The night before last I had a dream, where I came up with what can only be described as the most amazing quote in the world. In a brief moment of lucidity, knowing I was dreaming, I dismissed the annoying dancing monkeys and pool playing imps, forcing myself to wake up so I could memorise this amazing quote. I felt exhilarated and elated. This quote was incredible. I felt I had discovered a great gift, so powerful it could blow a man over with its intellectual might. It was no more than two lines, a subtle play on words, yet of such sharpness that it could have been an almost invisible piece of Japanese steel folded 400 times and given to a sword master to demonstrate the beauty of slicing a human hair lengthways.
As I lay in the dark, open eyed, but looking up into the inky blackness of the bedroom ceiling, I pondered, should I write this down? Maybe read it out and quote it into my iphone dictation thingy. But I was sure I would remember. I closed my eyes, reciting the quote again and again in my mind until I fell into a fitful sleep. I was awake again before the night was over, the quote on my lips, in my mind again, I held onto to it tight, like a chubby cherub with a chicken drumstick. I wasn’t going to let it go. I would be the new Oscar Wilde. So I slept soundly this time. When I awoke in the morning however, I’d forgotten it completely. Useless cock.
Monday, 24 January 2011
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
The Golden Eagle, Marylebone
Last week, we went on our re-arranged Christmas team night out. Marylebone is a fantastic part of London, quirky shops, great food, atmospheric pubs. Seems to have retained it’s own character and hasn’t been swallowed up by the tourist trap that is Oxford Street just down the road.
I’ve been to quite a few pubs in the area, but by far the oddest, and not necessarily in a bad way, just from a curious social history perspective (as it’s stuck in 1943) is the Golden Eagle. It’s a proper pub or as it’s described in some quarters an “imbibing emporium”. Observe this contemporary scene.
On a “sing song” night, Tony “Fingers” Pearson wedges himself up in the corner of the pub, with his little Piano and tinkers out some classic songs (example – Moon River) and he is joined by up to a dozen dapper old chaps (some of whom wear cravats) who sing along. Occasionally a heavily made up and dyed of hair gin mother will join in, wearing some inappropriate fur wrap from some extinct mammal, but predominately, this is an old bloke thing.
There are all sorts of duffers in there, brylcreamed spivs, upper class dandies, rotund claret swiggers , dark suited heavies and jovial brick fisted navvies wearing their sunday best all singing along.
It’s quite friendly though, even if you wear clothing from the modern era and don’t talk like a minor character from an Ealing comedy.
I like it, it’s got character, others haven’t been so kind, one reviewer amusingly wrote :
“This is a creepy looking pub, it has the air of it being a living museum exhibit, i almost thought this was a set from little Britain. I've never seen so many misfits under one roof*, this place has an eerie air of unreality about it, It left me feeling quite depressed it was lucky I wasn't their when the pianist was playing, that would have freaked me out.”
*- I was probably in that day. And another wrote unfairly :
“This truly was a godforsaken place: the furniture looked like it had been bought from Steptoe & Son, the barman was as about as welcoming as a Death-Eater and the monged-out clientele looked like they hadn’t shifted since Thatcherism.”
(not fair in my opinion, they don’t know who Thatcher is after all)
And finally something positive, shouted out in capital letters :
“IT SERVES GREAT SAUSAGES”
Interestingly, my boss did tell me he took some Japanese visitors to the pub and they got a frosty reception. Probably because we are still at war right?
One of the weirdest things is the toilets though as you go downstairs and enter a perfectly normal corridor, but the corridor shrinks as you walk down it, like Alice in Wonderland, so you are almost squeezing yourself through a hatch to get into the loos. Being hobbit sized, I was surprised to find my afro flicking against the door frame as I walked in.
Anyway, try it for an experience, don’t let the bad reviews put you off, it’s a feel good place. And for any single guys, I suggest going dressed as an American Airman and try to hook yourself up with a 90 year old cockney sparrow. Make sure you use your impeccable Southern manners though.
