Daydreamers of the world Unite!

'Rambling, ill-thought out and vague' #2

David Lynch and the ability to daydream, as a human necessity. He was adamant that creativity came when the mind was relaxed and he hated not being allowed to daydream.

I love that.

Study a single leaf on a branch blowing around in the wind.

Look at the corners in the room you're in.

I like my flip flops.

Yassss.

I like my Buffs.

Bufftasmic.

Looking at my favourite things.

Opening up an old book or box with a familiar object inside and thinking about what it means to you, when you used it and how.

The situation: who was there and where. Was it a happy occasion?

Watching my favourite YouTube channels.

Reading my favourite columnists.

Sitting and looking out of the window.

Seeing friends.

It's so quiet right now!

Increasingly thinking my life is like Billy Pilgrim’s in Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5. Here I am in the geodesic dome on the barren planet with everything I could need then my mind catapults back to previous points in my life which I live out in that instant, feeling the same euphoria, amazement, embarrassment or whatever.

Check it out. It's a 100 times the book The Time Traveller's Wife was.

It's like I've done everything I was ever going to do. That was it.

It's not depressing. Just some existential clarity. 

It's quite liberating, actually.

When are you going to get back on the tools?

They ask. As though this is some temporary or minor ailment.

'All in your mind.'

'Nothing really wrong with you.'

'Just the same as he ever was.'

If only we could walk a mile in each others' shoes. You'd see how foggy and frustrating my brain has become. 

I'm the weirdo talking to himself or out loud and he doesn't even know it. 

I wear crazy colours on my head and feet. 

Yes, I go outside like this.

I'm reading a children's book. (Probably D&D related)

I have my headphones on 90% of the time.

I can't stand bright light or noise.

On some days it takes me 10 minutes just to get out of the front door. 

Keys. Damn. Go upstairs. What did I come up here for?

Ah keys. Yes.

Go downstairs. Where are my shoes? Is it going to rain? Large red boots require different socks. Why's it so dark? Take off sunglasses. Where are my regular glasses? Go back upstairs.

Repeat any combination.

Concentrate on Tomos on our walk. It helps keep me in the present, rather than let my mind wander off into the past.

Picked up a 4" breeze block the other day. Much heavier than I remember.

I'm small and weak. That's just the way it is.

And logistics...jeez.

As I always say, these days there is no automatic mode. Everything has to be thought about from one moment to the next.

That's where all the energy goes, so after 2-3 days of painting or doing something I need at least that to recover.

Gaming or lack thereof

My week revolves around running my D&D game on Thursday evenings. For various reasons it seems to have fallen apart. I don't think it's my DMing - rather just life getting in the way of leisure.

I know I keep banging on about this, but it takes me a long time to prep. Some days when I run a game it could be I'm having a bad day - a trough - with the old FTD, and trying to process the written material is even worse - the viscosity of the treacle I'm wading through is stiffer than ever.

I précis the adventure which is often 10-20 pages long, and read it over and over. It takes me hours and can be quite difficult as I gloss over and over the text not taking 80% of it in.

Running the game - while tiring - is a thrill-fest. It's exhilarating, a mental workout and when it's flowing it is so much fun.

I need a come-down afterwards, which is 2 bottles of beer and some YouTube..

So the last few months have been very frustrating, not just for me, but the players too.

I'll need to pick myself up and immerse myself in the new campaign in order to run it to best of my ability. That means all the player characters have a reason to be in this particular campaign - their own story hook in other words, and it will need to be fully developed.

So I'm going to have to be on top of my game. 

Always a challenge.

Better start then...

How to be incredibly popular, like me

Sociably anti-social or anti-socially sociable?

I used to copy Joe Dunmore. I don’t know how he put up with me for so long. I’d have been totally freaked out if the roles were reversed.

I used to copy the tutors at Art College. I thought I had a licence to critique other people’s work, so I’d go round the class as the tutor did.

How to turn an entire year against you.

I copied the comedians at the production company. That didn’t go down well either.

I can judge an atmosphere in a room but I can’t pick up on social mores. The rules, in other words.

I was overfamiliar at the first stonemasonry workshop I worked at. Not very wise. There was a Lord of The Flies-style pecking order there so people hated me.

They were wankers anyway.

What is going on?

I don’t have Borderline Personality Disorder.

Do I have Autism and/or ADHD? This would seem the most probable.

I’ve masked and copied for years, stared out of the window or even watched the laundry churn around in the washing machine when I was little for tens of minutes at a time. 

I wanted to be liked so I copied other kids, always chasing the most popular kids, hanging by their coat tails.

