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The Last Screw
Another DIY victory to add to my ever growing list.
Mum had her friendly neighbourhood gardener attach the two blocks of wood to the bench feet to raise it up so she could get on and off.
She then decided she didn’t want the bench after all, but it was too high to sit on comfortably for anyone else.
The blocks were attached with numerous long screws. Some came out. Some didn’t.
Having learnt from my earlier tortuous experience fitting a new toilet seat (full story still to come), I knew the best way to remove the remaining screws was to saw them off.
And (now I knew where it was) my trusty saw did the business right down until the last screw (it’s always the last screw).
I just couldn’t cut the last screw!
Of course! My trusty saw was a wood saw, not a hacksaw, and by now it could barely cut through butter (although it would certainly have melted butter, the blade was so hot). It was as blunt as the blocks I was trying to remove.
New hacksaw (and a few days to rest up) later, a couple of strokes of the fresh blade did the trick.
Now the bench is frankly a little low, but at least my bare feet can touch grass.
Live at the Counter Eurovision '79
“without the knowledge of your history you cannot determine your destiny”
Forty-seven years ago, Misty In Roots played at the Counter Eurovision rock festival in Brussels, in response to the Eurovision song contest being held that year in Jerusalem, and in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
Less than a month later, Blair Peach was murdered by the British police on the streets of Southall while defending the town from the National Front.
Ealing Council allowed the march of the fascists to go ahead despite a 10,000-strong petition from local people opposing it.
Clarence Baker, Misty In Roots' manager, was violently assaulted by police that day and left in a coma for five months.
Organist Vernon Hunt was jailed for six months on trumped up charges. He was so broken by this experience of state oppression that he never rejoined the band.
Today the British government allowed another fascist march in London on the anniversary of the Palestinian Nakba.
Today I dragged my 11 year old down to the Dominion Centre and Library in Southall to meet Misty In Roots in the entrance foyer and learn a little history.
The Dominion Centre is the site of the former Dominion Theatre where Blair Peach’s lifeless body lay “in state” for six weeks while thousands visited to pay their last respects.
This iconic photo of Misty In Roots outside the entrance now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.
We came home with a signed limited edition red vinyl copy of arguably the best live album ever recorded. We spoke to some very nice people. And we bumped into my friend Happy.
And we met Poko, Kazi and Tunga from the band.
“if you’re not conscious of the present you’re like a cabbage in this society”
Apocalypse Now Then
Finished reading: In Plain Sight The Life and Lies of Jimmy Savile by Dan Davies đź“š
In a preview to the dramatised television series of his biography, author Dan Davies says:
There is not a day that passes where I don’t wonder why I chose Savile. Of all the people to become obsessed with, to follow and agonise over, why did it have to be him? It is a question that provides no answer. The only consolation I can find is that my instincts were right.
I wonder why I keep being drawn back to Savile, but I will trust my instincts.
The opening chapter of Davies' book, “Apocalypse Now Then”, reads, deliberately so, as a litany: a nefarious late night excavation of Savile’s dead body; eulogies from the great and the good that followed his death; the absence of any knowing of the person who carried out the good deeds that earned the tributes from family, friends, and colleagues; the eventual and inevitable exposure of his lifetime of money-grabbing, psychopathic criminality; Savile’s ultimate immunity from it all.
The Magic Faraway Tree
Took my boys to see The Magic Faraway Tree. đź“ş
I always remembered my favourite primary school teacher reading The Enchanted Wood and The Magic Faraway Tree just before home time every day. I loved the idea of climbing up through the clouds into a new magical land. I’ve had my head in the clouds ever since!
My boys both enjoyed me and their mum reading the books to them, too. That’s so long ago for big kid now that he didn’t want to go to the cinema and miss out on his “device time”. So he was very pleasantly surprised and amused to find himself laughing out loud all the way through. He particularly enjoyed the school/prison scene which he said was “just like” his high school, haha!
