Am not anti America, by the way.
I just find this kind of tailored, overtly obvious, ultra macho TV dirge fest for the lacking in attention span dumb masses, an exceptionally stupid, hilarious and turgid affair, all at once. Here are some pointers as to why....
When I turn the TV on for the first time in a day, because the ancient set top box constantly wants to update, it goes straight to the last channel I watched, before spending 7 minutes failing to update. Hence, the above caveat excuses my, around 11 AM yesterday, finding myself confronted with a programme which wasn't, but may as well have been called " loud macho American men look for treasure in a far off exotic location where machismo matters". Because that is the premise which underpins Caribbean Treasure Hunters.
The obviousness and repetition of key facts is all encompassing. Its so obvious and repetitious that the obviousness and repetition of key facts is all encompassing. Its rigorously edited to make otherwise meaningless, but lets not forget, macho, statements, stand out, by repeating them in different contexts, lest its target audience of goldfish should perhaps be distracted by a shiny object or human being and fail to grasp the macho obviousness laid before them on a huge, shiny, loud, macho, salver.
Whilst diving in shark infested waters (alas no boiling geysers could be located in the Caribbean) they miked up the two macho divers. Prior to this breathlessly brave exploration they had forcefully laid out their intentions to each other, with both nodding vigorously and in a macho style, as if their craniums detatching fully and falling off was all part of the expected landscape of macho treasure finding. For men.
Diving in the suspected location, Macho chap A says "Oh my Gawd, I think I see an AAANCHORRR!". Macho chap B responds "Oh my gawd! What is that?!!!". McA "It looks just like a rilly hyuge Aaanchorrr" McB "Oh my Goodnesssss, its a rilly hyuge Aaanchorr!. Returning to the surface, MC's A and B go straight to their shipmate colleagues who ask "Hey, did yer fine anything worth seeing? Like a hyuge aaanchurrr?" They respond, in a surprising development for those of us who have yet to cotton on to the key fact in this segment "Yurherrr, it was a rilly hyuge aaanchorrr!!!!". So thats an anchor then. A large one. Just to clarify.
There are also repeated phrases about the key fact (the anchors were allegedly dropped by cappun Jim Bob where he dropped his treasure in the 1800s) such as another Macho but marginally more learned chap saying "there doesn't appear to be a cross section at the top, theres a section where it would have gone in to the metal frame but it was made of wood and having been in the sea 200 years will have rotted away." This phrase is repeated twice more during the same dive, then shown as part of a recap two lengthy minutes later, in case the water headed babies watching had forgotten the key fact, and also segued in as part of an early episode prelude as to what would happen in part 2, only ten minutes into the show. Thank Goodness! exclaim Billy Steve and Ringboab, at least we now know the material and potential aqual degradation of the top part of the anchors they are trying to locate! Thank goodness indeed.....
Then there is the deception aspect - the four huge muscly guys set up camp with an older wiser individual who advises them of the poisonous lizards ten feet long, and eye munching tarantulas native to the island. The very biggest guy, his accumulated weight obviously identifying him as the hardest and most fearless of the assembled freak show, pretends to be terrified and runs back to the boat crying. You see? His gargantuan mass does not protect him against his arachnophobia!! He's just like you and I! And yet he will still wake at low light and set off by himself to find the pirate treasure....
When said bounty is unsurprisingly unlocatable, all the assembled meat hills are quick to sound positive about their immense combined failure, even high fiving each other when they return to port to exclaim at how close they had been to an immeasurable underwater fortune just half an hour earlier. If you are macho, failure is fine, especially if there was apparently no expectation of finding anything in the first place. The themes of machismo and deception sit uncomfortably together in a giant man hug til the closing credits.
Am sure if I was a flat earth believing, fundie simpleton with a slack jaw and a clodpate I would find this invigorating exploration of pointless male self congratulation a delight to behold.
Its just that am not.
So I don't.
A big bare chested high five and cavernous guffaw to follow methinks!
Yannis
Showing posts with label Wee Beefy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wee Beefy. Show all posts
Monday, 9 April 2018
Saturday, 23 December 2017
Morning John
Hello,
one of my first full time jobs was for a charity which carried out important work in the field of exams. One would expect the assessment board I worked for to be a Government Department but it was a registered charity who only took on temporary staff by existing staff recommendation, and advertised full time posts at any level with the requirement to have a degree (from 1994 onwards, am guessing this previously did not apply....)
