Hello readers,
it, is not spiders.
Not like Valerie Singleton on Blue Peter in the 1960s. It, is horror. Staring, helpless, boiling misery caused by an event too unspeakable to describe. Although, one must try....
I must apologise because this anecdote came to me third hand, now fourth to you. It was shared by my Brother last time I saw him and he had heard it from his friend Ray.L.F who in turn had heard it from his Dad, who had worked many years ago in the steelworks.
In he past, since that is the time when Ray.L.F senior would have worked there, Steelworks presumably had numerous regulations to prevent death by explosion or other forms of combustion. It is plausible in fact that there was an outcome or procedure for every conceivable happenstance. One compensation claim advert themed rule concerned persons falling. Into a vat or huge container. Of molten steel. In addition to bursting into flames and being boiled alive from the inside, those unfortunate to be victim to this manner of incident could also rely on the assistance of their colleagues.
If one saw a colleague fall into a boiling pit of molten steel, there was a procedure. It was a stick.
The heaviness of the human body versus the thick gloopiness of the steel meant that anyone falling in would take a while to sink, and would initially float in boiling visceral agony. Survivors, it transpired, were not catered for. Because there would be none. Very quickly one would become broiled, setting aflame and quickly becoming soup. Even a few seconds in the molten hell would boil the insides before rescue could be attempted.
The advice therefore, was to helpfully push them under with a stick.
You know, to make them die quicker and lessen their agony.
There was a lot of exhaling and an awkward silence after this tale was shared whilst we drove home from Wee Fathas, before we both acknowledged that it was a sensible way to cut short the horror.
And I said, if I was witnessing this, I would use the the stick to shut their eyes first. I wouldn't want to stare into their agonised souls whilst the molten soup steamed them to death. And my Brother nodded, solemnly. And I said "assuming their eyes hadn't exploded by that time that is......"
Just another standard trip to Wee Fathas then....
Yanns
Showing posts with label Wee Beefy's beer and pub blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wee Beefy's beer and pub blog. Show all posts
Saturday, 28 April 2018
Wednesday, 14 February 2018
Elderly racist bingo
Hello,
I think I have spent enough time on the bus and in hospital over the last few years to have become well aware of the phenomena which is the Elderly racist bingo. Times of annoyance (the bus journey) or trauma (the hospital) seem to instill such people with a niggling worm in their heads which gradually unfurls its full rancid glory through their false toothed mouths.
I first started playing this game when I was going every day to hospital to receive intravenous antibiotics for a month, last year. Usually there for two hours, and driven there, its worth pointing out, by persons the elderly moaners would be thinking of in their short sighted espousals, this was the perfect playing field for a game of prejudice rugby. Flailing, stumbling, grunting, pushing and kicking....the boundaries of common sense, high, out of the stadium, with every caustic utterance.
Yesterday, returning from an altogether different visit to the hospital, I was on the bus wanting to get home quickly, since I was feeling a little hypoglycemic, but found I had nothing on me containing sugar. Luckily, the slow panic was tamed slightly by the lilting repeated melodies of the assembled elderly racists, with their symphony of misrepresentation.
To play racist Bingo you of course need to know the rules. This version of bingo does not include numbers, well, apart from those they make up, but cards are instead completed by mentions of themes throughout the expungance. Below, and based partly on the utterances of yesterday, I will list some of the common themes which must feature in order to claim a strike on the card. For information, the lucidity or logic displayed, or lack of, is a subject only for later amusement - no matter how preposterous their ideas, the named theme when mentioned counts. See the guide below to involved themes:
1. Them
e.g: "thi come orrear, claiming to escape from hughgander or hughgosslarbyer or wurrever, an thiv no intention of wukkin, thir ere forran easy ride"
2. Council
e.g: "n carrnsull gee um everyfin f nowt, jus cuss thi foreign, new ome, car, clotes, mobile fone. Ar carnt afford a mobile fone...."
Extra points can be held over to complete "house" if the elderly racist has a mobile phone which goes off at a later time during the symphony.....
3. Bus passes
e.g: "n thiv orl go tbus passes, the gerrum f free fromt Governmunt, cuss thi foreign, but we don't gerr any elp"
You must try and ignore the free travel for the elderly at this point. Its not their fault.