Little kid got very excited/frightened when little Fran(nie) got stuck in the Land of Goodies and he thought she might not make it back to the ladder the the Magic Faraway Tree in time. He was shaking and jumping up and down in his deluxe reclining viewing chair. Later, he leaned over to me, clawing at me. I put my arm around him and tried to comfort him.
“Are you all right?”
I asked.
“I want to eat.”
He said.
“You want to leave?”
I asked, doing my best Saucepan Man impression.
" I want to eat, silly."
“You want your feet up?”
“DAD! I’M HUNGRY!!!
I magicked a bag of his favourite cheese and onion crisps from the darkness.
I found the whole thing very charming, funny, and really quite emotional.
I wished I’d brought more tissues with me, but it turned out that I had just enough in the end.
The Art of the Deal
Evolution of negotiations with my little kid during the last week:
Me: it’s time to stop gaming now.
Little kid: * throws gaming device across floor, attempts to decapitate me with a kung fu kick to the head *
Me: how about you get in the bath, count to ten, and then you can get out?
LIttle kid: TWENTY! Twenty and I’m in!
Me: hey, do you want to make a deal and get in the bath?
Little kid: ok. I’m in.
Trigger warning.
Custard Woman vs The Dark Lord
If you think America has it bad with a rapist paedophile president hell-bent on fascisting his way out of the international blackmail trap he happily stumbled into with his pants around his ankles… wait ‘til you hear about the UK’s current predicament.
Our rapist paedophile ex-prince aside, and the King’s late rapist paedophile man-of-the-people “jingle jangle” advisor aside, we find ourselves with a prime minister who thinks it’s ok to have a key political advisor who is best friends with a rapist paedophile.
Kiddie-fuckers are bad, but not so bad that you can’t stay in touch and even stay in their mansion while they’re in prison for fucking children.
Of course, its not even the kiddie-fucking that’s the problem. The problem is that the kiddie-fucker looks like he was a foreign asset or a spy. And the key political advisor passed on highly privileged sensitive information to this foreign asset.
Fuck the children! This is about national security and the national interest!
But remember, for all his faults, the key political advisor isn’t a paedophile, as far as we know.
Three strikes and we’ll chop off your broadband.
He does, however, have a history of fucking our children’s (and other poor people’s children’s) futures. He wanted to reduce aid to developing countries as long ago as 2005. And he wanted to expand Heathrow. And he wanted to cut off the internet for seven million Brits found to have downloaded copyrighted material.
Enter Custard Woman. Custard Woman bravely made some vegan custard (unusually smooth, according to her mum), dyed it green to match the green slime she imagined coursing through his’s veins, and promptly accosted him with it, throwing it right into his creepy, frightening-looking face.
To Mandelson’s credit, he brushed it off and carried on with his day. He reappeared five minutes later, custard-free, and claimed the custard was organic and non-toxic. If anything, he looked positively glowing and revitalised - as if he’d just received a hydrating facial massage and a blood/slime transfusion simultaneously. At no time did he complain of being assaulted, or of violent left-wing fascists, unlike modern-day far-right snowflake warriors. Although he did whine about a minor skin irritation on his face. Fuck him!
What brought all this on? Well I was going through my email archive to make sure I wasn’t inadvertently connected to Mandelson, Epstein, Savile or any other kiddie-fuckers or their friends. I a spirit of openness and transparency, this was all I found.
This, and a couple of messages from my fellow not a podcasters. One saying how creepy and frightening Mandelson’s facial mannerisms are. The other saying he is “worse than a bronchoscopy”.
Chilli On The Rocks
Made my usual chilli on Thursday. I must have been a bit distracted because I heated the pan up on a medium-high heat rather that the usual medium, making it too hot for the olive oil. Then I literally dropped the garlic powder jar into the pan (don’t tell the wife!). I got the jar out and thought, wow, that’s a LOT of garlic powder! I did think about scooping it out, but it was already burning and I needed to get the onions and cumin in the pan. I should have started over, but didn’t have enough oil left. Going against all LESS IS MORE principles I figured I could correct for the burnt garlic overdose by simply ADDING MORE STUFF. So I added more cumin, more turmeric, more sweet smoked paprika, more oregano, more jalapeños. It smelled and tasted pretty bad. I added vinegar and Kefir yoghurt, which made it look and taste more like a curry. There was tons of it.