I always maintained when I was being assembled they took my frontal lobe out of a skip. It's gone from bad to worse with FTD.

I could never revise. I would dust my bedroom meticulously with a 1/2” wide flat paintbrush instead.

Boring lesson? Most of them are. Why pay attention when you can look out of the window and watch Ernie the caretaker hypnotically going up and down mowing the grass?

In my twenties I'd flip from being scared of my own shadow to periods of intense confidence, so pleased in my own skin I’d be frequently approached by women in pubs and clubs.

It wasn’t an act - I really did feel that confident. Borderline arrogance.

And then it left. 

Thankfully for the best part these days, I am confident, or rather, adequate, in my own skin. I am me. It’s taken so long to get to know me, to even like me.

Those first few (four!) decades were more difficult than I’d have liked. And no person or mechanism to label and treat those symptoms, unlike today.

But I think it’s flipped over - harsh lessons learned stay for your entire life. If you wrap someone in cotton wool they never really learn and may expect the world to bend over backwards to accommodate them.

We do the young no favours by doing this. You still have to go out there, try, fail, get up and get on with it and learn in the process.

No one else is going to do it for you.

The 80s

Yuppies, vulgarity, venality, shoulder pads, shaggy perms with highlights, spoilers on Ford Escorts, greed is god, white stilettos, aerobics, ankle warmers, headbands, bubblegum pop, mullets, flicks, drum machines, Reagan, Thatcher, trickle-down, ra-ra skirts, deely-boppers, smiley faces, Tennants Extra, Marlboro cigarettes, pop videos, acid house, Falklands War, Miners’ Strike, Arthur Scargill, Neil Kinnock, Noel Edmunds, ITV, Blind Date, Duran Duran, Essex, Spandau Ballet, gold lamé, Wham, Goth, trendy, rasta, mod, casual, new romantic, punk, met’ler, psychobilly, hippy, skin, raver, Testarossa, Sierra, A-Team, Transformers, He-Man, Dynasty, Dallas, Care Bears, Kylie and Jason, Neighbours, Eastenders, Joan Collins, Roland Rat, I’m all right Jack.

You think this is cool????

Yuck.

Thank god the 90s came immediately afterwards to take the taste away.

Winchester

I visited my old friend Rupert, his refrigerator-sized son (my godson), Sophie and daughter.

On Tuesday Rupert and I left Sophie and the kids (who don't like old stuff) and went to Winchester. I’d last been there 6 or 7 years ago on a weekend with J. 

It’s quintessentially English in a Country Life or This England way. You’d bring North American friends here, Bath and The Cotswolds.

Ancient, civilised, tranquil, refined, orderly, quaint, pleasant. So much architectural history everywhere.

We had lunch in a lovely old pub called the Wykeham Arms. Great pint of Dark Star Hop Head (3.4%) - perfectly kept beer. 

Then the Cathedral itself. Wonderful hotch-potch of architecture. Thankfully the diocese had run out of money transforming the Romanesque into early English, so it just stops half way through. So much wonderful work there - frescos and polychomatic stone all over the place. Great to see the puritans didn't get to everything.

Lierne vaulting - NOT fan vaulting!

Romanesque period: built 1079 - 1150s. 

These are only 16" high. Amazing.

Wonky Winchester - it sank at one end.

The RoodScreen - keep you lot out!

Gurt nave.

18th century marble statuary

Gurt wall painting.

Saxon?

This is an effigy of God - seriously. There are about 4 in the UK

Romanesque, innit?

Lovely door - great colour combi 

Pisspoor repair.

Gurt flying buttresses.

The Easter Murders

Goodbye (moron)!

While walking through the market I met a couple I thought I knew relatively well enough for conversational purposes. 

I was explaining I'd just had my ears syringed and mentioned TWICE how the brain quickly comes to terms with deafness, compensates with hearing and balance, and was currently in the process of dealing with a clear ear'ole again.

Such was my amazement at the process and results of said ear de-gungification, they’d already said goodbye and walked off!

People cut the conversation short these days. Not all the time, but when it happens I'm still compos mentis enough to notice.

Several possible explanations come to mind:

1. I'm becoming [even] more tedious
2. Because I have dementia (=Alzheimers to most people) I won't remember how the conversation started or how long it's gone on for, so they can end it any time and no offence will be taken by yours truly.
3. I was always a complete twat and not worth any interaction with.

I can understand any or all of those. I don't even get offended, just curious as to what's really at the heart of a quick volte face from a potential conversation.

So I followed them for a while, and then I murdered* them.

That's just me though. 

You may react differently and that's your prerogative.

I blame it on the FTD. 