Ps – If you are wondering about the art, it’s called Gin Lane, by Hogarth, an 18th Century Artist, Satirist and proto-comic book creator...
I’ve been to quite a few pubs in the area, but by far the oddest, and not necessarily in a bad way, just from a curious social history perspective (as it’s stuck in 1943) is the Golden Eagle. It’s a proper pub or as it’s described in some quarters an “imbibing emporium”. Observe this contemporary scene.
On a “sing song” night, Tony “Fingers” Pearson wedges himself up in the corner of the pub, with his little Piano and tinkers out some classic songs (example – Moon River) and he is joined by up to a dozen dapper old chaps (some of whom wear cravats) who sing along. Occasionally a heavily made up and dyed of hair gin mother will join in, wearing some inappropriate fur wrap from some extinct mammal, but predominately, this is an old bloke thing.
There are all sorts of duffers in there, brylcreamed spivs, upper class dandies, rotund claret swiggers , dark suited heavies and jovial brick fisted navvies wearing their sunday best all singing along.
It’s quite friendly though, even if you wear clothing from the modern era and don’t talk like a minor character from an Ealing comedy.
I like it, it’s got character, others haven’t been so kind, one reviewer amusingly wrote :
“This is a creepy looking pub, it has the air of it being a living museum exhibit, i almost thought this was a set from little Britain. I've never seen so many misfits under one roof*, this place has an eerie air of unreality about it, It left me feeling quite depressed it was lucky I wasn't their when the pianist was playing, that would have freaked me out.”
*- I was probably in that day. And another wrote unfairly :
“This truly was a godforsaken place: the furniture looked like it had been bought from Steptoe & Son, the barman was as about as welcoming as a Death-Eater and the monged-out clientele looked like they hadn’t shifted since Thatcherism.”
(not fair in my opinion, they don’t know who Thatcher is after all)
And finally something positive, shouted out in capital letters :
“IT SERVES GREAT SAUSAGES”
Interestingly, my boss did tell me he took some Japanese visitors to the pub and they got a frosty reception. Probably because we are still at war right?
One of the weirdest things is the toilets though as you go downstairs and enter a perfectly normal corridor, but the corridor shrinks as you walk down it, like Alice in Wonderland, so you are almost squeezing yourself through a hatch to get into the loos. Being hobbit sized, I was surprised to find my afro flicking against the door frame as I walked in.
Anyway, try it for an experience, don’t let the bad reviews put you off, it’s a feel good place. And for any single guys, I suggest going dressed as an American Airman and try to hook yourself up with a 90 year old cockney sparrow. Make sure you use your impeccable Southern manners though.
Ps – If you are wondering about the art, it’s called Gin Lane, by Hogarth, an 18th Century Artist, Satirist and proto-comic book creator...
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
The World At War
I was watching one of the history channels the other night as I am oft to do. And the ground breaking and possibly the best TV series on the second world war was being shown. The World At War.
It has the gravitas, the meticulous detail, the big name narrator (Sir Laurence Olivier) and incredible interviews with some of the big players from the era.
26 one hour episodes of captivating, harrowing stuff, without any glamorisation and using incredible original footage. It took four years to film and produce such was the effort put in to bring it to the small screen. Anyone would have thought it was made by the BBC, but it wasn’t, this came from Thames TV, whose claims to fame included such guff as the Benny Hill Show and Love Thy Neighbour…
Watching it as a young kid I was frightened and moved by the chilling opening credits. The music was particularly disconcerting accompanied by the photographs of peoples faces, burning and melting into ashes. It used to terrify me, but I couldn’t avert my eyes. (To be fair, other things used to terrify me too, like my big brothers Pink Floyd album (Meddle) and one of the dinner ladies at my school who had a moustache)
I used to consider and wonder who those people in the photographs were, when did they die, what their names were, where were they from, whether they were happy in life, whether the war interrupted their happiness, whether anyone loved or remembered them. As a kid, it’s almost too big a concept to contemplate the transient nature of mortality, but it stayed with me.