The wife came home and had some for her dinner. She asked what it was (never a good sign). I explained that I added yoghurt to calm it down a bit. She ate it and said it was much better than my usual chilli.
I had some yesterday, and while it was edible, it was obviously (to me) totally overpowered by garlic. I don’t fancy any more of it if I’m honest.
Big Kid and the Umbrella
Big kid had lots of big ideas.
He wanted a big house so all his friends and family could stay and play together.
He wanted a big school so everyone could learn everything they needed to know.
He wanted a big hospital so that everyone could get the help they needed when they needed it.
But most of all, he wanted a big umbrella. In particular, he wanted his granny’s umbrella that she was going to throw away. The umbrella was very old, like an antique. In fact, it was Grandad’s old umbrella. Grandad had sadly died when big kid was a baby. He had cancer. Even though it was very old, and very dusty, big kid really wanted this umbrella. It was a shame to throw it away. And at school they had learned all about reusing old things and not sending them to landfill sites that poison the earth. And it was part of his family’s heritage. And, oh my god, it was BIG! It was a golf umbrella. Not that Grandad played any golf. But he did go on lots of walks in the rain to fetch things for Granny and get him out from under her feet. And now big kid could walk to school and back in the rain without needing to wear a big bulky coat that he would have to carry around with him all day. It would be perfect!
Big kid pleaded with Granny and his mum and dad, and eventually got his way (mum didn’t want “more junk in the house”, so the umbrella lives outside in the communal stairway). Granny is very pleased, and dad gets to use the umbrella, too, sometimes, when he collects little kid in the rain. It’s much better than those silly little umbrellas that snap and collapse in the wind and barely keep your shoulders dry.
Big kid is now very popular at school when it rains at home time. He’s always late home as he provides a sheltered taxi service home to all his friends. They all huddle together under his big umbrella and they walk each other home until he’s the last one and he walks home with his big umbrella all to himself.
Here’s where the story ends.
But in a parallel universe, big kid’s big umbrella becomes a source of envy. Bigger kids want it, and one big kid in particular has no problem taking it. He moves in, full of superficial charm, “Hey kid, nice umbrella! Wow, that’s such a big umbrella, kid. It would be perfect to keep me and my friends dry when it rains. Here, have some Haribos. They’re Tangtastic, your favourites. Let’s walk home together with my friends.”
Bigger kid has lots of stories to tell about how much better he is than everyone else, and, in particular, how much worse everyone else is, and why. “But me and you, we’re the same. We have my Haribos and my big umbrella. We’re a team!”
Big kid doesn’t really know what’s happening but he goes along with it because he doesn’t really have any choice. Bigger kid could just take his umbrella and leave him in the rain to get wet. Bigger kid could take away his Haribos. Big kid’s friends no longer talk to him, but that’s ok because they all soaking wet anyway, and bigger kid’s friends are all kind of bigger and drier. Although they do eat all of big kid’s Haribos. And big kid is no longer big kid. He’s little kid.
Soon, little kid’s big umbrella gets damaged and there’s a hole in it. The bigger kids were messing around with it pretending it was a sword. They stabbed a tree with it. Now not everyone is keeping dry in the rain and some people are getting very wet. Arguments start. Little kid’s umbrella is no longer a source of unity and pride among friends. It’s become a source of conflict and suspicion.
“Some kids are making us wet and need to be kicked out!” they shouted.
“That little kid is making us wet!” said bigger kid. “Kick him out!”
Now little kid has stopped having ideas. They’re dangerous. Bad. Crazy. Like him.
Things could have got better. Or worse.
