Category: Selected Writing
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Strawberries for pigs?
Little did we know at the time, but these little strawberries were usually engulfed in a toxic plume of benzene, naphthalene, and god only knows what else.
Sensibly, the wife refused to eat them.
We later discovered that official planning documents for the nearby old gasworks, which was being dug up in the open air for new homes to be built on the contaminated land, stated that no vegetables should be grown on the land. Ever!
Ealing Council Leader Julian Bell publicly blamed 'the wrong kind of wind', and – quite possibly – privately blamed 'fucking moaners'. All the while racking up over £30,000 in declared gifts and hospitality from developers including Berkeley Group, who were digging up the gasworks land.
Our soon-to-be local ward councillor and (ex-)Head of Planning Peter Mason knew all about the dangers (he tells us on Twitter) from the contaminated land back in 2009 when he campaigned against its development along with our MP Virendra Sharma (who said the development would be 'a disaster environmentally').
Yet no one told people living nearby to expect to be gassed in our own homes and gardens during the three month heatwave that was shortly to arrive.
In fact, Ealing Council announced on Twitter that the odours, while 'unpleasant', were 'not harmful to health' would be 'gone in a few days'.
I later discovered that there is scientific evidence that some people with Asian and African heritages are genetically more vulnerable to very serious and sometimes fatal health conditions from inhaling naphthalene, a fact acknowledged (although later denied, despite the published evidence) by Public Health England at a packed public meeting in July 2019.
No one told us.
Ealing Council, despite being fully aware of the potential dangers to health (and to the environment) failed to carry out any kind of Equalities Impact Assessment, and only helped Berkeley Group to rush through the decontamination process to maximise their profit from Crossrail in Southall.
Profit over people. Labour Council. Our lives didn't matter to them.
Now, we are being asked to believe that our MP (who has begun making the right noises two years too late – what happened to the nearly 1,000 signature petition I gave you in 2018 Mr Sharma?) cares and is on our side, and that our local ward councillor cares and always has done. Only Bell is – unusually for him – honest enough not to suddenly pretend he gives a shit about anyone but himself and looking after his own family.
At the packed public meeting in 2019, which our local ward councillor chaired, he and Bell refused to declare their financial interests with Berkeley Group, refused to let me speak with the microphone so that people couldn't hear that the Council, Berkeley Group, the Environment Agency and Public Health England had all colluded to cover up the real level of toxic and carcinogenic air pollution – that it was consistently above legal limits and rising – by manipulating, removing, and presenting the air quality data in such a way as to make it look like it was mostly within legal limits.
At the same meeting, our MP arrived late, mostly unseen, sat silently at the back of the room, and left early, mostly unseen. At the same meeting, a strangely truthful Bell admitted that he had 'known about the nuisance, the BAD nuisance, for two and a half years'! Yet nothing could be done.
Now Peter Mason, free from his constraints as Head of Planning after resigning following his failed coup attempt to take the leadership from Bell last year, is telling us that something could and should have been done, yet all of them remained silent and did nothing for years.
Unbelievable!
Southall Under Siege: The Neighbours From Hell
‘A lack of scrutiny,’ says John Freeman, Regulatory Services Officer at Ealing Council.
He’s talking about lessons to be learned from the council’s response to the new asphalt plant built in neighbouring Hillingdon borough in 2014.
‘We didn’t expect there to be so much odour from a new building, or so many complaints.’
Moving swiftly on.
Oppressive odour
The highly contaminated old gasworks site in Southall has been kicking up a stink, too.
Carcinogenic benzene and naphthalene, among a cocktail of polyaromatic hydrocarbons, heavy metals and particulates large and small, are in the air.
‘The odour is oppressive,’ says Damian Leydon.
There are twenty or thirty people in the room.
No one bats an eyelid.
Upset residents
Damian is the Operations Director at 'Southall Waterside', as the gasworks site is being marketed.
It's wedged between the grand union canal, Yeading Brook and Minet Park to the north-west of the site, and two of the twenty percent most economically deprived council wards in England. Southall Green to the south, and Southall Broadway to the north and north-east.
‘The last thing we want to do is upset residents,’ says Damian.
It’s a bit late for that.
