My Facebook account is set for deletion in 14 days, giving plenty of time to re-login and have the deletion time reset …
Meh, nobheads. Fuck it. 🙂
My Facebook account is set for deletion in 14 days, giving plenty of time to re-login and have the deletion time reset …
Meh, nobheads. Fuck it. 🙂
Some epically stupid cow down the road has an electronic countdown to Christmas thing in her front window, which what with her house being right on the T-junction with traffic lights we’re all most days held up there and get to notice another day down to C-Day, starting from at least 62 at the last clocking of its reappearance. So that’s what, 61 days of feverish waiting for this incredible day to come? How balls-achingly sad is that.
Anyway, testicles to it all, shops stocking mince pies in September or John Lewis’s latest shit fest being a news item or topic of conversation among people who should know far better.
Decades ago, in the very late 1970s, down south near my granny and grandpa’s house near Aylesbury, was a beautiful church in the sticks where grandpa played the organ. One Christmas I think might have been the last he was fit enough to play, unless I am misremembering things, this church was very close if not next door to a gorgeous, large, red-bricked country house with a big front door and large bottle-glass windows, a house we somehow knew was owned by Noel Edmonds, years before he became a right-wing nut, way back when he was trendy and fun and known to all kids across the land for Swap Shop.
A freezing December day my ma, Granny and us three kids, parked up across the way from Noel’s house to do a recce on the church, Noel having put an array of coloured light bulbs on a proper large Christmas tree outside his front door. Granny stayed in the car while we went in, of course we were more interested in the hope that Noel might turn up and being a childhood hero of course he’d do something amazing like sign autographs and invite us in to meet Rex the dinosaur and then have us on the show or something, or some such cascade of amazing things that someone like him would do because he’s famous and obviously loves kids, so we thought, and so on. Anyway in we went to this church, as cold inside as outside, and I can’t remember how long we were inside for or what we did, as it wasn’t interesting.
We ultimately returned to the car, disappointed in having not seen Noel. But Granny said while we were inside a car had pulled up outside the house, and a man with longish blonde hair and a beard had come out and been driven away. It could only have been him! As exciting and near mythical as seeing Father Christmas himself.
Does the Queen never wake up in the morning and think, ‘WTF. What am I doing here? How did I get here? How the fucking come can there be such a thing still as a Queen, let alone it be me?’
Does she never pull a commoner aside and ask, ‘can you explain to me what I’m doing here, and why you think I’m so great? Do you in fact think that?’
I wonder as I wonder what she thinks to news of some £10 million of her fortune being squirrelled away in the Caymans. Is she bothered, or think ‘that’s no-one’s fucking business except my own? Heads will roll. Or rather I wish they still did, I’d order it now.’
But 99.99999% of her subjects, let alone the world, don’t have that kind of money, and so far as I know is a single transaction, nor would it occur to them to put it in the Caymans, well I’m thinking, it’s just so out there beyond the realm of ordinary people, beyond any idea they’d have. Does she have any handle on that at all?
The other day I got the aroma of something I couldn’t place.
I remember when years ago, in Vietnam, I was riding this motorbike to from Hanoi to Sapa, where the French had built a hill town decades before (although the locals and the h’mong had been living around there for millennia). On the drive up, what would have been a seven or eight hour drive extended and extended as I got lost more than once, bearing out what another teacher said, that this journey by me, alone, who’d never driven more than 20km on a motorbike, and now throwing myself into a 350km drive cross country where I spoke as good as no Vietnamese (despite the written script having been Romanised and made all the more learnable and accessible), on a dangerous, Soviet-era bike I’d no idea how to fix … was all a bit of a punt. Said teacher and a host of others were taking the train to Sapa this weekend, Sapa proving to be this fantastic village really of small hotels and narrow streets where hill tribe women came to trade, located 1,000s of feet up in the steep, steep hills, the village located so high up that the valleys and gulleys below filled with cloud and the sky around Sapa was burningly sunny and clear. It was way up in Cloud City that they’d all already be, safely, awaiting my arrival …
I left in the morning … By dusk I was driving through hills where the farmers had set the stubble on fire and there were all these great glowing patches of smouldering grass on the hillsides. By the time it was dark, 8 or so in the evening, I’d been driving pretty solid, 10s of kms and scores of minutes lost to being lost, and with all the wrong turns by now I was shattered, and the weather had flipped from scorching sun to bucketing down … So I arrived at the last sizeable town before Sapa, about 40km south, on a river, with only a bridge to cross before the great drive uphill to Sapa was to unfold. In the dark and rain I found a bridge, a big steel-girdered thing, and drove across towards the great lights of a town a couple of hundred metres away on the opposite bank. Before halfway, out of nowhere leapt this bloke in a rain smock, shouting at me, and brandishing a Kalashnikov, and I practically fell off the bike trying to stop it on the greasy wooden roadway.