I worked the majority of my periods of employment (since I did not have a degree) at Joiner Street in Sheffield and there were a small number of permanent staff who ran the show all year round, including quiet periods when it wasn't immediately obvious what it was they could have found to do. Although I did once find an answer machine message asking one of them to sort the elastic bands out into size order....
Dan, Christine, Alan, and Wotsit John were those thus tasked. If you are, or worked with and liked anyone there, I will apologise now. Am going to have to be honest about what went on.
Dan was in charge, Mrs Christine as I called her was in charge of office functionality, Alan wore a shiny blue coat, and John was a very thirsty fellow indeed. On my first day I didn't realise Dan was in charge because he was dressed in overalls unlike almost everyone else, but found out he was prior to making any terrible mistakes. Mrs Christine was friendly if a little unsteady, Alan was also friendly if a little over serious and John was paralytic. I initially thought he had a speech impediment. He did. His speech was severely impeded by excessive quantities of alcohol.
Over time I came to realise that Mrs Christine also liked a drop. The first female member of temporary staff of the year was surprised to find a box with bottles of gin in it in the Ladies toilet. Christine's unsteadiness was less obvious to link to frol but her wavering vocal tones belied the truth. Dan probably knew about both but seemed fairly relaxed, until one of the senior managers came down. He said to John, " Now then John can you just nip down to check if everything is alright in the warehouse in the yard please" in a cunning rouse to keep John from putting his foot in it or appearing as in his cups as he actually was. He ignored this request, and on seeing him, the senior manager Roger said "Oh, Morning John" to which John replied "Morning John". I get the feeling Roger also was aware.
Break times were an interesting affair involving interaction between yoot (including I) and the more experienced staff members. George and Howard were good friends of mine, and I tolerated BananaDon, a not yellow phallus shaped dinosaur, and to a far lesser extent, John. John often started his day's tale (oft repeated) with the line " Ehvum er wotshit. I er ad Sheppus pie lasht night". There followed an awkward pause whilst the wise chose to escape, and John tried to reassemble the disparate fragments of his memory to treat us to the next line, before he continued " Ehvum er, minsch beef, taties, massed, gravy...evhum, er...." after which salient facts the candle or his memory was snuffed out by his alcohol stream. He also told us many times about his mate's oven which he had offered to fix, about a fish which was 12 inches long (to his surprise, although there was no conclusion to this anecdote) and his favourite " Ehvum wotsit, a frenjaminesyjz daughter.....".
Alas as a nineteen year old my cup of sympathy did not overrun. I once coined the phrase at seeing someone fail to throw a parcel into a box by miles " What, on a scale of John to ten, was that?" and things got worse the day we discovered his stash.
We were clearing out one of the rooms downstairs, next to the one the band Longpigs used to practice in, and were asked to dismantle some shelving. In his crapulence, Wotsit John had clearly forgotten that his stash, or more likely one of his many stashs, of rum, was kept in the one we were dismantling. Imagine our surprise at finding three bottles of rum, two open, one half empty, with no sign of dust. "What are these doing here John?" we asked, knowingly. "Ehvurrm, er Wotsit um....ave ad a cold". That must have been some virus to require that much alcohol....
Am not proud to say this but we watched where John put his stash and went straight back down, found, and hid it. We then put up signs saying Rum - this way. John was understandably not amused, although neither were the managers (likewise understandably) so the signs, and my mate's hilarious caricature of John wearing a jumper saying Pisht on it in a sea of rum, were removed. Am not proud, but it still makes me laugh. Something Christine didn't do when John rang in sick one day and I asked if he'd had a rum do.
I left to take up a permanent job in 1998 or 99 shortly before all such work was moved to Manchester, but am still in touch with four of the people I worked with. It is still something that comes up in almost every conversation we have. There are many more tales from this place, but I will have to think very carefully about how, and indeed if, I can share them.
Cheers!
Yannis
one of my first full time jobs was for a charity which carried out important work in the field of exams. One would expect the assessment board I worked for to be a Government Department but it was a registered charity who only took on temporary staff by existing staff recommendation, and advertised full time posts at any level with the requirement to have a degree (from 1994 onwards, am guessing this previously did not apply....)
I worked the majority of my periods of employment (since I did not have a degree) at Joiner Street in Sheffield and there were a small number of permanent staff who ran the show all year round, including quiet periods when it wasn't immediately obvious what it was they could have found to do. Although I did once find an answer machine message asking one of them to sort the elastic bands out into size order....