Unconscious whistling

I was walking up the High Street with Tomos the other morning, just like any other day, and a sweet old lady said “It’s so lovely to hear someone whistling. One never hears it anymore.”

But I wasn’t whistling at all, you deranged crone!

Oh shit - I’m not even noticing it now. Damn.

Rather like Austin Powers when he awakens in that scene, my internal monologue is now - intermittently - no longer reliably internal.  

This could lead to some complicated situations. Luckily at the time of writing, most people just see a mad person (me) warbling along and rightly ignore me.

Let’s just hope it stays that way for as long as possible.

Welsh-born

I just read an article on the BBC website referring to actor Matthew Rhys as 'Welsh-born.'

A few years ago I wrote an email to the curator of a particularly shit exhibition of photographs at the National Portrait Gallery featuring a number of performers at The Glastonbury Festival. One of them was of singer Tom Jones - the caption of which described him as 'Welsh-born'. 

I asked why the writer of the guff next to the images couldn't say 'Welsh'. The reply was that he'd spent so long in America that he wasn't really Welsh anymore.

Poppycock.

You see this as a Celt quite often. It's as though despite being relatively sub-human as a Welshy, an individual who's done rather well has transcended into a fully-formed human being and shuffled off the cloak of Welshness. 

They could even be English.

It would never occur to these people to refer to Michael Caine as English-born, would it? Or Hugh Laurie, James Mason, Helen Mirren or countless other English actors who earned or are earning their living in the US. 

Drives me nuts.

I murdered them an’ all.

The Time Team

My favourite programme of all time. All experts - all geeks - all passionate about archeology. Not a treasure-hunt, but an unpeeling of time to show how the land was used by people biologically and neurologically the same as us, but with the knowledge and beliefs of that specific time.

Endlessly fascinating, it ran from 1994 to 2012.

Most episodes are available on YouTube. The original characters were Tony Robinson the actor who presented, Professor Mick Aston in his rainbow jumper and black country accent, field archaeologist Phil Harding with his Wiltshire burr, Stuart the landscape archeology specialist, Victor Ambrus the historical illustrator, Carenza, Helen Geake, Mick the Dig etc. 

Wessex chic

It's charming,  gentle, funny at times and ultimately educational. These are real people who are able to communicate their passion and knowledge to the audience.

I wish I'd been an archeologist. 

Edwardian band names

Algernon and the Danglers

Forthright Bertie and the Pong

Marvellous Mucus Machine

Dr McGuthry's Vomitous Vituperations 

Billy Bolax and the Deep Dibbler 5

Gravel in't Gravy

Ebenezer and the Sneezer Geezer

Whoops! Where's me wobbler?

Jonathan Putrid and the Scrumping Guns

The Undesirable Altercation

Gladstone's Gallstones

Gene Splicer and the Mutations

*not really! 

...But I would say that, wouldn't I...?

"Just ignore him: he'll go away..."

So I've had man-flu..

Yeah, I know. This is the 6th week now. It was really active over 2 weeks and knocked me out, enough to not walk Tomos for the entirety. But it's also hanging on. 

One retired nurse told me what I had was a coronavirus of which there are many - the common cold and the covid virus being two of them.

I'm still bunged up. I sound like Tom Waites first thing, and my left ear is completely blocked, despite the litre and half of olive oil I've sprayed in it.

Having my ears syringed on Wednesday, which I've never had done before. I want to keep all the wax that comes out, and put it on display in a little jar.

But during this time I didn't get as frustrated as I normally do by not seeing people. 

I've noticed I'm not going out as much any more. That I'm more content to just stay in and do the same thing - YouTube and computer games. 

In particular I'm rewatching old Time Team episodes!

This is a feature of FTD - you withdraw until you've isolated yourself. You no longer see your friends, nor feel any compunction to do so.

And while I'm still a social animal really, it's one of those incremental steps down in my condition that I notice from time to time.

Even writing a blogpost has been extra-difficult. I just don't feel I have anything to say, which is - in itself - a thing worth saying, as I normally have tons to say!

It's all part of the change that happens to your personality with Behavioural Variant. 

Your interests and get-up-and-go, have got up and gone.

Back on the dog-walking block

But at least I'm back on earlies. I used to wake up at 6 or earlier when I was working. 

Early is now 8.10am.

Usual crowd of dog-walkers were out. People were nice  - some were concerned about me.

So today I was walking Tomos and I got embroiled in a white goods conversation. 

Oh my god...

I had a Meile washing machine that lasted 14 years and then I had a Zanussi that when you opened the cutlery draw was in the shape of a penis, which used to make my third wife laugh every time.

