I'm not really in the people-space at the moment

"I'm not really a person-person"

Tom, in The Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin. A sit-com so profound in its concept and brilliant in its writing and characters that it had a huge impact on me from a young age.

A wonderful Ronnie Hazlehurst theme tune too.

If you don't know, it's about an executive having a nervous breakdown. An existential crisis.
Very 70s. People were questioning the nature of our societal structures, what humans actually need to be fulfilled.

Reggie

It started in the counter culture of the late 60s, fuelled by radical thinkers, and among other things spawned the self-sufficiency movement which was also the basis of The Good Life, another highly successful BBC sit-com, in the golden age of British TV.

Not really the stuff of comedy, you'd think.

But it's an amazing piece of writing, with astounding characters who are caricatures of people we all know - the super confident Tony, the bag of nerves who is David, the tyrannical Boss CJ and the annoying pseudo-intellectual son-in-law Tom, who dutifully delivers a sprout wine on visiting and pipe smokes while uttering comments on everything.

A bit like me but with a pipe...

"I didn't get where I am today without having champagne not much just enough"

“I didn't get where I am today by selling ice cream tasting of bookends, pumice stone and West Germany.”

It's just wonderful surreal, profound, maddening. A sitcom that takes you to a place few others would dare: an existential cliff-edge.

Perhaps “One foot in the grave” trod similar territory

Talking of the catchphrases, you can read them here

Anyway, all this is a segue from my own condition which has been to isolate myself over the last few days.

It goes like that in the dementia space. I have long periods where I’m relatively social, and then I pay the price where I just can’t handle other people.

Trying to break it down - you - YOU - people just get in the way, physically. When I’m walking down the street, or queueing. Big blobs of matter talking incessantly, not paying attention, dawdling and meandering.

Would you do that on a motorway?

Children having fun but screaming in excitement.

Dumb males with overly loud combustion-engined vehicles.

People asking me questions, or to do things when I’m having difficulty even completing a sentence.

Too hot - I’m just trying to keep cool, trying to maintain a breeze going through the room.

Too bright as well. Bring me the gloom any time.

Reseal the bunker!

“Can I sit here?”

Sure. As long as you don’t talk to me, and don’t you dare put your phone on speaker and have a loud conversation, you self-important shit.

I will attack you with hot liquids.

Bloody exhibitionist.

I'm forgetting more words and the brain-fog is getting more opaque.

Waitrose and Death

Obnoxious ignoramus at the supermarket. Wouldn't help me at the self-help queue. A pesky garlic was failing to declare itself in my shopping bag.

He ignored me for a while as I waved at him.

Eventually he came over and chided me for not knowing what to do.

"Thank you soooo much." I replied as he walked away.

"You're welcome."

Cheeky cxxt.

As I walked out he had his back to me. The temptation to headbutt him hard where the spine meets the base of his skull to cause him irreparable damage was quite powerful, but then I realised that in the future I will still need that lovely Nduja pasta sauce which only Waitrose do, so I thought better of it.


Genuine life-saver.

Games Night

Been DMing for 13 sessions of our new campaign. It’s modular (i.e. made up of separate smaller adventures) rather than a colossal epic-style single campaign and it certainly seems to be going down well.

We’ve increased the player numbers to 5 now. We may have special guest stars such as Richard Basehart or Karl Marlden now and again just for the odd session.

It takes longer to put together now, and I never feel 100% on top of it any more, like I used to. So I just go with it. I also write down encounters like “Worst bandits ever” and just use my roleplaying skills to improvise it and it seems to do the trick.

The next day is always a write-off though.

In fact this weekend and last and the one before that I’ve just slept for 10-11 hours straight on the Saturday and Sunday and been even more useless than normal.

I can still run a good game though. And that’s what keeps me going.

Sharing is caring

I’m still struggling…

All that sunlight, summer cape-dresses and ice cream. Ghastly.

Make it go away!

Crawl back to the coolness of the cave and its screens where I can kill things with impunity…

I got tired of throwing Marjory out of the window. She came back in and I thought what the hell.
She keeps herself to herself.

Very hairy legs though.

