2012

I notice that the 'Best Of 2012' reviews have started appearing in this weekend's papers.  I always enjoy reading what others have been watching, reading and listening to, so I thought I'd compile my own list of my 20 favourite tracks of 2012.

You will notice that this list isn't comprised of just new music from 2012.  Reading the end of year lists of some of my internet chums makes me realise how out of touch with new music I am.  I was tempted to to add some obscure dubstep cut just to impress you all or a hit from One Direction to improve my image with the kids.  But I thought, sod it, I'll just record the 20 tracks, old and new, that I have enjoyed listening to most this year.

You will note that there are only two Pet Shop Boys tracks this year for reasons explained elsewhere.  There are also few old tracks and, in particular, a few from 2011.  This is primarily because I picked up a few choice items from other people's 'Best of 2011' lists and enjoyed them during the early part of 2012 (it is highly likely that a handful of Daddy or Chips's Top 50 of 2012 will appear in next year's list).

The tracks aren't in order of preference and you will also notice that there are 21 tracks listed.  Number 21 is a wonderful piece of classical music that I've returned to over and over again, so I thought I'd add it as a postscript to my main musical selection.

Each of the tracks is linked to either YouTube, Vimeo or Soundcloud if you click on them.  In addition, all of the tracks except one are available in a Spotify playlist.  The missing track, Randy Newman's I'm Dreaming, is available as a free download from his website.

I hope you enjoy my selection and, if you've compiled your own list, I'd love to see it.

1. Elton John vs Pnau – Good Morning To The Night
2. Jessie Ware – 110%
3. The 2 Bears – Bear Hug
4. Unknown Mortal Orchestra – Swim and Sleep (Like a Shark)
5. Iron And Wine – Godless Brother In Love
6. Jake Bugg – Country Song
7. Elton John – Tiny Dancer
8. Public Enemy – Harder Than You Think
9. MFSB – Love Is The Message
10. Pet Shop Boys – Winner
11. Joe Goddard – Gabriel (feat. Valentina)
12. Phantom Limb – The Pines
13. Yusuf Azak – Smile Tactics
14. Choir Of Young Believers – Hollow Talk
15. Holland-Dozier – Why Can’t We Be Lovers
16. Ornette – Crazy - Nôze Remix
17. Monkey Maffia – I Know You N.M.S
18. I’m Dreaming – Randy Newman
19. Big Big Train – Judas Unrepentant
20. Pet Shop Boys – The Way Through the Woods 
21. Andrew Davis – Vaughan Williams : Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis

Worry

I'm one of life's worriers. I worry about anything and everything. I even worry if I don't have anything to worry about.

I type this in a hotel in Bangkok. We arrived yesterday for a holiday in Thailand and our trip from home to Bangkok hotel encapsulates how my worried mind works. Let me share my worries with you.

• I worried the cats would be too stressed going to the cattery (they weren't, and it's actually a 'Cat Hotel')
• I worried I had forgotten something that we needed to take (so far, I haven't identified anything, thanks to a much-used 'Things Nick Needs On Holiday' list that I prepared many years ago and covers every eventuality)
• I worried we would have too much to pack into our one big case (we didn't, although, as always, the shutting of the case was a challenge. Interestingly, no matter how much we put in the case, the weight always seems to be just under 25 kg)
• I worried we would be too late / too early getting to Heathrow (we weren't, thanks to a carefully planned route that gives us a stop at a services close to the M25 and 20 minutes drive to the airport)
• I worried there would be an accident on the motorway / our car would break down (there wasn't / it didn't)
• I worried our seats would be too near the toilets (they weren't. This worry has its origins in the time we flew to Sri Lanka and, two hours out of Heathrow, one of the toilets overflowed. It wasn't very pleasant and we had to turn back to the UK)
• I worried they wouldn't have a vegetarian meal for my wife (there wasn't. So a big 'hurrah!' that at least one of my worries came to fruition. Fortunately, my wife eats fish and they had a fish dish going spare)
• I worried I wouldn't sleep on the plane (I did. I always do. In fact, I had over 6 hours sleep)
• I worried we had forgotten to get a visa to enter Thailand (we didn't need a visa. I'd checked on the Thai travel website at least twice, so I knew this was the case. Still, you never know and it never hurts to worry about it)
• I worried there would be no one to meet us at Bangkok airport (there was. A nice man called Atu).