4. Work
e.g: "n thiv got no intention of workin, none of em, therrear ont scrarnge f benefits, cuss thi norr wirra soff touch in this country"
5 Established cultural differences
e.g: "n thi orl goo abart in them masks and flowing garns dunt thi, worra thi call em Bejams, or Hibabobs or summat I dornt chuffin norr...
6. Men
e.g: "n thirrorl unkempt wi massive beards arnt thi. And you rallis see um walking darnt street doin nothin - apart from chatting on thi morbile fones wot council uv ginnum cos thiv escaped from Rubarbistan....."
7. Us
e.g: "we would never av done that, and we would have stayed in bulgaslavia t fight like proper men un all. My Bert, got bles im is bin ded 70 year odd, he would have blown um up rather than go and live in France as a Refugee..."
8. Tax
e.g " arv wukked for 80 year in this country (I exaggerated this figure to blend in with the underlying theme of the piece) and have pait me tax n national insurance from day one. Un woddawar get from the Government, bloody nowt arl tell yer, bloody nowt. An I bet they don't pay any tax for th free ealthcare ont NHS"
9. Degrading of a once previously beautiful area
e.g: " Ooh Darnull's gon darnt shitter now, it used to be a playground of joy and opportunity before these moved in, nar this kids and dog shit all ort streets"
10. Legislative rights of abode
e.g: "thiv norr right to beere anyway, nonuvum, its ornly cuss wi too soff in this country to kick em art that thirarebl to stay at all...."
11 Et cetera.......
There are of course other themes specific perhaps to certain areas - in Sheffield its also essential to point out that "the foreigns never yust t work int Steel mills, and even if they had still bin oppen when thi came ere, thi never wouldve either." The joy of living in such a large and varied country is that themes of racism are interchangeable and subject to rapid revision, just like the facts that supposedly back up their infernal grumbling.
Luckily, the bus somehow managed to get me home before I slipped into a diabetic coma and so I was able to get home alive to think about how absurd this unending promlugation was, and how I had managed to predict about 7 of the above themes prior to their appearance in the symphony.
Thus far I have never, ever, in listening to such performances, shouted "House!". I fear that may cause actual rational debate which might, worse still, even call into question the accuracy of some of the claims that they have taken directly from la-la land. Its best just to quietly clench your fist and pull a bearing teeth celebratory face, before getting on with whatever else you should have been doing.
Please don't, by the way, think am specifically targeting the elderly, in an oldist way. Its simply that these are the people whose racist drivel I have to endure most often when I venture out of the house. Racism, alas, comes in all manner of different hues. Which is at best ironic...
Yannis
I think I have spent enough time on the bus and in hospital over the last few years to have become well aware of the phenomena which is the Elderly racist bingo. Times of annoyance (the bus journey) or trauma (the hospital) seem to instill such people with a niggling worm in their heads which gradually unfurls its full rancid glory through their false toothed mouths.
I first started playing this game when I was going every day to hospital to receive intravenous antibiotics for a month, last year. Usually there for two hours, and driven there, its worth pointing out, by persons the elderly moaners would be thinking of in their short sighted espousals, this was the perfect playing field for a game of prejudice rugby. Flailing, stumbling, grunting, pushing and kicking....the boundaries of common sense, high, out of the stadium, with every caustic utterance.
Yesterday, returning from an altogether different visit to the hospital, I was on the bus wanting to get home quickly, since I was feeling a little hypoglycemic, but found I had nothing on me containing sugar. Luckily, the slow panic was tamed slightly by the lilting repeated melodies of the assembled elderly racists, with their symphony of misrepresentation.
To play racist Bingo you of course need to know the rules. This version of bingo does not include numbers, well, apart from those they make up, but cards are instead completed by mentions of themes throughout the expungance. Below, and based partly on the utterances of yesterday, I will list some of the common themes which must feature in order to claim a strike on the card. For information, the lucidity or logic displayed, or lack of, is a subject only for later amusement - no matter how preposterous their ideas, the named theme when mentioned counts. See the guide below to involved themes:
1. Them
e.g: "thi come orrear, claiming to escape from hughgander or hughgosslarbyer or wurrever, an thiv no intention of wukkin, thir ere forran easy ride"
2. Council
e.g: "n carrnsull gee um everyfin f nowt, jus cuss thi foreign, new ome, car, clotes, mobile fone. Ar carnt afford a mobile fone...."
