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Xmas 2.0
Abstract: Not another Festive Fifty podcast. Tags: podcast, jamendo, music, freedom, xmas
Following on, naturally enough, from episode one, I’m pleased to announce that, this morning, I finally got around to knocking out episode two of my much anticipated and eagerly awaited annual Xmas podcast. So here it is, at last, available for the listening pleasure of children of all ages.
As usual, I can’t be bothered to produce any show notes, but if you want to find out more about the songs I played, you can head over to Jamendo where you can listen uninterrupted by my dulcet tones, and even download said music for free.
Lastly I’d like to wish all three of my dedicated listeners a very Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year. On the publishing frequency of this podcast, if you would like me to give it to you annually, please leave a comment below, and I will do my best to ignore it.
Careers Advice
“When I grow up, I want to play football for Manchester United!”
For an eight year old boy growing up in rural Lincolnshire in the 1970s it seemed like an honest and rational response to an impossible question. No one else at my school wanted to play football for Manchester United. Leeds, maybe. Liverpool, definitely. Other kids said they wanted to be firemen, soldiers, doctors, and nurses. More of that later. Maybe their parents were firemen? Or maybe not. I didn’t know what my parents were. My dad went out before I got up every morning, and came home after I went to bed. At weekends, he told me stories about George Best, Denis Law (his favourite), Bobby Charlton, and the Busby Babes. About Manchester United and how they had the best team and had the best players. Not any more. That was all before my time. I was born in the year United had won the League for the last time, the year before they went on to win the European Cup. The Glory Days. Now, in my time, United were in Division Two (although I didn’t understand what that meant at the time). What I did understand was that I got to see highlights on Yorkshire TV occasionally, with a young and annoying Martin Tyler commentating on matches against the likes of ’local’ teams Hull City, Sheffield Wednesday and York City. United were good that season. Stuart Pearson was my favourite then. Stocky and powerful, he played with the passion that I came to expect from United players. He was never the best, but he scored goals and looked like he meant it. I meant it when I said I wanted to be a footballer.
“Think of something realistic,” I was told.
“You’ll never make it.”
“Concentrate on your studies.”
I couldn’t wait to prove them wrong.
I got in to the school team. In games lessons and playtime, I was a stocky and powerful centre forward who scored goals. Our first proper match was against another village school.
Five years later, in big school, I’d had my chips pissed on, but I still wanted to make it. I wrote to East Stirlingshire Football Club (just before a young Alex Ferguson took charge) offering my services. I got a polite rejection letter back.
No one ever told me why. I was too upset to ask.
Later, in Art class, I put together a morbid collage of war and that terrible question in cut-out newspaper headline letters:
“Why?”
“Don’t be so childish!” the teacher scolded me when he woke from his alcoholic stupor.
Well, pardon me. I was a child. Surely I was allowed to ask, and expect an adult answer?
So instead, I told them I wanted to join the Army. Not because I wanted to, but because that seemed to keep them happy.
Later still, when approaching school leaving age, after filling in countless forms asking me what I liked doing and what I was good at, I was told by a ‘careers advisor’ to study chemical or electrical engineering at university. I didn’t know what they were or why they’d been chosen for me. I resolved to go on the dole.
(Has careers guidance gone off the rails?. Was it ever on the rails?)
Why England don't have a hope in hell of winning Euro 2012
Six years ago I wondered if the lack of Englishmen in Arsenal’s team (and most of the other leading Premier League teams) would herald a new era of Scotland-like failure for the England football team?
Well, thanks in part to Arsene Wenger’s penchant for Saintly youth team players (Theo, The Ox), we’re not quite there, yet, although undercover Scotsman Steve McClaren successfully tried and failed to qualify for Euro 2008.
Mediocre
But perhaps that also explains why there are now six players (Kelly, Johnson, Henderson, Downing, Carroll - and it’s debatable whether any of them would get into the current Scotland team - plus captain Gerrard) from a mid-table, mediocre Liverpool squad in the current England set-up?Five years ago I blogged about the problem with English football - how our ‘long history and fine tradition of coming up short against the rest of the world’ perversely raises mainstream media expectations for the national side upon the start of any tournament for which we qualify. (Of course, I realise that they can hardly expect to win the ratings war and/or advertising revenue by informing potential viewers that it’s not likely to be New Improved England, but more Same Old England, if we’re lucky. Especially not when we need all the distraction we can get from the grim reality of how useless and fucked up our country is right now.)