Please stop
Damian previously worked as the Construction Manager on Hinkley Point C nuclear power plant in Somerset, and the Athletes Village at the 2012 London Olympics.
Presumably, there were no carcinogenic leaks, oppressed, or upset residents there.
Three times I ask Damian, ‘How many residents are you prepared to upset before you will stop?’
No answers
As for almost every question that night, at Ealing Council’s Air Quality Scrutiny Panel meeting in September 2018, there is no answer.
The meeting concludes, and later the ‘minutes’ are published, but such minutiae do not make the cut.
Was I at a different meeting?
The final report of the ‘scrutiny’ panel, six months later, reads as if the problem is in the past, finished, with yet more ‘lessons to be learned’ (and immediately forgotten).
Friends with benefits
As I leave the meeting, I see Damian having a cosy-looking chat in the corridor (of power) outside the meeting room with Julian Bell, Ealing Council's Leader.
Councillor Bell sat through the two hour meeting in silence.
I ask Julian if he’s booking his holiday in Cannes?
The south of France resort hosts the annual MIPIM property developers’ ‘booze and hookerfest’ (as Private Eye magazine calls it).
Julian is a regular attendee, all expenses paid for by Damian’s employer Berkeley Group, despite claiming to be teetotal. Peter Mason, my ward councillor, is a new attendee. He is not teetotal.
‘If my son gets cancer because of this, you better not stand so close to me,’ I say to Leydon.
He rolls his eyes.
‘David, don’t let’s make this personal,’ says Bell.
We can't breathe!
For two and a half years, my family, my neighbours and friends, have been harassed, attacked, and gassed in our own homes and gardens.
Our children have been forced to breathe ‘stinky’, poisonous air in their school playgrounds, and in our public parks.
We have been laid under siege through three hot summers, including last year’s extended heatwave.
Despite many repeated requests to stop, Damian’s uncovered, unenclosed cesspit of decontamination of a hundred years of toxic waste continues unabated.
Good neighbours
‘Be a good and respectful neighbour,’ says Councillor Mason, at the ward forum.
‘It’s unpleasant’ we are told. ‘It will clear in days, and it’s not harmful to health,’ Ealing Council namelessly tweeted. In June 2017.
Round and round we go.
Is this corrupt?
‘It’s the wrong kind of wind,’ claims Bell.
‘It’s not our responsibility, it’s the Environment Agency.’
‘It’s not us, it’s Public Health England.’
‘I’ll phone Julian and get him to put a councillor on it for you,’ Tony Pidgley, founder and chair of Berkeley Group tells us.
“Cash. Always cash.” (Tony Pidgley)
We started a campaign. Clean Air for Southall and Hayes. CASH for short.
‘I DO NOT TAKE CASH! I DO NOT TAKE CASH!’ is our MP Virendra Sharma’s frankly bizarre opening statement, shouted at us when we go to meet him.
What’s going on?
When is remediation NOT remediation?
Back to the future with John Freeman.
I email John to ask him when remediation of the soil (the cleaning of the contaminated land) is due to be completed. It’s the excavation, the turning, the moving of the toxic waste that has laid at rest for fifty years or more that we’re told is likely to be the main source of the odour nuisance and air pollution.
‘March 2019. It’s finished already.’
‘But it still stinks.’
‘Did you leave the cooker on?’
‘But I’ve seen the planning documents where it says remediation is scheduled to be completed in 2038.’
John consults his colleague, James Potter, Ealing’s Contaminated Land Officer, whose post was initially funded by none other than Berkeley Group.
A very simple explanation as it turns out.
‘The remediation for the next nineteen years is, in a sense, NOT remediation.’
Berkeley bribes?
Then there is the fact, confirmed (and denied) by Public Health England, that the majority Asian and African population of Southall, due to genetic factors, have an increased risk from exposure to naphthalene.
And then there’s Berkeley Group's track record of paying off their former finance director to keep quiet about allegations of bribery and corruption at the top of the company.
Understandably, we doubt the veracity of their own reports of the air quality monitoring data recorded by their business partner, data which they refuse to share with us.
Enough is enough.
Stop the work at the gasworks site while it is made safe.
Stop poisoning Southall.