Extra points can be held over to complete "house" if the elderly racist has a mobile phone which goes off at a later time during the symphony.....
3. Bus passes
e.g: "n thiv orl go tbus passes, the gerrum f free fromt Governmunt, cuss thi foreign, but we don't gerr any elp"
You must try and ignore the free travel for the elderly at this point. Its not their fault.
4. Work
e.g: "n thiv got no intention of workin, none of em, therrear ont scrarnge f benefits, cuss thi norr wirra soff touch in this country"
5 Established cultural differences
e.g: "n thi orl goo abart in them masks and flowing garns dunt thi, worra thi call em Bejams, or Hibabobs or summat I dornt chuffin norr...
6. Men
e.g: "n thirrorl unkempt wi massive beards arnt thi. And you rallis see um walking darnt street doin nothin - apart from chatting on thi morbile fones wot council uv ginnum cos thiv escaped from Rubarbistan....."
7. Us
e.g: "we would never av done that, and we would have stayed in bulgaslavia t fight like proper men un all. My Bert, got bles im is bin ded 70 year odd, he would have blown um up rather than go and live in France as a Refugee..."
8. Tax
e.g " arv wukked for 80 year in this country (I exaggerated this figure to blend in with the underlying theme of the piece) and have pait me tax n national insurance from day one. Un woddawar get from the Government, bloody nowt arl tell yer, bloody nowt. An I bet they don't pay any tax for th free ealthcare ont NHS"
9. Degrading of a once previously beautiful area
e.g: " Ooh Darnull's gon darnt shitter now, it used to be a playground of joy and opportunity before these moved in, nar this kids and dog shit all ort streets"
10. Legislative rights of abode
e.g: "thiv norr right to beere anyway, nonuvum, its ornly cuss wi too soff in this country to kick em art that thirarebl to stay at all...."
11 Et cetera.......
There are of course other themes specific perhaps to certain areas - in Sheffield its also essential to point out that "the foreigns never yust t work int Steel mills, and even if they had still bin oppen when thi came ere, thi never wouldve either." The joy of living in such a large and varied country is that themes of racism are interchangeable and subject to rapid revision, just like the facts that supposedly back up their infernal grumbling.
Luckily, the bus somehow managed to get me home before I slipped into a diabetic coma and so I was able to get home alive to think about how absurd this unending promlugation was, and how I had managed to predict about 7 of the above themes prior to their appearance in the symphony.
Thus far I have never, ever, in listening to such performances, shouted "House!". I fear that may cause actual rational debate which might, worse still, even call into question the accuracy of some of the claims that they have taken directly from la-la land. Its best just to quietly clench your fist and pull a bearing teeth celebratory face, before getting on with whatever else you should have been doing.
Please don't, by the way, think am specifically targeting the elderly, in an oldist way. Its simply that these are the people whose racist drivel I have to endure most often when I venture out of the house. Racism, alas, comes in all manner of different hues. Which is at best ironic...
Yannis
Friday, 26 January 2018
Humour by repetition
Hello,
the second of no more or many more rememberances from the fuzzy haze of my employment on Joiner street in the 1990s.
Following a recommendation from myself (see Morning John post), my friend not Mark was employed with us doing packing and picking of exam papers. One regular employee was not Paul, who wasn't a sculptor and didn't live in Dronfield. Hopefully the word not will prevent anyone from identifying themselves or others in this post.....
Paul, sorry, not Paul, was a rather serious individual. Not Mark was a rather jolly chap with a determination to wind people up, at any length. He also possessed the world's most annoying high pitched and very loud laugh. If one, say, not Paul, was already annoyed by his wind ups, then his laughing at the same would hugely exacerbate the affects.
One day Paul* confided in us, for reason that given the above are unclear, that he was having issues with his latest sculpture. Mark** laughed. Paul was immediately annoyed and noticeably disappointed, and stated that he knew he shouldn't have tried to confide in us about his calling ( I made the last two words up....). I tried to assuage his discomfort with supportive mumblings but he said he didn't want to talk about it because Mark would laugh. Mark insisted this was not the case. And so it began...
M: "Paul, go on mate, tell us about your sculpture"
P " No, I already said no"
M "Goo on mate"
P " No"
M " Goo onnnnn"
P "No"
M "why not?"
