Bitter and twisted

I'm not as young as I used to be. But then again, who is?

I'm getting more reminders of my advancing years. Some of them are quite obvious. I find it impossible to get out of a chair without making involuntary noises, for instance. My casual wardrobe appears to have rather too much beige in it for my liking.

Come to think of it, I have something I refer to as a 'casual wardrobe'. God, I'm old.

But the key thing that tells me I'm getting old is that I can't do the things I used to do. Which is a little worrying, to be honest, because the list of things I used to do wouldn't have needed much paper in the first place.

I was reminded about this a few weeks ago, when two friends and I made the fatal error of having a drink or two at lunchtime. I know. It's hardly Touching the Void, is it? You have your personal challenges, I have mine.

I remember when things were different. I've never been what you would call a heavy drinker. No, really. And it's not something I claim as a badge of honour. But I at least used to be able to function after a pint or two in the middle of the day.

The day started out with promise. Chris, Mike and I had a fun day ahead of us. A tour of a local brewery in Birmingham's Jewellery Quarter was the centrepiece, and perhaps the alarm bells should have been ringing at this point. Our train had got us there a little early,so what did we do to kill time?

"Oh, this is a good pub," I said, indicating The Lord Clifden. "Perhaps we can nip in here for a quick pint."

So we did. For we are men, and this is what we do. The 'quick pint ' is one of mankind's greatest inventions. In that 20 minutes and 568 millilitres, the issues of the day can be discussed and resolved by right-minded men. There was even some football on the TV at the time. I believe Everton United were playing Tottenham City, or something like that.

Suitably refreshed, and having made some pertinent points about Everton's command of the midfield, we made our way to the brewery. I've done brewery tours before. You're guided around large vats and pipes, interesting substances bubbling away and creating magic. Your worthy guide talks you through the process and at the end you get a small sample of the result of this alchemy.

This was not the case at Two Towers Brewery. With all visitors accounted for, the head brewer started the tour off with: "Right then. Who's for a pint?" There were no widdly little sample glasses here.

Pints in hand, we listened as he gave a brief history of the brewery and outlined the different beers produced. This took about 30 minutes or so. And at the end, he looked at us once more and asked this question.

"Right then. Who's for another pint?"

Chris looked at Mike. Mike looked at me. I looked at Chris and Mike. It would have been rude not to take the gentleman up on his offer. So we did.

Then he walked us around the brewery where we did the fore-mentioned vat-and-pipe experience. We got to smell hops. (Here's a hint. Hops generally smell disgusting.) And at the end, he asked the assembled crowd another question.

"Right then. Anyone fancy a pint?"

I was beginning to hyperventilate. Chris was breathing from memory. Mike's eyes were moving independently of each other. But there was a man offering us beer. So we had to partake.

The tour over, we made our way back up Great Hampton Street. We weren't by any means roaring drunk, although clearly operating heavy machinery was well beyond us by this point. But we were certainly feeling the effects of mid-day drinking.

"I used to think nothing of this when I was younger," I said to the others as we we lolloped along. "But I just want to have a lie down now."

"Food," said Chris, as if just the word alone would make sense. Mike nodded his agreement. Yes. Food. That might help.

So we went back into the pub we'd visited earlier. Clearly our critical reasoning had taken a bit of a hit. But we settled for Pepsi to go with our deep-fried lifesavers. I never thought I'd feel quite so horrified at the thought of another beer. But I was.

On the train home, Chris stayed quiet. Mike closed his eyes and contacted the mothership. Each of us reflected on the cruelty of ageing. Time was when we were alehouse athletes, beer drinkers and hellraisers. Now all we wanted after a few mid-day pints was a lie down. How the mighty had fallen.

We each retired to the safety of our own homes. I'm not ashamed to admit that I had a nap. I think I might have put some slippers on. They weren't beige, so that was a good sign.

That night, Chris, Mike and I met once more for a curry. The waiter asked if we wanted drinks. I looked at Mike. Mike looked at Chris. Chris looked at the waiter. "Three pints of Cobra, please."

