Guts

I’m up north. Grimstone. Bleakley. Hades-on-Sea. Whichever you prefer.

I’m here to take care of my grandmother. She’s got diverticulitis, which apparently is inflammation of the diverticulum, which apparently is an abnormal sac or pouch formed at a weak point in the wall of the alimentary tract. Twisted guts to you.

She went to the doctor last week. On the way to the doctor, she twisted her ankle and fell in the street, scraping her knee and cutting her hand. No one helped her up. As she was righting herself, a police car pulled up. They were looking for an elderly woman who matched my grandmother’s description. What for, I cannot say. My grandmother said she wasn’t the one they were looking for. Eventually the policeman questioning her noticed that her hand was bleeding. ‘Are you alright?’ he said.

‘No,’ my grandmother answered.

So they gave her a lift to the doctor where she was eventually prescribed an antibiotic called doxycycline. Unfortunately, some of the side effects of doxycycline are nausea, abdominal pains and vomiting. So my grandmother went to the doctor with pain; one day later she had pain and puking. She stopped taking the antibiotics.

I got here on Saturday afternoon, and she wasn’t very well at all. She looked awful in fact. And her voice was half a shadow.

I guess the only thing potentially worse than watching an old person in pain is watching a young person in pain. But then I don’t know. At least with a young person, you’re pretty sure that whatever it is, they’re probably going to get better.

I had a horrible thought the other day. It was wholly knee-jerk, but that doesn’t make it any easier to live with. It was when I heard my grandmother was ill, and it was, ‘Oh, well, if she dies, at least I won’t have to pay her back the money I owe her.’ That’s a pretty horrible thought, I’m sure you’ll agree. And believe me, I’m not proud of it. And I don’t want her to die. On the contrary, I want her to get better, and to feel great and to live long enough for me to be able to buy her a house nearer to other people who care for her. But realistically, that might mean both of us living into our two-hundreds. But if that’s what it takes, that’s what I want.

Christ, existence is horrific at times, isn’t it? Isn’t it though?

Having said that, she feels better today. I scrambled her an egg this morning and put it on a piece of toast, and thus far she’s managed to keep it down. Also, she’s doing the Daily Mail crossword (I know, I know, but what can you do?) and we’re listening to Smooth Radio Northeast (I know, I know – they even have something called ‘Smooth Unplugged’ – imagine that if you can). Also, she said she doesn’t know what she would have done if I hadn’t come up for the weekend. She’d have walked backwards and forwards, she said, from the bedroom to the kitchen, making tea and being sick.

So it’s good that I’m here. Not so good that I have to leave on Monday and leave her on her own to shuffle back and forth making tea and being sick.

But she’s going back to the doctor on Tuesday. Plus she’ll have other visitors next weekend. Plus she reckons she’s getting better. She says time is a great healer and all things must pass. She said she’ll either get better or it’ll turn into something nasty, and there’s no point worrying about that. At which point I went into the kitchen and felt quite, quite miserable.

Life is fucking unbearable. No, not life. Death. But there’s no point worrying about that.

We've just started to watch Little Miss Sunshine. I brought it with me. It was the only remotely grandmother-friendly film I own. I forgot about Alan Arkin's character taking coke in the opening montage. Grandmother made a noise. 'Oh, it's not one of them junkie films, is it?' she said. If she's not careful, I'll make her watch Bad Lieutenant.

Scanmongering Monday :: Fearful & Aggressive

Towards the end of last year, I discovered I had relatives that I'd never known about. This was wonderful news. Now one of them has died. This is not so wonderful. Furthermore, it's going to have wide-reaching, life-changing repercussions, the most obvious of which is that it looks like I'll be leaving London. Soon. In fact, I've already left London - but only for this week. I'm up north for a funeral. I'll be back at the end of the week, and then - because my landlord is a heartless, grasping devil who is making me want to scream and smash things - I'll have a couple of days to clear everything out of my house and flee.

Strange - and it has to be said, pretty fucking horrible - times.

But it could be worse. It could be my funeral this afternoon. That would be worse. And I do, in general, have my health. So. Life goes on. And with that in mind, here's this week's Bookscan. Name the book and claim the prize. Actually there's no prize this week. Just name the book.

Christmas Present :: Bye, Humbug!