I know that sometimes my worries can seem irrational, but it's the way I am. I guess the ability to see the worst-case in a situation also helps in my world-saving role as a business continuity consultant. I've tried various techniques to address my worrying and only one thing seems to work. Tamezapam. I was given it earlier this year for some dental work I was having and it worked an absolute treat.  Not only did it stop me worrying about my dental implant it also relaxed me enough to start flirting shamelessly with the dentist's receptionist (not a wise move when the dentist's receptionist is the dentist's wife).


PS. I only posted this after we successfully returned from holiday. I was worried that someone would read this post and, realising our house was empty, break in while we were away and steal all our valuables.

Sad

It really pains me to type this, but I think I might be falling out of love.

Since the eighties I have been inseparable from the Pet Shop Boys.  I've bought all of their records, been to see them on every tour and even joined their fan club, but their latest album makes me sad (see left).

I keep listening to Elysium over and over again in the hope that something will click and its genius will be revealed to me.  But nothing happens and I slip deeper into my sadness.  It's not that it's bad, it's just that it is very, very average and, in my eyes, the Pet Shop Boys are not about 'average' (actually, I'm listening to the album as I type, Give It A Go has come on and it's not even average).

Elysium is largely an album of ballads, which I think is one of the problems I have with it.  I like the anthems and the dance stuff and there is little of these on Elysium.  The other problem is that it sounds like the producer wheeled a couple of Casio keyboards into the studio, started the tape and pressed the pre-set button marked 'Pet Shop Boys'.  One reviewer described it as "Pet Shop Boys on autopilot" and I couldn't disagree.

I think their label knows this album really isn't up to snuff.  I am disappointed that they've done what lesser artists have done in the past and used a review quote in their advertising which is out of context with the tenor of the rest of the review. The adverts describe the album as "gorgeous", a quote from Q Magazine.  Yes, Q Magazine does use the word 'gorgeous' ("there's some absolutely gorgeous music nestling among these 12 well crafted tracks"), but they also use phrases like "patchy quality control", "intermittently enjoyable" and "a mixed bag".  And the bonus CD of instrumental versions of these intermittently enjoyable tracks is really taking the piss.  Come on Parlophone, you're better than this.

So, while our love affair could be over, I'm prepared to work at this relationship to try and salvage some of the magic.  But it takes two to tango (well, three in this relationship), so I'm looking for Neil and Chris to meet me half way.  I'll keep buying the records and going to the gigs if you promise to forsake the ballads and return to the dance anthems.  It could still work.

Funeral

My wife revealed to me recently that she has already decided on the format and content of her funeral.  Up until this point it hadn't occurred to me to plan how I would like to be dispatched, but the more I think of it, the more I think it's a good idea.

I'm still finalising a few of the details, but I thought I'd post a draft of my current thinking, just in case.