Little kid’s dad noticed he wasn’t himself and he told his dad everything that happened. Dad spoke to the teachers at school. The grown-ups had some meetings.
Bigger kid told a pack of lies. He said little kid gave him the umbrella. He said little kid stole it from him. He said little kid broke it to stop bigger kid using it. Bigger kid said little kid was stealing his Haribos and selling them to bigger kid’s friends. Bigger kid took the umbrella back to protect it from little kid so that everyone could use it.
Bigger kid’s dad brought bigger kid round and made him say sorry.
Next time bigger kid saw little kid he punched him in the face.
I am bleeding
“AND I WOULD HAVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH IT, TOO, IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU PATHETIC, SINISTER, CHILDISH, MORONIC TYRANT CLOWNS!!1!”
Unsafe discharge and death by licorice
Mum moved downstairs two months ago. It hasn’t been easy. The previous occupiers, our neighbours, left the house a filthy mess. Me and my brother got the kitchen and bathroom cleaned on moving in day, but it was far from ideal. Another neighbour who I know from work/church repainted her walls and ceilings. A neighbour my wife knows weeded the garden and did some cleaning and washing. Little kid posts the dog jumpers and cat tea cosies she knits to keep her eBay customers happy. Big kid sweeps and mops the floor for manga money. Sainsbury’s deliver a crateful of cat food, fizzy drinks, snacks, and black licorice. The licorice keeps her “moving”. I make her a cooked meal every evening, empty the bins, and keep moving furniture around as and when requested. “When I get the place sorted I’ll be fine” is my mum’s mantra. Mine is more “you need to get your health sorted” and “tell your doctor”.
Mum looks set to move at the very start of next month. Moving house is the most stressful life event, and doing so when you’re 80, unwell, and from the home you bought expecting it to be your final home in the town where you went to school is harder. She’s handled it pretty well, to be fair, although the anxiety has kicked in the closer we got to the desired completion date. It’s not been easy for me, either, as there’s a limit to what I can do from a distance. It’s mostly “ask your solicitor” or “tell your solicitor” and trying to reassure her that everything will be all right in the end.
The first week she moved in, she banged her leg during the night causing a pretty horrible haematoma, which required a couple of trips to the hospital, the GP surgery and ongoing home visits from the district nurse. Yesterday morning I was on my third spoon of cornflakes before the school run when I received a text from mum saying she’d had a fall and was on the floor. Her other leg (not the one she banged before) gave way as she got out of bed and she toppled over on to her side. Remarkably, she didn’t break anything and had got herself sitting upright again, but obviously couldn’t get herself up. I couldn’t get her up either, which is probably just as well, as the medical advice is not to move them. My wife stayed with her while I took little kid to school. Paramedics duly arrived and very carefully assessed and treated her and recommended a trip to Accident and Emergency (A&E) due to her elevated heart rate and medical history. She did not want to go, but the alternative was to wait for a home visit from the GP in the afternoon and s/he would certainly call an ambulance.
After a day in A&E, and after I left her to pick up little kid, she was told she would be discharged that evening. They’d booked hospital transport to take her home, but I drove to collect her as it might have been a long wait. When I got there, she couldn’t get out of her chair into her wheelchair without the assistance of two carers. I wondered if she’d be able to get into and out of my car. And into and out of her bed. Without falling down again. There was general agreement that it was certainly a suboptimal arrangement. My wife, who is a social worker and deals with similar scenarios in her work, advised me that what the hospital was proposing is known as an unsafe discharge.
As soon as I uttered this magic phrase, mum was readmitted to A&E so that she could be discharged safely. She was not happy about that or with me, I have to say. And I can quite understand. Everyone just wants to go home and sleep peacefully, comfortably and privately in their own bed. Today she’s been reassessed. She now has a six-week care package in place for when she goes home so that she can regain her independence without putting herself at risk of another fall. They’ve done more scans and found new problems.
And, seriously, it now turns out that her long-standing licorice habit might be the single cause of some of her most debilitating problems.