More people should take part in the 30-Day Blogging Challenge. What are characteristics that make you want to read someone else's blog? All of the above  But not all of all of the above, just any one, or more than one, or any combination of some of all of the above. However, I admit to being a bit of a lazy-writing snob. I mean, typos on every line, and worse. Not even a typo but, OMG, the wrong word completely. If you’ve got something to say, and you take the steps necessary to create and maintain a blog, do yourself the courtesy of making a modicum of effort. I particularly enjoy thoughtful, thought provoking, informative blogs that pop out of a box, or creep up on a topic from a new or uncommon perspective. Add a sprinkling of humour and I’m your blog-banging bitch. Or, I like reading true blogs. Real blogs. Blogs about people releasing the story within them. If you were judging your own blogging ability, how would you rate yourself? Do you know what? I’ll be honest with you here; I think my blog is honest and sprinkled with humour, but it tries too hard sometimes. It tries too hard to be clever, or different, and this can stress the reader, or make it an uncomfortable, difficult read. I too often dance delicately around controversial topics, and confrontational ones. But I do this for a very good reason. I don’t suffer fools. I can take apposing argument, differing opinion, opposite political views, and I’ll even tolerate comparisons between reality and religion. But if I am forced into a debate with a fool, I’ll say something I’ll regret. Should I feel the need to spout off about religion (I'm an atheist), politics (I'm just a little right of middle), injustice (I'm highly principled), or anything else from abortion to xenophobia with a 'z,' I'll do so elsewhere. I’d sum up my blog style as I describe my general writing style; Ambitious, realistic, ordinary. What aspects of blogging are most important to you? I want a blog, my blog, to give away a lot of me without compromising my dignity or embarrassing me. Retaining my self-respect is an important aspect of my blogging intention. And I hope it gets me laid. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| The colour green reminds me of, Green. My first love. Sandra Green, to be precise, and, boy, was she ever the pretty thing. Everything about her was for the first time. The way she looked, smelt, the way she sounded. All new and optimistic. Exciting. She was Maggie May, Keep on Dancing, and Cos I Luv You, all rolled into one. She was the sweetest music on the hippest pirate radio channel that your parents didn’t let you listen to, and I was besotted. I just didn’t know what to do with her. We were only 11. She was striking to look at, with a big mop of fierce red hair that screamed, difference. Special. And her face was covered in beautiful orange freckles, just like mine. Oh yes, we had things in common. Okay, hers were like a jigsaw of perfection. Each one perfectly positioned for maximum cuteness. Mine were, like; freckle, freckle, spot, blackhead, freckle. You get the picture. We became everything I wanted. We were the best of friends, because at 11, in 1971, that was as far as you went. As far as you thought. For three years we shared every class together. We sat next to one another in a few classes, where teachers, and my classmates, didn’t mind us chatting about; Slade verses T-Rex, Donny Osmond verses David Cassidy, Aston Villa verses Birmingham City, what we were doing at the weekend and all sorts of stuff. The girls of that time never missed a copy of, Jackie. Jackie was the best-selling teen magazine in Britain for ten years, with sales rising from an initial 350,000 to 605,947 in 1976.[4] The best ever selling issue was the 1972 special edition to coincide with the UK tour of American singer David Cassidy. During the 1970s, "Jackie" published a mix of fashion and beauty tips, gossip, short stories and comic strips.............. Wikipedia® The most prized possession for the boys was the centrefold poster contained in each issue. Especially when it was your favourite pop star. For the lads this would be, Slade, T-Rex, David Bowie, Elton John, Gary Glitter (yes, I know he’s a paedophile, but we didn’t know that then), The Sweet, Alice Cooper, Mott the Hoople, Blackfoot Sue, ELO, Status Quo etc. Mostly British artists tbf. My favourite band was, Slade. Don’t think they ever did much across the pond, but they have one of the top 5 Christmas tunes of all time over here. Anyway, if you didn’t get hold of that poster, you were a deadbeat loser and probably getting dead-legged at break-time. I always got Sandra’s poster. Always. Well, I never ‘dated’ Sandra Green. Never kissed her. By the time we were 14, she probably felt like, 16, and I was still somewhere around twelve and a half. We took different options for our final two years at high school, and by the time we were 16 we hardly spoke. No idea what ever happen to her. Green makes me feel young again. Its optimism and vibrancy, its freshness and its newness is matched by a young lady I will never forget. An exciting, special, fiery red-head who, for a while, had my heart. I wonder if she knew? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| As far as weight loss goals go, I thought all the tough one’s were behind me. Go to weight watchers. Join weight watchers. Eat sensibly. Lose weight. Stick at it. Keep it up. Stay motivated. Be proud of your achievement. Don’t give up. Well, I had one job to do. Just one. Lose 1lb this week and that would be a stone off in a month. 