1. I should like a biodegradable coffin.  I want to be cremated, so something that could go in the recycling boxes would be preferable
2. I should like the funeral service to be in our local village church. I don't believe in God, but the building is beautiful
3. If it can be arranged, I'd like a New Orleans style procession from home to the church. If it can't, our friend Rob plays the clarinet so maybe he can walk at the front playing selections of his choice (not Stranger on the Shore please)
4. I should like our vicar, Tony, to preside over the funeral. He does a lovely funeral. The only condition is that there should be no mention of God or how richly I will be rewarded in the heavenly afterlife
5. I should like someone to arrange for three or four mysterious, attractive young women to be in the congregation. They should be wearing black, their faces covered by veils and cry quietly throughout the service
6. I have yet to decide on the exact music for the service, but I know I'd like Striggio's Ecce Beatum Lecum playing as friends arrive and Allegri's Miserere as the coffin leaves the church. No hymns, but the congregation should sing The Flaming Lips' Do You Realize?? at some point during the service
7. I have also yet to decide on readings.  There will probably be an extract from Brideshead Revisited and a poem from John Cooper Clarke (probably Twat or Readers' Wives)
8. I want to be cremated at Loughborough crematorium.  Only family and close friends should be there. If you're not sure if you're a close friend, drop me a line and I'll let you know
9. As the coffin goes through the curtain, I should like Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis to be played
10. I'm not sure what to do with my ashes.  If I go before my wife, perhaps she could scatter them on Cocoa Island in the Maldives
11. The wake should be held at the village hall.  Cucumber sandwiches, cakes and scones should be served with tea (no alcohol). If the New Orleans band is there, they should play a few selections from the Treme soundtrack. If they're not, maybe Rob could play again whatever he played earlier.
12. I should like an obituary in The Guardian. If this can't be arranged a mention on the The Afterword website would be nice

That's about all that I can think of a the moment. I will give this more thought over the coming months and, rest assured, you'll be the first to be notified of any changes.

Women

My last post on this blog seems to have been very well received.  I've had a number of women who have offered to have sex with me* and one of my friends has asked to be mentioned in my next post. So, the champagne is on ice, Carolyn, and it's a big shout out to Linda and the rest of the Sutton Bonnington posse!  Who'd have thought when I started this that I would be doing requests?

I've realised that, as I've got older, most of my close friends are women.  I have a few close male friends, but if I'm given the choice of a few beers with the lads or a cream tea with the girls, it's the lapsang souchong every time.

It wasn't always thus.  I was incredibly shy with girls as a teenager.  I think this was mainly down to my grammar school education at a single-sex school.  We had limited exposure to girls at the time when that exposure was needed most.  I suspect I was not alone in thinking that girls were a completely different animal to us boys.  For one thing, teenage post-pubescent boys spent all their time thinking about sex and all girls thought about was Marc Bolan and horseriding.

My shyness resulted in a few embarrassing dates and, I'm afraid to say, I treated some girlfriends rather shabbily.  It was the whole 'relationship' bit that I had a problem with in the early days.  My approach to chatting up girls varied from the 'juvenile Leslie Phillips' to the 'if I concentrate hard enough, that girl will ask me out'.

I was also incredibly naive.  The realisation that women aren't really that different to men didn't strike me until I was in my early twenties.  It certainly never occurred to me that women might enjoy having sex.

I went out with one girl for only a short while, but it was great fun.  She was small, bubbly and made me laugh.  I was 17 and my virginity had never even been remotely threatened (this didn't happen until I met my wife**). After we had been out a few times and we were snuggled up on the sofa of her parents' front room, she told me she was on the Pill.  My reaction was not, with hindsight, the obvious one.  I asked her what type it was, whether she was worried about the side effects and then I got my bus home.  I think it's what Germaine Greer would call 'having it delivered on a plate'. 

My university years were also largely women-free, dominated by drinking, football and following obscure 70s band around London (remember Burlesque, Supercharge and Roogalator?).  It was only when I went out into the world of work that I made some lasting friendships with women who taught me a huge amount about relationships and how the female mind and body worked.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to some of my teenage girlfriends.  To Debbie, Joy, Bonita and a few others whose names I can't remember, I'm sorry I was such a git, but I was young, pulsating with hormones and hadn't read your instruction manual.  And to the girlfriend on the Pill, I have few regrets in life, but if I were to list them, my time spent with you on that winter evening when I was 17 is probably in the top 5.



*One woman.  And she put ;-) after her comment, which is internet-speak for "in your dreams".
** Not true.  My wife reads this blog, but she's easily bored and won't get down to these bits in smaller font at the bottom.

Job

When I was travelling on the tube last week an elderly woman collapsed on the platform.  A group of people rushed to help her and a man further down the platform came forward to explain that he was a doctor.  I thought, “I wish I could do that”.

I have a dream that plays out along the following lines:

My wife and I are flying abroad for a holiday.  We're about two hours out of East Midlands airport and all of a sudden there is an announcement over the aircraft PA.