It has the gravitas, the meticulous detail, the big name narrator (Sir Laurence Olivier) and incredible interviews with some of the big players from the era.
26 one hour episodes of captivating, harrowing stuff, without any glamorisation and using incredible original footage. It took four years to film and produce such was the effort put in to bring it to the small screen. Anyone would have thought it was made by the BBC, but it wasn’t, this came from Thames TV, whose claims to fame included such guff as the Benny Hill Show and Love Thy Neighbour…
Watching it as a young kid I was frightened and moved by the chilling opening credits. The music was particularly disconcerting accompanied by the photographs of peoples faces, burning and melting into ashes. It used to terrify me, but I couldn’t avert my eyes. (To be fair, other things used to terrify me too, like my big brothers Pink Floyd album (Meddle) and one of the dinner ladies at my school who had a moustache)
I used to consider and wonder who those people in the photographs were, when did they die, what their names were, where were they from, whether they were happy in life, whether the war interrupted their happiness, whether anyone loved or remembered them. As a kid, it’s almost too big a concept to contemplate the transient nature of mortality, but it stayed with me.
Saturday, 23 October 2010
Poetry
Yeah what? Poetry. I’ve just entered a competition to win 50 quids worth of Rococo chocolate. The store in Marylebone High Street is round the corner from our London offices and although (very) expensive, they make lovely gifts and taste amazing.
http://rococochocolates.com/
The competition is on facebook, here ….
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=166937213322687&id=43480946480
I decided to go for a theme of deviancy and colloquial filth, totally different to all the earnest / evocative and playfully humorous entries. I don’t think I’ll win, but I’m in with a fighting chance, like when Lordi won Eurovision.
So here it is… the theme was to mention at least one of their chocolate bars, which I forcefully wedged in, like a hedgehog through a letterbox.
I like chocolate,
quite a lot a lot,
Orange and Geranium,
Blows my cranium,
Chocolate from Grenada,
Wow! flippin’ Ada!
I quite like to eat ‘em,
Off a nice bottom,
But not off my own you see,
As that would involve great agility,
But rather, off a burlesque dancer,
Or if you are so inclined, you can feast from the behind,
of a Bengal lancer.
And here is a more serious one, about my lost summer to injury. Only just starting to run again. Seeing the surgeon on Tuesday, so want to be able to play football again and kick my mates. It’s been 6 months.
Summers lost,
The dull dawn,
mist broken by showers,
A gasp, feel the season,
Suck in the chill of Autumn,
the taste of damp topsoil,
The bark of pheasants,
In the woods,
I can run again.
Friday, 24 September 2010
Roy Hodgson's appearance in Christina Aguileras Dirrty Video
For those that know me, they will know that my brain synapses fire in some bizarre ways....
On witnessing the dejected figure of Roy Hodgson the other night, tramping onto the Anfield turf in pouring rain, following their defeat on penalties to Northampton town, soaked to the bone, but still maintaining some semblance of Croydon dignity (always keep your suit buttoned up son, and never take your tie off), a seed planted itself in my mind.
That night, I had a dream, that Roy Hodgson had a bit part in Christina Aguilera's Dirrty video, so on waking up I trawled youtube to see if he had some little cameo, as a site foreman, shaking his finger at the soaking wet dancers because of health and safety concerns as they hip thrusted and gyrated towards each other, battering each other with their powerful invisible sex waves, pounding poor Roy back through the door and out of the video altogether.
But on review (and I reviewed it several times) he wasn't actually in the video, despite me convincing myself that he was.
Dreams are a powerful device, Jung would have loved me.
Anyway, seeing as it would cost several million dollars to make my dream a reality, I've mocked up how this video would have looked through the power of my limited MS Paint skills.
On witnessing the dejected figure of Roy Hodgson the other night, tramping onto the Anfield turf in pouring rain, following their defeat on penalties to Northampton town, soaked to the bone, but still maintaining some semblance of Croydon dignity (always keep your suit buttoned up son, and never take your tie off), a seed planted itself in my mind.