Really? I had a microwave that was in the shape of a ball bag. And I bought a terriyaki chicken from Morrisons that lasted 4 years. 

Of course, that was back when chickens were chickens. Did I ever tell you about my Aunt Ida? She used to be a zebra...

(Continues until the heat death of the universe.)

I had to make something up which took me a while with all this brain cancer coming through me ear'oles, and then I buggered off. 

Heroin without the upside

Every morning the first thing I do is reach for my phone or iPad and look for 'what's Trump and his idiots done now?'

I know a lot of others with my predicament.

I have TDS: Trump derangement syndrome. That's what MAGA call it.

It's basically a filthy drug addiction. Like fentanyl, without the upside. 

There is nothing positive to come out of it. There is no high. It's just a spirit-sapping dirge. Plunge into a vortex of shit, and immerse yourself in it.

Then you watch Fox 'News' which is a Trump's propaganda network, where smug buffoons shout down any dissenting voices, character-assassinating or doing whatever it takes to besmirch them, and then spin lies and ridiculous nonsense where their guy can do no wrong and everything's the fault of 'Libs'.

Someone explained that the reason the MAGA crowd hate Europe is that the political landscape in the US is now Oligarchic Authoritarians vs Liberal Democracies, and the US is now the former, which is why they're now ballsdeep with Putin, Erdogan, Orban et al.

With secretaries of state as inappropriate and out-of their-depth as Steve Witkoff, Pete Hegseth, Matt Waltz and Tulsi Gabbard and the recent Signalgate where war plans were shared using Emojis on a non-secure (by military standards) commercial platform and accidentally included the Editor-in-Chief of The Atlantic magazine, that the US is no longer our ally.

I feel really bad for the rest of America who haven't drunk of the Trump Kool-Aid. But this is where we're at.

White punks on dope, the lot of them.

I wonder what Fee Waybill would do in his first term?

Gaming

While I was ill I managed to put 100 hours into an old game I started years ago and never finished - Fallout 4. Post apocalyptic alternate 1940s sci-fi. Great aesthetics. The game is good but when you're in maximised powered armour with a fully uprated plasma rifle and level 50, being asked to kill a bunch of Raiders terrorising a farmstead becomes nothing more than a chore.

I do have a new CRPG: Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous. It's okay so far. The interface is not as intuitive as Baldur's Gate 3 but it has potential. 

D&D has been cancelled a few times again. Little bit frustrating but there you go. Not that it can be helped. 

Itching to play though, and I'll be DMing in Pilton over Easter again.

Miss Perkins will see you now...

A life in a day

I love lying in bed when I've just awoken, pressing the snooze button on my alarm 5 or 6 times. 

The perfect warmth under the duvet. Stillness. No one asking me to do anything. Listening to the birdsong, in the distance a terrier barks, and the low hum of vehicles passing by. 

Crunching of gravel as our neighbour prepares for work. Any time between 10 minutes and an hour I shall get up. What a shame to have to get up at all.

Then I become aware of the ever-present tinnitus in my left ear - a very high-pitched tone that sounds almost like central heating.

Pills, pills....100mgs of Sertraline, 30mgs of Nifedipine, Vitamin B complex, Vitamim D, Lions Mane, and a soluble Vitamin C.

Always blocked up - spray some saltwater up there. I am a martyr to my sinuses. It's hereditary. I can hear my parents blowing their noses - they sound like elephants.

Breakfast is a glass of worthy green sludge, a bowl of porridge made with water with a spoonful of real honey and plump blueberries on top. 

I have to have breakfast with my headphones on to avoid the television and its rolling news; a cafetière of smooth coffee and a carton of oat milk, then go through the paper starting with the columnists I give a shit about, thereafter working through the news.

Someone's taking someone to court over a boundary issue...World News, get 7 out 15 on the quiz, then YouTube. Any NRL matches? What's Trump done now?

I walk Tomos. Meet Herb and his dog Daisy, get ignored by Dame Joan (still don't know what I've done - my feelings alternate between loathing and laughter), get the next instalment of Gillian's Mexican soap-opera life, bump into multiple others. 

Some of us humans know each others' names now - we all know the dogs' names before we know each others'.

Spend too much time on YouTube. Get angry. My version of Tik Tok.

Must write more adventures. I'm rediscovering my writing side, my creativity having been strangled by years of institutional education. 

An ember still lies there. Must get the bellows out and some twigs. Need to work on this.

I almost forget lunch. It's a powdered Huel drink. Some people say it tastes of cheesy feet. I quite like it.

Snacks are shortbread biscuits or Bahlsen chocolate biscuits washed down with a mug of tea. Maybe a banana and an orange too.