Please donate to our legal campaign for justice: https://www.crowdjustice.com/case/cleanairforsouthallandhayes/
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 (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….
The World Cup on drugs: pure-grade heroin cut with shavings of Clive Tyldesley
If England’s game against Algeria had been a Wimbledon tennis match, the two sides would still be at it today with the Dutch Master Johan Cruyff declaring it the greatest example of Total Crap Football ever played.
Both sets of players would be awarded (honorary) knighthoods for their part in simulating Barnsley versus Grimsby Town at a freezing cold Oakwell on New Year’s Day in the late 1990s/early 2000s and no doubt the two managers would be encased in marble as a living testament to their obduracy.
And if the first round of group games were like pure-grade heroin cut with shavings of Clive Tyldesley and smuggled past England’s Robert Green at UK border control, I have to admit that I overdosed, taking up to six hours a day for more than a week.
After an early rush of excitement, I fell into a deep reverie induced by triple daily doses of drab defensive displays before finally lapsing into a tactical coma, waking up just in time for this Sunday’s World Cup Final showdown between England and Germany.
Having beaten the USA in the knockout stages, Fabio Capello must be delighted that his masterplan has come to fruition and England are within 90 minutes of lifting the Jules Rimet trophy once more.
A valiant effort, all the more remarkable as we have scored only two goals in the process of knocking out the most powerful nation on earth (truly, an us against US game if ever there was one), the tricky North Africans and then the smallest footballing nation at the Finals, Slovenia.
I take my hat off to Fabio and his men and will go on to eat it for dinner, too, as I was convinced we really didn’t have a hope in hell of seeing this dream come true.
As a tribute, I offer my exclusive guide to The World Cup On Drugs for your viewing enhancement:
Alcohol
Preferably beer and lots of it. Great for encouraging your team’s hard men to go in for dangerous two-footed tackles on opponents. Can really make you feel good for 90 minutes, but then you can start to get heavy-legged and risk missing vital goals while you go for a pee. Can also leave you feeling tired and miserable for days afterwards if you’re over 40.Undoubtedly the football fan’s favourite tipple, alcohol can make even France versus Uruguay seem like the most compelling game of end-to-end football you’ve ever seen. OK, maybe not even alcohol can do that. Which is why you might consider some slightly more risqué alternatives.
Cannabis and marijuana
If you smoke or otherwise consume enough of this, you won’t care who wins as long as you have plenty of chocolate and crisps. Not a good idea to try ordering a Chinese takeaway while watching either of the two Korean sides, either, unless you want bean curd noodles with prawn cracker soup and a meat cleaver in your head for being a cheeky bastard.You may find yourself laughing uncontrollably at the little Mexican and Japanese players (but see LSD, below) and at some of the many comedy commentating double-entendres and other funnies such as:
Bougherra goes in hard on Butt!
He’s got Eggiman on the face, there.
Messi leaves Shittu trailing in his wake.
Pantsil’s off!
Bong.
Amphetamines, ecstacy and cocaine
In theory, you might think any of these stimulants would be great for staying alert during the opening round of games, but as your brain processes information faster so these interminable games begin to last forever and - as we all know - you risk irreversible catatonia. Try explaining that to your mum and dad when they come to visit you in hospital with tubes coming out of your every orifice and some new ones you didn’t have before.If you must, make sure you’re down the pub with your mates and you should have a great time spoiling everyone else’s enjoyment of the game with your incessant yabbering. This is what all BBC and ITV commentators take before live games. You have been warned.
LSD and magic mushrooms
Hallucinogens. Watch football and expand your mind. Sounds too good to be true! Discover the meaning of life during the national anthems and spend the rest of the day communicating with the God of the Vuvuzelas or hiding in the cupboard under the stairs fearing that you are about to be abducted by giant lizard-men disguised as tiny insects working for your local council’s refuse collection team.Either way, it will be a life-changing experience. When watching Japan or Mexico, be prepared to spend the entire game marvelling at how small their players are and how big the opposition is. Whatever you do, you will need to read the sports news the following day in order to find out what really happened.