It's amazing what a nap can do.

The perils of not being arsed

This is the post where I make out that this blog - which is essentially a bunch of ones and zeroes sitting on a Google server somewhere - is a physical place. "Blimey," I'll say out loud, to no-one in particular, "it's been a bit quiet in here lately, hasn't it?"

What I actually mean is that the afore-mentioned zeroes and ones haven't really been added to for some time. I've been lazy. It's been remiss of me. Mea culpa. I have no excuses.

I can't blame my medical condition. The operation has largely been a success, and I no longer make a noise like Brian Blessed gargling with lentils while I attempt to sleep. In any case, it would be really crappy to claim that a hurty throat and wonky nose were somehow stopping me from writing. We've seen novels written by bed-bound patients who could only blink, for goodness sake.

My inability to eat crisps for three weeks hardly compares.

No, my silence has been caused by another affliction. Not Being Arsed.

For the Americans amongst you, I should explain. You're probably used to the word 'arse' being our equivalent to 'ass' and are worrying about whether 'being arsed' is something to be mentioned on a blog that is, nominally at least, safe for work. But the whole 'being arsed' thing is a peculiarly British version of ennui. It's low-level demotivation. I shall explain with an example.

"Wayne, fancy coming down the pub tonight?"

"You know what, Shane? I think I'll stay in. I really can't be arsed."

It's quite tricky. You come home from work, do the chores that you need to be performed, and then all you want is to stare into the middle distance. You don't want to attempt anything else. You just can't be arsed, quite frankly. Just stare aimlessly. I'm good at this. Don't try to challenge me. I can stare into the middle distance with the best of them.

Please don't ask me to do anything that requires any thought or dedication. I've got some staring to do.

And so Monday turns into Tuesday turns into Wednesday. Weeks pass. You stop staring for a moment and realise that you haven't written anything in ages. Meh. Can't be arsed. I've got my stare on.

But then I realised that I couldn't claim to be a writer if I didn't actually write. It would like trying to be a baker if you didn't bake. Or a butcher that didn't butch.

So I'm going to try to do something a little more productive than middle-distance staring. I'm going to try to be arsed, once in a while.

Make of that what you will.

Gender confusion

Picture the scene. It is a Sunday lunchtime in a perfectly agreeable pub. We are gathered there to celebrate a milestone birthday for Brother number 1. Several generations are there. The menu is full of options and the beer choices are multiple.

Katie is in driving duty. It is the best of all outcomes.

My sister-in-law is pregnant, very pregnant. She pulls Katie and me to one side as we arrive.

"My mom and dad are due in a few minutes," she says. "The only thing is, they don't yet know the sex of the baby. They chose not to know."

Pretty much everyone else around the table knows the gender of her baby. We've known this for ages. We've talked about it at length, discussing name choices, nursery decorating options, the full nine yards.

To be honest, it's got to the point where we don't even think it newsworthy.

But here's the thing. Once someone tells you not to mention something, it is impossible to do so. Or at least, colossally difficult.

There then followed a really anxious hour or so. I felt like I was parsing everything to myself before saying it. Mere small talk was a potential minefield. Could my choice of condiments possibly give away the gender of my nephew/niece to be?

No, I tell myself. Don't be ridiculous. But then I have a vision of me blurting it out somehow. A table-load of faces looks at me with disappointment. To be honest, I'm not surprised. I snap myself out of my reverie and attack the roast beef, hoping that doesn't somehow indicate the sex of a foetus in some cultures.

We managed to get to the end of the meal without divulging any secrets, but it was tough.

This* is why I never joined the Army. I'd be terrible under torture.

Postscript: my nephew was actually born less than a week after this meal. I don't need to watch what I say anymore. Which is just as well.


*(Yeah, because that's the only reason.)