Do a shop. Go to the supermarket every day. If I'm cooking for all of us I'll get a marinated spatchcock chicken, roast some veg and have some couscous with it. Other than that I'll eat on my own; pasta with a ton of spinach, or a pizza with a ton of chilli oil.

Might go for a walk in the afternoon but avoid the pubs. Don't want to start all that again. I want to keep the moderate drinking going.

Evening might be gaming online or I'll watch a film or some documentaries. Went to the local cinema last week with Nerys and watched A Complete Unknown with Timothée Chalamet as Bob Dylan. It was great. Must go more often.

Repeat.

Pushing Envelopes, pulling pints

Rupert visiting for the day, Suzy down for the previous weekend with her eldest daughter, playing online with Adrian, Larry and the other goblins as well as Sacha, Tim , Boyd and Eddie. 2 days of DMing with the kids in Pilton (see below) then writing a brand new adventure for the Wells lot for a one shot. 

Going to London to do a talk to 10-15 MSc students only 6 turned up and only one asked any questions. It was okay though.

Almost every day there was something on. And I just can't do that without paying the price anymore.

So on Tuesday 25th I woke up late with a cold. First cold I've had in 2 years. And it's a stinker. Still got it just as bad a fortnight (that's UK English for 2 weeks) later. 

I've barely left the house.

The oldies never got it. But I'm still very good with hand-washing and staying out of other humans' way.

So I'm off to see the duty nurse who, apparently, is very rude. And I'm so tired.

Too much gaming?

2 days of DMing in Pilton. The kids. You know. But there's a big age difference between 11 and 14, and it showed at times, with the older kids getting annoyed at the dumb stuff the young 'uns were doing.

It's supposed to be a collaborative, team effort you see.

One evening of playing on Zoom. We're playing D&D in realmspace. I won't go into details: it's all top-secret stuff.

One and a half days of writing a one-shot adventure. 

I wrote one the week before last, based on Wizard of Oz and Beauty and The Beast, with the screenplay in the manner of HP Lovecraft.

This week's was a time-travel extravaganza which I've always wanted to write. Being me there is zero method. I start at the beginning and bumble through to the end, changing stuff as I go, confusing the shit out of myself and writing the dialogue as the characters seem to emerge embryonically as I go.

The plot reveals itself as I overcome every hurdle. I would publish it but I nick everything so there'd be multiple copyright issues. Hitchhikers' Guide, multiple Alan Moore comic strips, Star Trek, evil toad-like tyrant (Trump obviously) and populated by the anomalous denizens of Drakkenheim, with a certain Hollywood blockbuster ending.

Run in one 3 hour session for Hannah and Katy.

They said it was probably the best adventure they'd ever played. But then again Carlsburg is probably the best lager in the world. (Hint: It's not.)

I particularly enjoyed roleplaying the AI Moulinex T3000 Food replicator.

You had to be there.

 Songs from the shower of insanity.

Singing "Oh Mr Grimble and his magical pants..." The theme song of a 1970s sitcom THAT NEVER EXISTED.

Interspersed with superfluous disclaimers/caveats of "I'm mad!! I'm mad!!"

What must the neighbours think? Lol

Shouting out "MY WINKLE'S SHRUNK!"

Well, it has a bit. But winkle-shrinkle is a thing at my age.

It's still scarily massive though.

Oh yes.

I'm 55.

That's my winkle, that is.

On behalf of the dim

The Counter-Enlightenment

Apparently Ukraine started the war. I don't know how, as Russia invaded it. 

But they did. Donald Trump said.

They're not allowed to negotiate the peace either. That can only take place between Russia and America. 

And Russia must be compensated by having all of its terms met BEFORE the negotiations take place. So it gets its territory (which historically was its, back in the bleh... century) and Ukraine can't join NATO.

That'll serve Ukraine right and teach it not to be a VICTIM again!

We stand with the strong men of the world! 

Trump's face will be carved into Mount Rushmore!

People loyal to THE PRESIDENT will replace those whose were merely loyal to the constitution!

Every podcast is out of date the moment it's broadcast as more and more insane shit is introduced by the US govt.

This is a deliberate tactic.

Trump is asked questions about his various secretaries of state and their actions, and doesn't even know what they've done or are doing.

That's not his job!

That's Elon's!

Trump's job is to play golf and to sign shit with his Sharpie.

This is democracy in action! 

All Hail the President!!

Is he going to be vulgar again, Deirdre? 

You know? Like last time...

Well to all the Deirdres out there, I do have Frontotemporal Dementia (Behavioural Variant) and this isn't the 1950s, but I will be more sensible and boring as I know the general public prefers it. 