Heroin, morphine and other opiate derivatives
Can make you feel like you won even when you lost. I try to stay away from these as a general rule, at least until the latter stages of the competition. Then, as an England fan, they can be useful to sustain your enthusiasm in between games after the first knockout round and the quarter finals and before the final itself.Long-term use is best left until after the tournament is completed or avoided all together. Warning:
death is a likely outcome whether you use heroin or not.
Well, that’s it. Please remember that none of this is to be taken seriously and do not try this at home, children, even if you’re an adult.
Waterboarding on the NHS
Abstract: Gagging for it. Tags: waterboarding, NHS, bronchoscopy, torture, worklessness, Nazi, psychotherapy, banana, splat
On Another Planet this week: controversial new government plans to tackle ever increasing worklessness using waterboarding.
Techniques refined and perfected by secret military personnel known only by their codename ‘Our Boys’ are being piloted by the NHS in an effort to ’encourage and empower’ people claiming statutory sick pay to return to work.
One persistent malingerer, who asked not to be identified, claimed that he was subjected to an horrific ordeal at the hands of his torturers and says he was tricked into believing he was just playing a game of ‘doctors and nurses’.
‘I always liked playing doctors and nurses when I was a kid,’ said Roger (not his real name).
Over to Roger to tell the rest of his story.
Nazi
I received a phone call from my local hospital telling me I had an appointment with the chest consultant I’d seen before. I thought it was a bit odd, because I’d seen the surgeon who operated on me only the previous day, but I went in anyway. I felt I could trust these people after they did such a great job of fixing my lung. Anyway, when I got there, they made me wait for an hour as usual, then a pretty young student doctor asked if I minded if she sat in on my appointment? How could I say no? I could barely speak with my tongue hanging out like that. So I just nodded and wiped the dribble from the side of my mouth hoping she hadn’t noticed. When I got to see the consultant himself I thought it was a bit odd that he was wearing full Nazi regalia, but he seemed like a nice guy and to know his stuff.
‘Don’t rush back to work", he said.
‘Now, about this bronchoscopy. Don’t worry, I’m sure everything will be OK. I’m 90% sure everything’s fine. People say it tickles a little bit, but you’ll have a sedative and some local anaesthetic that they put up your nose and on the back of your throat. That will make you cough, but it’s really nothing to worry about.’
‘Fine, I’ll do it,’ I told him.
So this week I went in for my ‘bronchoscopy’. After waiting the requisite hour, I was hurried into the day surgery operating theatre by a pretty young nurse and ignored by the doctor. Another nurse made small talk with me to reassure me. I clambered on to the operating table so that I was sat upright with my legs outstretched. The second nurse put a bib on me to deal with my dribbling while the doctor chatted with his friend on his mobile.
‘Hi, I’m Dr Heydrich,’ he said to me finally.
Although I had been feeling relaxed, at this point I suddenly felt a twinge of anxiety.
‘I’m going to put some anaesthetic gel up your nose,’ he said, as he squirted anaesthetic gel up my nose.
The second nurse then stuffed a tube up my left nostril, saying, ‘Don’t worry, it’s only oxygen.’
Banana splat
I looked at her and she had donned what looked like a welder’s visor. ‘You look like you’re about to do some welding,’ I said.
‘It’s just to protect myself from any splatter,’ she replied.
Another twinge.
‘OK, open your mouth, please,’ barked Heydrich. ‘I’m going to spray some anaesthetic on the back of your throat. It tastes very strongly of bananas,’ he added, as he sprayed what tasted like banana flavoured liqueur on to the back of my throat, making me cough. ‘Just a little bit more,’ he said.
‘UURRRGGHHH!!!’ I splattered.
‘UURRRGGHHH!!! UURRRGGHHH!!!’ I repeated.
‘It’s OK,’ said the second nurse, holding my head down with her hand. ‘It makes you feel like there’s a ball in your throat and you can’t swallow.’
‘UURRRGGHHH!!! UURRRGGHHH!!!’ I repeated, desperately.
Heydrich then took what I had thought was a stethoscope and zoomed towards me with the bright flashing end of it and shoved it up my right nostril.
AARRRGGHHH!!!" I said.
‘Let’s try the other one," said Heydrich.
They swapped the oxygen for the stethoscope, which then dropped out of my traumatised right nostril.