If I knew then what I know now, I’m not sure it would have made much difference, but it would have made some, and that would have been the difference between feeling ashamed and self-pitiful, and feeling self-pitiful and somehow immune. But I didn’t know then what I know now. All I knew then was that Christmas was a time that other people seemed to love but that I really hated.



Humbug.

I hated Christmas because my parents would use it as an excuse to drink themselves into oblivion.

I hated Christmas because I had to go to midnight mass and pretend that I believed in the concepts which I invariably heard expressed there, concepts such as love, acceptance, forgiveness, peace and compassion. Concepts such as God and the family. I hated church. I hated church because my parents would also be pretending, and they would put on a show for the people they knew at church, the people they called friends, and then when we got home they would revert to the scowling, cursing, ruthless vulgarians that deep inside they truly were.

I hated Christmas because I was a child like any other and I wanted Sonic the Hedgehog and a PC and I wanted videos, hundreds and hundreds of videos, but unfortunately Christmas gifts that were anything other than absolutely necessary were in our house deemed frivolous and irrelevant. One year I received a new school blazer. Another year I received a new carpet for my bedroom. Sometimes however, if I was lucky and my parents were feeling particularly festive, one of them would bung twenty quid in an envelope. We never had a tree.

I hated Christmas because I had to stay at home for most of it and pretend.

I hated Christmas because the only bit of Christmas I loved was spending time round Keith’s house. This caused a real schism within me. On the one hand, it was wonderful to be given the opportunity to be able to understand what Christmas was all about and to see why other people enjoyed it so much; on the other hand, it brought home everything that was lacking in my own family. On the whole though, I cherished the time I spent at Keith’s house, or – as I came to know it – The Great Escape.



And then I escaped for good, and was miserable to discover that I had begun to hate Christmas for new reasons.

Primarily, I hated it because I was scarred, and because hating it had become a habit.

As an adult, I spent quite a few Christmases alone, despite protests from people who knew me – to some people there is no greater crime against nature than spending Christmas alone. For the most part I never minded those Christmases though. I’d tell myself I was going to write, then I’d watch six films back to back instead. It was fun, but yeah, kind of sad fun. One Christmas I had a tin of meatballs for Christmas lunch. That was quite sad actually. I remember feeling rather unhappy at that point.

Then last year there was change and I had excellent fun. Christmas with kids is a a whole new kettle of fish and I hope to spend many more Christmases in future with children. Inshallah. Last Christmas seems like a long time ago now, and indeed it was. It was almost a year. It marked the beginning though, of a turning point.

This year promises to be even better, and this is the first time I can actually remember actively looking forward to Christmas.

This feels like the first Christmas of the rest of my life.

I can’t wait. I'm going to go mental this year.

The particularly great thing about this Christmas is that I already have everything I could possibly want, so everything else is a bonus.

Awww.



And what about you? What do you want for Christmas?

Whatever it is, I really hope you get it.

Feedback Friday :: Turning Point

bulk :: 15st 9
gym visits :: 2
haircuts :: 1
accusations of misogyny :: 4
misogynistic episodes :: 0
misanthropic episodes :: 12
turning points :: 1

It strikes me as kind of funny how I’m always so keen to seize on certain moments in my life and declare them ‘turning points’ or ‘fresh starts’. It seems I’m desperate to imbue quotidian events and decisions with special significance, perhaps in order to convince myself that I’m actually making some definite progress in life. It strikes me as kind of sad too. But I guess it’s normal. Anyway, here we go again.

I’ve reached a turning point. With this blog. With this life.

A few things have happened recently which have probably affected me more than I was prepared to admit, or more than I even realised. One was the end of my relationship with Morag, and the way I dealt with that. (Badly.) One was the reunion with my newly meek, practically lobotomised father and the fairly fundamental news about my life he finally elected to share. (What is it with people and their inability to communicate?) And one was the arrival of ‘the stalker’. (Shudder.)

Speaking of whom, it was only last week that I realised the full extent of the stalker’s derangement. I reread the comments that they’ve been leaving, and continue to leave, and I realised that there were messages hidden in them. I started to get scared for the first time when I realised there were references to books I’ve read recently. It sent a shiver down my spine. They must have been following me – In Real Life – seen me out and about with my nose in a book. Then I remembered that I’d actually blogged about the books I’d been reading, so probably they’d just been reading the blog. Phew. But then I’ve also blogged about where I live, more or less, and I don’t want to start getting paranoid, but… well, I’ve started getting paranoid.