That night, I had a dream, that Roy Hodgson had a bit part in Christina Aguilera's Dirrty video, so on waking up I trawled youtube to see if he had some little cameo, as a site foreman, shaking his finger at the soaking wet dancers because of health and safety concerns as they hip thrusted and gyrated towards each other, battering each other with their powerful invisible sex waves, pounding poor Roy back through the door and out of the video altogether.
But on review (and I reviewed it several times) he wasn't actually in the video, despite me convincing myself that he was.
Dreams are a powerful device, Jung would have loved me.
Anyway, seeing as it would cost several million dollars to make my dream a reality, I've mocked up how this video would have looked through the power of my limited MS Paint skills.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
Nansen and the Fram
I’ve just finished reading Nansen, by Roland Huntford. Below is my review of the book. I’m into books on extreme conditions and how it effects the human psyche, the impact of leadership and how even great people can be flawed. Fridtjof Nansen ticks all of these boxes. I really felt for him reading this book, despite his achievements, deep down he was fragile and full of doubt, something we can all relate to I’m sure.
As an aside, the Fram museum in Oslo is wonderful, you get to crawl around the ship and it’s full of mementos and artefacts from the expeditions by Nansen and Amundsen. In some ways, the Fram is the embodiment of the whole golden age of polar exploration, getting to farthest north, surviving the ice pack, then later carrying Amundsen to the brink of the South Pole, where he beat Captain Scott in that legendary race. So it was a real privilege to climb aboard!
http://www.fram.museum.no/en/default.asp?page=90
There’s a picture of me at the wheel (or whatever mariners call it!) somewhere, grinning like a twonk, which I’ll dig out at some stage.
But for now…
Review: Nansen, Roland Huntford.
Having been to Oslo and visited the Fram, the ship almost as famous as those great explorers who sailed in her, Nansen and Amundsen, I wanted to finally get to grips with this weighty tome which has sat on my shelf gathering dust for a few years.
Huntford presents a brilliantly researched book building up a character profile with little need to make broad judgements as to Nansen the man. Conjecture is kept to a minimum in light of journal entries and letters supporting the conclusions made where fact is perhaps ambiguous.
To say Nansen was complicated was an understatement. I felt a deep sense of sadness when reading about him. An academic, an intellectual, a visionary genius, yet a true man of action in the Viking tradition of hardy adventure, he was able to adapt the polar experience of indigenous peoples, be they Sami or Inuit, without any western arrogance. He was ahead of his time.
Compassionate on a broad level, dedicated to the survival and health of his men, yet unable to relate to people at an individual level, he must have been extremely confusing for those closest to him. Be they his colleagues out on the ice or his loved ones back home. Letters and diary entries from those that explored with him were filled with anger about his mood swings and occasional arrogance. Following his first crossing of Greenland, he commissioned the building of the Fram, a tough ship customised to handle the intense pressure of polar ice.
After leaving the Fram embedded in ice, he struck out with Johanssen for the pole. After getting "Farthest North" but sensibly not overextending themselves in trying to reach the pole itself, they suffered together, eventually reaching Franz Josef land where they overwintered, sharing a sleeping bag together for months, through dark polar winter. Nansen was unselfish and truly democratic in the necessities of survival and yet it didn't seem he forged any great friendship. Loyal he was to a degree (sometimes apparent in later life when he intervened to get his former comrade work or send him loans) yet it was all arms length. And it was a tragedy that Nansen couldn't face the funerals of those closest to him as they slowly fell around him as he got older. Huntford captures this well, the inner turmoil of the man so emotive in his letters and diary and the cold outward exterior becoming of a statesman. He wanted the best for people, but even his own children found him oppressive and perhaps unloving (unless they were skiing). The relationship with his wife Eva comes to life through extracts of letters and telegrams. There is a sweet innocence about their love for each other, but he couldn’t communicate with her when he was with her, away in reveries or research, or in the confidence of other women.
It's awesome fast paced stuff, but fizzles out a bit.
He seemed continuously searching for purpose in his later life and it seemed a recurring theme was he only came to life, when talking about his exploits on the ice.