And my key demographic is the middle-aged and intelligent, anodyne as that may be.

After all, in keeping with other dementia sufferers, one's accompanying blog about one's life as a demented must be wholesome and pure.

I'm supposed to talk about flowers, and spring (everyone forgets in the UK that the weather is shite until April) and birdsong, animals, walks in nature and beautiful loveliness.

And also my ever-loving care-partner, who I don't have. This bit only just occurred to me, as an autonomous dementia-bot - that I don't have a significant other.

Most other dementia bloggers tend to still be in relationships. I'm well-aware dementia puts a huge strain on relationships and many people split apart as the behaviour of the dementia sufferer goes un-diagnosed for years and can create antipathy and resentment.

Obviously I can get away without having a carer at the moment. 

My plan, when shit sucks, is to jump off a cliff.

It may never reach that point as one's lived experience in the present is 'well, I'm still okay', even when you've lost all your friends and are - at that moment - being arrested for trying to have sex with a large display of canned soups in a local Asda.

I imagine that the urge to remain alive is a strong one even when you're full on mad/demented.

I thought once I can no longer read, or run or play a D&D game anymore - with that being my raison d'être these days - what would be the point?

And I'll probably then say - ah, but I still appreciate music, ...and so on and so forth until I run out of interests and hobbies and all the other things that make me ME, until I'm reduced to basic bodily functions and wearing a nappy.. 

And the cliff thing - I'm a coward, so I probably won't do that.

Mind you, the world may not last that long the way things are going...

Balancing the booze

I managed to disgust myself sufficiently into stopping drinking or rather, cutting down to 4 beers a week. My stomach was that of the famous pregnant man from that early 70s advertisment.

Famous pregnant man advert

Self-disgust is an excellent in-built emergency brake and u-turn. A kill-switch if ever there was.

I looked at my once Apollonian frame in its naked glory in the mirror. Sagging everything, a retreated winkle too ashamed to show his once true majesty, Blackadder legs and a bloated potbelly. 

I look like some ancient toad. 

Me, naked. The other day.

It's puketastically bad. Bad enough for me to eschew the booze and walk a bit more, watch my diet and increase the vegetables.

I blame my parents who made me eat a ton of veg when I was a kid but now eat hardly any themselves. 

Okay, okay - I shall take charge of the cooking.

It will take 2-3 months and more exercise to get to my ideal weight / belt notch. It always does when I get to this stage. But I am fatter than I've ever been.

You need to see me in the flesh to see how revolting I truly am.

I already feel better since cutting down alcohol and walking more.

Full-frontal nudity here we come!

Direct, from the toilet of inertia!

Increase the sleep

Top tip for dementia people is sleep. I was only getting 7-8 hours of sleep last week. As a result I couldn't concentrate on reading or preparation very well.

Last night I got 9 hours. This morning I was able to read the Saturday Times  - obviously not all of it - but several of the articles, and was able to skim-read others.

Ideally I need 9-10 hours of sleep every night now, just to be as fully functional as I can be these days.

I still feel tired though. You just have to get used to that bit.

Thing is, I'd promised the 2 players who could make this week's D&D session that I'd have an adventure for them - a special one-off adventure. And I got myself in a right old tizz about I don't mind saying, cor lumme, stone the crows etc!

Dungeons and Dragons update

2 players only this week, so I cobbled together a Wizard of Oz meets Beauty and the Beast meets something or other. I added things, tried to keep it simple, added more stuff, crossed out some other things, and in the end completely confused myself.

I've been watching a few David Lynch films recently which contain a few Oz references, and of course  the darkness and horror you'd expect.

I tried to keep the elements simple, coherent, but it wasn't making sense in my head. Then I read some advice about stories, you need fantastic locations, a reason to be there, clues, some red slippers (2 odd shoes in this case) a fairy made of adamantine...and so I meandered off the beaten track as I do, and lost my bearings.

I read it over and over and under again. No map of the land, except the one in my head, and I didn't know if it was enough or not. Would it sustain an evening? Would it even just fall flat and everyone get angry as they wasted an evening when they could have done something that wasn't SHIT?

So I got to Seager Hall in Union St and there were Hannah and Luke, and we started, and it went okay. In fact, they seemed to love it. 

It was all a bit Disney but with Bodaks, Helmed Horrors, Hags and other nasty things. Big huge walls of thorns the size of the Pentagon, scary castles, but a happy ending. 

Bramble Buttons, Nanny Grumbles and Grotbags

Got to have a happy ending.

So it was a perfectly good 'one-shot' as we call them. I just no longer have the clarity of thought to truly know if something is good or will even work any more. 