‘AARRRGGHHH!!! AARRRGGHHH!!!’ I repeated.
That hurt even more than the right one did. The second nurse (I don’t know what the first nurse was doing, but she was there afterwards) then pushed something into my mouth, saying, ‘Open your mouth and hold it with your teeth.’
Heydrich zoomed back into view.
‘We’ll try it through the mouth’, he said, as he pushed the thick black fibre-optic tube down my throat.
‘UURRRGGHHH!!! UURRRGGHHH!!!’
I tried to cough and splutter, but my throat was numb and I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was drowning.
‘UURRRGGHHH!!! AARRRGGHHH!!!’
I panicked and pulled the tube out, gasping for breath.
‘I can’t do it!’ I cried, literally, tears rolling down my cheeks.
‘I can’t do it. I’ll go back to work. I promise!’
Over. Roger and out.
Another Planet understands that if this pilot is successful, then the procedure will be rolled out to the rest of the UK in the coming months.
As Nick Clegg-Hess, Deputy Prime Minister, said:
‘What we need is strong, stable government. That means we must weaken and destabilise people who are not working for whatever reason and by any means necessary to get them to conform and work to pay our taxes. This is about control and maintenance of the status quo. Anyone who thinks otherwise is sadly deluded and will be dealt with accordingly. Waterboarding is an effective and reliable means of manipulating even the craziest of people to do what we want them to do. It’s in the national interest to get people off benefits and into work and we will do whatever it takes to make that happen, even if it means torturing people after they have already confessed."
On a more serious note, I’m open to suggestions for other medical procedures you’d like me to blog about. Let me know your ideas in the comments!
Confessions of a thoracotomy patient
Abstract: Lung-form blogging at its cheesiest.
Tags: thoracotomy, empyema, decortication, cheese, collapsed lung, chest infection, pleurisy, NHS,
Last week I met a beautiful young Hispanic woman and we spent the night together. She cared for me deeply and carefully, and I gazed upon her lovingly as the morphine (d)ripped through my veins. She checked me out and made sure that everything seemed to be in working order.
‘Hi, I’m Sofia,’ she said.
‘I’m going to be looking after you tonight.’
Thanks to the morphine, I carried on smiling and Sofia carried on with her job of nursing me through my first night after my thoracotomy on the high dependency unit of the five star NHS hospital I was staying in.
I had quite a good time despite drinking nothing but water the entire evening. We shared a few bottles together - Sofia would hand me an empty one, pull the covers around me and I would half-fill it and hand it back to her so she could measure and record, discard and disinfect. She checked my tubes and drains to make sure they weren’t getting clogged up with ‘cheese’ or any other unwanted dairy products. She made sure that my drains were working properly and that I was getting enough suction (stop it!). In the morning, she washed my back. My only regret is that half-way through the night somebody much more attractive ill than me was trolleyed through and Sofia spent more time with him than she did with me.
A good swing
So, Sofia had taken over from Gilbert, a beautiful young Chinese-looking man who I woke up with after my general anaesthetic. Gilbert was every bit as diligent and caring as Sofia and I don’t think this is just the drugs talking. I was amazed by the level of care I received throughout my stay, with one or two relatively minor exceptions, which I’ll come to later. And it’s not just because I was probably quite a good patient - I was calm, polite, not in any great pain or discomfort, doing well - eating, drinking, breathing, coughing and I had a ‘good swing’. Most of the other patients around me appeared to be quite a lot older than me and if not older then certainly in more pain or experiencing more problems after their operations. They were cared for with equal if not more time and attention as far as I could see and hear.
Who else do I need to thank for treating me so well? On admission to the hospital at 7 am on Friday morning I was met by nurse Martin, who seemed more nervous than me, but who handed me over to the highly organised Lindsay. Lyndsay wasted no time in getting me half-naked on to the bed so that she could attach clips and cables to my chest and stomach to run an ECG. Then she made me strip completely and wear a flowery dress. To complete my humiliation, she had me walk down to the diagnostic testing department in full public view where I had an x-ray. When I got back she wanted me to wear some thigh-high stockings, too. How could I resist her helping hands to put them on for me? Thank you Lyndsay!