Dan, Christine, Alan, and Wotsit John were those thus tasked. If you are, or worked with and liked anyone there, I will apologise now. Am going to have to be honest about what went on.
Dan was in charge, Mrs Christine as I called her was in charge of office functionality, Alan wore a shiny blue coat, and John was a very thirsty fellow indeed. On my first day I didn't realise Dan was in charge because he was dressed in overalls unlike almost everyone else, but found out he was prior to making any terrible mistakes. Mrs Christine was friendly if a little unsteady, Alan was also friendly if a little over serious and John was paralytic. I initially thought he had a speech impediment. He did. His speech was severely impeded by excessive quantities of alcohol.
Over time I came to realise that Mrs Christine also liked a drop. The first female member of temporary staff of the year was surprised to find a box with bottles of gin in it in the Ladies toilet. Christine's unsteadiness was less obvious to link to frol but her wavering vocal tones belied the truth. Dan probably knew about both but seemed fairly relaxed, until one of the senior managers came down. He said to John, " Now then John can you just nip down to check if everything is alright in the warehouse in the yard please" in a cunning rouse to keep John from putting his foot in it or appearing as in his cups as he actually was. He ignored this request, and on seeing him, the senior manager Roger said "Oh, Morning John" to which John replied "Morning John". I get the feeling Roger also was aware.
Break times were an interesting affair involving interaction between yoot (including I) and the more experienced staff members. George and Howard were good friends of mine, and I tolerated BananaDon, a not yellow phallus shaped dinosaur, and to a far lesser extent, John. John often started his day's tale (oft repeated) with the line " Ehvum er wotshit. I er ad Sheppus pie lasht night". There followed an awkward pause whilst the wise chose to escape, and John tried to reassemble the disparate fragments of his memory to treat us to the next line, before he continued " Ehvum er, minsch beef, taties, massed, gravy...evhum, er...." after which salient facts the candle or his memory was snuffed out by his alcohol stream. He also told us many times about his mate's oven which he had offered to fix, about a fish which was 12 inches long (to his surprise, although there was no conclusion to this anecdote) and his favourite " Ehvum wotsit, a frenjaminesyjz daughter.....".
Alas as a nineteen year old my cup of sympathy did not overrun. I once coined the phrase at seeing someone fail to throw a parcel into a box by miles " What, on a scale of John to ten, was that?" and things got worse the day we discovered his stash.
We were clearing out one of the rooms downstairs, next to the one the band Longpigs used to practice in, and were asked to dismantle some shelving. In his crapulence, Wotsit John had clearly forgotten that his stash, or more likely one of his many stashs, of rum, was kept in the one we were dismantling. Imagine our surprise at finding three bottles of rum, two open, one half empty, with no sign of dust. "What are these doing here John?" we asked, knowingly. "Ehvurrm, er Wotsit um....ave ad a cold". That must have been some virus to require that much alcohol....
Am not proud to say this but we watched where John put his stash and went straight back down, found, and hid it. We then put up signs saying Rum - this way. John was understandably not amused, although neither were the managers (likewise understandably) so the signs, and my mate's hilarious caricature of John wearing a jumper saying Pisht on it in a sea of rum, were removed. Am not proud, but it still makes me laugh. Something Christine didn't do when John rang in sick one day and I asked if he'd had a rum do.
I left to take up a permanent job in 1998 or 99 shortly before all such work was moved to Manchester, but am still in touch with four of the people I worked with. It is still something that comes up in almost every conversation we have. There are many more tales from this place, but I will have to think very carefully about how, and indeed if, I can share them.
Cheers!
Yannis
Saturday, 16 December 2017
Names
Now then,
have been inspired to write this short post partially as a nickname maker, and also based on having read people's experiences of mispronunciation and mis-spelling of their names this year. Ironically, am not willing to tell you my real name, but there are many people I know who have had their monikers mangled. Mark Conlan and Roxy Cram certainly had a hard time of people misunderstanding what they were called, as am sure Mr Colon and Roy Crumb would agree.....
Years ago I worked for a firm in Rotherham and one of the managers lived up the road from me. He told me the following story about his neighbour. I may have misremembered the names in this tale by the way. Which is at best ironic....
Every year he and his wife used to send a card to their neighbour, John, across the road. They noticed he didn't seem to leave the house much or have many visitors and I think they felt sorry for John. However, despite sending him a heartfelt cardboard missive every year for something like fifteen years they never once got one back. This was put down to him being shy or reclusive, and was never an issue.