 

“This is the captain speaking.  Please do not be alarmed, but is there anyone on board who knows how to carry out a Business Impact Analysis?”.

There are a few gasps amongst the passengers.  Someone near to us starts praying quietly.  And then I stand up and announce,

“Don’t worry, I’m a Business Continuity Consultant”.

As I’m led through Economy into Business Class, I hear a woman give thanks to God.  In Business Class, two stewardesses are leaning over a middle-aged businessman.  His tie has been loosened, he is sweating and he has a flannel on his forehead.

I kneel next to the man and with a comforting smile explain that it’s all going to be OK.  I turn to one of the stewardesses and say,

“Can you please get me my case.  It contains a copy of the new ISO22301 documentation.  I’ll also need a pencil and paper, and a flipchart.”

Two hours later I emerge from Business Class through the curtain into Economy.  There is a hush.

“We’ve managed to establish the Maximum Tolerable Period of Disruption for his critical processes and he’s agreed his Recovery Time Objectives.  If we can schedule a Strategy Workshop in the next couple of weeks, he’s going to be fine”.

The cabin erupts into applause.  A stewardess kisses me on the cheek. One of the stewards slips his telephone number into my back pocket.  A small boy comes toward me clutching a teddy bear,

“Can you carry out a Business Impact Analysis on my teddy, mister?”

I ruffle his hair and give him my business card.  As I approach my seat I can see my wife mouthing the words “I love you".

The only two grains of truth in this scenario are that, if I keep working as a Business Continuity Consultant, my wife and I will always be sitting in Economy (Premium Economy at a push) and I'm pretty sure that my wife loves me.

I enjoy my work, but I accepted long ago that being a Business Continuity Consultant is not a glamorous profession.  There are some jobs where women want to have sex with you just because of what you do (curse you, firemen!).  Business Continuity is not one of these jobs.  It needs a more dynamic title for a start.  I want to be a 'Crisis Preventer' or a 'World Saver', not a Business Continuity Consultant.

But it's what I do. And whenever I feel as though my job couldn't be any less glamorous I comfort myself that at least I'm not still in IT.

Football

When I was eight, my dad took me to see Coventry City, my local team, play Sunderland at Highfield Road and ever since I have been a Manchester United fan.  The Coventry / Sunderland match ended a dull 0-0, I couldn't see much as it was all standing and I remember it being cold and wet.  Manchester United, on the other hand, had George Best and were about to win the European Cup.  There was no contest.

My experience was not untypical for boys growing up in Coventry in the 1960s.  I can't remember many of my mates supporting Coventry City at that time.  Post-1966, there were a few supported West Ham, and a handful followed Liverpool, but United were definitely the favourites at Wheelwright Lane Junior School.

We went to Highfield Road again to see Coventry against United the season after they won the European Cup in 1968.  We arrived three hours before kick off and already the ground was heaving.  It was so full that many of the children, including me, were passed to the front and put over the wall on to the side of the pitch.  I spent a blissful couple of hours inches from Bobby Charlton, Denis Law and George Best.

I know I fall into that easy stereotype of the United fan living a considerable way from Old Trafford, but I couldn't give a monkey's.  Once I was committed to the team, I was there through Thick and Thin.  Admittedly, since 1968, this has been mainly Thick, but I am proud to say I was there at Bristol City for the first away game when they were relegated to the Second Division.  Above all it's been a considerable emotional investment on my part and one which has been paid back with interest.  In fact, if United never win anything ever again, I am happy to live off that emotional interest for the rest of my life.

Whilst United are my team, I enjoy watching good football, whichever team is playing.  I've always looked forward to the start of each new season for the new challenges, the new players and the width of Jamie Redknapp's ties.  This season, however, I'm completely disinterested in the whole thing.  I'm sure this is partly down to the football overdose we experienced this summer from the Euros and Olympics, but I know that a big reason is my diminishing respect for the players, clubs and the football authorities post-Olympics.