Thanks also to Rick, the porter, for your sense of humour in wheeling me up and down and up and down again to the operating theatre where I’m sure everyone had a good laugh at me in drag. No doubt the pictures are all over the internet by now. And thanks to Dorcas, the clinical nurse specialist who spoke to me on the phone before I went in to tell me how bad it was going to be and who greeted me in the hospital before the operation with her hands - literally a nice touch, and one repeated by Lyndsay, Rick, Gilbert and Sofia later. A quick, simple touch to the hand, the shoulder, arm or elbow is extremely reassuring I find. Thanks for your humanity.
The cheese factor
Pre-operation, I also spoke to several doctors/surgeons/registrars or whatever they call themselves. They may even have had first names, but somehow if they did those names haven’t stuck. All I can really remember is being told that the operation would take 90-120 minutes rather than the 30-45 minutes I was expecting. This was due to the fact that they would be doing a conventional ’large’ incision of about 10 cm rather than the keyhole 2 cm cuts I’d been told I was going to have. The change of modus operandi was because of the ‘cheese’ factor - they needed to scrape the rind off the lung, not simply drain fluid. I signed the consent form. By this time they had me where they wanted me and I had resigned myself to my fate. What else could I do but submit? Yes, there’s a risk with everything, but carrying on with a lung full of cheese didn’t seem like a good bet.
Finally, Rick got me into theatre again after an aborted first attempt because my blood results weren’t back in time. This also meant a delay of an hour and a half, which didn’t affect me too much. I was kind of in a semi-meditational state I reckon. Either that or just frozen with fear. Now it was the turn of the anaesthetists to do things to me. Thanks to Belton (not Ben Elton) for painlessly finding my veins first time and inserting the cannulas that would feed the juice to knock me out and sustain me with fluids. All I can remember is a bit of aimless chit-chat, breathing deeply into the gas mask that was placed over my face and….
Chris the Crafty Cockney
Less than two hours later I woke up on the high dependency unit with Gilbert looking after me. At some point I remember my surgeon coming round to tell me, quite madly in his Chris the Crafty Cockney way:
‘You’re fixed!’
‘Thank you!’ I said.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
After Gilbert and Sofia, I was handed over to Tara, who was a bundle of fun in our short time together. Tara couldn’t wait to get rid of me, though, and pushed the wheelchair herself to get me on to the main ward so that she could go and have lunch or something. I had been looking forward to moving wards actually. The high dependency unit was a bit noisy and a bit dull and now I would have access to my belongings that I brought with me - mp3/video player, internet, email, phone, etc. But when I was shown to my room (it’s on old private hospital bought by the NHS) I felt strangely disheartened and lonely. On the high dependency unit, Gilbert, Sofia and Tara were always within eyesight or earshot, but on the ward my new nurse Nas and everyone else was gone within seconds. I was still attached to two drains and my morphine drip, so I couldn’t go anywhere. I felt as helpless as a baby.
At least I was on the ward in time for the Manchester derby, the most important game since the last one. And my mum and step-dad John were visiting at 2pm. Lunch was forgettable - one of my few complaints is that the food was largely very poor quality. As I discovered on my discharge from the hospital, there is a very good coffee bar and staff/visitors’ restaurant in the hospital, which I believe is managed by the same company that provides the patients’ meals, yet the comparison is dreadful. I didn’t have much of an appetite due to the morphine, but it doesn’t help when you are served up slop that is worse than school meals of thirty-odd years ago.
Back to the footy. My mum proudly explained that my brother would be texting her with news of any goals.
‘That’s great, Mum. But I’m getting text updates from the BBC every few minutes on my internet tablet.’
BBC text updates on one of the most uneventful ninety minutes in the history of football aren’t much fun, but sustained conversation more than my brother’s updates.
BLEEP!
Crikey, a text from my brother to my mother.
‘15 seconds left. Scholes header. Game over.’
My mum read the text out loud.
‘What does that mean?’ she asked.
Oh, christ.
‘It means,’ explained ever-patient John, who is not a football fan:
‘United have won the game with a last minute winner yet again.’
‘Oh.’
‘What do you think it means?’
This remote victory barely raised a smile on my dry lips and hardly registered an increased pulse according to Nas when she took my blood pressure. It is surely my least celebrated United goal ever, although I did manage a laugh and a cheer the next morning watching the highlight on Match of the Day.