1lb, that’s all. A tin of beans. A baseball. A bag of spaghetti. A guinea pig. A shoe. A pound for fuck sake! Hell, I lost four and a half guinea pigs last week. Technically, I guess a guinea pig would have to be cut lengthways or you might get a 55/45 split, and no one wants an unbalanced guinea pig. But an unbalanced dieter, oh yeah, let’s unleash that crazy bastard on the world. I mean, it was just a pound. I couldn’t believe it when I got on the scales. I was next in the queue. Bally, our Wellness Leader, called me forward. “Hop on the scales,” she said. “You’ve lost half a pound. Well done, you,” she added, enthusiastically. “What?” “Half a pound. That’s thirteen and a half all together. That’s brilliant. Next.” “Hold on. Do it again.” “Do it again?” “Do it again.” We’d started mimicking one another. “What?” She asked. Yes, we were definitely mimicking one another. “Do it again. The weighing thing.” “Jump on. Quickly. Yes, half a pound.” “Wait.” “Wait?” “Yes, wait. Look, I’ve got key in my pocket. Hold that and do it again.” “Do it again?” Honestly, it was like an echo chamber. So, the key made no difference. Neither did my glasses, shoe laces, remembrance poppy or false tooth. It was half a pound, and I’d failed to make the stone. That’s a another whole week before I get the chance to weigh-in again. “But it’s half a pound,” she said. “That’s great. You’ve lost half a pound.” Yes, I’d lost half a pound. I was a loser, and a failure. |
| Two excellent pieces already posted in the forum this morning, and I sense some might be waiting to see what else is said on the topic. Cass--Spring Spirit  starts with the perception that a clone is the complete reproduction of a person, and this is, perhaps, a more common misconception than we might think. Anyone of a certain age who remembers season 1, episode 7 of Star Trek will recall the centrifuge and the cloning of Captain Kirk. That was, definitively, what cloning was to me. For years.The capitalistic view point was interesting. What would the price of a replacement left leg be within a free market economy? I guess there would need to be some sort of assistance scheme. A sort of leg-up, like Obama Care, but not. Trump’s Stumps, maybe? Robert Waltz  examines the ethical dilemma from a number or directions. For me, as long as my point of view is represented, I would be content for the guidelines to be developed through an Ethics Committee. But this is a cop-out, and it disguises my own opinion as if, almost, I was reluctant to divulge my view on this matter. And I am. I suppose I should grow some balls. You see, I know that my viewpoint on this matter will lose me portfolio views faster than if my profile picture had me wearing my new cloned balls for earrings. Bigger balls, if it was my decision. But that’s why I favour ethics over morals. To dismiss the views of bias that might seep through. Okay, whatever the position ultimately is of cloning, by any government or organisation, I would ask that it is developed from a purely secular standpoint. That ethics drive forward the development of cloning for the benefit of humankind. And morals are neatly buried under whatever high-ground upon which they were conceived. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| Motivational quotes don’t motivate me. I’m not totally dismissing them, because I know they work for people. A lot of people. And anyway, I really enjoy a good quote and will use them when it’s appropriate. There are two I use more than others. One is attributed to Henry Ford; the other is all my own work. Oh, and a third one that I don’t know yet, but I’m going to tell you something that deserves to have a quote attached to it, so I’ll go find one and be right back. There, got it. “Anger is often more hurtful than the injury that caused it.” English proverb That’ll do to tag onto the end of this entry. So, Henry Ford said, “Quality, means doing it right when no one is looking.” This is pinned to our office wall. Our staff are representing us, Mandy and I, as well as the business, and they do so every day when we’re not around. It is our professional and personal competence and integrity that is on the line if they screw up, and this quote is more than appropriate. It’s our mantra. But it doesn’t motivate me, so I’ll stick with my original claim. I use it as a tool to motivate others. My second quote is something Mandy and I say to each other to deescalate a situation. It’s like a safe word, but not. It came about like this. We were going on holiday and the drive to the airport was a nightmare. The traffic was horrendous, parking was a bastard, the queue at check-in was so long and full of noisy kids and bickering, chavy, fake-tanned, impatient, foul-mouthed wankers……. No extra leg room on the flight meant my knees were squashed up to my nose and if that fucking kid kicks the back of my seat again……. Hotel reception was a joke. I mean, get some staff on you lazy, ignorant twats! There’s two of us staying for three weeks and there’s like, 4 fucking coat hangers in the wardrobe. Who booked this fucking hotel anyway? Mandy said, “I’ll double everything up. Look you can get four shirts on this hanger.” “I wouldn’t mind, but this is the Royal Elite package. Royal fucking Elite.” “Well don’t take it out on me. You booked the fucking hotel.” “So, it’s my fault now, is it?” “Here, you have all the fucking hangers!” Fortunately, I paused at this point. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Let’s not fall out over a coat hanger.” We laughed, and now we repeat this ridiculous line whenever there is the hint of a disagreement. And it works, most of the time. So, because I knew I was going to write about this incident, I couldn’t help but remember a holiday a hundred years ago with my first wife, where this line would have come in handy. The children were young. I think maybe, 7 and 9. We had booked into our all-inclusive hotel in Cales de Mallorca, and were joined by my sister and her family. It was our first time trying all-inclusive. The first day went well, really well. The accommodation was wonderful, the food and drink was top quality, and the pool was first class. Everything was perfect. On the evening of the second day, I had just finished taking a shower. I walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. The children had already gone out to call on their cousins, so as it was just the two of us, I let the towel slip to the floor. I probably shouted, “Wey, hey heeey,” with a pelvic thrust, but I can’t remember. I can remember sitting on the edge of the bed. Now, there’s this thing called, Paradoxical Cold, where nerve endings in our skin known as, Thermoreceptors, can’t immediately tell the difference between hot and cold. So, when I sat on my wife’s curling tongs, I didn’t immediately jump off them. I sat there for a moment too long, in fact, as it turns out. I severely burned my arse. So severely that I had to go to hospital. The news wasn’t good. I had to take a course of antibiotics, return to the hospital every day to have the dressing changed, couldn’t go swimming for fear of infection, and no alcohol. Nightmare! The next day we had to go see the holiday rep, a sweet young lady called, Monica. We had to explain that we could no longer go on the excursions we had booked because, and explained what had happened. She laughed. She thought it was so funny that she told all of the other holiday reps, and not just the ones in our hotel. Soon, all the reps from all the tour operators throughout the resort knew about, Steve, and his burnt arse. People started shouting my name as we walked through the hotel, and even through the town. “Hey, Steve, how’s your arse?” and they laughed. The reps were now retelling my story the newly arrived visitors whilst on the coach from the airport to the hotel. As a sort of health and safety warning. Complete strangers were high fiving me as they checked-in. And they laughed. Every day I would walk to the hospital with my brother-in-law for company, and every day I would have to explain to a different Doctor, through a different interpreter, what had happened. And they laughed. We kept one excursion because it was just a day out to the Inca market. Monica was our guide, and on the bus to the market she told everyone all about me, and asked me to stand up and show them my arse. Well, it’s really hard to keep a dressing on your arse cheek in any part of the world, but in a hot and sweaty country it’s just about impossible. So, I conquered this problem by wearing a pair of lady’s nylon tights over the wound. Cut off at the thigh, of course. And now I had been asked to drop my pants to show everyone my burnt buttock. And they all laughed. All of them. The bus load, the bastards. So, “Anger is often more hurtful than the injury that caused it.” I'm tempted to say, "Stick them curling tongs up your arse," but it's bullshit. I was never angry long enough. To be honest, I had a good laugh too. |
| I’ve battled exuberance and enthusiasm my whole life. It’s like a disease. It’s often like an addiction, but it would be improper of me to suggest I’ve battled that particular demon. I just get hooked on something. A simple hobby or interest can take me over, absorb me to the point of obsession. Doesn’t even have to be a physical thing. It can be a plan, or a concept. Here’s an example. My wife and I went to Australia. It was a crazy idea, by the way. We went and spent 6 weeks in a campervan together, just 4 weeks after we first met. It could have been a disaster, but it turned out okay. Anyway, we bought a couple of souvenir spoons whilst we were there. You know the sort of thing. A spoon commemorating a visit to a famous landmark, or destination. And that was it. It should have ended there. Two years later and I’d amassed 600 Australian themed spoons that had been shipped from all over the world. Must have cost me a fortune. The wife hated them. She would shout at me from another room, “Are you on that computer?” “Yes.” “Well I hope you’re not spooning again!” When I found myself single in 2000, I started internet dating, and I wanted to be the best internet dater out there. The very best. I wrote the most creative, heart-warming, imagination capturing, love and fantasy inspiring personal dating profile the poor unsuspecting single female population of Great Britain had ever read. They were caught in my romantic headlights and there was no escape. Then I found this one dating site that ranked personal profiles by their popularity. By how many views they received. The most intelligent. The most romantic. You get the idea, right? Then I found it. My purpose. One of the criteria was; The Funniest Profile. I actually gave up dating and just concentrated on maintaining my position of, Funniest Profile. And I was now posting my creative personal profiles on dating sites all over the world, just to get the adoring feedback. I was a sick saddo for sure. When I met Mandy, I gave up the profile writing. But I needed another outlet for this new obsession of, writing. I found Writing.com. I don’t want to be published, particularly, and I have no unwritten novels within me, I don’t think. I just want to be really good at whatever I set my mind to. I don’t have to be the best, I just have to be my best. Did you know that I won, Best Comedy, in the 2012 Quill Awards? It was for my comedy blog; Women, Explained. Very probably not the best comedy item on WDC, but it was my best and its recognition was reward enough for me. There was a time I had a writing.com account full of items, entries, poetry, short stories, very many awardicons and badges, and some very good friends from around the world. I ran a successful contest called, The Really Quick Contest, and bizarrely, or ironically, or foolishly, got a little too involved with a beautiful author from across the pond. That’s another story for another day. One day I witnessed an injustice done to a Preferred Author by a Moderator, and that was it. I wanted no more to do with the site, so I deleted my account. Everything was gone, except for a handful of pieces I’d posted on facebook and managed to retrieve. So why will things be different this time? Well, I’m a granddad. This means I have developed two new middle names; patience and tolerance. Also, I’m not nearly as obsessive about thing as I used to be. I’m much more relaxed about things these days. The perfect outcome for me, here on WDC. To find a kindred spirit. Someone who has a wonderful sense of humour, who appreciates mine, and might collaborate on a sit-com script, maybe. That would be cool. |