Call me old-fashioned.
I felt sorry for her.

Chivalry is not dead!

Marjory

Being Human

AI vs Reading and Writing

Another terrific article from James Marriott in The Times.

People aren’t reading. Especially kids.

Their attention spans can’t handle it. It’s social media of course.

University students are all using Chat GPT and its ilk to write their essays.

Since the 2010s every metric of intelligence testing is showing in the west we are getting dumber. 

And more unhappy.

Marriott: 

“Reading and writing are the cornerstones of thought: serious reading, I suspect, is the one habit that unites virtually every man and woman of genius who has ever lived. It may turn out that to abolish reading and writing is almost to abolish human genius.”

The ability to add, to take away, to alter, to delete - all part of the process of working through and developing complex ideas, arguments and  theories. It’s the reason Ancient Greece forged ahead above other iron age civilisations, and gave us the great stories, the great philosophers, the Olympic Games and baclava.

What does AI offer us? 

Well, all those bullshit jobs will be gone in 24 months. That’s what they say.

But we heard that from Keynes in the 30s who predicted a 15 hour week by 1980, so terrified of automation was he.

Several people predicted in the 1960s that by now we would have mostly leisure time.

Instead people worked longer hours in even more meaningless jobs. 

I’m sure AI will rise up  and engulf us, and today's bullshit jobs will be made to look as worthwhile as being a barrister or doctor by comparison.

The AI professor gives the following advice:

Opposable thumbs

I did some research on this. Pandas have pseudo-opposable thumbs - a boney protrusion from the wrist helps them grasp bamboo while they still have 5 fingers on each hand. Orang-utans and gorillas also have opposable thumbs. So do koalas and opossums which aren’t even primates.

Evolution is endlessly fascinating.

I blame the 80s (part 3)

The Fairlight in the 1980s was the start of making music without musicians. All that dreadful Trevor Horn-produced stuff with the screeches that’s aged particularly badly.

You know they’ve auto-tuned Freddie Mercury on the latest Queen re-releases?

It doesn’t even sound like him.

Perfection is not human.

It’s something to aim for, that’s always out of reach.

Being human is human.

Whatever that means.

Len’s Radio

I went to view a bedsit nearly 30 years ago.

I met the landlord and the present lodger. 

“Everything you see here is part of the room.” Said the landlord.

“Not the radio.” Whispered Len.

“No.” Agreed the landlord. “The radio is Len’s. Len will be taking his radio.” 

At that moment he looked at me as if I was coveting Len’s radio.

“That’s fine. I have a radio.”

“You must not play it loudly. There are other tenants in the house.”

“Yup. Sure.”

“So everything you see here is part of the rent.”

“Yes”

“But not the radio.”

It was Pinteresque I tell you.

PINTERESQUE!

Pure gold.

‘Me nan used to sell canoes…’

I had to take this down due to patient confidentiality. 

You should have read it. 

It was so good.

I was rather pleased with myself, I'll admit it.

It was all about...ooh, I can't say!

It was one of my best.

It was really funny.

Ah well. 

It was good while it lasted...

Get told off round here, you see.

Cxxts.

Pound Notes to be redesigned

Generic as balls

So one of the categories for the new banknotes is 'Noteworthy Milestones.' 

Why not add 'Significant KPIs' and where is 'Positive Outcomes'?

Honestly, has this committee been doing any work at all?

“Everyone’s wanking but the biscuit remains dry.” 

Siegfried Sassoon, 1913. 

As pertinent today as it ever was.

What can I do that's more interesting, more appealing?

Barry Manilow Complex

I'm finding it increasingly hard to write these things.

I know, there has to be a god, you're thinking. 

But subject matter is ever more difficult to come by. 

Life has become more, easy, in a way. I now know more people to chat to in Wells, or at least say hello to. Takes a while. 

If it's me it does. 

Some people obviously avoid me like the plague. And who can blame them?

Me bombarding them with lewd phrases and a random 'ANUS' now and again. 

Telling people about the virtues of ear-syringing, or out of politeness they ask me about Dungeons and Dragons and I actually try to explain it to them. 