Years passed by and cards were sent and one year, a card from someone new appeared on the mat. Sensing it may have been from John himself, it was opened with expectant glee. It read:
"Dear Bob and Linda,
thank you very much for your card.
Wishing you a merry Christmas and a happy new year.
All the best
Frank.
AKA John....."
I am happy to admit that the above really tickled me. As Bob would have said "well al gu t't foot ur ar stairs". A great phrase that I learned during my employ in Rotherham....
Yannis
have been inspired to write this short post partially as a nickname maker, and also based on having read people's experiences of mispronunciation and mis-spelling of their names this year. Ironically, am not willing to tell you my real name, but there are many people I know who have had their monikers mangled. Mark Conlan and Roxy Cram certainly had a hard time of people misunderstanding what they were called, as am sure Mr Colon and Roy Crumb would agree.....
Years ago I worked for a firm in Rotherham and one of the managers lived up the road from me. He told me the following story about his neighbour. I may have misremembered the names in this tale by the way. Which is at best ironic....
Every year he and his wife used to send a card to their neighbour, John, across the road. They noticed he didn't seem to leave the house much or have many visitors and I think they felt sorry for John. However, despite sending him a heartfelt cardboard missive every year for something like fifteen years they never once got one back. This was put down to him being shy or reclusive, and was never an issue.
Years passed by and cards were sent and one year, a card from someone new appeared on the mat. Sensing it may have been from John himself, it was opened with expectant glee. It read:
"Dear Bob and Linda,
thank you very much for your card.
Wishing you a merry Christmas and a happy new year.
All the best
Frank.
AKA John....."
I am happy to admit that the above really tickled me. As Bob would have said "well al gu t't foot ur ar stairs". A great phrase that I learned during my employ in Rotherham....
Yannis
Friday, 8 December 2017
Peanuts
Hellall,
the woman next door has an insanely annoying yapping shit hound of despair called Bobby, or as I have named him, Be-elzebobby. This cantankerous oversized barking rat yaps himself into a coma every time I leave, enter or make any noise or movement in my house. This, after two years, is incredibly annoying. Her ownership and tolerance of the little twat poses a good number of questions, of which I will share two ( I can hear him yapping now, no doubt irritated by my the resonance of my loud typing through the thin pot walls of our houses). Where in the name of Satan did she find this wholly nauseating creature, and why does she not realise, and also tolerate, just how chuffing annoying the thing is?
She still tells it that there is nobody there and to get back inside whenever I leave which is fairly annoying in itself. And Be-elzebobby steadfastly ignores her every instruction. When she does see me she says hello and asks in a charming way if am alright. I have not yet answered " I will be, when your bloody dog dies" because I fear this may make me look intolerant or rude.
Thinking how unavoidably frustrating the creature's existence is I recall living in lower Walkley next to a lovely lady with a white curly haired miniature or Highland terrier who hated cats. We had three. I don't know what his actual name was but am willing to bet it was a male human one - like David, Phillip, or Rupert. I myself used Chinese and American Indian influences to name him " Yap ping shite". And our youngest and most agile cat, Bruin used to love dancing about high up on the walls and at the fence where the dog could see him but not get though, which sent the white woolly creature insane.
The above may suggest I hate dogs or have similar sounding issues but in fact we had a dog when we lived in Scotland, a black and white collie who stayed with my Granddad when we moved. Arriving in Sheffield in 1978 aged nearly four we took on a dog from the RSPCA who was a cross of an Alsatian and a non yapping terrier. My Mum called her Peanuts after a stray dog they had featured on Play School or Blue Peter, of the same name. Probably for the best, since as a four year old I wanted to call her seaweed. Am not sure WF or my granddad would have wanted that.
Peanuts had been a stray and just wanted to be loved, and loved she was. She had a trapped nerve in her leg which made it shake so she often looked frightened, and coupled with her soul meltingly big brown eyes and fragile shaking she was essentially adorable. Granddad took her for a walk on the Bolehills every day until she died. I also took her walking with me, when I was fourteen but Mumraaah advised that this was not a good idea as I walked far and fast in all weathers. I never thought of Peanuts as being old but I think she was twelve when we had to sadly have her put to sleep.
She used to like having her face licked and washed by our cat sweep. Even though after two or three nudges from peanuts sweep would scratch her nose, hiss and then run off. Peanuts didn't seem to mind.
Since I started writing this the incessant yapping and barking has stropped, however am confident it will restart once I dare to leave my house. The hateful squawking overgrown hamster of hell still has its noisy hold over my every breath, it seems.