| There was a time when our careers were important, when we’d head off on a Monday morning in different directions and not see one another again until Friday. Me, with my office in Westminster, and Mandy travelling the country auditing stores for Three Mobile. We wouldn’t even go straight home at the end of the week. We’d meet in the local pub for our ‘blowout’ session. Bellies full of beer and butt-ends filling the ashtray. Mandy got her cancer in 2009, and we both took redundancy from our jobs. From our lives. Two years of the worst times, and the best, and our first wedding anniversary was celebrated on a hospital ward, and we laughed. In that time, we managed to start our small business. We had to, we were broke. Penniless. But on the bright side, we didn’t smoke any more. The business grew, 30 staff, offices in the center of town, and we beat cancer. Mandy beat cancer. She was so much braver than I would have been. And still, we went to work on Monday morning and hardly saw one another all week. Minimum wage went up, and up. Workplace Pensions became compulsory. Value Added Tax stole our profit margin and still we were strangers. Fleeting moments of intimacy that fell short of our expectations of marriage. This year we changed everything. We slashed the business, giving most of it away to our lovely, wonderful staff. Now we have just six employees, a more profitable business, and more time together. We’ve already taken three holidays this year, and another to come in December. We moved out of the offices. I built Mandy her own office in the garden and you can just make it out there, in the photo, on the left. Now I have time to sit in the garden, and I can hear bird song. I can hear bird song because I smelt the coffee. Smelling the coffee brought great reflief. From where I sit, I can see a bright, happy, loving future. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Even now it makes me wretch whenever I think about it. 40 years on and my stomach churns and contorts in disgust, and I cringe with embarrassment. I can still taste 1978. We, the collective ‘we’ of writers here on Writing.com should try and use all the senses in all of their capacities as often as possible to build the picture we are showing. We should never be guilty of ignoring a significant addition to our descriptive writing because it’s too difficult, or ‘not the done thing.’ But, and be careful of this, should you find great success in the use of sensory description, do not feel disappointed when your novel is turned into a blockbuster movie and all your hard work becomes, well, senseless. Let’s face it, vision doesn’t work in the movies. Jack Slater might be able to hit a stick of dynamite in mid-flight with a Desert Eagle, but a bunch of criminals with fully-automatics can’t hit a swashbuckling A-lister on a dance floor . Are they blind? There’s a reason smell-o-vision was tried in the 50’s and even now, in the technologically advanced world we live in we’re still not able to smell bean-induced farts around campfires , or stinky phone booths when someone lets rip. Hearing goes wrong in the movies too. We all remember the young man who sticks his fingers in his ears just before the gunshot rings out in the Mount Rushmore cafeteria. We’ll never know what the beluga tastes like to Josh Baskin because no one ever described it. I was 18 years old in 1978. Old enough to vote, old enough to drink. On my eighteenth birthday I went out to celebrate with a group of mates. We all headed off to The Swan at Yardley. It was the biggest pub in Europe when it was built in the 60's, and it made a great venue for a coming-of-age party night. We had a lot to drink. A lot. Now, back in those days the pubs in the UK used to close at 10.30pm, with just ten minutes for 'drinking up.' So, at 10.40 we rolled out the doors and over the road for an Indian. That's how we referred to a curry. "Going for an Indian." As it was my birthday I thought it was time I branched out with my Indian curry choices, so I ordered things I hadn't tried before. For my starter I chose, Bombay Duck. Bombay Duck as a starter in an Indian restaurant in the 70's was essentially a smelly piece of dried fish skin. But I was 18. A man. I wasn't going to let a little whiff put me off. Before I tell you what happen next, let me try and explain what Bombay Duck is, exactly. Imagine an uncooked lasagne sheet. To soften it up, pop it under a fresh, moist, steaming cowpat and leave for two hours. Now it's malleable enough, mould it onto the inside surface of Boris Johnson's jock strap and have him cycle around London on a Boris Bike until dusk. Next, insert it into the arse end of a dead rodent, wrap the rodent in the mouldy carcass of a 14-day old lifeless Trout and place on top of a hot radiator over-night. Next morning bury the whole thing with a recently deceased elderly relative and forget about it for 20 years. Upon exhumation, retrieve item from trout and rodent, place on cheap, hideously decorated china plate and serve to drunk idiots. I took just one bite of my Bombay Duck. Immediately, without pause or warning, I was sick in my hands. Oh yes, I caught the sick. Not all the sick. There was still some sick in my mouth, and some leaking between my fingers onto the fresh white tablecloth. Alan was sick