Failures
Had Gareth Barry not picked up an injury and had to withdraw from the current squad, England would almost certainly be starting Euro 2012 against France with the same successful central midfield system that ‘Jocky’ McClaren stumbled upon - Gerrard and Barry - just prior to his tactically innovative use of an umbrella as cover in the pissing rain and then being sacked and publicly humiliated for his efforts (which, statistically, were on a par with Sir Bobby Robson’s, and mirrored Sir Alf Ramsey’s and Robson’s failures to qualify for their first tournaments in charge).Two years ago I successfully predicted (admittedly, not hard to do) that England didn’t have a hope in hell of winning the World Cup in South Africa. The good news this time around is that Joe Hart is in goal and that the ‘lumbering hulk of long-ball fodder who couldn’t score a goal even if you put it in front of him and offered him £50,000 a week’, also known as Emile Heskey, is not even on the standby list (although Andy Carroll does look like a handy replacement).
Left at home
The bad news is that the only English defender we have who has actually proved himself in tournament football, Rio Ferdinand, has been left at home by Old Mother Hodgson because he is a Scorpio.Our defence, therefore, is likely to be the same as that which kept out the mighty Algeria, and the smallest nation at the finals two years ago, Slovenia, but with Phil Jagielka or Joleon Lescott replacing former England captain Ferdinand (who of course, was himself replaced before the tournament began due to injury by the injury-prone Ledley King, who of course, was himself replaced due to injury in the first game by Jamie Carragher, who of course, was himself replaced in the third game due to being crap by, er, Stoke bench-warmer Matthew Upson) alongside racist philanderer, and former England captain (twice over) John Terry.
As good a defence, in effect, as that which went on to concede four goals to a proper team, Germany.
Failures
Moving on to the midfield (if we can keep possession of the football for long enough) it looks like England will be starting with the same creative talents as in South Africa, bar the injured Barry and Lampard, who will be replaced by the injured Parker and Gerrard. Milner or Walcott (for footballing reasons, presumably) are likely to come in for Aaron Lennon on the right, with Stewart Downing (for footballing reasons… oh, wait) taking over from Milner/Gerrard on the left. Despite my longing for Downing to score the winning goal in a penalty shoot-out in the final against the Germans, this midfield quartet cannot in any way be described as an improvement on 2010’s fiasco, or even 2008’s failures.Up front, of course, England will have to play proper teams France and Sweden without Wayne Rooney, our one truly world class player. By the time he’s eligible to play in England’s final group game against the co-hosts Ukraine, England are quite likely to be needing a win to have any hope of even qualifying for the quarter-finals.
Thoroughly outplayed
England’s two warm-up games have followed a similar pattern to those in 2010, although perhaps offering a glimmer of hope where two years ago there really was none. In 2010, England were ‘thoroughly outplayed at Wembley by Mexico, only winning by virtue of having taller players, and then, in Austria, thoroughly outplayed by the equally diminutive Japan, only winning by virtue of two fortuitous own goals’. In 2012, England were thoroughly outplayed in Norway, only winning by virtue of a sublime piece of skill from Ashley Young, and then, at Wembley, thoroughly outplayed by Belgium, only winning by virtue of a sublime piece of skill from Danny Welbeck.Humiliation
I suspect that England’s tournament will pan out in equally inglorious fashion, beginning with defeat at the feet of the French, put to the sword in a dire draw by the Swedes, and ignominious exit in the rain against Ukraine. To cope with the likely onset of boredom, depression and homicidal rage, I recommend following the same principles as in my guide to The World Cup on drugs.And if England’s special brand of austerity football means avoiding the pain of humiliation against Spain in the quarter-finals, then it’s surely all for the greater good.
Abducted by aliens
Abstract: Anally probed with a four metre long tube. Tags: alien, abduction, colonoscopy, humour, personal
Last week I was abducted by aliens.
I was woken at dawn by my alarm clock to find a bright light shining in through the window. As if in a trance, I found myself drawn towards the light and compulsively (as I do every morning) drew the curtains.
I felt a presence in the room.
‘Turn your alarm off, for God’s sake!’ said my wife.
I felt a non-human presence in the room.
‘Miaow’ said the cat.
I found myself getting washed and dressed and heading out the door, as if I had an appointment to be somewhere. After a brisk twenty minute walk, I found myself right inside the massive, shiny metallic spacecraft, which appeared to have landed slap bang in the middle of a car park. I felt no fear, although I was a little apprehensive. I entered the craft and was transported up into its upper level via some kind of elevator.
I have blogged before about my experiences of abduction and how aliens harvested my organs and tortured me, so this was nothing new. I felt a familiar apprehension as I caught sight of one of my abductors, a short woman in a green uniform.