He quickly sussed I spoke little lingo, and asked, ‘You go … China?’
China? ‘What? Oh no, sorry, no. Sapa. Sa-pa!’
He half-spun around and pointed at the great lights across the water, then the bridge, and shouted: ‘THERE!! CHINA!!!’
I looked harder, and could just make out that those great lights were bright single characters of Chinese script. My God, I thought, it is actually China. So much mystery and allure for me, and I’d be living there in a couple of years, but for now this was the very first time I’d seen the place for real. Yards away, but far enough, beyond this armed guard, through the rain, glowing bright in the dark.
I digress. On the long drive cross country I stopped off a junction on the edge of a hill road, and was distracted by this amazing smell, a hot, humid smell of some kind of plant. I’d no idea what plant but there it was, a rich scent, a vegetation scent more than a flower or blossom. Then I remembered where I’d smelled this before, years before, in Kew Gardens, where our pa would take us some summer Sundays and in the incredible Victorian greenhouses, with towering trees and thick lush green-leaved plants all around the walkways, the air so thick with humid heat and aromas, that was where I remembered it from. Lovely gorgeous Kew, laid out centuries before, thousands of miles away, to bring the wonders of the world home for all to see and marvel … including the Great Pagoda.
And there I sat in the middle of Vietnamese farmland, sitting on this extremely handsome motorbike, connecting back to London from years before.
What a vision is Kew, what a wonderful thing to have done, and how long and far reaching the impacts.
A friend at boxing asked about paramedicking, and it being St Patrick’s Day he alluded to how bad it might get at weekends dealing with hammer heads. I thought about it and realised I’ve worked a few weekends already and have yet to experience the drunken riots and violence of lore that make up so many news stories about why paramedics leave the profession, stories illustrated with images of women in high heels collapsing outside kebab shops. This isn’t the hubris of ignorance, no doubt I’m going to get my horrible fill of that, and a couple of folk who’ve fallen down in the pub or the club have ended up in the back of our bus, having drunk themselves into a stupor (although females don’t drink to excess, they fall down because their drink’s been spiked – the five pints and 10 Zambuckas and MDMA tab aren’t why their irises are like dinner plates and they can’t stand up).
But so far the real boozers haven’t come fists flying on a Friday night. They come at midday on a Tuesday, or at 5 am on a Thursday. The solitary drinkers, complaining of stomach ache, seering, stabbing stomach pain, or pain on their left flank, blood in the vomit. They’re not out with friends in cool bars, having a laugh or getting laid, they’re alone in homes like cess pits, drinking cheap beer, whiskey, or 3-litre blue bottles of white lightning cider in flats they co-habit with mould, cat shit and filth.
As the first glimmer of dawn cracks the horizon, we arrive with swelling eyelids at a depressing 1970s estate of houses and small flats. We’re looking for a flat, we press the bell a few times and eventually are buzzed in. The flat door is ajar, we push it open with trepidation like the scene in Jaws when they find Ben Gardner’s boat at night, following a trail of destruction and detritus leading to a body. We hear the voice, usually a single male, bent over in agony, bottles strewn around a dingy room without carpet, having had yet another of the most depressing one-person parties and now begging for morphine. Crap everywhere, Rizlas, baccy, heaving ashtrays, crisp packets, Pot Noodles, a bowl of sick, prescriptions, maybe a dirty T-shirt of an AA-type support group that’s evidently not working, a file of ASBOs and warning letters from the council. It’s well known, it’s official to any number of authorities: They’re ‘alcohol dependent’.