next. He didn’t have the Bombay Duck, but he had a bit of mine that had escaped my clawing hands and hit him right in the corner of his mouth. Alan didn’t catch his sick. He was sick on Colin. I didn’t want to wait around to see who was going to be sick next, so I headed off to the toilets in a rush. There were two reason for my rush. One; my own sick was taking on non-Newtonian properties and its viscosity was dissipating, leading to ever greater vomit loss through my cupped hands. Two; my cupped hands were still at capacity, but a second, greater volume of vomit was imminent, and I feared this time it was an arm full. Now then, this particular Indian restaurant was adorned with the most beautiful and spectacular Oriental rugs. There were dozens of them all over the floor, and some on the walls. I’d almost made it to the toilet when one of those rugs decided to intervene. It snagged my leading foot and held it firmly. The rest of me continued forward in a descending arc of doom. I threw my arms out to cushion my fall. It was at this point that the sick hit the fan, or seemed to at least. My vomit flourished in its freedom, spinning through the air like some festering spiral galaxy of disgust. It quite literally hit every single person in the restaurant. No one escaped. I managed to stagger to the toilet, trailing a 17th century Millefleur Star-Lattice Mughal Carpet behind me. Unfortunately the carpet jammed the toilet door open so everyone could see me with my head down the pan throwing my guts up. 1978 also goes to show that the senses do not work in the movies. We were introduced to Christopher Reeve as Superman, and Margot Kidder (Lois Lane) as the blindest, deafest, otherwise sensory deprived person in the history of cinema. |
| Dieting is a minefield, and Weight Watchers SmartPoints are the big bomb. I mean, you can forget everything you’ve learned about food from experiencing other diets. Especially, and regrettably, how good food is. Oh no, don’t sit there reminiscing about that Lamb Tikka Masala you had at Vhujon Restaurant last summer, a thousand years ago when you were happily and ignorantly obese. There lies madness, and drooling. That Lamb Tikka Masala is in the region of 30 SmartPoints, and that’s enough to blow you up. Balloon style. Beans on toast, that staple of home cooked British cuisine, is manageable on, let’s say, Slimming World. But on WW the beans are 11 SmartPoints and the bread is 3 per slice. No self-respecting British fatty is going to have less than 4 slices, so there’s 23 SmartPoints right there, and you can add another one for the skimmed milk you had in your tea. I get 40 SmartPoints a day. A quarter pint of skimmed milk is 4spt’s. That’s 10% of my daily allowance gone and all I’ve done is soften up my Weetabix which are 2spt’s each. So, that’s a fifth of my allowance gone and I haven’t had a coffee yet. Fish and chips? Forget it. Hand-Battered Fish and Chips at a Flaming Grill Pub is 51 SmartPoints. That fish has just become a monstrous tormentor from the dungeons of dieting despair. I used to play a little game called, ‘If There’s No One in the Layby.’ As I approached Catchems End Fish Bar I would say to myself, “If there’s a parking space outside, I’ll stop and have fish and chips.” Eating was that easy. All I had to do was park. Not anymore it isn’t. I speed past now, eyes fixed on the road ahead, windows closed to shut out the enticing aroma of delicious fat-dripping battered calories. Fish and chips haunt my dreams now. Nightmarish visions of a monster with my wobbly body and the head and tail of a battered cod fillet. Yes, the 'M' in BMI is the massive minotaur of my immense measurement. A Marks & Spencer in-store bakery white chocolate chip cookie is 17 SmartPoints. What you do with this information is up to you. I suggest you invite four friends over, break it into quarters and watch them all enjoy a piece as you dice butternut squash to use in your potato salad, instead of the potatoes. There endeth the lesson. I think I might have to kill my Weight Watchers Leader. She told me obesity was a death sentence. Anyway, I lost 1.5lbs last week, and 4.5lbs this week. That’s a grand total of 13lbs in 4 weeks. Go me!   Catchems End Fish Bar ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I remember my first ever internet date for a number of reasons. 1.It wasn’t really an internet date, it was just a date I met on the internet. That is to say, I wasn’t actually doing any internet dating. I was just on, My Space (remember that?), and saw someone who looked interesting and messaged her. We met a couple of weeks later for a date in Stratford Upon Avon. 2.I didn’t like her too much. 3.I moved in with her a week later. What? How did that happen? Well, things can change pretty quickly in the shallow, meaningless world of internet dating that is only a date I met on the internet. You see, I’d made my mind up that I wasn’t going to see her again. I just needed to get through this first date, get home, then message her to say thanks, but no thanks. Then she dropped the bombshell. I small fact about herself that changed everything. Last Friday evening was a superb night out at Bewdley Festival. We were entertained by the fabulous, Eddi Reader. What a brilliant professional she is. Funny, charming, extremely talented, and quite delicious too. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Saturday was the final evening event. A comedy showcase hosted by the very funny, Jo Enright. It’s been a hugely successful 10 day festival and my absolute pleasure to have been one of the patrons. The diet’s going okay, still. We’ll see this evening when I go for my weigh-in. I can’t remember what this week’s talk topic is going to be, but it can’t be as bad as last week’s Emotional Eating. Unless it’s Depression Digestion, or Will the Munchies make you a Murderer? So, with only the dutiful goodbyes to get through, my first ever internet date that wasn’t really an internet date, would be over. Then she said the best thing any woman has ever said to me. This one thing changed my impression of her so much, she was all I wanted. All I’d ever wanted. I now knew precisely what I was looking for in a partner, and she was it. I would never want anyone, or anything else. She moved in close and whispered in my ear. “I own a pub,” she said. A fucking pub! She owns a pub! Are you listening to me? A pub! A week later I had my own drawer in her bedroom, and one side of the wardrobe for my suits. What I didn’t know then, was that I’d never see those suits again. But that’s another story. |