Luckily the improvisational skills are strangely still there to paper over the cracks!

The greatest interview ever

Peter Bogdanovich who was part of the new hotshot directors at the time (1970?) interviews John Ford - proper old school director of Westerns often starring John Wayne or 'Duke'. The new meets the old.

Don't worry - it's only a minute and half long.

Remembering the olden times

I've always been nostalgic at heart, and I have very fond memories of the television of my youth. Good, old-fashioned family entertainment, where generations could sit together and enjoy inoffensive entertainment without recourse to foul language and gratuitous penis shots just to be relevant and 'cutting edge'.

These days programmes have to be 'relatable', whereby a popular retard goes to look at Renaissance paintings which they've not only never encountered, but also don't care about, so we witness their ignorance and inanities in order to offset our own feelings of ignorance and/or stupidity.

I mean, look at these programmes from Channel 4. Family entertainment my arse.

Rylan learns...brain surgery.' But he only has 24 hours before his first patient. Can he remove the tumour successfully? 

String Theory with Joey Essex. Professional fuckwit gets lost in WHSmiths

Allan Carr's Top 50 Bumholes.

What ruddy nonsense! 

So it's time to look back to the Golden Age of British television! Where true entertainers - professionals - were the order of the day. Whether they'd learned their trade at Butlins or the old music halls, they'd all graduated from the university of hard knocks, and tough surprises!

Here are a few of the highlights, all of whom are sorely missed.

Shitting with Norman

We join popular entertainer Norman Vaughan on a toilet in mid- defecation where he interviews a variety of music hall stars, constantly interrupting his guests mid-sentence to answer for them. Occasionally punctuated with off-mike plops which Vaughan finds hilarious and grades with a thumbs up or thumbs down.

Jizz and Minge

Deirdre Jizz and Doris Minge, the old music Hall act whose real names were Arthur Tit and Reg Mump. Dressed as old ladies, they would sing unfunny songs around a harmonium played by a black and white minstrel, all the while goading each other about the other's personal hygiene or lack thereof, and end up directing their anger in the form of harmless race-based gags toward the minstrel.

Young Racialist of The Year

The annual event hosted by Katy Boyle and Gripper Stebson, to find the white supremacist of 1978: a golden year for Nazi youth as it turned out. The winner receives a Chelsea smiler, a life-time's supply of Wilkinson Sword razor blades and as many sweets as they can nick from Baldy's ice cream van without getting caught and duly receiving a buggering.

"And the title of Young Racialist of the Year 1978 goes to..."

"Give us 50p fatty or yer 'ead's going to down the toilet!"

Mike and Bernie's Celebrity Skid marks

Watch Mike and Bernie Winters race each other in a series of state-of-the-art British Leyland cars. This week Bernie's Austin Princess is up against Mike's Allegro Vanden Plas in some field or other in Lincolnshire.

If you listen closely 'Diddy' David Hamilton provides a completely inane and superfluous commentary which was actually meant for another programme entirely, but no one at the time noticed.

Guest stars Bob Todd, The Lovely Anna Dawson and The St Winifred's School Choir in the grand finale: "Mike's jump of Death". 

The series was banned after this episode. Which was for the best.

Nonce goes the 70s

There was a big 50s revival back in the day. Who can forget Grease, Showaddywaddy, Darts, Rocky Sharp and the Replays, or Dickie Tremble and the Reacharounds? All the while, hosted by a seemingly endless supply of loveable household paedos (Savile, Jonathan King, Chris Denning etc).

Children's TV was also a big thing back then. 

Who can forget Terry Spangles and The Winkle of Doom, which saw the eponymous hero... 

Right. I've had enough now.

'To shit is vulgar; to plop, divine!'

The Culture of Work

Why aren’t these people dead yet?

Having lots of video playback in my head- situations I regret. One period that always plays back like a nightmare, is the first job I got in London when I returned in 1998, 27 years ago. 

Until I got FTD I’d barely thought about it. But in recent years it’s been gnawing away at me like some disease. This particular period of my life is primarily what causes me to randomly shout out expletives. 

I’d decided to check out what the world was like outside masonry so I quit my job and moved up to London, living on the floor of my mate's living room for a couple of weeks until I got sorted out.

I'd lived in Wells for 2 1/2 years and was bored out of my head as all my friends had left and I was in a dead-end job as I saw it, earning £200 net a week in a stonemasonry workshop. 

Nothing to do, and no one to do it with.

I'd really lost my confidence and at the time didn't realise that I was in the middle of a long depression.

I’d also just moved into a bedsit in Crouch End and was having a less than satisfactory social life. I thought I’d reconnect with my old London friends as it had only been 2 1/2 years since I’d lived there, but people had moved on to South London and in their social lives and I found myself rather isolated.

