Sleeping so much. Easily for 9-10 hours per night. Tossing and turning for hours. A terrier yaps in the garden below. It must be Stanley, but I then realise I’m in Wells and it’s the neighbour’s dogs.
Every morning I awake not knowing where I am, around about 9.30am.
Wells is lovely and quiet but nothing much happens here, apart from the odd murder. Lots of heroin too if that’s your thing. And arts and culture and god-stuff with that Cathedral and all.
It’s funny when you see a place change over 50-odd years. The awful new houses - little boxes cheek-by-jowl, no new services; schools, doctors’ surgeries and sewage pipes all overflowing
I’ve considered moving back here for the first time in 30 years but I’ve concluded that even as I am it would be a retrograde step for me - just as it was in my 20s.
Failures #23
Whilst I was here at my parents’ (now in its 10th day) I was supposed to read and précis a ton of first edition Dungeons and Dragons adventures, make them meals every day and clean for them.
I read the adventures several times but failed to make much more than introductory notes. I read some of my other books. I read The Times most days but far more selectively these days, rather than just cover-to-cover.
That’s it. I made 3 meals my parents were rather indifferent about, did no cleaning apart from the dishes and my own laundry.
Social life - I go out for lunch every day so I get out of the house. I see my sister, I’ve met up with old friends Tanith, Paula, Clare, Franca, Stuart and Mark. But I had 2 nights of back-to-back heavy drinking and still haven’t recovered 48 hours later! #middleage
More Memories of Martin
My reminiscences of the enigma who was Martin Duncan-Jones went down very well with those who knew him. More anecdotes…
“An architect is an artist whose pallet is your wallet.” This was Martin’s view on the fact that architects get paid a percentage of the cost of a build, so it’s in their interest to not save you money.
He once accused me of being Rupert Murdoch when I was trying to get a website together where we could all publicise our work.
“I’m keeping my head below the parapet.” This was his stock phrase when people were trying to ‘make him do things’ in his words. What that translated as was ignoring phone calls from his one client (The Diocese of Westminster) offering him work.
On rave culture: “If those were factory conditions people would complain.”
“Er, no.” His response to anything I said whenever I was out of favour. Mary Mary…
He had great anecdotes. One of the things he was very proud of was never having bought rubble bags but using the empty sand bags instead and these were to be reused as well. “Ollie once…ripped…a bag. I remember it well…” and on and on about some great transgression when Ollie had cost Martin by ripping a plastic bag.
He also had the worst vans in Britain. He had an old Citroen van for years that bled brake fluid. He had to stop every 40 miles to put break fluid in but he’d worked out it was cheaper than getting it fixed.
One of the last jobs we did I would start at 8 and then go to pick him up at 9.30am from the station (he would be up till the early hours fighting online with people on blogs and comments sections) and he was reading a book in ancient Greek “Dual text dear boy, but it’s all coming back.”
I could go on but will stop there.
The Disney Democratic Republic
The supermarket at the end of the road. It was all in Disney colours. I went in with the intention of buying a special chocolate biscuit. I knew I was being monitored by an unseen entity. The last of these biscuits were on the shelf. They were intended for consumption by infants, but they were so good I just had to have one.
This was strictly forbidden behaviour.
So I took it. I realised then that the die had been cast. I needed to get out of there. The entity was intent on my capture.
I went through colourful yellow and red doors onto a platform where I took a very new yellow and red train which hurtled along and ended up in a huge colourful resort with around 12-15 other people.
Our hair was all silvery grey. We knew the entity or entities were in another metaverse to our own and they were looking at us. Trying to grab at us through the phlogiston. I suggested we all stick together but some people didn’t. One woman went outside and started cleaning - sweeping the floor. But the entity came and touched her. You could see she had been affected as her hair had turned from silvery grey to silvery purple and she could no longer see or hear you.
Others went out to save her but one by one they went to their doom, mindlessly cleaning as automatons, with their newly purple hair. Then it got me.
So the Sertraline is still doing the business. I haven't exploded into a berserker's rage for weeks now. Which is nice.
Yesterday was the last session at The London Wetlands Centre. Felt a bit sad in a way. Two of the couples didn't make it in. The weather was pretty inclement too. I let them know about this blog. I read a bit out of my last post - the bit about me being a miserable bastard which made them laugh.