‘Would you like an enema before we start?’ she asked. ‘A glass of water would be nice,’ I replied. ‘Do you need to go?’ she asked me rather sternly this time. ‘Well, I’d like to be back in time for the football.’ Now in something of a huff, she handed me a green paper gown to wear, which appeared to have been designed for tailed creatures. I followed her through to what looked like an operating theatre where I was surrounded by three little green men with surgical implements and machines which went ‘BLEEP!’.
They made me lie on a table and paralysed me by injecting something into my hand. One of the aliens stuck his finger up my back passage and said, ‘This might hurt a little bit.’ Then they made me pass out by gassing me. I awoke sometime later to find the aliens withdrawing a four metre long tube from my rear end. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I didn’t feel a thing.’ I was as high as a kite. They handed me back to my wife on a piece of string and told her, ‘Don’t let go of him.’
Somewhat bizarrely, they also gave me a piece of paper describing the contents of my colon - nothing at all in there save a few pesky piles.
What a bloody relief!
A Christmas Cracker
I received some customer feedback.
A Welsh reader writes:
You disgust me!
I’m not at all shocked or surprised. I disgust myself, frequently. Thanks for validating my experience.
A Mr Tim Savage of Stratford Jobcentre writes:
Get a job!
I wasn’t at all shocked or surprised. My doctor had been signing me off sick (not fit for work) for a while. So long, in fact, that my ex-employer, quite rightly, gave up on me ever returning to ‘my’ hot desk. In employment legalese, I was dismissed through being incapable of work.
Meanwhile, Big Tim had helpfully been sending me enough money to live on every two weeks for a while, and in return I kept sending him my sick notes from my doctor.
But I guess Tim’s goodwill was running out. He asked me to fill in a questionnaire about my health and asked me to visit Norman, a nurse, so that two months after losing my job because I was incapable of work due to ill health, Norman could assess my capability for work.
Norman asked me lots of questions and asked me to move my arms about as if I was directing small aircraft in to land. He was ever so nice about it. It felt a bit like being interviewed by that very nice SS-Standartenführer Hans Landa chap off the telly, except no one came rushing in afterwards to brutally machine gun to death the people downstairs after we were done. Which was nice.
Anyway. As a result of Norman’s niceness and despite me failing to safely land any aircraft due to my two frozen shoulders, Tim decided that I was capable of work after all, and told me so. And although Tim recognised that I have an illness or disability, he wasn’t going to send me any more money to live on unless I appealed, actively started looking for work, or appealed.
All of this made me feel rather like a terrible burden on society and that society might be just a whole lot better off without me around dragging it down. And I had been feeling really pretty suboptimal anyway.
So I went back to my doctor, who signed me off sick again and gave me some anti-depressants and painkillers, and decided that of the three options given to me - appeal, look for work, or appeal - I would like to appeal. Tim wrote back straight away saying that he would send me some more money to live on as long as I send him my sick notes from my doctor. Seems fair enough.
It’s quite a difficult juggling act. On the one hand trying to get better, to get well again. On the other, remaining ill enough to be eligible for handouts. The last few months I’ve been rapidly deteriorating, hitting a new low, barely able to speak to anyone even online. Most of the time, I simply don’t feel like I have anything to say.
That said, I have some good days, and I have now almost completed my assessments for psychotherapy and expect to start in a group sometime in the new year. At my last session, the therapist said it seemed like I’d been depressed all my life, but only now (well, two years ago) asked for help. Thanks for validating my experience.
I had a good day yesterday, a good morning, at least, and decided to put it to use. So I carefully crafted for you, my dear reader, a veritable Christmas cracker of a musical podcast. Perhaps a cracker that doesn’t crack and contains no party hat or plastic toy, but only a lame joke, but a cracker nonetheless.
And here, containing my best charidee radio DJ voice, it is:
Just A Ride, Episode 1: Xmas Stocking Filler (29:15)
Sorry, couldn’t be arsed with show notes. Here’s the playlist instead.
Merry Xmas everyone. That is all.
No onions, but plenty of fireworks with bier
Abstract: Gertcha by the wiener. Tags: fireworks, photos, video, bier, Chas ’n’ Dave, hot dogs
Last night, eight of us from Enfield Clubhouse went to Alexandra Palace to see London’s largest and most popular fireworks display. Here’s a video I took. The fireworks were pretty and spectacular - worth seeing, if you like that kind of thing!