I'm not all Dungeons and Dragons you know. I also play Traveller and Pathfinder.

See? A man of many interests.

There are people I avoid too. Gregory Twat and Barry Tedious are 2 who spring to mind. 

I guess having the same day over and over again does that to you, as regards news. 

It's okay though.

Toilet Update

I love a good toilet me, as you know.  

And to me toilet is also a verb, as in to toilet.

I toilet, you toilet, she toilets, we toilette.

"Hold me bag Deirdre, I'm just going to have a toilet for a couple of hours."

Makes sense, huh?

Toilets in pubs are a thing too. In the old Slab House Inn  - a family pub up the road that was burnt to the ground and is now a housing development (the 2 are not related - ok? OKAY??) served great food but had pictures of nude ladies in the men's. 

It was really inappropriate. It was like the landlord showing you his dirty mag from under the counter when the Dorises weren't around.

"Look at that eh? Phwooorr!"

Well, I went for a walk with Richard and Charlotte, my fashionable new friends I shan't be introducing you to, and I took the opportunity to have a toilet, and this is what I encountered.

 Even the little boys (or dwarves) will get a complex.

I'm still in shock.

In the future...

In the last post I predicted that the human race is headed towards an aesthetic singularity. 

So it is now, with great confidence, that I predict that in the future everyone will look like Punky Meadows, from hot rock band, Angel.

"In the publicity photo, Punky can be seen with a beautiful shiny hairdo...."

Lip filler, botox, make-up, dyed hair, probably some plastic surgery too. 

It could equally be Aunty Val from Manchester, as she drunkenly tries to get off with some footballer in a nightclub.

It's where we're heading, folks.

Too bloody hot

During the last few days it’s been very hot. Too hot, in fact. 

Apparently it takes 2 weeks for the human body to acclimatise to different temperatures. Trouble is in the UK with a temperate climate it fluctuates all over the place, so we never have time to get used to shit, hence we’re always complaining  it’s too hot, too cold, we need the rain, it’s too wet, etc.

It’s gone from 30 yesterday to barely 20 today. This is great, as I can wear clothes again.

A relief for everyone. 

I am looking every bit my age now. Withered body, flabby breasts, pot-bellied, bald.

Reminds me of the bloke in the Contacts magazine from my friend's dad's colossal porn collection. One of the classifieds pictured a middle-aged bloke in his 50s with a black Brylcreemed comb-over, National Health glasses, full-length shot, standing in his Y-fronts.

"Ex-forces, gammy leg, looking for couples."

Who could resist such an Adonis?

I don't know why it stayed in my mind. Probably because I didn't know what a gammy leg was. 

And it was a very powerful image. 

Very, very powerful image...

So anyway, I need to rectify my revoltingness. 

Hopefully there's a pill or something.

What I have been mostly watching

Giff-gaffing doesn’t win you the moral argument. Ask Jordan Peterson, or the bloke down the pub who hands out Reform Party leaflets.

Jordan Peterson is the Canadian psychology professor who became a cultural phenomenon by telling young men to make their beds and take themselves more seriously. 

In other words all the stuff their mums had been telling them for years that they'd just ignored. 

He recently went to pieces on a 20 atheists vs one Christian show - he's gone all religious now, yet he denies it with obfuscation, deflection and word-salads as these clever young people tore him to shreds.

Enjoy! (as they say)

Adam Curtis is a film maker who follows in the seldom broadcast social and cultural analysis of Clive James, Jonathan Meades and even Jon Ronson, in showing us what’s really going on under the surface.

Shifty is a 5 part series chronicling life in the UK for the last 2 decades of the 20th century.

More like an essay than a the usual BBC documentaries; those of us who lived through it or know about the subject matter will not necessarily agree, but it all adds to the conversation or at least starts one.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episodes/m002d2jv/shifty

I'm afraid it's probably unavailable for those of you outside the UK.

My viewing figures are down

So what can I do?  

I know I go on. Same old stuff. I mean I'm quite content but at one point I was getting 200 views for every post, no it's down to just over 100. 

Did I become boring?

Was I was I always boring?