Yannis
the woman next door has an insanely annoying yapping shit hound of despair called Bobby, or as I have named him, Be-elzebobby. This cantankerous oversized barking rat yaps himself into a coma every time I leave, enter or make any noise or movement in my house. This, after two years, is incredibly annoying. Her ownership and tolerance of the little twat poses a good number of questions, of which I will share two ( I can hear him yapping now, no doubt irritated by my the resonance of my loud typing through the thin pot walls of our houses). Where in the name of Satan did she find this wholly nauseating creature, and why does she not realise, and also tolerate, just how chuffing annoying the thing is?
She still tells it that there is nobody there and to get back inside whenever I leave which is fairly annoying in itself. And Be-elzebobby steadfastly ignores her every instruction. When she does see me she says hello and asks in a charming way if am alright. I have not yet answered " I will be, when your bloody dog dies" because I fear this may make me look intolerant or rude.
Thinking how unavoidably frustrating the creature's existence is I recall living in lower Walkley next to a lovely lady with a white curly haired miniature or Highland terrier who hated cats. We had three. I don't know what his actual name was but am willing to bet it was a male human one - like David, Phillip, or Rupert. I myself used Chinese and American Indian influences to name him " Yap ping shite". And our youngest and most agile cat, Bruin used to love dancing about high up on the walls and at the fence where the dog could see him but not get though, which sent the white woolly creature insane.
The above may suggest I hate dogs or have similar sounding issues but in fact we had a dog when we lived in Scotland, a black and white collie who stayed with my Granddad when we moved. Arriving in Sheffield in 1978 aged nearly four we took on a dog from the RSPCA who was a cross of an Alsatian and a non yapping terrier. My Mum called her Peanuts after a stray dog they had featured on Play School or Blue Peter, of the same name. Probably for the best, since as a four year old I wanted to call her seaweed. Am not sure WF or my granddad would have wanted that.
Peanuts had been a stray and just wanted to be loved, and loved she was. She had a trapped nerve in her leg which made it shake so she often looked frightened, and coupled with her soul meltingly big brown eyes and fragile shaking she was essentially adorable. Granddad took her for a walk on the Bolehills every day until she died. I also took her walking with me, when I was fourteen but Mumraaah advised that this was not a good idea as I walked far and fast in all weathers. I never thought of Peanuts as being old but I think she was twelve when we had to sadly have her put to sleep.
She used to like having her face licked and washed by our cat sweep. Even though after two or three nudges from peanuts sweep would scratch her nose, hiss and then run off. Peanuts didn't seem to mind.
Since I started writing this the incessant yapping and barking has stropped, however am confident it will restart once I dare to leave my house. The hateful squawking overgrown hamster of hell still has its noisy hold over my every breath, it seems.
Yannis
Tuesday, 5 December 2017
Stroke
Hello,
I wanted to refer you to my profile to explain the below and after forthcoming musings asides and remembered happenstances. Alas, maybe because I already have a Blogger beer blog, my profile is the same for both. No doubt there is a perfectly logical and attainable resolution to this issue. Likewise I will also, no doubt, try and find it in the following weeks.
For a few years Tash has been telling me that I ought to write about stuff outside of the woollen nappy of my beer blog. This thought was also recently shared by comment contributor Professor Pie Tin. Am not aware if this chap writes himself, but I value his contributions. Since one was none beer writing, this, and the suggestions of my better half, I decided to branch out into this blog. Its not beer you see, not in theme at least. Or rather, not directly.
On Thursday 16 November 2017 at the tender age of just 43 I had a stroke. I was cooking "Vietnamese inspired beans" according to the cautious labeling, which comprised edamame, summat else and red and coconut rice. I had just added tender stem broccoli and green beans when the stroke happened - stepping away from the hob to sieve them, I found I no longer had full use of my left leg. Being a hungry chap i dismissed the episode as a minor inconvenience and took my tea (this means evening meal by the way) through to the other room and ate it. Fearing my not having taken my blood pressure meds for two nights had hastened an odd effect I decided to eat my tea and then get a glass of red wine. Feeling no better thereafter I simply went to bed, for eight hours of excruciating cramp. I am not, a medically trained professional
The next day, exhausted,, I rang work and asked if I could come in about 13.00 as was tired from a lack of sleep. They agreed and I returned to my bed bur couldn't get any kip. I decided to check the tinternet for the NHS number and as I was turning off the computer I started to list to the left. I almost fell off a flat chair. I sat there for a good fifteen minutes wondering if I could steady myself sufficiently to get to the next room and flop on the bed, and managed to after a struggle. I then somehow managed to clamber downstairs, to unlock the door and call 111. Within 40 minutes the paramedics had arrived and assessed me and were driving me to hospital. I have not eaten tender stem broccoli since.....