Talkin' 'bout my operation

Well, this has been a fascinating seven days. It started off last Monday with an overnight stay at one of Birmingham's most exclusive addresses. While the room was nice and the food seemed OK, I don't think I'll be mentioning them on TripAdvisor. Not after one of their employees came at me with a sharpened instrument.

Things started to look a little iffy when we showed up at the wrong hospital. There are two BMI hospitals in Edgbaston and I assumed I'd be having the operation at the same one where my consultation took place in December. That would have been sensible. It's why I hadn't properly checked the details beforehand. The receptionist said: "You're at the wrong place," with a weary sigh and handed out a pre-printed map to the correct one. All of this in a manner which suggested this happened to her several times a day.

None of this was doing my prevailing anxiety any favours. We found the right place, parked up and were shown to my room. They asked me what I wanted to order for my evening meal. Forms were bandied about with gusto. Then the blood pressure test started.

I mentioned I was a little anxious, didn't I? I get even more stressed out when someone puts a cuff on my arm and inflates it. How does a blood pressure reading of 220/170 sound? I'm no expert, but apparently that's a little on the high side, unless you're a Komodo dragon.

I am not a Komodo dragon.

After a degree of humming and hahhing they said they'd try again later. In the meantime I changed into the theatre gown and glamorous DVT stockings. Katie gave me a look which suggested she'd probably never found me more attractive than that moment in time.

The grumpy resident doctor - a Russian who was having no truck with the whole concept of bedside manner - came back to check my blood pressure several times. It seemed as if he took the steadfast refusal of my figures to reduce as some sort of slur on his professional standard. "This is just anxiety," he said. "In my country they would have let me give you diuretic. But here..." he sighed and let the rest of the sentence go.

After a while a terribly nice chap took me on the bed. That sounds wrong but I'm not changing it. The anaesthetist inserted a cannula in my hand, flicked a switch and asked me to count to ten. I don't remember anything after five.

Waking up in the recovery room, people fussed around me and my surgeon gave me a grin and the thumbs up. Which was nice, but someone appeared to have put a sofa up each nostril, plus my throat appeared to have been sandpapered from the inside. I was hooked up to a drip and an oxygen mask, which seemed to be bit overly dramatic, but I thought I should let them get on with it. They wheeled me back to my room, where Katie was waiting, checking through the dinner menu.

After an hour of real discomfort they removed the bolsters from my nose. This (a) made it possible for me to breathe through it properly, and (b) was quite possibly the grossest thing I have ever seen. After some touching moments where we probably called each other rude names, Katie went home and I settled in for the night. Doctor Soviet came back in and was pleased with my 130/70 reading. I laid awake, read and pressed a button every couple of hours to summon lovely, angelic nurses. With liquid morphine.

Katie was a little put out the following morning when we had the discussion with my surgeon about post-op care. "It used to be the case that tonsillectomy patients went for ice-cream and jelly," he said. "But that's not the current advice. Eat normal food - a little scratchiness helps, actually, as it helps to keep the area clean."

As we walked out, Katie reflected: "I've gone and bought the European soup mountain. Now what?"

"Wouldn't it be more accurate to refer to it as a soup lake?"

I got a look for that.

I've been housebound now for seven days, taking painkillers on a two-hourly basis when awake. Nothing too drastic - a bit of codeine and several other over-the-counter ones. They're not 100% effective and at times eating has been painful. Really, tears-in-the-eyes, banging-your-foot painful. Maybe it'll help me reconsider my relationship with food. After all, when you've been hurt by a cottage pie you tend to revise your opinions.

But the other night Katie took a call from her aunt, who was asking after me. Her aunt is in her 70s and is currently undergoing treatment for cancer, meaning she has to drive to a hospital 20 minutes away several times a week for chemo. And she was asking how I was.

I feel such a fraud.

The delightful gentleman

It's official. I'm a 'delightful gentleman'. Well, that's what this letter I've got from the surgeon says. He's written to my GP, thanking him for referring me, a 'delightful gentleman', to him. I don't normally get reviews like that - the best I've had to date is 'prompt and efficient payer' on eBay.