Two big bottles of the big blue bottle cider seems to be the mainstay of a few of them, the daily baseload of six litres of this industrial effluent. It’s so potent you could drive a scooter off it, but in fact you couldn’t because it’d corrode the engine as soon as hit it. But two bottles gets them where they need to be, this state of non existence, this weird prolonged suicide fuelled by this disgusting piss, that they give to themselves both barrels.
Each day they drink away is a day lost, then it becomes two days, a day to drink then a day to recover, then three days, then four for the day they’ve taken off their life. Pancreatitis, cirrhosis, perfarated ulcers, GI bleeds, stomach cancer, bowel cancer, pancreatic cancer, strokes, MIs, ‘wet brain’. Once the pancreas is shot through they’re looking at diabetes and rotting toes. They’ve often already got one of these diseases, but are lining up for more as they line up the next glass of alien acid. Unbelieveable amounts of physical pain they’re lining up for themselves, even if they do sober up then they are physically wrecked and get to spend their shortened lives reflecting on the hell they’ve created for themselves, and others. People in their 40s who look like they’re in their 60s, and it’s a bloody awful 60 years at that. And yet you know they’re not going to make 50.
They don’t always drink alone, they have boozing buddies. I wanted to say to one once, these people are not your friends. Look at the state of the shithole they let you live in, the shittiness of which they regularly contribute to. They’re not your friends as in they like you, or care about you, they don’t even know you because they’re as pissed as you are. They hang out with you because you provide a venue for them to get hammered in, that’s all, a warm room and like-piss-minded company instead of sitting out in the cold getting tutted at by passers-by or at home being berated by furious or weeping partners and family.
Sometimes the family is there, raging or breaking down, but often the family is mentioned as some ‘other’ who lives not far away but maybe hasn’t been seen in weeks, months or years, and the most bizarre and inane of arguments lies at the heart of it, or there’s an allusion to a colossal act of booze-inspired violence that ended a relationship or killed a career.
Or the family is there as a son or daughter who’s taken after their errant parent and is also smashed out of their minds. Maybe there’s a picture of a baby not seen in a year, which helps fuel their anger and hate, regret, self-loathing. Self-loathing that has also led to years of self-harm by cutting themselves they have arms or legs like birch trees, so they drink to obliterate the pain, but instead only rot their organs, their lives, their souls. At heart there is some epic hurt, something really did them in somewhere along the line, but it’s not being expurgated, exorcised, dealt with at all, it’s just being drowned out by drink, and yet the pain worsens, like a cancer, feeding off the drink as its roots spread throughout the mind and spirit while the organs are killed off.
The solo drinkers can game it sometimes, call in with reports of ‘coffee granules’ in their vomit, med speak for a GI bleed serious enough for an ambulance and its cargo of oromorph, or a trip to morphine HQ in A&E. The patient has picked up this phrase and uses it in their pitch to 999. They may also now know at A&E is another drug for this or that that they’ve found when mixed with drink transports them to an utterly new paradigm of shitfaced. The shamelessness with which they invite professional medics, but strangers, into their homes just so they can get a fix, such is the warping power of the drug.
Sometimes though they don’t want us to take them to A&E, because they don’t have enough money for a taxi to get back. But they have enough for six litres of acid a day, plus tabs, plus bad food. What did you call us out for, at great cost to other patients who are genuinely ill with ailments they didn’t inflict upon themselves, at great cost to the hospital, taxpayers, in fact, everyone out there who has a life, everyone other than you who’s taken it upon yourself to chuck away your single shot at existence.
What do you want?
But they’re still people, ill people, who’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere and got into the Mother of all bad habits. All of them you think, you could turn this around, you can stop this, it is possible. It’s going to hurt, you’re going to be mortified by what you’ve wasted, by what you’ve done, you’re going to remember what others have long remembered and will never forget, things that made them forget you. But you can still do it, there’s still time.
But some of them you think, in fact you know, they’re not going to make the next decade.
And just like when coming across Ben Gardner’s boat, you stand there agog, and ask aloud, ‘what happened?’