P " because you'll laugh"
M "I wont".
P "You will"
M " Paul, mate, I wont"
P "You will"
M " I promise I wont....."
Ten minutes later.....
M "Goo on Paul, tell us"
P "NO!"
Myself and Mark had often talked about how immature and yet simultaneously amusing humour by repetition was. Taking this on board, Mark began a three month campaign of repeated queries about the nature or even name of Paul's sculpture. Every time Paul would steadfastly refuse to divulge any details about his handiwork.
Eventually, in the last week of his stint (we only worked until September in the main) and after having been asked approximately a thousand times in the preceding months, Mark asked Paul what the sculpture was of, about and called. Having asked Mark three times for his assurance that he wouldn't laugh, Paul decided to finally off load.
The thing is, after such a long time I can't remember what Paul said. I think he started by saying "It represents" and he went on to provide a reasonable, cogent, non outlandish description of its form and meaning.
I looked at Mark.
He laughed.
The loudest, highest pitched, most exaggerated laugh you have ever heard. For about ten minutes. With tears rolling down his face. And our colleagues also laughed.
Paul nearly laughed as well, before his serious face intensified and he looked down at the table in front of him, slowly shaking his head after a long, despairing sigh.
Its tribute to the overwhelming sad hilarity of Mark's persistence that I remember that, only, and not a word of Paul's painfully extricated admittance of inspiration or sculptured meaning. This was a victory for the power of repetition, and an event which sadly may have made Paul question the meaning of his work to the extent that he simply stopped creating claymotions. I genuinely hope that is not the case.
As much as I genuinely also hope that Paul now looks back on that moment with at least a wry smile.
Yannis
*Not
**Not
the second of no more or many more rememberances from the fuzzy haze of my employment on Joiner street in the 1990s.
Following a recommendation from myself (see Morning John post), my friend not Mark was employed with us doing packing and picking of exam papers. One regular employee was not Paul, who wasn't a sculptor and didn't live in Dronfield. Hopefully the word not will prevent anyone from identifying themselves or others in this post.....
Paul, sorry, not Paul, was a rather serious individual. Not Mark was a rather jolly chap with a determination to wind people up, at any length. He also possessed the world's most annoying high pitched and very loud laugh. If one, say, not Paul, was already annoyed by his wind ups, then his laughing at the same would hugely exacerbate the affects.
One day Paul* confided in us, for reason that given the above are unclear, that he was having issues with his latest sculpture. Mark** laughed. Paul was immediately annoyed and noticeably disappointed, and stated that he knew he shouldn't have tried to confide in us about his calling ( I made the last two words up....). I tried to assuage his discomfort with supportive mumblings but he said he didn't want to talk about it because Mark would laugh. Mark insisted this was not the case. And so it began...
M: "Paul, go on mate, tell us about your sculpture"
P " No, I already said no"
M "Goo on mate"
P " No"
M " Goo onnnnn"
P "No"
M "why not?"
P " because you'll laugh"
M "I wont".
P "You will"
M " Paul, mate, I wont"
P "You will"
M " I promise I wont....."
Ten minutes later.....
M "Goo on Paul, tell us"
P "NO!"
Myself and Mark had often talked about how immature and yet simultaneously amusing humour by repetition was. Taking this on board, Mark began a three month campaign of repeated queries about the nature or even name of Paul's sculpture. Every time Paul would steadfastly refuse to divulge any details about his handiwork.
Eventually, in the last week of his stint (we only worked until September in the main) and after having been asked approximately a thousand times in the preceding months, Mark asked Paul what the sculpture was of, about and called. Having asked Mark three times for his assurance that he wouldn't laugh, Paul decided to finally off load.
The thing is, after such a long time I can't remember what Paul said. I think he started by saying "It represents" and he went on to provide a reasonable, cogent, non outlandish description of its form and meaning.
I looked at Mark.
He laughed.
The loudest, highest pitched, most exaggerated laugh you have ever heard. For about ten minutes. With tears rolling down his face. And our colleagues also laughed.
Paul nearly laughed as well, before his serious face intensified and he looked down at the table in front of him, slowly shaking his head after a long, despairing sigh.