Drugs are good.
Maybe I shall try CBD or micro-dosing with magic mushrooms. What is there to lose?
Data-deficient
We currently have no internet so I'm, tethering this computer what I am typing 'ere through my phone to the interweb. Amazing what we can do with technology these days. Waiting for the man to come and fix it. Which as we know this can sometimes take more than one visit.
in a moment I shall be venturing into Kingston town centre to get my Covid and flu jab. What fun!
Drakkenheim update - not that you're interested, and one could hardly blame you...
Did a 6 hour session on Sunday. 6 HOURS OF DUNGEON MASTERING! Wave after wave of attacks by various monsters on a fort that the players had to defend.
It was actually really good. Markedly different to the previous session which was predominantly role-playing. That's what's so great about this game - role-playing - exploration - combat. Something for everyone.
They all went up a level too. Just rewards. But things get tougher in the game now.
I'm loving this.
I also have to embellish their backstories which are tied in to the whole scenario - each of them has a secret or guiding reason why they're there, or what they need to do. They haven't told the other characters what they are and I need to expand and integrate these into the adventure, one-on-one with each player.
It will get complicated so I need to keep it clear and concise or yours truly will get very muddled indeed!
Don't like readin' or speakin'
Reading less of the paper these days. I used to devour it beak to arse, but now I just read some of the comments section and do the quiz, skim the rest. Is this symptomatic of a stage I'm going through or my condition worsening? Who knows.
I stopped reading Private Eye about a year ago - just couldn't get down to reading all that dense, forensic text. I'm considering cancelling my subscription to The Times. I would miss certain writers though. A paper becomes a familiar companion, and strangely comforting. It's dependable in that it always arrives and you look forward to certain features and writers, like familiar voices.
I'll keep it for now as it may just be a stage I'm going through. I've learned that with dementia it's rather like a wavelength. For instance yesterday I was really chatty and up when I arrived at the Wetlands Centre. By the last half hour I was withdrawn and elsewhere.
Dull
...what I am becoming. I have so few interests now: D&D, Abba, nature, politics (on the wane as the movers and shakers are so depressingly awful). The dogs are lovely. So are my friends.
Things are quiet before Xmas. I haven't done any Xmas shopping. I don't know what to get. My creative thinking seems to have gone. My imagination can be sparked but is as responsive and inactive as our broadband is at this time of writing.
Talking of creativity, I want to run Drakkenheim until its very end. This is because I'm finding it harder to prepare and I'm not sure when it will be too much and I will no longer be able to do it. It would be a shame if we didn't get to the end.
Less is going through my mind than ever before. Dungeons and Dragons - mehh. Abba - barely listen to it, and that's despite having spent hundreds more on tickets to see them twice more! I seem to be less into stuff, but on the other hand I'm very much back to exploring my old musical tastes - back to progressive music: Gentle Giant and Frank Zappa especially but lots of other interesting things too.
Since watching snippets of Glastonbury while on holiday in The Lakes, I've been revisiting Paul McCartney. Everyone talks about Lennon being a god but a lot of the stuff he released after The Beatles is unlistenable, especially the stuff with Yoko Ono.
Talking of McCartney I remember when Mull of Kintyre was no 1 for 6 weeks. I was amazed to find out the song was only 4.43 long. Feels like half an hour when you listen to it. Funny how We are Sailing by Rod Stewart which was also a massive hit in the 70s never gets played any more either.
That's a good thing.
Yes. This really is LIVE.
Plans
So not only do I have no get up and go I have a lot of stuff to do. J is away for work so I walked the dogs before the heat really sets in and now I'm writing this; not so bad so far.
Got to do some more stuff: write some D&D notes and really get on top of things. Last night was pretty lacklustre (the heat didn't help) but I just couldn't get round to doing much in the way of prep for the session.
I also have to have a hairdo and moustache and beard trim (which I will do next) and try and keep busy but pace myself in the heat (32' today - v hot for the UK).
Politics
Last week I was glued to the computer, radio, TV and news feeds and papers. I couldn't get enough of it.
It was hilarious.
At last the worst Prime Minister in HISTORY is gone. But actually he hasn't - he's still there squatting in No 10 Downing Street. And now the most venal collection of politicians in history are all fighting for the top job espousing their credentials, integrity, and principals.