After the fireworks, we climbed up the hill to the Palace itself and queued to get into the German Bier Festival. To call it a Festival is really a big overstatement. It’s a few years since I went to a beer festival and it was most likely Up North in deepest, darkest Bury, Lancashire, or somewhere like that. Maybe they do them differently Down South, but this was a bit of a let down. One tiny little bar, like you might find in a marquee at a modern marketed music festival. One brand of German Bier - Paulaner - and only two varieties: Munich and Weiss. The Weiss was off by the time I had been pushed and shoved forward by the ten deep bar queue. If you didn’t fancy Paulaner Munich, you could have that old Bavarian favourite, Foster’s. And they insisted on calling it Bier, which makes me wonder how authentic it really was. Not that authenticity seemed to be high on the agenda as it was all served in the obligatory health and safety plastic beakers.
So, we all got beer and seats in the Great Hall by which time a bunch of Cockney Irish fiddlers and banjoists started murdering Pogues’ classics, much to the delight of the mostly student audience who I’m sure were out of their minds by now. Not that it stopped one of the thieving little tykes nicking my beer when I laid it down to rest and turned my back for five minutes.
What followed is a little hazy - maybe the bier was real, after all.
I fear that I may have danced to Chas But Not Dave or Chas And His Band or whatever Chas ’n’ Dave are now known as. I was a little disturbed by the large, bald bass player, especially when he kept repeating ‘Gertcha!’ like an overly loud belch, totally drowning out scrawny-looking Chas on vocals.
To make matters worse, on leaving, I stopped for a Hot Dog.
‘Sorry, no onions’ said the serving assistant.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I like onions on my Hot Dog. So. They are £3.00 with onions, right?’
‘That’s right, sir, but we don’t have any onions left.’
‘No, you don’t. So, if it’s £3.00 with onions… how much is it for a Hot Dog without onions?’
‘It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
By this time I was already in full Basil Fawlty mode.
‘I’d like a discount, please. If it’s £3.00 for a Hot Dog with onions, then I’d like 20% off for a Hot Dog without onions.’
‘It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
‘How can it be the same price, with or without onions?’
‘It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
‘So, can I have a discount, then or not? I’m willing to pay £2.40 for a Hot Dog without onions. If only you’d removed the empty onion trays and not told me you had no onions I’d never have known. Or you could scrape up the remaining slivers and let me have those….’
Now, I felt like Yossarian in Catch-22 trying to get out of the Air Force by being crazy, but being told that he couldn’t be crazy because he wanted to leave. And only a sane man would want to leave.
‘I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t give a discount. I just work here. It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
‘You could give me a discount if you wanted to. I’m sure you could.’
The guy (no pun intended) behind me piped up, offering to call the Office Of Fair Trading. I suggested that they might want to consult the Sale Of Consumer Goods Act.
‘I can’t give a discount, sir. It’s £3.00, with or without onions.’
‘OK, I give in. I’ll have a Hot Dog without onions for £3.00.’
‘You have to pay first, sir.’
‘What?! But you just gave him one! He hasn’t paid yet!’
‘I’m sorry, sir. You have to pay first and then I’ll give you the Hot Dog.’
A young American woman approached me.
‘Please stop harassing my staff, sir.’
‘What?! Harassing your staff?! You’ve got to be joking?!’
‘No, sir. You’re harassing my staff. Now, please stop it or I will have to call Security to come and remove you.’
‘All I want is a Hot Dog with onions for £3.00 as advertised. If you don’t have onions, then fine, I’ll buy a bareback Hot Dog for £2.40.’
‘Sir, you can buy a Hot Dog without onions for £3.00 or go without.’
‘Why can’t you give me a discount?’
‘I only work here, sir. I can’t give you a discount.’
‘Hang on. I thought you were in charge? Surely you can use your discretion and keep your customers happy? I just spent plenty of money tonight on donating to the cost of the fireworks display and buying beer for me and my friends.’
‘What’s your problem, mate?’ asked a student grumpily and who looked like he had dyed his original wiry ginger hair black. ‘It says Hot Dogs £3.00. Doesn’t say anything about onions.’
‘No, I know it doesn’t say anything about onions. That’s a very good point. And that’s why I’m not going to engage you in any further conversation. Enjoy your Hot Dog! Thank you all and goodnight.’
Thanks also, to Lee, Gemma, Michael, Atul, Dan, Raheem and Angelina for making it a fun night out. And my apologies for any offence caused to the Hot Dog stand workers.
Bonfire of the potatoes
Abstract: Everyone needs good neighbours. Tags: Bonfire Night, Guy Fawkes, neighbours
On Saturday night, I shared a bonfire - in honour of the last person to enter the UK Parliament with honest intentions - with three Bolivians (all of whom have jobs, and at least one of whom has a cat), a Pole, a Catalan, an Irishman, several English people (one of Asian extraction and one born in Africa), a Roman candle or two, a Chinese lantern, twelve Lincolnshire sausages, some French’s American mustard, a large bag of pomme de terres of Peruvian ancestry, and a guy that looked like Frank Sidebottom.