Its tribute to the overwhelming sad hilarity of Mark's persistence that I remember that, only, and not a word of Paul's painfully extricated admittance of inspiration or sculptured meaning. This was a victory for the power of repetition, and an event which sadly may have made Paul question the meaning of his work to the extent that he simply stopped creating claymotions. I genuinely hope that is not the case.
As much as I genuinely also hope that Paul now looks back on that moment with at least a wry smile.
Yannis
*Not
**Not
Wednesday, 3 January 2018
Wells
Hulloo,
in 2009 or 2010 I went to visit my Canadian relatives in Mundesley where they were staying, in Norfolk*. I say it was Mundesley, but am not 100% sure - none of my pics names the village or where we stayed or the restaurant we visited them at. En route we stopped at a pub called the Chequers at Binham, which was selling food and own brewed beers. To be honest it was too early to eat so we just had ale, but not long after leaving we wanted a bit of snap.
Wells next the sea is a "civil parish" according to Wikipedia, and a town according to Google, and had a pub selling Woodfordes ales on gravity according to the Good Beer Guide. We didn't go in as wanted a bite to eat, maybe a sandwich or soup. Within the conurbation we spotted a sign for a licensed tearoom selling cakes, sandwiches, soups and real ales. This sounded ideal. The venue was, indeed, a purveyor of all the listed. Once you had navigated your way though their incomprehensibly rigid and unbending application of the house rules that was. Thus....
Arriving at 13.40 they served food until 14.00 so we ordered straight away. The waitress said "you'll ave t ope thorven still on" and stalked off in disgust to check. Now, I'm not a catering professional, but my oven takes just over six minutes to heat to 200 degrees, and less time once its turned off, to reheat. At 13.48 she returned and grumpily conceded that the oven's warmth had been sufficiently maintained to cook, but we would have to order immediately since they stopped serving food at 14.00. Warmed by this jolly badinage we ordered simple dishes that would take little time to heat up, along with two Woodfordes bottled beers. We were told we could only have beer if we were eating. It was difficult, having just ordered food at great personal cost to the tea room, to know how to respond.
Whilst awaiting our tiring masticatory exercise to begin, a group nearby ordered three cream teas, which, as the board of truth made clear, comprised of a mug of tea, and a large homemade scone with jam and cream. One of the group of incomers asked if instead of tea she could have a coffee. "Year, but yull arv pay exstra forr it" was the enlightening response. No explanation of why the cup of tea could be replaced by coffee for the difference in price of the two alone, was provided. Since a cup of coffee cost £2.50 they were charged £4.50 for the scone and jam and cream and the £2.50 on top. Amazing!
Having eaten our luckily available food stuffs I got a couple of bottles of beer to take out and the waitress of unhappiness strode away with our plates, to meet a gentleman who had come in to the tearoom with his DOG. I expected the doilly-dour to pick up a shotgun but instead she barked "yurr carn aff yur dorg in eurr" to which the apparent miscreant replied he had simply come in for a cream tea and would happily take it to consume outside. He was informed that they couldn't take the china cups, plates or tea pots outside as it wasn't allowed (it was a private courtyard) so, undeterred, he said he would put the dog outside, wait for them to serve his cream tea and then take it outside himself. " Can't do thart neiver" was the response. He left.
At 14.05 a group of seven came in wanting food. Heathens! They had obviously in their impudence not read the sign, and were roundly rebuked for their unwarranted intransigence. Disappointed they opted to stay for a pint, but were firmly instructed that the pub (which did exist, at the back), was only open on days of the week with a "w" in and only opened at 19.00. Despite this, they all opted for a tea and piece of cake. Apparently that is not food. Who was to know?
I waited to pay by card with a card machine whose connection speed was comparable to the Arctic circle whilst the pissed off waitress was barked at rudely by managers. Seeing her ill treatment reminded me that actually, it was likely an establishment or owner led campaign of absurdity. The lass didn't want to be there any more than the put upon visitors. It was quite a sad scene.
I never cease to be surprised how many folk set up business in the catering and hospitality sector who don't appear to have an ounce of hospitality in them. I realise they often have any humanity drilled out of them by hoardes of dysfunctional simpletons, but if anything that just makes the whole situation even more sad.
The above is not why I have never returned to Wells nts, which am sure is lovely, but goes into my file of ridiculous rules and restrictions which appear to belong almost exclusively to cafes and tearooms in the UK.
Cheers!