Excuse me?
Fifty of them resigned in 36 hours to save their own necks. They were all complicit in the lies and hypocrisy of Johnson until they knew it was all over.
And the likelihood is one of these will be our next PM.
Health
As a DEMENTED I'm supposed to crave sugar. I have had stages of eating Tangfastics and also liquorice - that was a big food fad for me. However I now get my sugar in the far more convenient and refreshing form of BEER.
The effect of this is initially pleasure and as an aid to relaxation which leads to conversation.
According to Thomas Jefferson, "Beer, if drunk with moderation, softens the temper, cheers the spirit, and promotes health."
However having not drunk in moderation I now have a beergut. Bugger.
And why do alcoholic drinks taste so good the older you get? A cruel joke of nature I'd say.
So anyway, despite the myriad gorgeous flavours waiting to be imbibed and the wonderful feelings and conversations to be experienced, I must curtail my consumption of beer.
I chatted to my naughty cousin, Steffan, while we were having the family gathering in April. It was the most we'd spoken ever. We compared notes.
The title above is how he described his upbringing. Did that resonate with me.
Our parents were forced to go to chapel as kids - as soon as they were adults they stopped going. But that doesn't really change much, except you now have Sundays free, for it was most of the day they attended.
Ah, the benefits of non-conformist repression. Knowing you’re born a sinner, last in the queue, to make way for your betters, never ever be late for anyone, to know your place in the world and just aim for the middle as it’s the best you’re ever going to achieve.
And they've got you for life.
Yes - it’s the nuclear fall-out of centuries of chapel life, ingrained in families wherever those sinister little buildings arose.
For example, I bought my parents some good quality knives for Xmas as the ones they bought in the garage with coupons all those years ago are rubbish.
Oni yw fy sbwriel o safon?
'Why are you buying us nice things?' In other words, 'We’re Welsh - we shouldn’t have good stuff.'
'I know this knife is as sharp as a spoon but it’s good enough for us.'
'My 2 pairs of nylon underpants will see me out.'
Etc.
My parents' generation were told if you were bright the most you could aspire to be was a school teacher, which is why so many Welsh teachers worked in London schools.
I met an old Welsh guy who pointed this out to me on a business networking social I did years ago.
“Don’t tell me what your parents do - they’re teachers.”
How did he know? It’s all you were told you could do if you were bright and Welsh.
'I told my careers master I wanted to be a Management Consultant. They laughed at me ‘You can't do that; you’re Welsh!’'
You may laugh at that. But that is institutionalised repression in a nutshell; and it took out lots of capable people for centuries, and all the while everyone else doffed their caps to their betters.
And it filtered down to me and my cousin. And no doubt others.
I guess rugby offered a middle finger to the mine-owner - the only opportunity to vent the frustration. It's one of those situations where you can get one over on your dominant neighbour. It makes you feel good for a bit when you win but ultimately it doesn't really change anything for the better.
Many years ago when I was barely a lad, I worked for 2 years at The BBC. It was a funny place. A culture of moaning, appalling pay and even more-appalling hours.
If you've ever seen W1A it's pretty accurate. Well-meaning yet sinisterly insincere types making creative decisions they really weren't qualified to make for programmes that were too awful to watch.
I was there working in 'lifestyle' programming in a pre-internet age.
As a researcher I used to beg and borrow any product for the show. Product-placement was rarely mentioned but it was rife. After the 'talent' and the cameraman were paid, there was almost nothing left in the budget. My wage in 1999 was £14.5 K/annum.
This is why the children of the wealthy go into the media: few can afford it or have the connections to go in anywhere other than at the very bottom as a runner. I had saved up money to come to London with and eventually sold my car to keep myself going. It was tough.
At least in the BBC they treated runners better than they did in the private sector. (Shivers...)
The department wanted to expand the 'brand' (which was the latest buzzword) of Home Front. They'd done Home Front in the Garden and now they wanted to do a non-transmittable pilot for a new show.
Our Series Editor, the Cambridge-educated Franny Moyle, had a big meeting with us to impart the great news of the new branch of the brand!
"It's going to be called Home Front in The Kitchen. It's a half hour show, where we design and make a kitchen, then make a meal...in that kitchen!"
Tumbleweed.
Somewhere in the distance a dog howled.