I should look to some popular people for advice.

I asked an old Welsh fellow what the trick is: 

Or should I be more like Drimble Wedge and The Vegetation? 

Treat 'em mean keep 'em keen. That kind of thing?

I think the latter is more me.

Summer Ranting (and worrying)

Enforced Enjoyment

People in cafés and pubs dictating how I react to their product.

They serve the food then qualify it with ‘Enjoy’.

An affectation which has crept insidiously into the service industry.

Is it an instruction? 

You MUST enjoy this mediocre sweetmeat! Or else!

Perhaps I should cheerfully wish you ‘death’ upon serving your knickerbocker glory?

Don’t you tell me what to ‘enjoy’. Who do you think you are? If it’s good I shall be in receipt of an enjoyment. 

That is an inevitability.

If not, I shan't be in receipt of any form of enjoyment.

‘Enjoy your boxers!’

Sure! Enjoy my deep loathing of you!

Jargon. Like ‘Going forward…’ 

Repeat any sentence ever spoken with that phrase but elide those 2 words, and see that it adds nothing.

Mindless.

Scum.

Hiding from the Hairdressers at The Dorchester

Many years ago...at possibly my lowest ebb - and if you read this blog you'll know I've had a few ebbs like that - I was working in the office of a hairdressing/day spa.

It hurts just to admit this, to type those words - 'day spa'.

It was fucking awful.

The grifter who ran it (and it is an industry of grifters) had bought rights to a big hairdressing expo, and he got a former employee who'd fled to America to run it. 

It was insane. 

Said person got a friend she'd met at the pub to assist her. Pub-person was unbelievably irritating, and had no clue how to use a computer. 

Me and the other person in the office were kept out of the loop.

On the day of the event at The Dorchester, grifter decided to destroy her seating plan, and scores of attendees went ballistic at her. She had a nervous breakdown. 

I later found out this was a pattern of behaviour for her - take a high-octane job from grifter, don't share it, then get hospitalised. 

Nuts.

So I then dealt with the hairdressers, who were so visually ludicrous and deluded of grandeur that I had to bite my cheek as I couldn't take any of them seriously. That made life very easy.

Ludicrous yet terrifying

The 8th floor of The Dorchester compared to the lower floors is like a dorm. It's like most hotels in London were in the 1970s - so in need of an update as to be a national embarrassment.

I hid under the bed for about 3-4 hours. People came in looking for me, I saw their feet and heard their conversations. 

I'm never one to shirk a party or a free drink, but I just couldn't bear these people.

It was one of the best decisions I've ever made, hiding under that bed. It was so nice and peaceful, as I didn't have to suffer the dumb conversations of coke-fueled twats. 

Organiser and her mate from the pub awarded themselves a suite each - £1,500/night? Pub irritant and her beige-suited, slip-on shoed boyfriend left with almost the entire contents of the room - bathrobes, towels, mini-bar etc.

They do actually bill you for these things.

I only mention this as I'd almost forgotten it until I mentioned it casually to my friend Mark.

I've always been a bit strange, I guess.

Empty days 

One day looks very much like the other. So much so I'm seldom writing in my diary anymore. 

Walked Tomos, ate porridge, caught up with YouTubers and Times, went to town, played D&D/went to pub as a daily routine gets a bit monotonous.

Then a couple of days ago I woke up (which is almost always a plus) and the world span, and I flopped down on the bed. 

I hadn't had a drop the previous night. Honest.

I wondered what the hell was going on. My first thought was, is it dementia-related?

Apparently poor balance is a late-stage of dementia. I'm not at a late stage.

So is it a stroke? Or something else neurological?

Later in the day hives would appear on my hands and feet - my post Sertraline guide to my stress-level.

A couple of days later I confided my dizziness to my sister - it's vertigo, most probably caused by calcium deposits which have come loose in the ear. 

I've made a doctor's appointment but due to the increased size of Wells's population, I'm having to wait a month!

So I lay down on the bed and rolled on both sides to find out which side I instigated the dizziness, did some exercises and it's helping. 

Phew.

At least I know it's not dementia-related. That made me sleep easier.