I feel the weakest chapters relate to the work around the soviet union, famine relief and the population exchanges between Greece and Turkey after the first world war. The complexities around the politics were briefly covered (even this was hard going) but some subtlety seemed to have been missed. All soviet officials and leaders seemed to be fundamentally flawed for instance, ogres or effeminate conniving bullies but this is probably unfair in light the book would needed to have been twice the length to capture all the subtleties needed.
All in all, a great read about the father of modern polar exploration.
As an aside, the Fram museum in Oslo is wonderful, you get to crawl around the ship and it’s full of mementos and artefacts from the expeditions by Nansen and Amundsen. In some ways, the Fram is the embodiment of the whole golden age of polar exploration, getting to farthest north, surviving the ice pack, then later carrying Amundsen to the brink of the South Pole, where he beat Captain Scott in that legendary race. So it was a real privilege to climb aboard!
http://www.fram.museum.no/en/default.asp?page=90
There’s a picture of me at the wheel (or whatever mariners call it!) somewhere, grinning like a twonk, which I’ll dig out at some stage.
But for now…
Review: Nansen, Roland Huntford.
Having been to Oslo and visited the Fram, the ship almost as famous as those great explorers who sailed in her, Nansen and Amundsen, I wanted to finally get to grips with this weighty tome which has sat on my shelf gathering dust for a few years.
Huntford presents a brilliantly researched book building up a character profile with little need to make broad judgements as to Nansen the man. Conjecture is kept to a minimum in light of journal entries and letters supporting the conclusions made where fact is perhaps ambiguous.
To say Nansen was complicated was an understatement. I felt a deep sense of sadness when reading about him. An academic, an intellectual, a visionary genius, yet a true man of action in the Viking tradition of hardy adventure, he was able to adapt the polar experience of indigenous peoples, be they Sami or Inuit, without any western arrogance. He was ahead of his time.
Compassionate on a broad level, dedicated to the survival and health of his men, yet unable to relate to people at an individual level, he must have been extremely confusing for those closest to him. Be they his colleagues out on the ice or his loved ones back home. Letters and diary entries from those that explored with him were filled with anger about his mood swings and occasional arrogance. Following his first crossing of Greenland, he commissioned the building of the Fram, a tough ship customised to handle the intense pressure of polar ice.
After leaving the Fram embedded in ice, he struck out with Johanssen for the pole. After getting "Farthest North" but sensibly not overextending themselves in trying to reach the pole itself, they suffered together, eventually reaching Franz Josef land where they overwintered, sharing a sleeping bag together for months, through dark polar winter. Nansen was unselfish and truly democratic in the necessities of survival and yet it didn't seem he forged any great friendship. Loyal he was to a degree (sometimes apparent in later life when he intervened to get his former comrade work or send him loans) yet it was all arms length. And it was a tragedy that Nansen couldn't face the funerals of those closest to him as they slowly fell around him as he got older. Huntford captures this well, the inner turmoil of the man so emotive in his letters and diary and the cold outward exterior becoming of a statesman. He wanted the best for people, but even his own children found him oppressive and perhaps unloving (unless they were skiing). The relationship with his wife Eva comes to life through extracts of letters and telegrams. There is a sweet innocence about their love for each other, but he couldn’t communicate with her when he was with her, away in reveries or research, or in the confidence of other women.
It's awesome fast paced stuff, but fizzles out a bit.
He seemed continuously searching for purpose in his later life and it seemed a recurring theme was he only came to life, when talking about his exploits on the ice.
I feel the weakest chapters relate to the work around the soviet union, famine relief and the population exchanges between Greece and Turkey after the first world war. The complexities around the politics were briefly covered (even this was hard going) but some subtlety seemed to have been missed. All soviet officials and leaders seemed to be fundamentally flawed for instance, ogres or effeminate conniving bullies but this is probably unfair in light the book would needed to have been twice the length to capture all the subtleties needed.
All in all, a great read about the father of modern polar exploration.