For the past couple of weeks we've seen and heard inspiring stories of dedicated athletes who have made us feel proud.  Now it's all over we're faced with the return of Suárez, Terry, Barton and the rest of their obscenely-paid chums.  At Week 1 of the new season I really can't be bothered.

I'm sure that I'll soon get enthused again about football.  The signing of Robin van Persie has cheered me up no end, although I appreciate the irony of my mood being lifted by the signing of another highly-paid footballer.  In the meantime I'm really looking forward to the Paralympics.  I hope the wave of goodwill that will accompany these games embarrasses some of the football millionaires into changing their ways, but somehow I doubt it.

Stan

My dad was a great bloke.  It wasn't just me who thought so, it was also my schoolmates who told me that they wished they had a dad like mine. If you look in the dictionary for the definition of a great bloke, there should be the word ‘Stan’.  He was funny, kind, generous and the life and soul of every party.  He was someone who was prepared to go for the unconventional option, if he, his family or friends would enjoy it.

He died a couple of years ago of an aggressive cancer that was the first serious illness I can ever remember him having.  Even during his last days he still had more energy than I have on a good day.  Little everyday things will trigger a memory of my dad and he popped into my mind recently when we were arranging our holiday to Thailand later in the year.  He loved foreign travel and was delighted that my wife and I shared that passion.  In his later years, when his wings had been clipped somewhat, every holiday my wife and I arranged would be met with the response “how lovely” when we told him where we were going.  My mum, on the other hand, hated travelling any farther than Teignmouth.

When my dad left school he took an apprenticeship as a carpenter and joiner.  He became frustrated earning money for someone else, so he decided to start his own business as an exhibition contractor.  He travelled Europe with his job, often for weeks at a time and always returned with gifts to prove that he'd been abroad. I got wooden clogs from Holland, a set of communist badges from the USSR, some shoes with pom-poms on from Greece and lederhosen from Germany.  The lederhosen were particularly fine, but I can't remember ever putting them on even though my dad encouraged me to wear them to school to show my friends (I didn't think it was appropriate for a 17 year-old studying maths, further maths and physics). He would also always bring a Toblerone. In those days, the Toblerone to a young boy was a thing of wonder.  It wasn't something you ever saw down our local newsagent, it tasted fantastic, and for children who still had their baby teeth it was almost impossible to eat.

My dad took me with him to Paris on a couple of occasions.  The first time I was 12; I had never flown before and had never been abroad.  We did all the usual tourist stuff, but he also decided it would be good for his son's development to take him to the Moulin Rouge.  If you're not familiar with the Moulin Rouge it is what these days would be called a Burlesque. I remember it being quite classy and very exotic (one of the acts involved a dolphin), and I was most impressed that my dad took me, not to the early show, but the late session that started about 11 pm.

My abiding memory of the evening was that I was in an environment which was, in more ways than one, very adult and I was being treated like one by everyone around me.  I even had a (small) glass of wine for the first time.  We sat at a round table with a group of tourists and I was next to a slightly drunk, elderly American lady.  We had a very nice chat about life for a young man in England, but she kept asking me whether I minded seeing all these naked women on the stage.  On every occasion I responded truthfully that I did not.  After we left the Moulin Rouge, in the early hours of the morning, dad walked me through the streets of Paris and explained to me all about the ladies of the night that we passed as we walked back to our hotel.  It was only some years after that I realised that this was probably the ‘facts of life’ chat that all children get when they reach a certain age.

When I returned to school and told my friends of my Moulin Rouge visit my dad's position as a great bloke was unassailable. However, our French-born French mistress was horrified that my father had chosen to take me to a burlesque rather than the delights of the Louvre or the Musée d'Orsay.  These days any child that is taken to the equivalent of a lap dancing club and given wine is probably placed on the ‘At Risk Register’.

If I persevere with this blog (it’s all going pretty well so far; much better than the ukulele), there will be more posts about my dad.  I like to think I share many of his characteristics, although, in truth, my sister is much more like him.  Since he died there’s been a huge void in the family which will never be filled.  I miss him a lot and think about him often.  I thought about having ‘A Great Bloke’ on his gravestone, but my mum went for something a bit more traditional.  It’s a shame, because I think he would have liked it.