(And some of the hives go away.)

New D&D Campaign

I'm running a brand new Dungeons and Dragons campaign called Quests from the Infinite Staircase. It's essentially a bunch of 40+ year old modular adventures, all updated to the current 5th edition rules.

Under 18s, as I've found out from running said games at Pilton 6 times a year, don't like the old games so much. They're used to narrative and role-playing, and there is certainly less of that in the old adventures.

I'll explain. Old adventures had little plot. Most of the time you would chance upon them like an old tomb for instance, enter and open a series of rooms each of which would have a random monster in, kill the monster, nick its treasure, and repeat. There was almost zero logic to the randomness of the creatures, as to why they were there, what they did in downtime, where they prepared their food, where they went to the toilet, and a lack of communal areas or canteen where the gelatinous cubes, goblins and shadow demons (or whoever else might be in the dungeon) could get together to discuss their days or watch Countdown.

It was really like opening the door of an advent calendar, with a different result each time.

These are generally referred to now as 'funhouse' dungeons. There's no particular logic to them - they just exist.

Modern adventures tend to have an overarching narrative and structure, with the randomness excluded.

I'm trying to make the experience more visceral for the players by expanding on the written content with embellishments - personal quests such as looking for long-lost family members, heirlooms, or being on the run, which I've developed with the players - and trying to expand the personalities of the non-player characters or NPCs who the players will meet on their adventures, to make them real or at least 3 dimensional.

We had a terrific session zero where we worked on the characters, which will of course add to the fun when they are role-played by the players, because their motivations, flaws, traits and idiosyncrasies will  be more real, as opposed to say, playing a fighter who hits stuff and simply works for 'coin'.

I'm looking forward to Thursday.

And so is Nafas the genie, who runs the Infinite Staircase.

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...?

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!'

Sexy dementia talk

My brain is stuck

Going to London to partake of nooclear medicines and MFI scans, the machines of which are operated by Doozers. 

I was trying to get a decent clip of Doozers, who are these tiny green people who are construction workers on Fraggle Rock who make buildings that the Fraggles eat, but all I could get was the musical numbers. Then I found this!

Suffice to say, the experience is akin to being rolled into a sarcophagus - with your head clamped still - often with gently appalling music playing (usually from Heart FM) and a lot of whirring, clanking, beeping and screeching noises. 

I think they put those in on purpose to make it sound more sci-fi.

It’s not that unpleasant; rather, slightly surreal.

As I type this, the cacophony of zero-boundary children in this beer garden is almost overwhelming. 

I blame their parents, who are - technically - cxxts.

Games stuff

I’ve been playing a 13 year old computer game called Skyrim, which was when it came out - a game-changer. Unfortunately the company who produced it then went into MMORPGs (online games with lots of other players) and the experience of those games was crap. 

Yes! Let’s exploit the brand!

They’ve since destroyed the Fallout franchise, and they are yet to follow up with a sequel to Skyrim.

13 years and waiting…

So I’m playing the game and enjoying it, but the same glitches in the program still exist. Chests swallowing your loot, NPCs floating in mid-air, and other nonsense.

It’s evident the company doesn’t care one iota about its undeservingly loyal fanbase.

I think I may just go back to books. It’s healthier anyway.

Autumn

It’s mid Autumn. I love the colours of the leaves, the cool weather; appreciate the shorter days and golden light, the anticipation of Christmas and the cosiness of dark evenings and log fires, with the smell of burning and the streaming of eyes. 

The leaves are yellow ochre and burnt umber, with a few reluctant deciduous examples holding out for the inevitable.

Talking today about Glüwein and mulled cider - those steaming hot drinks with cloves and cinnamon we drink while cupping the glass or mug with our fingerless mittens. Yum!

But we have had Xmas fare in the supermarkets since late summer. Come the New Year and Easter Eggs will be in the shops. 

He’s only just been birthed and they’re rolling the boulder away for his resurrection!

Similarly, no Guy Fawkes anymore, and that American festival of Halloween lasts for 6 weeks.

What's the world coming to when you can't even burn a Catholic once a year now for all the bloody trick or treaters?