At tosspickuw I was asked numerous questions and when asked how many units I drank per wee,jokingly answered " too many to add up". In fairness I don't check per pint, half, bottle or can so couldn't anyway. Having admitted that I knew I drank too much I was prescribed "tablets that will stop you having a violent rage after seven days without alcohol". Never joke with medical staff, I learned. Or eat broccoli.
Twelve virtually sleepless nights on three wards followed. Sleepless mainly due to the number of screaming dementia patients, being woken at 05.00 for a blood pressure test and cold. The food was good though. Although the fish pie had broccoli in it.
One of the other downsides was the self soiling majority and elderly naked minority on some wards. I genuinely wondered if their identification of dementia was fabricated to stop unbewailing fully clothed patients from killing them. Either way I was glad to leave a week ago, if nothing else to get some kip. Have slept like a log since.
Am receiving care and physio at home and making good progress, although my extreme fatigue means have drunk virtually nothing for the last three weeks (without the anti rage tablets I should point out). The main thing is am making progress, and also that based on other patients, seem to have escaped lightly.
And now I don't have to eat broccoli.
Your very best health
Yannis
I wanted to refer you to my profile to explain the below and after forthcoming musings asides and remembered happenstances. Alas, maybe because I already have a Blogger beer blog, my profile is the same for both. No doubt there is a perfectly logical and attainable resolution to this issue. Likewise I will also, no doubt, try and find it in the following weeks.
For a few years Tash has been telling me that I ought to write about stuff outside of the woollen nappy of my beer blog. This thought was also recently shared by comment contributor Professor Pie Tin. Am not aware if this chap writes himself, but I value his contributions. Since one was none beer writing, this, and the suggestions of my better half, I decided to branch out into this blog. Its not beer you see, not in theme at least. Or rather, not directly.
On Thursday 16 November 2017 at the tender age of just 43 I had a stroke. I was cooking "Vietnamese inspired beans" according to the cautious labeling, which comprised edamame, summat else and red and coconut rice. I had just added tender stem broccoli and green beans when the stroke happened - stepping away from the hob to sieve them, I found I no longer had full use of my left leg. Being a hungry chap i dismissed the episode as a minor inconvenience and took my tea (this means evening meal by the way) through to the other room and ate it. Fearing my not having taken my blood pressure meds for two nights had hastened an odd effect I decided to eat my tea and then get a glass of red wine. Feeling no better thereafter I simply went to bed, for eight hours of excruciating cramp. I am not, a medically trained professional
The next day, exhausted,, I rang work and asked if I could come in about 13.00 as was tired from a lack of sleep. They agreed and I returned to my bed bur couldn't get any kip. I decided to check the tinternet for the NHS number and as I was turning off the computer I started to list to the left. I almost fell off a flat chair. I sat there for a good fifteen minutes wondering if I could steady myself sufficiently to get to the next room and flop on the bed, and managed to after a struggle. I then somehow managed to clamber downstairs, to unlock the door and call 111. Within 40 minutes the paramedics had arrived and assessed me and were driving me to hospital. I have not eaten tender stem broccoli since.....
At tosspickuw I was asked numerous questions and when asked how many units I drank per wee,jokingly answered " too many to add up". In fairness I don't check per pint, half, bottle or can so couldn't anyway. Having admitted that I knew I drank too much I was prescribed "tablets that will stop you having a violent rage after seven days without alcohol". Never joke with medical staff, I learned. Or eat broccoli.
Twelve virtually sleepless nights on three wards followed. Sleepless mainly due to the number of screaming dementia patients, being woken at 05.00 for a blood pressure test and cold. The food was good though. Although the fish pie had broccoli in it.
One of the other downsides was the self soiling majority and elderly naked minority on some wards. I genuinely wondered if their identification of dementia was fabricated to stop unbewailing fully clothed patients from killing them. Either way I was glad to leave a week ago, if nothing else to get some kip. Have slept like a log since.
Am receiving care and physio at home and making good progress, although my extreme fatigue means have drunk virtually nothing for the last three weeks (without the anti rage tablets I should point out). The main thing is am making progress, and also that based on other patients, seem to have escaped lightly.
And now I don't have to eat broccoli.
Your very best health
Yannis
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