Oh, and - long-time readers of my blog who have not yet required a psychotherapeutic intervention will be pleased to note - some onions.
The onions went down particularly well. I fried them myself. They were so good, people asked me ‘How did you make them?’. ‘I fried them,’ I said. Did I sweat them, or cook them slowly? Not deliberately. There was a lot of them. No, I have never made French onion soup.
I also cooked the sausages. All I did was put them under the grill and turn them over occasionally, in between supping hot mulled wine in our neighbours’ garden and nipping back across the close to knock back some warm English ale and make sure our house wasn’t on fire. Unfortunately, that’s also when they burned FrankGuy. So, sorry, no pics. (I also conducted a thought experiment about making a vegetarian alternative to sausages.)
One of the Bolivians wrapped the pomme de terres in tin foil and buried them in the burning embers of the bonfire to cook while a committee of English people tried to work out how to set the Chinese lantern alight. The token environmental activist present complained that setting a Chinese lantern alight wasn’t very environmentally friendly, and to be honest, I had some sympathy with her. Still, we were getting drunk, and this Chinese lantern was going up, one way or another. And up it went.
Perhaps the launching committee might have considered the location of the launchpad - well, actually, they did. ‘There’s a park five minutes walk from here,’ I said. ‘We’re not going there,’ they said. So, finally, we lit and launched the lantern in the close, and it rose up and up. Up and straight into the tree. Where it stayed, burning away in amongst the damp Autumn leaves. It’s still there now.
We burned some more pallets on the fire and then dug out the apples of the earth with a spade. The foil came off some of them in the process, to reveal glowing red potato coals within. Someone expertly cut the spuds in half and applied butter to the hot flesh, and passed them around with napkins and spoons. It was the best tasting potato I’ve ever had.
(There's Only One) Jimmy Carter (the footballer, not the peanut farmer)
A long time ago, back in January 2010 in fact, Dan Lynch’s band 20lb Sounds released their song Jimmy Carter (20lb Sounds) / CC BY-SA 3.0:
This is our first original release. It’s called Jimmy Carter and as you might expect it’s about… well… Jimmy Carter, the former US president. We didn’t set out to write a song about him particularly, it’s just that someone came out with the line “Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer”, and it had to be put into song. After a quick trawl of his Wikipedia page we were turning up all sorts of gems. Such as Jimmy Carter is the cousin of Motown Records supremo Berry Gordy, he’s also won a Nobel Peace prize and even a Grammy award. Mad huh?
All those nuggets of trivia found their way into the lyrics. It was originally just the main riff but then other sections were written to make it a bit more interesting as a full song. It’s hard to know what to describe this as, it’s almost country blues, but somehow not. There’s a bit of harmonica thrown in there so watch out for that too. You can’t beat the old gob iron.
This is licensed under CC BY-SA because it’s our own original work. You can download it, share it with friends, give out CDs and generally help us spread this music as far as possible. We need your help to make this work.
Enjoy!
I have been enjoying it ever since. One thing perturbed me, though: Dan is a Liverpudlian and supports Liverpool Football Club. Surely the song should have been about the one time Liverpool footballer Jimmy Carter and not the former US president?
As the song is released under a Creative Commons licence, I realised I could rewrite the lyrics and do my own version. And here it is, my tribute to Jimmy Carter the ex-footballer, based on his Wikipedia entry:
(There’s Only One) Jimmy Carter
Jimmy Carter is an ex-footballer
He made his name in south east London
Signed for Millwall from Queen’s Park Rangers
He ran down the wings in tight short trousers
There’s only
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter!
Jimmy is a man with honours
He won Division Two with the Lions
But the winning stopped when he signed for the Scousers
King Kenny’s dream turned Sourpuss nightmare
So Jimmy signed for his boyhood heroes
But his Arsenal days would soon be numbered
He went out on loan to Oxford United
While the Gunners’ team won three cups without him
There’s only
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter!
Then Jimmy moved and played for Pompey
But they were shit and there were no more trophies
Back at the Den for one last shot at glory
Jimmy hurt his back and it was end of story
There’s only
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter!
Whatever happened to Jimmy Carter?
You can still buy his print for less than a tenner
And with the change you can get his football sticker
And sing with me ‘There’s only one Jimmy Carter!’
There’s onlyEnjoy!
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter!