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
Bones and ligaments and flesh and blood……
It’s weird, I can write quite happily about torn flesh, splintered bone and gushing blood. My short stories contain quite gory details at times, but this is cartoon violence, ridiculous, over the top, from the stygian depths of my imaginata (as Garth Merengi was oft to say).
Should I see some mundane act however, for example an injection, or pretend surgery in some tv doctor drama, I immediately go pale, feel queasy, break out in a cold sweat and adopt a floppy helpless manner like someone whose taken a cup full of horse tranquilisers. It’s mostly about blood, not the site of blood, but the thought of it. It’s hard to explain…. but blood keeps us alive, it surges through us thousands upon thousands of times a day. The thought of lacking in blood makes me feel weak. I don’t want to be an empty husk… I think this is what its about. Being transformed into a medjool date. Shrivelled and full of dust, like a mummy.
So when I had an MRI scan on my knackered ankle and was told I needed to be injected with a dye half way through (cue scanner operator saying without irony “you’ll feel a small prick”) I felt a vague anxiousness. They were going to corrupt my blood. They were going to poison my very essence. As opposed to “steal” my blood, which causes an equal effect of horror within me.
I lay down on the table, my leg was immobolised in a cradle, the headphones I was given were playing low volume classical music, Pachabel’s canon I think. It was barely audible above the noise of the creature who consumed me, the MRI machine loomed above me as I slid into its belly. I closed my eyes to relax. Menacing and clinical it snarled and growled at me. Grinding cogs and levers seemed to be churning inside it, like some Victorian steam powered calculating engine. I loosely held the emergency button, I guess it’s there for those people who find the whole experience claustrophobic. But I didn’t mind the confines of the room, or the disconcerting din of the scanner splicing and dicing images of my bones and flesh this way and that.
See examples of my ankle scans below – disgusting isn’t it? That there’s this sort of shit inside you?!
This is a cross section across the ankle, tibia and fibia being clearly visible. The second shows a cross section of the foot itself. The ligament I’ve torn connects the tib and fib. Yuk.
After what seemed like an age, the classical music was interrupted by the scanner operators jolly tones. “The first parts finished, I’ll come in and inject you with the dye now.”
Silence from the machine. The music stopped. The table slid back out. Jonah had daylight again.
I didn’t make eye contact with her as she came in, I was businesslike in my tone, perhaps brusque verging on rude. I hope she appreciated she knew it was because I was nervous. I tried to explain. “I don’t mind injections, as long as I don’t have to watch.” She chuckled and started telling me about previous patients, who couldn’t take the dye, whose veins collapsed. This is not what I wanted to hear. When she asked me to clench my fist and I felt the wet dab on the soft flesh inside my elbow joint, I imagined the blue veins glistening and prominent on the skin. I clenched as hard as i could, but the strength was ebbing away, my hand was weak, I scrunched my eyes. I felt the needle, no real pain, as I expected, just that small prick she promised. She rattled about, i guess trying to get the dye in. “What’s happening?” I asked, head facing away, eyes closed. “It’s not taking I’m afraid… in fact, your vein has collapsed. Going to try another.” There was a tiny hint of doubt in her voice, maybe she was inexperienced at this? Maybe I didn’t clench hard enough, but I imagined the needle shooting out and a spray of blood caressing the walls, which was of course ridiculous, but my mind had gone into mental mode. I felt weaker. Sicker.
“Clench your first again please” she said. I did as bidden, again, my fist was weak. The cold dab of wet cotton on my arm. Vein no 2, needle no 2. Collapse no 2. She was trying to be upbeat, perhaps to hide her inexperience and put me at ease. But telling me “oh dear, this one’s collapsed too” was not the best choice of words. So when she did it a third time and announced it with the same happy nervous chirp my arm felt like a cold mackerel with no strength left to lift, let alone clench a fist, she grabbed the emergency buzzer from my other hand and pressed it herself! “I’m so sorry, you’ll have three bruises tomorrow.” I imagined my poor butchered arm, fit for nothing, no blood pushing through the broken veins, my fingers cold and dead, like a vampire.