I don't mix with surgeons, as a rule. But I've got this problem, you see. I've mentioned it before, in fact. I appear to be having problems with breathing and sleeping. I can't do both of them at the same time, for starters. Over the last couple of years I've had my various tubes - well, the airways anyway - prodded and poked by the best in the Midlands. I've spent the night dressed as a Poundland Darth Vader. All to no avail.

So just before Christmas I went to see a surgeon. He actually has a title with rather too many syllables in it, but basically he's a chap who knows his onions. And when someone with all those syllables inserts a camera and says: "Ah ha - I think I see the problem," then I'm going to listen.

As a result, I'm shortly going into hospital for an operation. Well, two operations, actually. Something called a septoplasty, then a tonsillectomy. The septoplasty is designed to sort out my comedy nose. Sadly, as it's an internal op, I don't get to choose a new nose, which is a shame as I quite liked the Adrien Brody look. Never mind. And the surgeon recommended whipping out my tonsils at the same time as (a) it might improve my breathing and (b) there's a two-for-one offer on in January.

By the way, when you're due an operation, do not, under any circumstances, look it up on Google. Or, for that matter, on Youtube. It tends to give you pause for thought, that's all I'm saying.

So I'm a bit nervous. In fact, to use the vernacular, I'm ever-so-slightly bricking it. It's not the operation so much. I'm not that worried about someone coming at my face with a sharp implement; I've drunk in enough Birmingham pubs, so I'm used to that. It's the general anaesthetic that's causing me concern. What if it doesn't go to plan? Although I will admit that there would be a delicious irony in that happening, given that I'm going through all this so I can sleep better.

But here's the thing. I'm sick and tired. Literally. I want to start sleeping again. I want to get on better with the people around me, not being distant and grumpy with friends, family and colleagues. I want to be better at doing the job that I enjoy, not falling asleep in meetings and feeling unwilling to do more.And I want to be able to spend the whole night in bed with my wife, not having one of us creep off to try and snooze fitfully on a sofa somewhere.

I don't want superpowers. I just want to do what everyone else does. When people say they've had a good night's sleep, I always think, "show-off." So that's why, on Monday afternoon, I'll be having this done to me. Hopefully I can be a delightful gentleman once more.

Random musings 2013

The year is six days old. Colour me tardy.

Each year since 2008 I've done this. It's become an annual tradition. Which is what you expect from something that you do each year. There's a clue, right there.

It's very simple - just pick up your iPod (or similar), put it on shuffle, write about the weirdness that ensues. This is what it looked like last year. And you can do the same too - just write about it in the comments. And you're not allowed to skip over the dodgy things in your music collection.

Right then. Hold onto your pants. This might not be pretty:

1: Dream Theater - Scenes From a Dream Act II, Scene 9 - Finally Free

Oh dear. I've spent a lot of the last few weeks trying to convince the new chap at work that I don't just listen to prog rock, and now this happens. In fairness, Dream Theater aren't prog rock. They're prog metal, managing in one fell swoop to combine the two least fashionable genres in music. It's a concept album about a man who re-imagines himself as the victim as a historic murder case. Or something. To be honest, I'm not sure. There are lots of widdly guitar solos and ludicrous lyrics. Quite frankly, this is not helping.

2: Paul Weller - Sunflower

This is from his Wildwood album, which I think I love more than is entirely healthy. Ah, the memories. Driving around with this on at full blast. An afternoon in the Clent Hills with SheWhoMustBeObeyed, pre-marriage, before we'd moved in together, when a sudden rainstorm meant we had to take cover in the car. Ahem.

3: Sigur Ros - Viorar Vel Til Loftarasa

Silence. Then industrial noise and feedback, which gradually fades. Guitars and piano come into the foreground, playing a mournful refrain. The bass provides a counterpoint. Ethereal strings act as a celestial choir. The drums enter gently about four minutes in. You look at the screen and realise there are still six minutes to go. An echoing voice starts, enunciating in a hybrid of Icelandic and elvish. Not one to choose for your ringtone, then.