If Thomas Carlyle had been alive today he would be burning down the supermarket aisles.

That London

Took the coach up to that London on Sunday morning. Walked past the old house in Kingston getting that happy/sad vibe. I called J to say I was outside and she said come on in.

Wilbur ran out to see me. He’s blind and deaf but gloriously fluffy and he knew me instantly as I haven't washed - as a protest - since I last saw him. He jumped up at me. It was lovely. 

We went through a lot, he and I. Gaming holidays, hundreds of hours sharing the same bed, walks, treats - especially cheese - like Wallace and Gromit, we were.

J and I had a lovely chat. Stanley was cool with me - he always has been, but I love him. 

I...love...dogs!!!

It was lovely seeing J too. We hadn't seen each other in person for a year. Time is....healing. 

The process continues.

I met Larry and Adrian and Chris at the Willoughby and we played some D&D using the 2024 rules which have just come out.

I stayed at my friend's in Wimbledon and had a second sleepless night. Why was I so stressed? It made no logical sense. I guess I was terrified of missing my appointments. 

I could feel it in my body but my brain was oblivious of the reason(s) thanks to good old Sertraline.

7.45: MRI at Queen Square was easy - nice lady called Mary looked after me, then I wandered around Bloomsbury and Soho in the grey London light. 

Wandering for ages in fact, conscious that I couldn't go to Ole and Stein for a cinnamon bun. 

Bought 2 pairs of jeans out of necessity, served by a stoned, and initially belligerent young man in Soho who warmed up through the transaction process. 

Just as well as another 2 pairs have exploded overnight.

I had to fast for 6 hours for the PET scan so I last ate at 7.30 am: half bottle of Huel which tasted disgusting and a flat white that was an offence against the Trades Description Act, and a snip at £4. My stress had made eating very difficult.

Fashion: baggy this, baggy that. Joe Bloggs-style jeans, sweaters, cardigans. It’s almost anti-fashion. Dressing for comfort?? What has become of london. I leave it for just a year and it’s already gone to the dogs. This is what they wear in Coxley. 

And soooo many quilted jackets! I tried one on but I looked like a child had coloured in a Michelin Man.

PET scan: lie down, put on eye mask to block out lights, needle in arm, cute nurse comes back and then puts the nuclear medicine in me. Wait another 25 minutes, then go to the PET scanner itself which only covers the head. I was only in it for 15 minutes. 

Done!

I wandered for an hour - having gone past the phase of hunger - knowing I needed a feast. Found one of those French bistros that cater for the theatre crowds. They’re normally very passable. Wolfed a burger and frites down, along with a very nice Meteor IPA. 

Then I went back to Hammersmith, went in 3 dodgy pubs. Last one had lots of ugly old people in heavy metal t-shirts. Must have been some concert or other on, or a heavy metallurgy expo nearby. 

Coach journey was easy - none of the charging ports worked of course.

Nerys was there to drive me home.

And...rest.

Who's demented now??

London comes to me...

Me old cor-blimey geezers came up from that London: Gerry and Allen. 7 hour round trip. They met the old folks who thought they were wonderful (they don’t know them like I do).

Dad brought his fishing flies in as Gerry is a keen fly-fisherman too. He also cornered Allen to talk about cars - Allen was driving some huge Mercedes SUV.

My Dad - 'The Chatty Welshman'!

When they first arrived I was slightly discombobulated seeing familiar faces in my home environment - does anyone else get that or is it just me? People in their contexts or out of their contexts? A bit like a wedding where all the people compartmentalised in different parts of your life come together. Like a rabbit in headlights - felt slightly unreal, dream-like.

We did the Lambeth Walk through Wells - saw the cathedral, Vicar’s Close and Bishop’s Palace. I think they liked Vicar’s Close best. 

'Mad' Allen Osborn and Gerry 'Chopper' Boyle

A couple of Chelsea Smilers later we had lunch at the S&P. It was great. Lots of good-natured swearing and laughter. And also comparing notes about living in the sticks and the wacko racist nutjobs who do little or certainly less, to disguise their bigotry.