Her colleague came in, she just told her to do her best with the procedure without the dye. I felt her sticky plaster me up. She was apologetic. It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know what was going through my brain though. So back into the belly of the beast, more classical music (J.S Bach) more grinding and whirring, snarling and chomping. The MRI machine was smacking its chops. It tasted my blood.
My most creative moments of inspiration are at times of unhappiness or great stress. So whilst being devoured by the machine I imagined that perhaps they were preparing me, to eat. The scan was… Analysing my calorie content, nutritional value, body mass index, whether my flesh was more suited to garlic or thyme. A slight smile developed. I’ll write a short story, a vaguely funny one, but dark. The following will appear in it, in some form. It’s a bit formulaic, but I like the concept, something to build on.
As he emerged from the machine, he heard her voice, distant and tinny. He felt the medical lamps, warm and bright knocking at his eyelids, but his eyes remained shut.
“there is no immediate visible damage from the scan, your leg looks perfectly delicious, I mean healthy. We do wish to keep you in overnight however.. for a marinade. I mean, observation. And tomorrow, all being well, the chef, I mean doctor, will come and prepare you, I mean discharge you.”
Aghast at what he’d just heard, he rolled his head towards the voice and opened his eyes. He screwed up his face, trying to protect his eyes from the glare. The young woman stood there, a small glass, drained of liquid just leaving her lips, a messy scarlet glob trickled down her chin. She put the glass aside and wiped the liquid away from her lips with the back of her hand, leaving a red smear across her mouth and hand. She hungrily licked at the hand, slurping noisily.
“My blood, give me back my blood….” he whispered. He tried to raise his arm, but it didn’t respond, just a slight flicker of registration, he glanced at it, pale, skeletal and emaciated. He had no strength, they’d taken it from him. Stolen it.
She walked towards him. She rubbed his forehead, as if she really cared, her hand was soft. She dabbed a finger in his mouth, he tasted the metallic tang of his own blood still hanging on her skin. “You need to relax. Stress makes the meat less tender, I mean pushes your blood pressure up. So try to sleep my sweet. You’ll be well looked after here.”
Should I see some mundane act however, for example an injection, or pretend surgery in some tv doctor drama, I immediately go pale, feel queasy, break out in a cold sweat and adopt a floppy helpless manner like someone whose taken a cup full of horse tranquilisers. It’s mostly about blood, not the site of blood, but the thought of it. It’s hard to explain…. but blood keeps us alive, it surges through us thousands upon thousands of times a day. The thought of lacking in blood makes me feel weak. I don’t want to be an empty husk… I think this is what its about. Being transformed into a medjool date. Shrivelled and full of dust, like a mummy.
So when I had an MRI scan on my knackered ankle and was told I needed to be injected with a dye half way through (cue scanner operator saying without irony “you’ll feel a small prick”) I felt a vague anxiousness. They were going to corrupt my blood. They were going to poison my very essence. As opposed to “steal” my blood, which causes an equal effect of horror within me.
I lay down on the table, my leg was immobolised in a cradle, the headphones I was given were playing low volume classical music, Pachabel’s canon I think. It was barely audible above the noise of the creature who consumed me, the MRI machine loomed above me as I slid into its belly. I closed my eyes to relax. Menacing and clinical it snarled and growled at me. Grinding cogs and levers seemed to be churning inside it, like some Victorian steam powered calculating engine. I loosely held the emergency button, I guess it’s there for those people who find the whole experience claustrophobic. But I didn’t mind the confines of the room, or the disconcerting din of the scanner splicing and dicing images of my bones and flesh this way and that.
See examples of my ankle scans below – disgusting isn’t it? That there’s this sort of shit inside you?!
This is a cross section across the ankle, tibia and fibia being clearly visible. The second shows a cross section of the foot itself. The ligament I’ve torn connects the tib and fib. Yuk.
After what seemed like an age, the classical music was interrupted by the scanner operators jolly tones. “The first parts finished, I’ll come in and inject you with the dye now.”