I could just imagine these over-educated Oxbridge types, high on coffee and biscuits, managing to convince themselves the worth of this mediocrity.
I looked around the room, incredulous at such nonsense. Everyone looked resigned and exhausted, albeit partly due to the 80 plus hour weeks some of us were enduring.
My mate Fergus looked at the floor for the entirety of the speech.
At the end of it, I said to Franny "Can I NOT be involved in Home Front in The Kitchen?" Career-suicide I know, but someone had to say something and that's where yours truly came up trumps.
Makes me laugh to this day.
So the premise is basically welding a design and build show onto a cookery programme. I wonder if a visual metaphor would elucidate further?
Home Front in The Kitchen
So you have the designer doing their bit, then hairy-arsed builders put the cabinets and worktop together, plumb it all in with grease and dirt, then someone cooks a lasagne.
You could even have one of those wipe cuts or transitions from the plumber's arse to a board full of minced beef to signify the natural blend of the 2 genres. The possibilities are endless.
So they spent £120k of licence fee (possible £160K but here my memory is shaky) on a programme which it was obvious to me and others would never work. They then showed it to a focus group who hated it.
And to those who have been apologists for enablers of Putin, I hope you feel ashamed. You are crypto fascists at best.
'Useful Idiots' as Lenin used to call them.
These people are usually on the fringes of politics. On the right, Trump, Farage and Bannon who blame the European Union for antagonising poor Mr Putin, and on the left Diane Abbot, Jeremy Corbyn and Richard Burgon, who blame NATO for doing the same thing.
Liberty. And fuck Putin.
'Oh, he's no worse than our leaders.' I used to hear down the pub.
Well, he does happen to have his dissenters murdered. I'd say that was different for a start.
They don't call him the Demagogue of Democracy for nothing yet I've had Facebook 'friends' who thought he was great.
I de-friended them. Can't be bothered with people like that in my life.
More important is to NOT forget the people who are under his cosh at the moment. Celebrate their bravery and refusal to bow down to his murderous whim. Ordinary people attacked by military-might commanded by an international pariah for reasons of spurious imperial drivel.
Let's do all we can to help the Ukrainians.
Baron Harkonnen
The other day I went to see a George Duke tribute band. They were magnificent, playing Fusion which is one of my favourite forms of music. The keyboardist was really funny - like a little kid. He kept putting both thumbs up after we applauded - so un-rock and roll! What a player too - the feeling he had for his music was incredible.
The quiet parts of the music are not a green-light for drunk people to chat loudly. But that didn't stop the people in the front row.
Annoying person at George Duke tribute concert
I think you can tell this really annoys me - as much as people talking or on their phones at the cinema or people putting their feet up on a train seat. It's so inconsiderate. If you want to goof about loudly go back into the pub; don't spoil the concert for others.
An ex-girlfriend is a huge Stevie Wonder fan. She went to see him in Hyde Park and there were people talking all the way through it. She was incredulous. A living legend is playing live in front of you and you're talking about crap with your mates.
Anyway, the person who really annoyed me was sat in front, looked like the guy in the photo in a wig, ate with her mouth open and couldn't say please or thank you to the staff.
Entitled witch.
Work sucks
I've got my 2 last jobs starting this Friday. I'm replacing some setbacks on some buttresses on a Church in Barnes - St Michael and All Angels.
Setbacks on a buttress
Set backs are the stones with angled, sloping fronts which allow water to cascade off. Quite a straightforward job and I'm doing it with my old mucker Fyfe, who will be leading the charge.
I won't be sorry to be leaving the profession. Most good tradesmen will tell you that the majority of contractors don't care at all about quality, and the standard of tradesmen these days is patchy. The reason people leave is because of the lack of quality control and the lack of appreciation for their efforts.
About 3 years ago I worked on a project for a prestigious cemetery in London. The job was split between our contractor (I was subbing for them) and another contractor who had never done a job like this. The architect had never worked on a restoration project either. He was absolutely clueless, and had to be guided by experienced people in my contractors company in order to get through the process.
The other contractor had clearly never handled stone before (they couldn't believe the weight), used a cementitious repair mix on the stone which bled white everywhere and at the end got someone to hand-paint the grey cementitious mortar white to make it look like lime.
Both the architect and the other contractor won awards for their work.