Twenty Ten (The Prequel): The Cheesemaker
Originally intended as a follow-up to part one of my milk-based food product styled personal review of 2010, this post quickly regressed into a metaphorical guide to the cheesemaking process, as you will see.
By the end of the first week of March 2010, I felt like I was several thousand feet above sea level. High up a mountain, again, perhaps mostly due to the ever-decreasing capacity of my right lung, but plummeting to new emotional depths thanks to the leaden weights of my ever-increasing self-doubt and sense of despair, perhaps partly as a reaction to stopping taking my antidepressant medication (although I stopped because I was feeling worse, not better).
One of the problems I found with officially going a bit mental is that I started to lose all confidence and trust in myself and the rest of the world. I think it’s fair to say that I’ve always been a bit of an independent-minded so-and-so and generally not afraid to say out loud whatever comes into my head. This invariably leads to me getting punched in the face. Or some other non-violent conflict.
The Big Cheese
A few years ago, I worked for someone who was responsible for making the lives of a few of her staff abjectly miserable, quite contrary to our organisation’s stated raison d’être ‘for better mental health.’ It appeared that she would move from one person to another and to another and then, it seemed to me, it was my turn. I decided I wasn’t going to take it.
During a torrid six months as her primary target, I had to undergo hospital tests on my heart for still unexplained and not since repeated vomiting and blackouts. When I told my GP what was going on at work she immediately signed me off with stress and didn’t want me to go back when I did. By the time my boss had finished with me I was unemployed and unemployable. Never underestimate the power of a bully.
I learned from painful experience quite a lot about how bullies and psychopaths operate. I learned that, while part of me wants to stand up to them and expose them for what they are, the sane part of me wants to avoid them altogether. So when I did manage to find a new job with a decent manager and then moved on from that with a good reference into my current post four years ago, I was delighted to be in a position where I was ’the boss’, although, of course, I still had to report to a management committee made up of volunteers, led by a truly wonderful Chair.
When I say I was glad to be in charge, I don’t say that because of any desire to have power over others. Quite the contrary, in fact (unless I’m deluding myself). I’ve always believed in sharing power and responsibility as much as possible, but you can’t do that if you have an egomaniac boss or a rigidly hierarchical organisational structure. Yes, there are differences between staff and service users (staff get paid being the main one), but I try to minimise these as far as I can.
Cheese Grating
It was also gratifying to work in a London borough that not only funded my new organisation’s work, but whose commissioners seemed genuinely supportive. Within two weeks of me starting my new job, however, it was grating to be informed that the local authority would be able to fund us for only 40% of what we had budgeted for on their advice of just three months earlier. My first significant and highly unpleasant task, therefore, was to have to ask staff to reduce their hours from full-time to two days a week or to make them redundant in order that the organisation could survive.
Over the next two years, we began to flourish and I was able to bring in external funding to supplement the local authority’s money so that we could provide a still much-reduced service to what we had originally planned. Even so, it seemed popular with members, staff were highly skilled and dedicated to their work and feedback from carers and professionals who referred people to us was without exception, I think, almost worryingly positive.
Cheese Ripening
By working together on daily household and business tasks, we had established a sense of community, friendships and social engagement from a safe and supportive workplace. A lifeline for people whose experience was often one of many years of loss of sense of self and worth and an absence of meaningful relationships and occupation. A second home, where they were welcomed back with warmth and kindness into the human family (cite Richard Bentall’s ‘Doctoring The Mind’) and encouraged to believe that they had real reasons to hope for - and expect - better lives.
We had people going out into the community to volunteer and set up our own catering service to employ some of our members in very part-time casual work, based on their existing skills and interests. For all but one, this was the first paid work they had done in years. We weren’t able to find anyone permanent full-time employment during a time of global recession, but still I felt proud of what we’d achieved in difficult circumstances and with fairly limited resources.
Cheese-Induced Nightmare
So when I attended our annual review in 2009 with our main funder and described what we did and the impact it had on people’s lives I was gobsmacked to be told ‘We don’t care what you do or how you do it. We just want people off benefits and into work.’ I felt physically sick and faint.
While I understand (and, in principle, support) government targets to help people with disabilities to return to work, I’ve always been sceptical about the management-theory driven obsession with outcomes and, worse, the introduction of outcome-based contracting - where service providers get paid only if they meet agreed targets. What happens, is that the largest national providers are able to tender for local contracts with the lowest unit cost, inevitably, in my opinion, sacrificing quality (process) in the name of quantity (outcomes). Except that they fail to deliver.