Sunday I had three separate visitors morning, afternoon and evening and I suspect I was fairly grumpy/tired during at least one of those, so apologies certainly to my dad. I have to say, though, that visits are extremely tiring and quite emotional. It’s no wonder hospitals advise no more than two visitors at a time. And when you’re in that state of post-op pain or discomfort, lack of mobility, tiredness, feeling sick etc., you’re really not much company. It’s great to see people, of course, but as a visitor you can’t expect too much from your relative or friend. And thanks, dad, for leaving me with the advice to get a hair cut and a shave so that I don’t look so much like Frank Gallagher!
A quick thanks also at this point to some more lovely nurses - Sarah, Yvonne, Nadia, Esther - sorry if I missed anyone.
Minor complaints
I mentioned earlier a couple of minor exceptions to the high level of care I received while in hospital.
One would be that the cannula on my wrist became loose, swollen red and painful. I asked one of the nurses about it and she said it was ok and bandaged it up (after dropping the bandage on the floor!) to hold it in place. Later another nurse came to use the cannula to inject my antibiotics. Now this can usually feel a little uncomfortable, but nothing more than that. This time I was screaming in agony. I pointed out the problem again and she said that it was ‘unacceptable’, removed the cannula, patched me up and fixed the cannula in my hand so that it could be used for both the morphine drip and the antibiotics, painlessly.
My second minor complaint would be that the same nurse who dropped the bandage came in gloved-up to remove my second drain, then went out again touching the door handle to call for assistance (two nurses are required - one to pull the drain out, one to tie the stitch, the painful bit). I asked her to change her gloves, which she did so willingly and acknowledging that she should do so. The point is that she should be taking the initiative not waiting for patients to prompt her. It’s fairly basic stuff.
My only other quibble is that I was discharged on Tuesday morning (four days after my op), barely able to walk more than a few yards without getting out of breath so basically forced to book a taxi home. They gave me some paracetamol, ibuprofen and dihydrocodeine for the pain, but for three out of the five days I’ve been home so far that hasn’t been enough to control the pain. It’s really been quite distressing for me and for my family to see me in so much pain and to be able to do nothing to help. I’m seeing my GP on Monday so maybe I’ll get some extra help with that.
The drugs didn’t work
I’m not sure how long it’s going to take for me to recover and go back to working full-time. As far as I know, I’m expected to make a full recovery, although I was a more than a little perturbed to read that post-op pain from a thoracotomy can take months or even years to go away.
I’m still not sure how this all happened. In January I had a chest infection and pleuritic pain similar to that which I’d had in March 2009 when I had a really acute episode of shortness of breath, fever and a consolidation on the same lung. That cleared up quickly with antibiotics and an inhaler. This time around, the drugs didn’t work, so my body responded by sealing off the infection in my lung by surrounding the lung with fluid.
Unfortunately I tried to work through this in February, which left me feeling too exhausted to go get an x-ray right away. Once I got the x-ray I was admitted to Accident and Emergency immediately where they did some tests to rule out heart problems, I think, before sending me home. Then I had to wait five weeks before seeing a chest specialist and another week or two before getting the results of fluid samples and a CT scan.
Hard cheese
As luck would have it, all of these tests were negative (ruling out the likes of cancer and smoking as possible causes, as far as I know). But the build up of fluid had continued and I had progressively felt more and more physically and mentally tired. My surgeon was certain that I had what is known as empyema (the hard ‘cheese’ as he called it and that I talked about earlier) and this required decortication (scraping the rind off the lung) via a thoracotomy (an incision along the underside of the shoulder blade).
As it turned out, I was told that the scraping bit wasn’t required, which is great news as that would likely have damaged the tissues of the lung. I’ll be seeing my surgeon again in a week or two I think and the chest specialist next month. I’ve been told it’s still possible that I could have tuberculosis, although there is no evidence of that yet (it takes a while to show up apparently). Meanwhile I’m taking antibiotics for pneumonia - if I don’t breathe deeply and cough well enough I’m at risk of getting a chest infection. And, despite the lovely nurses, I don’t want to go there again!