Really nice to see them. Much appreciated. 

...and I go to London

Despite the lovely day, I slept very badly that night. I just couldn’t get to sleep with underlying stress about travelling to London and so forth, and then I woke up way too early. 

I used to feel like that when I was running masonry jobs, thinking everything would go wrong. Lost a lot of sleep over a number of years.

Fell asleep several times on the coach trip on the way up. Each time I jolted awake, thinking I was about to pee myself. Anyone else get that?

Oh, okay then...

Got to Hammersmith pretty much on time. The MC on the coach has thankfully stopped making that joke about Ebaying lost property. Got out and jumped on the tube, to go to Piccadilly Circus.

Nice afternoon - but I had a heavy bag in tow.

The fashions in London at the moment are completely underwhelming. Baggy faded jeans, earth-shatteringly horrendous baggy woollen cardigans, beards and dresses, and ultimately look like you can only afford to dress out of a jumble sale.

Zero-style.

Ugly, unflattering clothes.

I walked to The Ralph Lauren flagship store. I'd recommend anyone to go in there. It really is something else. Like an Ivy League university from the 1930s in London.

As with all things, they’ve stopped making the one thing I always bought. In this case I was after RL Sullivan jeans, Buitoni-fly and no stretch. They even had a cardigan I was tempted by - half-jacket half cardigan. It was in cotton silk. 

I know, I know. Too many buitoni but they’re not plastic and at least it’s not regular soft fluffy wool. More like a jacket really.

Yes, that's what I will tell myself. It's not a cardigan, it's a jacket! 

(Remembers being admonished by upper middle class family 25 years ago: "It's not a sauce Geraint! It's a jus!")

I know, I know. Only £549.

Great plastic-surgery disasters of Mayfair

Filler here, filler there; filler everywhere. The unfeasibly rich doing their utmost to reclaim their former beauty and paying the price for their vanity.

Narcissus with botox.

Some are so grotesque they look like they're wearing a plastic mask. Demonic.

Body dysmorphia - must be.

No, you look great. Honestly...

Wimbledonia

That evening I stayed with Sophie and her daughter Olivia who I hadn’t seen for years, and who is now a confident young woman. 

All the young adults I knew as kids now seem more mature than me.

We had a lovely evening. I slept for 2 hours when I got to Sophie’s as I was shattered.

We had an amazing Chinese meal from Good Earth - a London chain. Just astonishingly good quality.

I felt like sending it to the 2 Chinese takeaways in Wells to show them how it SHOULD be done, rather than the care-free slop they produce which they then puke into the plastic containers.

I heard Sophie leave around 7.30 am. I had a shower, Oscar the lovely 12 year old brown lab was unresponsive at the top of the stairs, then had a banana and a cup of tea and left. What a beautiful road - huge bay windows - and front gardens. A conservation area too. Must have been built in the 1910s. Mostly occupied by families it seemed.

I looked up the house prices on Zoopla. Wow. 

The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery

Got into Russell Sq and did my usual of going to Pret for breakfast. Always a ton of foreign students around. Sat there and watched the world go by and do its thing.

Prof Warren said while I may or may NOT have dementia, the Semantic Variant diagnosis I originally had was incorrect.

I said I felt slightly fraudulent - so do I have dementia or not? My behaviour certainly changed and I got crazy angry until the Sertraline kicked in. And I do have problems with elision of words. My brain fog is as real as ever and despite my neuropsych tests it's increasingly opaque. 

He assured me it’s nothing to feel fraudulent about. The hospital is all about anomalous cases and they want to put me in a PET scan as the last MRI scans have shown the atrophy in my lobes has STABILISED!

There is something going on and they want to get to the bottom of it. 

A PET scan will show more the workings of my brain rather than just its volume, but is subsequently also prone to more of an interpretation - such is the complexity.

I did my yearly neuropsychology tests and was told it was pretty much the same as last year’s - it certainly felt harder. More brain fog, less cognisance that I’d got the right answers, and subsequently less confidence. 

I felt I was giving a best guess rather than knowing I'd got the right answer.

So who knows what I've got? 

And that was it for another year.