Processed Cheese
To me, what we do and how we do it - the process - is of fundamental importance. There are plenty of organisations who work in completely different ways and who consistently fail to get people with diagnoses of schizophrenia (who form 60% of our membership) off benefits and into work and who receive considerably larger sums of money for doing so, making their CEO’s rich (and famous) in the process. Pushing people who lack confidence and don’t feel ready to work into inappropriate and unsupported employment simply doesn’t work for most and carries the very real risk of being detrimental to their mental health.
In order to massage their figures, these organisations ‘cherry-pick’ or ‘cream’ the most able and likely to find employment while ‘parking’ those with the most complex needs and severe disabilities, the very people small, local organisations like mine tend to work with. This is not to say that these people are not able. My experience tells me that indeed they are, but that they require much longer to build up sufficient confidence and trust and need much more support to do so. Time and support costs money, but so does a lifetime of unemployment and welfare dependence, not to mention the personal and social costs of inactive and isolated lives.
Cheesed Off
Well, that was a rather long-winded way of saying that in 2009 I began to feel that I was being fucked about at work. What I believed to be the right way of working and what I was being told to do by my paymasters conflicted and didn’t make any sense to me. A year later, while I had time on my hands due to my own physical and mental illness I ‘discovered’ that evaluations of the way I was being told to work clearly stated that this approach doesn’t work, either. I felt angry for not trusting my own judgment (based on experience and advice from mentors) and felt like I’d been bullied into submission, yet again.
Join me for another cheese and whine morning next time.
Twenty Ten (Part One): Hard Cheese
Abstract: Thankfully, there is no Part Two.
Tags: snowcock, nanowrimo, manflu, cheese, depression
Note: probably none of the links work now.
I began 2010 by wishing everyone (except fascists) a Happy New Year and a promise to blog my reflections on the naughty decade in due course.
Well, that will have to wait for another time, but here - thanks to my identi.ca memory aid - are my reflections on 2010.
After recovering from hiccups, speaking in tongues, a hangover the size of every Xmas and New Year and forced communication with O2’s customer service drones, I went back to work and set about the urgent task of building a snowwoman in the front garden.
This was my equal opportunities response the the much celebrated #SnowCock (replete with massive snowballs) of Glossop erected by Tim Dobson and friends.
Heaven snows he’s miserable now
Snowwoman somehow ended up transgendering into #SnowMorrissey until he inevitably lost his head, prompting a lyrical tribute from the similarly all-white and undead Andy C.
Just as life imitates art, ‘real’ life inevitably imitates life online. Perceptively and spookily - leaving aside the evidence of my maniacal online rantings - Andy C was concerned for my mental health.
If I’m honest, my most recent mental breakdown occurred somewhat earlier. Without wishing to go into too much detail and bore anyone with my personal troubles, I had been speaking with a psychotherapist since September 2009. After a few sessions, she expressed her concern that I might be ‘bipolar II’ and asked me to see my GP in order to get a referral to a psychiatrist for an assessment. I felt pretty shocked to hear this as I’d never considered that I might have had any hypomanic episodes (let alone needed to see a shrink) even though that might have explained some of my problems.
In tears, I told my GP what my psychotherapist had said, and thus I began my own pharmaceutical research into the effectiveness of anti-depressant medications to give me some respite (my GP’s word) from my heightened and unstable emotional state. My GP also referred me for a psychiatric assessment.
Mightily relieved finally to have spoken to someone about my difficulties and for allowing myself to ask for help, I felt as high as Jesus on the mountain for forty days and nights. Looking back now, it’s perhaps significant that my identi.ca output during this time was the highest it’s ever been (according to Michele’s Denticator - unfortunately it only shows the last 12 months, so you will have to take my word on that). Interestingly, my output last month, since I’ve been feeling better and like my ’normal’ self was just as high if not higher:
I also increased my long-form blogging output, with a serious intent to try to write more regularly and have some fun in doing so. Perhaps significantly, my first post during this high period was about mental health. I wrote eight proper blog posts in those forty days and nights including:
A rant on authority and the War of Terror
A tribute to Manchester United and my Mum and Dad
A reminiscence piece I originally wrote in 1989 about my time stuck in a blizzard on Longs Peak, Colorado
Another reminiscence piece, this time about a childhood incident
And a frankly bizarre post about a blue tit
It had taken me nine months to write my previous eight proper blog posts and almost five months to write the next eight. I wrote only one in the two months reviewed in this post while I was feeling so physically and mentally ill. Between May and December 2010 I wrote another fourteen.