I got a job in a TV production company. I was quite excited as it was a company whose programmes I liked. So I got the job, met all the stars, and thinking I was in with them was pretty overfamiliar. 

One thing you don't do in these companies is get too pally with the 'talent.'

As a runner or dogsbody, it's your job to do everyone's bidding, essentially as a slave. People in the media industry proclaim their status by being as rude as possible to the runner, as you can't answer back and I was even earning less in London than I was as a mason in Somerset.

In retrospect I think this all points to a failure in my social behaviour which was always present - not knowing how to behave in certain situations - when to shut my gob and when to toe the line. 

As I've said before, I think my frontal lobe was pulled out of a skip when I was being assembled.

I made a few mistakes as a runner, said some inappropriate things to management and 'talent' and overall did myself no favours.

I had some bad luck too to be fair.

The flip side was the ugliness of the media industry - a public school bullying culture, where I was insulted to my face and spoken to as an idiot, which of course I'm not, even though maybe my behaviour had let me down at times.

It all started at the top with the CEO who was quite the tyrant. He didn't like me from the get-go. 

He was a classic public school bully.

And it makes sense, as the British public schools used the fagging system, whereby younger pupils went through a rights-of-passage as servants to the older boys and were often subject to beatings and bullying. 

These are largely schools which produced the kind of psychopaths who would have been sent out to brutalise the various peoples of the British Empire. With the Empire gone, where else would they go but The City and Television?

It got so that my mental health went from general lowness to rock-bottom. After a month or 2 I had to take deep breaths before going into the office building: I just couldn't do anything right for them. 

The abuse was relentless, and all the while I blamed myself for not coming up to par.

One evening I had a minor breakdown, and everyone was just either ignoring or laughing at me.

One person I did get on with there I confided in. She was a development manager and said she really didn't understand what had happened and that they'd got me completely wrong. She gave me a list of 12 people to contact in the industry and to mention her name. 

Within 2 weeks I had left for another much better job thanks to her kindness. 

Apparently they missed me when I'd gone.

Fuck 'em.

I still beat myself up about how pathetic I was in not standing up for myself and letting people treat me like shit. This is what happened and I've never told anyone any of this. I hope by writing it down this somehow acts as a catharsis and is the start of the end of these horrible memories that keep haunting me.

Because as you can tell I still feel ashamed.

I guess I just didn't have the backbone during that particular period. Especially when your opinion of your self has flat-lined.

Years later and everything seems to point to me having ADHD and some other neuro-divergent behaviours. 

Would they behave like that in this day and age? 

Probably. The media industry outside the corporations is largely unregulated.

Self-Employment

Since getting my diagnosis I now stand up for myself more than ever. Most people back down when you do that.

I guess I feel 'what have I got to lose?'

(I know - but this is relatively new to me... )

It took me until 36 to realise that I couldn't work for other people. 

I would be lost in a vortex where my life depended on trying to please.

I wouldn't stand up for myself either.

I lived, ate and breathed work. I could rarely get away from it. It pervaded my dreams and any waking thoughts, catching me unawares. And these were trivial low-paid jobs too.

In the case of some employers, I ended up exploding at them like a super-volcano of pent-up fury.

Other times if a few of us were unhappy about something I would be the one speaking up in a meeting, and turn to my brothers for support who would all be staring at their shoes.

Oh. it's like that is it?

Thanks. I know who you are.

Being self-employed was initially terrifying, but it was worth it. It means you can listen to your Spidey-Sense and not take on certain jobs. Also, you can call out a bad idea and it doesn't matter so much about the ego being bruised as they're not your boss.

You can tell a contractor to fuck off - or tell a client you're not interested in a job because they're a nutter.

I had a good guy working with me for a lot of the time. In the end he was doing about 75% of the work as my brain just couldn't get in gear.

There are more people who should be self-employed. I know who they are, even if they don't.

I miss my friend Mat

I used to enjoy my chats where Mat would rationalise the world, break down the chaos and let me see clearly what was going on. 

He'd do it really quickly too, which was great as we could have more time for drinking and laughter.

How many people do you have who you can really talk to, completely unhindered, uncensored? 3? 4?

People like Mat leave a big void. It's only when I look to the phone to reach out to a friend that I become all too conscious of that loss.

I think of Suzy, rolling up her sleeves and getting on with a director-level job, running the house, walking the dogs and taking the girls to all their sports meetings and social appointments!

And the girls getting on with their lives. 

How bloody senseless his death is. 

That's real loss, that's devastation. Much worse than dementia.