| I ate a Bolo de Mel one summer, it was so good I ate another. Full and flushed with happiness, my appetite still intact, I tried a Pastel de Nata. Well, several in actual fact. As evening falls, a dark descends, it aches me with remorse. An entree of regretfulness covered in strawberry sauce. Fearful, and loathing, I hate myself today. I end it, as I oughta, with a Viennetta parfait. A new day, a new sadness, I resolve to get things right. Bring on your carbs and calories, I'm ready for the fight. No eggs for me, nor bacon, I settle for some grapes, nestled on the edge of my plate with whipping cream and crepes. My conscience is so angry. It screams, “No more must pass your lips!” So, I’ll start my diet, tomorrow. Now, I’m having fish and chips. That’s it, decision made, Weight Watchers is where I’ll go. I celebrate with a coffee, and a Panpepato ........ or two. I'm happy. |
| So, yesterday was the end of WW week two, and my third WW meeting. This week the meeting was held in the Cellar Bar as the Function Bar was in use. You see, the evening events of Bewdley Festival are held at the same location and they, well, take precedence It was WW at 5.30pm; shop for reduced price products as they change form Weight Watchers branding to WW, weigh-in, try one of our Wellness Leader’ homemade flapjacks (only 1 point per slice), have a talk about ‘emotional eating,’ talk about soup makers, have a natter with Dan (he who lost 13lbs his first week), then race home to get changed for the evening event. It’s a good one this evening, and I get my photo taken with the performer. I lost 3lbs. I had a bad feeling this week. I really didn’t think I’d lost anything. Before I forget, does anyone else find the caps-lock button on a Mac keyboard a right nuisance? If you trying to type quickly and need just one capital letter it seems to stick on. I really didn’t think I’d lost anything. I guess it’s all the hospitality at the festival events. Our local brewery has made a special Festival Ale and it does rather taste delicious. So, I went with the expectation of letting myself down, which would be a great idea if only it were possible. Perhaps if I took my belt off, and wore a thinner shirt. No socks and, yes, go commando. How much do whiskers weigh? I should've shaved. Had a hair cut. Wait, do I need the toilet? But surprise, I lost the 3lbs, and that makes a total of 7lbs or half a stone. Yeah! I’m actually not going to comment on ‘emotional eating’ today. With the chat we had about it at WW, and then listening to the brilliant Simon Armitage, I’ve a poem idea for it. Stay tuned. Yes, the wonderfully talented, Simon Armitage. Poet, author, playwright, Professor of Poetry at both Oxford and Leeds universities. A national treasure. He read from both, Walking away, and, Walking Home. As well as the poems, Thank You for Waiting, The English Astronaut, and many others. I should've shaved. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I was married, the second time, in 2008. I met my future second wife for breakfast on the first Sunday in April, 2004. We met for breakfast because that’s what clever, seductive internet players did. We were different. We said and did things that were the dating equivalent of the curved ball. They didn’t see us coming. I say ‘us’ to provide myself with a little support. Strength in numbers. It provides me with a modicum of justification for my often carefree approach to relationships, and that must be important to me on some level if I confess it to you, but still need it. There wasn’t really an ’us’ at all. I have no idea who the competition was. I learned that a few well chosen words in an email could capture the imagination, and sometimes the heart of the reader before we’d even met. That was all the encouragement I needed. I wrote, and I wrote good. Well, good enough for those unsuspecting women at least. I joined Writing.Com in 2005’ish and quickly learned that I didn’t have a clue. Still don’t to be honest. The only difference now is, I actually enjoy writing. It thrills me. I could be a shit skydiver and still be exhilarated by it (as long as the chute opens), and that’s what writing is to me. It’s leaping into the abyss with an idea, hoping to fuck it's good enough, and preying you’re not ridiculed by your peers. It’s like; “Look what I did, and don’t punish me too much for it.” “Tell me its good, tell me its good, tell me its good.” “One person find it funny. Please!!!” “A ‘like.’ I got a ‘like!’” On the first Saturday in May, 2004, my future wife and I went to Australia. We spent 6 weeks touring together in a campervan. Now there’s a whole new blog opportunity. Update on Bewdley Festival. Went to see the hilarious stand-up comedian, James Acaster on Saturday, and BBC Radio Two's Jeremy Vine, the brilliant Jeremy Vine, on Sunday. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| Dieting is like wanting something really, really good. Something delicious. Beautiful. Something you see that you not only want, but you believe you need. Something for you, that only you deserve. Something that should stop being available for someone else and be exclusively for you. But you can't have it. It's not for you. So, you have to settle for something not quite that good. Because, let's face it, you're not good enough for it. HOLD ON! Sorry, that's internet dating. No, dieting is wanting something delicious, modifying it as little as possible so it's still essentially the same thing, not now it's not quite as good. But it's all you're getting, fatty. Take; Potato, Cod, Prawn and Chorizo Pie. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I can't have this. It'll kill me, or my Wellness Coach (WC) will. I can't wait for Tuesday's Emotional Eating night. It could be a better night that Roland Gift. I've decided I'm going to tell WC that I ate a donut in the week, then whipped myself with a celery stick (It wasn't self harm, you understand. I was just trying to soften the damn thing up so I could eat it. What the hell are those things made of? It's like eating a frozen liquorish shoehorn that's been knitted with cotton thread). So, here's my take on Potato, Cod, Prawn and Chorizo Pie. I now call is Spanish Fish Pie. (I banged this out in a Word.doc so work out the typos yourself) Spanish Fish Pie – serves 2 – 10 SmartPoints per serving 500 g Potatoes 250g cod fillet, skin and pin bones removed 300 ml Best of both skimmed milk 3 bay leaves Pinch of saffron ½ tbsp 6 & 6 sprays of spray light 1 large onion, halved and finely sliced 1 fennel, quartered and finely sliced 2 garlic cloves, crushed 38 g chorizo, skin removed and sliced 25g plain flour Small bunch of parsley, chopped 200g raw king prawns, peeled Green salad or veg to serve 1. Peel and thinly slice the potatoes, tip into a pan of cold water and bring to simmer. Turn off the heat, leave the potatoes in the water for 1 min, then drain and leave to cool in a colander. Put the cod in a wide deep pan and pour over the milk. Add a bay leaf and the saffron. Bring to a gentle simmer, cover with a lid then lower the heat and cook for 2 mins. Turn off the heat and leave the fish in the pan to continue cooking for 5 mins more. 2. Heat 6 sprays of spray light in a large pan, add the onion and fennel and cook for 10m mins until starting to caramelise. Add the garlic and chorizo, stir until the oils are released, then stir in the flour. 3. Remove the fish from the milk and set aside the bay leaves. Add the milk to the chorizo pan bit by bit, stirring between additions, until you have a smooth thick sauce. Stir in the parsley, season and remove from the heat. 4. Heat oven to 200C/180C fan/gas 6. Pour half of the sauce into a large casserole dish. Flake the fish into large chunks and scatter over the sauce. Add the prawns and spoon over the rest of the sauce. 5. Stack 5-6 potato slices together and trim off the edges to create a rectangle – don’t worry if it’s not perfect. Continue making stacks of rectangular potatoes until they’re all used up. Scatter the trimmings over the sauce, then arrange the slices in a domino pattern, fanning them out to cover the surface. Tuck the reserved bay leaf and the 2 others in among the potatoes, season and spray with 6 sprays of spray light. Bake for 45 mins until the potatoes are tender and golden and the sauce is bubbling up around the edges. Yes, I just posted a recipe. I wish I were still internet dating. This would've got to out the house this evening. |
| So, today I will be using profanities. I’m totally buzzing this morning. Still, after last night. What a great evening we had at the opening night of Bewdley Festival. What a fabulous show. This year, the company I own is a Creative Patron which gives us extra privileges like hospitality, access to the green room, meet the artists and super seats on a balcony overlooking the stage. The evening got underway with singer, songwriter, Mish Maybe and her band. She was really good, and lyrically very strong. She was joined on stage by the very talented Black Country poet, Liz Berry. However, as good as they were, and they were, it was no surprise that everyone was looking forward to the star of opening night. This coming Tuesday will be my third Weight Watchers meeting, and the topic is going to be, emotional eating. It’s not even called Weight Watchers any more. It’s WW, and we don’t have a Weight Watchers Leader, we have a, Wellness Coach. But anyway, emotional fucking eating. Can you believe it? Am the only one that finds this a potentially traumatic experience for any depressed, self-loathing fatty? I’m sure they mean something like, “Don’t go to the fridge when you’re bored,” but what about the people who eat two chocolate gateau’ whilst crying into their pillow at two in the afternoon. I’m really looking forward to Tuesday. Roland Gift (Fine Young Cannibals) was simply terrific last night. Here’s him singing, Johnny Come Home. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] The song contains the line, "What is wrong in my life, that I must get drunk every night?" Emotional fucking eating? What do they know? He did a version of, Not The Man I Used To Be, a cappella. It was awesome. PS Just found this playlist on Spotify; Roland Gift Playlist  |