Silence from the machine. The music stopped. The table slid back out. Jonah had daylight again.
I didn’t make eye contact with her as she came in, I was businesslike in my tone, perhaps brusque verging on rude. I hope she appreciated she knew it was because I was nervous. I tried to explain. “I don’t mind injections, as long as I don’t have to watch.” She chuckled and started telling me about previous patients, who couldn’t take the dye, whose veins collapsed. This is not what I wanted to hear. When she asked me to clench my fist and I felt the wet dab on the soft flesh inside my elbow joint, I imagined the blue veins glistening and prominent on the skin. I clenched as hard as i could, but the strength was ebbing away, my hand was weak, I scrunched my eyes. I felt the needle, no real pain, as I expected, just that small prick she promised. She rattled about, i guess trying to get the dye in. “What’s happening?” I asked, head facing away, eyes closed. “It’s not taking I’m afraid… in fact, your vein has collapsed. Going to try another.” There was a tiny hint of doubt in her voice, maybe she was inexperienced at this? Maybe I didn’t clench hard enough, but I imagined the needle shooting out and a spray of blood caressing the walls, which was of course ridiculous, but my mind had gone into mental mode. I felt weaker. Sicker.
“Clench your first again please” she said. I did as bidden, again, my fist was weak. The cold dab of wet cotton on my arm. Vein no 2, needle no 2. Collapse no 2. She was trying to be upbeat, perhaps to hide her inexperience and put me at ease. But telling me “oh dear, this one’s collapsed too” was not the best choice of words. So when she did it a third time and announced it with the same happy nervous chirp my arm felt like a cold mackerel with no strength left to lift, let alone clench a fist, she grabbed the emergency buzzer from my other hand and pressed it herself! “I’m so sorry, you’ll have three bruises tomorrow.” I imagined my poor butchered arm, fit for nothing, no blood pushing through the broken veins, my fingers cold and dead, like a vampire.
Her colleague came in, she just told her to do her best with the procedure without the dye. I felt her sticky plaster me up. She was apologetic. It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know what was going through my brain though. So back into the belly of the beast, more classical music (J.S Bach) more grinding and whirring, snarling and chomping. The MRI machine was smacking its chops. It tasted my blood.
My most creative moments of inspiration are at times of unhappiness or great stress. So whilst being devoured by the machine I imagined that perhaps they were preparing me, to eat. The scan was… Analysing my calorie content, nutritional value, body mass index, whether my flesh was more suited to garlic or thyme. A slight smile developed. I’ll write a short story, a vaguely funny one, but dark. The following will appear in it, in some form. It’s a bit formulaic, but I like the concept, something to build on.
As he emerged from the machine, he heard her voice, distant and tinny. He felt the medical lamps, warm and bright knocking at his eyelids, but his eyes remained shut.
“there is no immediate visible damage from the scan, your leg looks perfectly delicious, I mean healthy. We do wish to keep you in overnight however.. for a marinade. I mean, observation. And tomorrow, all being well, the chef, I mean doctor, will come and prepare you, I mean discharge you.”
Aghast at what he’d just heard, he rolled his head towards the voice and opened his eyes. He screwed up his face, trying to protect his eyes from the glare. The young woman stood there, a small glass, drained of liquid just leaving her lips, a messy scarlet glob trickled down her chin. She put the glass aside and wiped the liquid away from her lips with the back of her hand, leaving a red smear across her mouth and hand. She hungrily licked at the hand, slurping noisily.
“My blood, give me back my blood….” he whispered. He tried to raise his arm, but it didn’t respond, just a slight flicker of registration, he glanced at it, pale, skeletal and emaciated. He had no strength, they’d taken it from him. Stolen it.
She walked towards him. She rubbed his forehead, as if she really cared, her hand was soft. She dabbed a finger in his mouth, he tasted the metallic tang of his own blood still hanging on her skin. “You need to relax. Stress makes the meat less tender, I mean pushes your blood pressure up. So try to sleep my sweet. You’ll be well looked after here.”
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