Added to which, a few people have accused me of changing recently, and not for the better. Thing is, on the whole, I tend to agree. I think I have changed a bit recently. And not for the better. Therefore, before they go too far, things have got to change.

First and foremost, this blog has got to change.

No more deeply personal stuff. From now on I’m going to concentrate solely on life’s trifles. Everyday fancies. Crab sticks and horsefeathers. This blog, I finally realise, is supposed to be where I play. Therefore, I need to start enjoying it properly again – I had stopped recently. Also, importantly, I need to draw a line between this blog and my real life. A thick line. In permanent marker pen.

There’s no harm in the occasional real life anecdote of course, but no more of this blow-by-blow analysis and recounting of personal conversations. No more shall the horrible little midgets of my mind be allowed to crawl out onto my keyboard. It’s not fair on anyone.

I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions over the last year, and I admit, sometimes I feel wholly out of my depth.

And recently particularly, I’ve felt like I’m starting to lose control of this blog. It’s like it’s become a microcosm of my life and losing control of it, even to the relatively small extent I have, is a reflection of a wider-ranging trend.

I need therefore, to wrest back control. Also – for God’s sake, listen to me – me, me, me – what I really need to do is step away from myself a little, create a little distance and engage with the rest of the world, because at the moment I am in grave danger of disappearing up my own arse. And nobody wants that.

So, there we are. I probably won’t be blogging as much as I have in the past, but I hope to be a lot more professional about it.

We’ll see.

Fine words butter no parsnips.

Oh, and with reference to Courgettegate, I didn’t really say, ‘I’ve got a woody’. I was just playing. Jesus. What do you think I am?

Don’t answer that. Answer this:

What are you doing this weekend? Anything nice?

Feedback Friday :: Things Change

Being for the period 12th - 25th September…

bulk :: 16st 1
cigarettes smoked :: 0
alcohol taken :: 6 bottles of wine
gym visits :: 7
apples eaten :: 23
bananas eaten :: 12
kilos of spinach eaten :: 2
biscuits eaten :: 2 packets of chocolate Hob Nobs (oops)
milk drunk :: 10 pints (semi-skimmed)
blogs I want to write :: 1 (This one. I refuse to believe this is really written by the Honey Monster. I want the job. They could pay me in Sugar Puffs.)
emotional maelstroms :: 2

After the Carnival of Shame that was last week, I have some catching up to do with the feedback.

Where to start? Ah, yes, the ladies...

Things have gone awry with Morag and I. We’re still buddies of course. We just don’t fuck anymore. There’ll be more about this on Monday.

I can’t pretend not to be upset about it. Actually I can. I did pretend just the other day. But it’s useless. It’s a tissue. (Bless me.) Transparent as a teenage boy. I am upset about it. I’m upset at how it came about. I’m upset at how easily it could have been different. I’m upset at what’s going to happen next. Because it’s screamingly obvious.

Anyway, Monday, Monday. Morag Monday.

Unfortunately, there is more. Upheaval, that is. I mean, I know that change is what life is all about, but I really wouldn’t mind a bit of stability for once; a bit of constancy. Emotional constancy if nothing else.

But anyway. Last weekend. It wasn’t all self-pity and kitten-play. I also went to visit my dad for the first time in a very long time. And it was weird. It was very weird. Mostly it was weird because it was like meeting a different man. He is - as they say - a shadow of his former self. This however, is a good thing. He is not the man he used to be and thank fuck for that because the man he used to be was an utter shit.

There is, unsurprisingly, a great deal to be said about the whole business, not least because my father told me things that I never knew, things which if they are true, change everything and must be acted upon. But before I write about it here I must go over the whole thing myself – my childhood, my parents, the faults they filled me up with, the screens they had me build (I mentioned I’m reading Families and How to Survive Them; it’s helping me to understand). Plus I have to figure out what I think about the new information.

I’m all at sixes and sevens to be honest. (What a peculiar expression that is. I like it.)