Music

Music was my first love. And it will be my last*.  Music is such a big part of my life that a single blog entry just won't do.  I will keep revisiting music as this blog progresses, but I already have mental place-holders for future posts to cover the impact that The Beatles, Bowie, prog and the Pet Shop Boys have had in my life. This post will have to serve as an overview.

I have excellent taste in music. You may feel that the Red Hot Chili Peppers are a fine rock band, but you're wrong, they're crap. You may feel that Tom Waits encapsulates the spirit of American music, but you're wrong again.  He's a charlatan who, if you're honest with yourself, makes turgid growlings that no right-thinking person could enjoy.  And you may believe that Lady GaGa is not fit to wipe the shoes of Bob Dylan, but, yet again, you'd be wrong.  In years to come there will be national holidays for Lady GaGa, when all Dylan will be remembered for is his Christmas Album. 

I'm joking, of course. I do have excellent taste in music (and a 'catholic' taste in music according to my wife), but these are just my opinions on artists who really don't float my boat. One of the rules I apply to music is that there is no 'good' or 'bad' music, just music I do or don't like.  The fact that I don't like the RHCPs doesn't mean they're bad, just that they're not for me (they have a huge global following, so someone must think they're good).  This woolly, liberal view is something that was triggered by Danny Baker.  Before he became the radio superstar we know today, Danny wrote for the NME in the 70s and, in particular, the NME Singles column.  I shared Danny's love of prog, but I also enjoyed pop music and disco.  I kept this very quiet from my long-haired mates who would proudly take their Budgie albums to school to show off.  One of Danny's Singles columns waxed lyrical about the latest Village People single (Macho Man, I think), a track I thought was the dog’s bollocks. I can't remember what he wrote exactly, but the tenor of his review was that this is pop music; it's not great art, but it sounds fantastic, so get over it. I felt that I had been given a green light to enjoy anything and everything. 

Since I can remember, music has become a drug for me.  I'm always searching for that same hit that I got when I saw The Beatles as a child on Saturday teatime television.  The 70s were my musical heyday. Glam, prog, punk, reggae, soul, disco were all genres I dived into at the deep end, usually emerging excited, invigorated and craving more.  In the past 20 years, however, there has little to make me feel the same way.  I have come to realise that as we get older, the 'new' music we hear is usually something we've heard before and when we're young it genuinely is new.  I’ve become a bit jaded about new music, but I firmly believe that musical discovery should be a priority in every young person’s life.  I can’t see it, but I hope to God that today’s teenagers are getting the same thrill listening to The Wanted or Rizzle Kicks that I got listening to David Bowie in my teens.

While I've been waiting for the next big musical buzz to come along, my tastes have moved away from popular music to classical, particularly modern classical and early choral music. In addition, I've developed a love of electronica and ambient music. I'm also a big fan of dance music (Progressive House is a favourite).  I know that all this stuff tickles the same brain cells in my head that were previously allocated to prog, but I don't care.  I'll keep searching for the next popular musical hit and until it comes along the genius of Arvo Pärt, Jóhann Jóhannsson and Harold Budd will keep me company. 


*EDIT.  May not be actually true.  My wife has asked me to point out that, whilst the Hey Jude Hitmakers may have been my first love, she will be my last.

Change

There's a Buddhist view that the two certainties in life are death and change. Nothing stays the same and, rather than resist this, we should embrace it. My work experience suggests that most people are uncomfortable with change, but I've always welcomed it as a chance for regeneration, reassessment and new opportunities.

For nine years I have been a huge fan of The Word magazine. I can't claim to be its biggest fan, because if I did, I know I would be in trouble with a large group of people I have come to regard as friends and who also feel the same as me about The Word.  The Word was written for me, a lover of music, the arts, someone for whom the first flush of youth is a distant memory.  The Word was not just a magazine, it supported The Word Massive, a vigorous on-line community (a community where everyone called me Handsome).  It produced podcasts which were always entertaining, usually funny and often wee-inducingly funny (the Van Morrison and the harmonica story is my particular favourite).  The Word promoted wonderful gigs in a small pub over the road from the its office.  It was the complete package.