| So, what came first? Internet dating or writing? It was actually internet dating that got me into writing. Before internet dating I had literally never written a thing since I left school. I became really good at both. I dated a famous actress, a London Philharmonic Orchestra conductress, a Times journalist and the sister of an Olympic sailor. I also had a Quill Award winning blog, right here on Writing.Com. What I really like about Weight Watchers is the scanning function on the ap. Just open it up and scan the barcode of any food item and it’ll tell you the points value of a single serving. Also, there are 200 free foods. That is, foods that have a points value of zero. Not to be confused with food you can freely take from the supermarket, in case you suddenly perked up and thought I’d said something interesting. Fish is free, chicken and turkey breast, most fruit and vegetables, and eggs. All free. Have as much as you like. Indulge yourself. Bit like internet dating to be honest. I’ve tried Slimming World and the Cambridge Diet in the past. My eldest daughter was 31 this year. If by any chance someone should stumble upon this blog and they were around Writing.Com about 10 years ago, they might remember some of the stories I posted about her. She famously said she wouldn’t watch, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, because she hadn’t seen the first two. My eldest daughter is beautiful, and incurably blond. She had a job application form to fill in and got stuck on a question, so she telephoned me. “Dad, can I ask you a question?” “Sure. You can ask me anything.” “No, it’s okay. You’ll laugh at me.” “Darling, I would never laugh at you. What is it?” At this point I was really struggling to hold back the sniggering in my voice. “It’s a question on my form.” “Okay. What is it?” Apparently, it was one of those questions they add for statistics at the end of the form. You know; age, ethnicity, etc. “Dad, am I heterosexual?” I gripped the phone tightly over the mouthpiece so she couldn’t hear the hysterics my end. I quickly pulled myself together and brilliantly thought of the perfect reply. Oh, she’s married with two children by the way. I said…. “No, you’re not, and if anyone says you are they’ll have me to deal with!” I left it at that. I said no more. I sometimes wonder if she’s ever said the someone, “If you call me heterosexual my Dad will get you.” There’s this chap who joined Weight Watchers last week, he lost 13lbs in his first week. If he didn’t eat anything on the way home, let’s call it a stone. He’s a big fella, mind. At my heaviest ever, I was 21st 1lbs, but for most of my adult life I have hovered around the 18st mark. I’ve set 18st as my initial goal weight, but I think 17st is my ultimate target. I’ve just returned from 3 weeks’ vacation on the wonderful island of, Lanzarote. My second favourite place to visit. I stayed at the Sandos Papagayo Beach Resort and enjoyed 21 days of all-inclusive gluttony. I’m still wondering if it was a good end to being obese, or a bad start to being slim? My introduction to creative writing was filling in my dating profile. |
| So, the year 2000 wasn’t bad, or good for that matter. It was just your average, every day epic start to a new millennium. The Y2K bug didn’t materialise, I was going to be 40 years old, and I left my wife. I had a salad for lunch yesterday. I missed breakfast because I didn’t get up in time and had a busy day at work. It was a mistake because breakfasts can be so good on Weight Watchers. You see, for my height and weight I have 41 daily points and 42 weekly points. For those that don’t know about Weight Watchers, all food has a points value and you have so many points to use per day. These are your ‘Daily Points.’ In addition to that, you have points that you can use over the week. These are your ‘Weekly Points.’ Then you can roll over 4 points per day if you don’t use them, and other intricacies that I would only further patronise you with if I explained them. Anyway, in the year 2000 I was 40 and alone. Not 40 and single. 40 and single suggests an element of relative normal existence with the freedom to be alone and the optimism of not being single or alone for very long. I was alone, and pessimistic about being single. You see, when I left my wife, I also left my life. A really good Weight Watchers breakfast for me would be; 2 slices of white bread I tablespoon of tomato ketchup 2 bacon medallions 2 poached eggs Use the ketchup instead of butter and spread it on your bread. Drop a bacon medallion on each slice and top with an egg. Add salt and black pepper. Delicious, and only 14 points. I don’t have this every day, just a couple of times a week. Other days I might have porridge at 5 points, or a bowl of mixed fruit at zero points. You see, when I left my wife, I moved away. I actually took a new job that was based in London, moved there, lived there for a couple of years. Eventually, I did internet dating, but that’s a whole new blog. No, it’s this blog and we’ll get there soon enough. I have children. |
| So, it all really started last week on Tuesday 2nd October, the day I went along to my first Weight Watchers meeting and signed up. Hold on a second, no it didn’t. It actually started many years before that. The truth is, it’s taken a considerable amount of dedication and persistence to reach this point of plumpness, or pinnacle of paunchiness. In fact, it’s one of the great successes of my life, this astonishing achievement of stoutness. Well done, me! I’m a failure. So, it all really started in the mid 1990s when two things occurred to change the path of my life and its future outcome. Firstly, I discovered that something was missing in my relationship with my wife. It was love. You can take a lot of things out of a marriage and it will persist and survive. It might even be better for the absence of inconsideration, selfishness, secrets, pets, but it kind of benefits greatly from a sprinkling of love dust. Secondly, I discovered Stella Artois, a Belgium pilsner lager that at the time was advertised as, “Reassuringly Expensive,” and goodness knows I needed reassurance at any price. It also had the short-term effect of dissipating the feelings I had, or didn’t had, or have. It was a love lacking liquid and it was lidicious. Hic. WAIT! Let’s get down to the nitty gritty before I lose you. My start weight last week was 20st 6lbs (286lbs US, 130kg EU). Terrible if I were like, 5’ 6’’, but I am at least quite tall at 6’ 3’’. Bad enough though. At this week’s weigh-in I had lost 4lbs. I'm a loser, that's a good start for a failure. |
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