Everything else seems kind of trivial by comparison. I’m still going to the gym, still eating a lot of fruit and vegetables (mostly spinach), still giving in to the occasional Hob Nob binge, still drinking too much wine. My weight is still inching in the right direction, but some of the fat is slowly being replaced by muscle, which is nice and appeals to my (perhaps surprisingly acute) sense of vanity.

Speaking of spinach, spinach is my new thing. What I tend to do is this: I empty a 250g packet of the stuff into a massive pan and then I pour boiling water over it. It’s done in about a minute. Maybe less. Then I get rid of as much of the water as I can and I pour the mushrooms I’ve been frying in olive oil and chilli all over the spinach. Then, if I’m feeling particularly deserving, I sprinkle some grated cheese over the top. It’s damn good, I tell you.

This is my life.

In other news, my piles are petering out. The pain has stopped completely, which is a godsend, but there is still occasionally quite a lot of blood. Sometimes it’s a shock to look down into the bowl after what has been an ostensibly smooth movement and observe what looks like the aftermath of a particularly grisly murder. Sometimes I can see the blood dripping slowly from my back door, splashing into the mess beneath. Sometimes I think it would be best not to talk about these things in public, but then I think, if people didn’t talk about these things, we’d still be living in the Dark Ages. Sometimes I think we are still living in the Dark Ages. Sometimes I think I think too much. Sometimes I don’t.

Speaking of medical matters, the stomach pain stopped on 7th September. No reason that I can think of. It was really bad on the Saturday and then it stopped. So I didn’t go back to the doctor. I didn’t want to tempt fate.

What else?

Nothing else.

Time to get on. Things to do.

Have a great weekend. What are you doing by the way? Anything interesting?

Feedback Friday :: Mamma Mia, Pappa Mia

bulk :: 16st 1
cigarettes smoked :: 0
joints smoked:: 0
swims swum:: 2 (hurrah for me!)
units of alcohol imbibed:: 15ish
chiropractic visits :: 0
sexy adventures :: 1 (hurrah for me!)

So Keith and I went to see Mamma Mia last night.

Don’t ask.

I’ll tell you anyway.

He’d booked tickets for him and whatsername, because whatsername wanted to see it, but at the last minute whatsername couldn’t go. So I got a booty call. Well, not exactly, but you know what I mean.

And I’d just like to say I have never ever seen a film quite as bad as that. Diabolical script, diabolical acting, diabolical singing, diabolical direction. A truly, astonishingly bad film.

Watching it, I just couldn’t understand what on earth any of the people involved thought they were up to. Outside of making money of course.

The worst thing about it was that it was horribly, sickeningly unfunny. According to a Channel 4 review however, the film is full of ‘endearing and hilariously funny’ moments, wherein ‘crucially, you're always laughing with the cast rather than at them’. I had entirely the opposite sensation. The only time I laughed was when the characters started to sing, or when the elderly female characters seemed for no reason whatsoever to paw at their vaginas in the middle of a song, or when Mr Darcy turned into a big gay in the final scene, with his shirt off and everything.

I love Abba. And this film was a fucking disgrace.

Somehow though, on some weird masochistic level, I kind of quite enjoyed it.

I have two more things to say about this film.

The first is that it brought to a head a decision that’s been fermenting in my head for a few weeks now. That decision is that I’m going to go and see my dad. I haven’t seen him for years, six or seven years I think, and the fact that this film – one of the worst ever made – was instrumental in bringing me to my decision is perhaps a little bit wrong. Actually ‘instrumental’ is probably laying it on a bit thick. But when that utterly gorgeous, empty-headed girl said, ‘I just want a Dad’, or something equally asinine, I found myself thinking, ‘Me too actually. Why not.’ So I’m going to start some investigations. Maybe I’ll track him down, we’ll have a plaintive and tearful reunion and I’ll realise that a father’s love was all I ever needed. And everything will be alright. Or maybe I’ll pummel his miserable face for him. Oh, I say.

The other thing I have to say is this: the Lucas Moodysson Tillsammans, or Together, is as good as Mamma Mia is bad. It also features the odd Abba song, which is what made me think of it. If you haven’t seen it, you really must.

In other news, thanks for your thoughts yesterday. Some of you were close. Not man-whores, no. But a lady. I shall give you a blow-by-blow account next week. Now I must go and relive it.

In the meantime, have a great weekend.