The economic climate and the change in the way people consume their media means that The Word's business model is no longer viable.  This month's issue is its last and the website was closed down today.  Someone on the website posted that "It's only a magazine and nobody died.  It just feels like it." and, at first, I felt the same way.  But since the announcement I've realised it is only a magazine. One of the best, but only a magazine nonetheless.  The Word Massive have already shown their commitment to the on-line community by starting another website at www.theafterword.co.uk.  And, if I'm completely frank, it looks a lot fresher and more modern than The Word website.  I've no doubt that the main players at The Word, Mark Ellen and David Hepworth, will move onto new projects which will be equally entertaining.  The other staff (most of whom I know by name, many of whom I've met) will also be huge assets to wherever they work next and I will follow their next steps with interest.  As always happens, life is moving on.

I'll miss the Word a lot, it was brilliant while it lasted, but things change. If you're a lover of music and haven't read it, the latest issue is now available, so go and buy a copy.

Invasion

I am not a well man.  Up until recently my doctor and the Obscure Diseases Clinic at Leicester Royal Infirmary were baffled by my condition, but it's been confirmed recently that I'm suffering from acute hypochondria.  This has come as something of a relief. Now that I have given my condition a name I feel much more relaxed and able to deal with the difficult years ahead.

I feel comfortable in middle-age with illness and the treatments that go with them.  It wasn’t always thus, however.  When I was young I couldn't deal with hospitals at all and had problems with any procedure that involved sticking things in a part of my body that wasn’t designed for such a purpose.  Visiting elderly relatives in hospital and seeing all the bags of blood, drips and tubes was impossible.

As I've got older and had one or two hospital stays, I've become used to clinical environments and necessary invasive procedures.  A complete list of all the illnesses over the course of my life can be provided on request, but one of these required a barium enema. This was conducted at a small cottage hospital just outside Redditch by a couple of elderly ladies wearing flowery 'pinnies' (I'm sure they were clinical garments but they looked exactly like the things each of my grandmothers wore when they were in the kitchen).  As the barium was 'introduced' they were chatting quite happily about the terrible state of Redditch town centre and what they were getting for their husbands’ tea when they got home.  What they weren't talking about was the six foot tube (I may be exaggerating, but it certainly felt like it was about six foot long) they had just inserted up my bottom. This everyday approach to something that, to me, was not something that happened every day served to relax me and removed any embarrassment I might have been feeling.

I have also had an angiogram. The angiogram involved sticking a tube into my groin and feeding it through until it reached the heart.  Again, this was a routine procedure for the consultant that treated me, but definitely not routine for me.  On this occasion I was also completely relaxed about the whole thing, not because of two elderly ladies in pinnies, but because of the handful of ‘happy pills’ I had begged the nurse to give me (this visit to the hospital will probably have a blog post all of its own at some point in the future.  It involves an electric razor, an attractive nurse and me being completely out of it.  It will also involve a hilarious joke with the punchline “and there was a small prick”).  If you throw in the three prostrate examinations I’ve had (although one of those times was at a church fundraising event, so probably doesn't count) and the operation on my nose I think I’ve got over my childhood fear of hospitals once and for all.

So, if I can have a general anaesthetic, a happy pill or an elderly pinafored lady to distract me I think I can cope with just about anything the hand of fate throws at me.  There are two things that still give me cold sweats, however.  The thought of having any treatment on, in or round the back of the eyeball makes me feel sick.  And if there is ever anything wrong with my prostate, I’m not sure I will be able to deal with the tube they will use to treat it (Google ‘enlarged prostate treatment’ if you want the details).

To lighten the mood, I felt it was a good idea to include a couple of my favourite ‘Doctor, doctor…’ jokes from the wonderful Old Jews Telling Jokes.  If you like these, there are loads more available to download for free as an iTunes podcast.