It’s such a fogey thing to say, but last night driving back from ambo and I’m listening to the radio and songs about nothing. Really, people singing about nothing, narcissistic little sods, ‘girl’ this, ‘girl’ that, these fatuous odes to people they don’t even bother to name, just ‘girl’. The girls are just as bad, ‘me me me me me’. It all seeps with entitlement and vanity, and thrusting hands around, striking poses.
Poses. So many poseurs.
Just been to the Disappearance at Sea – Mare Nostrum exhibition at the Baltic Gallery in Gateshead. It covers how the EU is dealing with migration and particularly the issue of boat crossings of migrants and refugees from North Africa and the Middle East crossing the Mediterranean to western Europe. Hundreds of people regularly pile onto small coastal fishing boats, if that, and venture onto voyages of between a few and a few hundred miles across the sea, at all times of year, at any time of day or night. And inevitably, regularly, many 100s die.
And this is how the EU seems to want it. The EU responds by ‘death by omission’. Targeted negligence. For it has the surveillance technology, the patrol boats, the ships, the air-sea search aircraft and drones, even satellites, to watch for these approaching vessels, and has the rescue vessels and ships to send to intercept if it’s thought the need is there. But they don’t, no rescue vessels are deployed, instead they warn merchant ships in the vicinity – be that hours of sailing time away – that there may be boats in need of assistance, in a kind of ‘semi-privatisation’ of rescue operations. Not as in the UK model where they’ve sold off Search and Rescue to some American company for profit (why?), but as in, no state forces are deployed, so instead request cargo freighters to go help the hundreds for the sheer sake of humanity, a humanity the EU’s policymakers are desperately bereft of.
And it’s these cargo ships, modern cargo ships with 15 metre high sides, laden atop another 10 metres with container boxes, sent to pick up little people from the sea. They are not rescue vessels, they’re massive, unmanoeuverable things. Do they even have rope ladders or old cargo nets to throw over the sides for people in peril in the water to scramble up? Do they have searchlights aboard? Even blankets? Any facilities at all to warm up 100s of people suffering severe hypothermia (people who would be unable to climb the side of ship in any circumstance).
One instance exhibited told of a boat from Libya with some 600 aboard (no accurate figures of course), they might as well have been aboard a dinner tray, and this boat then went and collided with the ship that had been directed to help, and the boat overturned and most aboard it went down with it. This was at half past nine at night in April 2015, it’s dark already, the sea’s as good as at its coldest from winter.
The exhibit had a graphic charting the course of the ships sent to help this boat and its hapless rescuer, which grows into a mess of loops and squiggly lines as these tanking great ships with turning circles of half a mile and stopping distances of even more scrabble in the darkness in pursuit of fading shouts of 100s of people, all drifting apart and away into the pitch black. Simply deadly chaos. What must it be like for the crews of those ships, thrust into rescue operations they’re not trained for with nothing like the equipment they need to hear those voices trail off and disappear with the bodies into the deep.
In one week in April 2015 some 1,200 people lost their lives attempting to cross. Now that’s on a par with the number that went down on the Titanic. The whole world’s heard of the Titanic, this seminal event from over a century ago. Yet that many can die in a week in the Med, and it might get a mention on the news, but it might not.
One of the myths of the Titanic’s tragedy is so many aboard died because they were of the lower classes and kept below decks while the upper class got first dibs on the lifeboats. But however true or untrue was this murderously rigid social hierarchy then, it’s surely as true now for how the EU treats non-EU people at the lowest points in their lives. They can drown with their children in the freezing dark, it’s OK, they’re foreign and come from lesser lands. The real concern is if they actually make landfall and start claiming benefits and blowing things up …
Those that make it safely would be the ones we’ve seen in Paris, bechained with crappy metal figurines of the Eiffel Tower or selfie-sticks, or in Madrid with these parachutes stalls of shoes and handbags, ready to pull up and run at the glimpse of a policeman.
There’s a book out that makes the point about how Italy’s bombing of Libya in 2011 marked the centenary of states bombing other states. In a way the technology is simply an ever more enhanced means of countries projecting power or whatever their agenda is by lobbing high explosives at their supposed foes. What’s changed in that time, however? How far do the means justify the ends, or do the means supersede them? What’s not changed is there’s always the technology and money and the will to kill people, but never enough to save them.