4: The Proclaimers - Let's Get Married

I didn't 'get' The Proclaimers when they first came out. Then I heard one of their songs (Sunshine on Leith) and had to have one of my brisk walks around the block. ("No, I'm fine, it's just something in my eye.") I got their Greatest Hits, found it to be choc-a-block with close harmonies, challenging pronunciation and cracking tunes, like this one. It's really rather ace and includes lines like, "You can get a cat, just as long as it barks."

5: Scott Matthews - City Headache

He's a singer/songwriter in the folk/indie vein. Now, I know what you're thinking, but you're safe from any Ed Sheeranisms. He's from Wolverhampton, so practically up the road from me. This is from his first album, Passing Strangers. Which you are going to buy. Look into my eyes. Try if you can to ignore the Dream Theater earlier on - I can be trusted sometimes.

Right. Now it's your turn. Five random tracks, no skipping, put them in the comments.

Retail armageddon

In the 1968 film Coogan's Bluff, Clint Eastwood played a young deputy sheriff sent to New York from the wilds of Arizona. There's a scene where he's in a New York taxi cab. As he goes to pay the driver, he asks: "How many stores named Bloomingdales are there in this town?"

"One," says the driver.

"We passed it twice."

I was reminded of this exchange earlier today when Katie and I were shopping in The Largest Tesco in the Western Hemisphere, given that we'd passed the olive oil section for a second time and appeared to be going nowhere.

I'm here to tell you - as if you needed to be told - that doing a food shop two days before Christmas is right up there with 'putting your head in a lion's mouth' on the list of stupid things to do.

There is a list. I've checked it. Twice.

We knew that this was going to be a bad idea, but had no choice. So this morning found us in a car park the size of Hampshire, fixing the shopping trolleys with a thousand-yard-stare. And so it began.

Due to the unique way our Sunday trading laws are framed, we weren't allowed to buy anything until 11.00am. However, the good people of Tesco were more than happy to let us, and several thousand others, into their store an hour early for browsing purposes. As long as no money changed hands for that first 60 minutes, no-one would be breaking the law and God would be happy.

So far, so good. But the rising panic was palpable. People were contemplating the festive season. People were thinking about what drink to get in for Auntie Doris. People were fretting at the thought of the shops being closed for two days. There was a wall of humanity, armed with debit cards. It wasn't pretty.

I was on trolley duty. Katie had made a list. Unfortunately, this was a list written with a completely different supermarket layout in mind, so her carefully-planned order was knocked for six. At one point we were randomly throwing things into the trolley, completely swept away in the moment.

"Take the trolley into the next aisle," she said, "and wait for me. It'll be quieter there."

The next aisle happened to be the one with the fresh turkeys. Let me remind you, dear reader. It was two days to Christmas. I was an innocent man in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was like a tank battle, but less pleasant.

Katie came around the corner, packets of random carbohydrate in hand, and surveyed the scene. "Oh for God's sake. Move into the next aisle then."

I meekly wheeled into World Foods and regarded the fenugreek leaves. It seemed to be the only thing to do.

She caught up with me and deposited the ingredients of a tiramisu. "Right then," she fixed her jaw grimly. "Booze."

The beer and wine section at Yardley Tesco is renowned. It is spoken about in hushed terms by drinking men and women the world over. It would put George Orwell off his breakfast. If he were still alive. And, for that matter, sitting down for breakfast. Visiting it on Christmas Eve Eve is akin to juggling with live dynamite. We fought our way through the masses of wine-seekers and beer-hunters. The chap with the trolley in front of us had two bottles of Baileys, one Jagermeister and one Midori. That's what they make cocktails from in Hades, I reckon.

This wasn't a shopping expedition, it was survival.We eventually emerged, blinking into the daylight like Chilean miners. "Never again," we mouthed in unison as we joined the end of a queue. A queue to leave.

Next year I'm doing this online, even if I have to book a delivery slot in October. It's the only way.