Yannis
*to be fair, my friend Ade, who is from Norfolk, and whom even after reading this remains my friend, has posted a link to Norfolk dialect on my Faceache wall. So here it is, for your perusal.....
in 2009 or 2010 I went to visit my Canadian relatives in Mundesley where they were staying, in Norfolk*. I say it was Mundesley, but am not 100% sure - none of my pics names the village or where we stayed or the restaurant we visited them at. En route we stopped at a pub called the Chequers at Binham, which was selling food and own brewed beers. To be honest it was too early to eat so we just had ale, but not long after leaving we wanted a bit of snap.
Wells next the sea is a "civil parish" according to Wikipedia, and a town according to Google, and had a pub selling Woodfordes ales on gravity according to the Good Beer Guide. We didn't go in as wanted a bite to eat, maybe a sandwich or soup. Within the conurbation we spotted a sign for a licensed tearoom selling cakes, sandwiches, soups and real ales. This sounded ideal. The venue was, indeed, a purveyor of all the listed. Once you had navigated your way though their incomprehensibly rigid and unbending application of the house rules that was. Thus....
Arriving at 13.40 they served food until 14.00 so we ordered straight away. The waitress said "you'll ave t ope thorven still on" and stalked off in disgust to check. Now, I'm not a catering professional, but my oven takes just over six minutes to heat to 200 degrees, and less time once its turned off, to reheat. At 13.48 she returned and grumpily conceded that the oven's warmth had been sufficiently maintained to cook, but we would have to order immediately since they stopped serving food at 14.00. Warmed by this jolly badinage we ordered simple dishes that would take little time to heat up, along with two Woodfordes bottled beers. We were told we could only have beer if we were eating. It was difficult, having just ordered food at great personal cost to the tea room, to know how to respond.
Whilst awaiting our tiring masticatory exercise to begin, a group nearby ordered three cream teas, which, as the board of truth made clear, comprised of a mug of tea, and a large homemade scone with jam and cream. One of the group of incomers asked if instead of tea she could have a coffee. "Year, but yull arv pay exstra forr it" was the enlightening response. No explanation of why the cup of tea could be replaced by coffee for the difference in price of the two alone, was provided. Since a cup of coffee cost £2.50 they were charged £4.50 for the scone and jam and cream and the £2.50 on top. Amazing!
Having eaten our luckily available food stuffs I got a couple of bottles of beer to take out and the waitress of unhappiness strode away with our plates, to meet a gentleman who had come in to the tearoom with his DOG. I expected the doilly-dour to pick up a shotgun but instead she barked "yurr carn aff yur dorg in eurr" to which the apparent miscreant replied he had simply come in for a cream tea and would happily take it to consume outside. He was informed that they couldn't take the china cups, plates or tea pots outside as it wasn't allowed (it was a private courtyard) so, undeterred, he said he would put the dog outside, wait for them to serve his cream tea and then take it outside himself. " Can't do thart neiver" was the response. He left.
At 14.05 a group of seven came in wanting food. Heathens! They had obviously in their impudence not read the sign, and were roundly rebuked for their unwarranted intransigence. Disappointed they opted to stay for a pint, but were firmly instructed that the pub (which did exist, at the back), was only open on days of the week with a "w" in and only opened at 19.00. Despite this, they all opted for a tea and piece of cake. Apparently that is not food. Who was to know?
I waited to pay by card with a card machine whose connection speed was comparable to the Arctic circle whilst the pissed off waitress was barked at rudely by managers. Seeing her ill treatment reminded me that actually, it was likely an establishment or owner led campaign of absurdity. The lass didn't want to be there any more than the put upon visitors. It was quite a sad scene.
I never cease to be surprised how many folk set up business in the catering and hospitality sector who don't appear to have an ounce of hospitality in them. I realise they often have any humanity drilled out of them by hoardes of dysfunctional simpletons, but if anything that just makes the whole situation even more sad.
The above is not why I have never returned to Wells nts, which am sure is lovely, but goes into my file of ridiculous rules and restrictions which appear to belong almost exclusively to cafes and tearooms in the UK.
Cheers!
Yannis
*to be fair, my friend Ade, who is from Norfolk, and whom even after reading this remains my friend, has posted a link to Norfolk dialect on my Faceache wall. So here it is, for your perusal.....
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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