I crashed down to earth only three days and six thousand unpublished words after my spur-of-the-moment decision to write a fifty-thousand word NaNoWriMo ’novel’ in thirty days. Like all the other novels I’ve started, this one remains unfinished, although I did get past page four on this occasion. All of this was while I was working full-time. Mild insomnia helped.
Man flu
Just like in 1994, 1999 and 2004, I felt myself slowly burn out as Xmas approached and by the time #SnowMorrissey had melted I was feeling too depressed to work or do anything else other than go to the doctor’s surgery. My GP doubled my anti-depressant dose and I later self-diagnosed the new but familiar sharp stabbing pain in my lower right side under my ribs as pleurisy for which I prescribed myself Lemsip Max. The previous year I’d had a similar but worse pain with frightening shortness of breath, which only cleared up after a month or so using an inhaler.
Less perceptively and spookily - and admittedly without the benefit of a stethoscope, cheeseometer or any medical training - Andy C was less concerned about my physical health. Less is more.
Six days later, after a brief investigation with her stethoscope, my GP confirmed my pleuritic self-diagnosis, signed me off work and prescribed my some antibiotics for a chest infection, too. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a cheeseometer either. I started to feel a bit better, but a cold winter’s night a week or so on and the pain returned. Perhaps understandably, I was generally feeling more and more miserable, too.
At least everything was running smoothly at work during my two weeks absence.
‘It’s just a slice of cheese’
I went back to work on 1 February feeling much better after United had made City wait another year at least for their first trophy since 1976 and after setting in motion Arsenal’s annual implosion.
Seventeen days and an x-ray later, however, I was in Accident and Emergency with a suspected collapsed right lung. After a blood test to make sure I wasn’t suffering from a heart problems I went home the same evening. The following day I developed a strong desire to punch Nicholas Winterton in the face. Repeatedly. And regularly. Say every ten minutes. Coincidence?
Pull yourself together
By now, I’d lost touch with Reality, defending homeopathy. I’d lost hope, despairing at James Robertson’s inevitably futile struggles to print and use his own postage using only Free and open source software. I’d lost my humanity, calling Basil Brush impersonator Richard Cutts a demented glove puppet for agreeing with me about Nicholas Winterton.
Three weeks before my x-ray, I’d phoned the local mental health trust to find out what had happened to the referral letter my GP had sent them back in September 2009, four months earlier. They helpfully told me that I wasn’t a priority for treatment because I was working and, therefore, apparently OK. I asked them what did I have to do in order to become a priority? Try to kill myself? They offered me an appointment the same afternoon.
Naively, I assumed that this would be an appointment with a psychiatrist. After waiting for an hour behind the locked doors and shatter-proof glass partitions of the Community Mental Health Team building that kept the professional healers and helpers apart from me and rest of the presumably perceived as dangerous local community it serves, it turned out to be an appointment with a nurse who scribbled a few notes on a scrap of paper. He then produced a copy of a letter dated the same day that he claimed had been posted to me the day before inviting me to a meeting with a psychiatrist in two weeks.
Three days before my x-ray, I met the psychiatrist. I made an extra effort to wash my hair, shave and put on clean clothes to make myself look less like Jim Ignatowski.
He sat in front of me reading my notes as if for the first time. After a couple of uncomfortably silent minutes he said ‘You’re not Stephen Fry bipolar.’
I suppose I should have been relieved about that, but my immediate reaction was confusion - how could he possibly know? All he had asked me was ‘Would you like a coffee?’ He didn’t even ask if I wanted decaf, sugar or milk and yet he was magically able to undiagnose me without conducting any blood tests, x-rays, scans or other measurements of the balance of chemicals sloshing around in my brain, which is the current unproven theory of choice among the medically inclined.
We had a bit of a chat. I asked for psychotherapy on the NHS as I could no longer afford to pay privately. He recommended that I keep taking the medication even though I complained to him that I felt worse than ever after four months on them. I was finding sleep difficult, yet felt tired all the time, couldn’t concentrate properly, had a dry mouth and sometimes felt my mood change from OK, to tearful, to agitated, to angry and even to suicidal in the space of a few hours.
I told him I’d washed and dressed specially for him. He laughed and said that was good, because otherwise he’d have had to section me under the Mental Health Act (have me forcibly detained in the mental health unit of the hospital). He rounded off our meeting by suggesting that I should pull myself together and get a life (not his exact words, but my honest interpretation and not far off). As I bid him goodbye and was closing the door to leave he asked me if I had any plans to kill myself.
I decided to stop taking my medication. Within ten days I successfully predicted England’s abysmal failure in the South African World Cup.
Look out for more cheesy Twenty Ten goodness next week as I march on into March and explain the cheesy references….