Out Out Out

A fitting way to watch the FA Cup final which - somewhat sadly - I really wasn't looking forward to all that much anyway. I was struck down early on Wednesday morning by some kind of gastric bug. I will spare you the gruesome details, but suffice it to say that I am still at the tail-end of the hideous fallout from it. On top of the rear end action, I was also feeling a little flu-ey: aching joints and head; slightly spaced out physicality, etc. No doubt compounded by the lack of sleep as I sat and stared at the tiled toilet floor in the middle of the night. So it was in this frame of mind that I crawled onto the sofa at 5 fucking 15 on Saturday, a can of beer unopened in front of me for nearly 45 minutes, listlessly watching the match unfold.

What can I say? I never expected - as so many fuckwits seemed to - that we would turn Wigan over. Just recently, we were extremely lucky to get away with a 1-0 win over them, and, unluckily mired as they are in the bottom three, they are still more than capable of playing some good football. I'm not calling him a fuckwit, but my cousin Steve predicted 4-1 City. I always (honestly - I'm not trying to big myself up) believed that it would be a low scoring affair. From the off, the Latics looked seemingly impenetrable in defence, though perhaps lacking in the final ball finesse to score, while we were lethargic and utterly bereft of ideas. A packed line of central defenders repeatedly stifled the darting runs of Kun and Tevez. Silva, on the rare occasions he did pick up the ball, was not playing at all well, and Yaya looked as if he was still suffering the muscle fatigue reported against Swansea earlier in the week. There was some hope rather than anticipation that we might click in the second half, but it was very short-lived and - truth be told - they (and particularly McManaman) came on much more strongly as the game progressed - cocking a snook at 'bloody' Roy Keane and his pearls of wisdom. I was too weak to shout, but that didn't matter as there was hardly anything worth shouting about. More and more often, Clichy was made to look an idiot down our left side, until their scoring seemed an inevitability, and then Zab got his marching orders, putting paid to any chance we might have had of (unjustly) nicking one to win it.

I'm no fan of Dave Whelan - in fact I think he's a Tory cunt - but I suppose I've got nothing in particular against their fans, even if they do like egg chasing more than the beautiful game. In any case, it's important to be magnanimous in defeat, so fair play to them, congratulations and all that.

We hear that Bobby is being treated in the now familiar shabby fashion that is modern football management, although swinging the axe on the very day that was the anniversary of our tremendous title win was classless in the extreme. The loss though, and the end to a potless and disappointing campaign, fits the mood of the moment - even as Sralex stands and cries in the middle of the Sty, sticking the knife in as the tears roll down his face. Wigan then, as much as City, deserved what they got, so it's time to look to the future and our exciting trips to South Africa and the USA. Time to consider life under a Chilean rather than an Italian.

Churning

In sympathy with City, my stomach roiled and boiled last night, just after the final whistle. For the first time in ages, I was nastily sick all over the toilet and surrounding floorspace. I actually think my stomach was unsettled for most of the day, but it was only after being sick that I realised it. Funny, really.

On a day when Chelsea madness took a further step forward, and when Israeli madness seemed to take a tentative step backwards, City inevitably bowed out of the Champions League for another year. Not a great show from us, it has to be said, though there was at least a little bit of fight in the second half. The penalty was something of a gift, and it never really felt as if we were going to get another goal. Clearly, the damage was done at the Bernabeu when we surrendered an unlikely lead and gave the game away in those crazy last few minutes. In all honesty, we have been pretty conclusively outplayed in all of our CL fixtures this year, with both Dortmund and Ajax making us look slightly amateurish, and appearing very naive in allowing the Spaniards back in at that first match. More than the Galacticos however, I was hugely impressed with both the other two, but especially the Germans, who look to be an extremely accomplished and combative side, able to give any Premier League team a torrid time.

And there's the essence of the thing really. This year's season at the top table of English club football has been of even lower quality than last. No disrespect to West Brom, and apologies to the once cultured Hammers, but the presence of these two teams so near the top of the league really speaks to that drop in standards. It's all to the good, I suppose, to have a more open competition, and it would be great if the Prem were more like the Championship, with any team capable of beating any other at any time. Yet it doesn't help the standing of English football in the European elite.

It's not all bad though. For the moment, we are top of the league, a point ahead of the Rags, and starting to play a little better. As well as that, Rafa Benitez is installed at Chelsea, and one can only hope that his arrival will not be one of those which galvanizes a moribund team into action. Finally, my own predilection for getting scores and outcomes correct is starting to become a little bit scary. I rightly said 2-1 against Spurs, tipped a heavy win with Tevez goals against Villa and predicted a draw against Mourinho's men last night. As far as Chelsea go on Sunday (in case you fancy a punt) I reckon 2-1 City. You can have that one on me.

Febrile

It's a living thing, wrapping its tendrils around my carotid and squeezing gently. Ever so gently, but relentless; cinching closer with every passing second. It will not let me go, will not relax the choking grip until the very breath is driven from my lungs.

I know that I am powerless, know that there is no sense in struggling, but cannot stop myself from fighting the muscular clasp. Hope is not it. Not hope, but grim determination that forces me to clench my teeth and ball my fists against the top of my thigh. Foot to foot. Rocking, swaying, whimpering, crying and snot dribbling.

There are 10 more posts to go till 500.

Push It

Thanks to Mr Cake for the last post, and there will be more to follow. For now folks, this is me. There's a lot of talk about porn at the moment. Time for me to get in on the sex act. I wonder if this page will attract as many views from Russia as the one entitled 'Whores'?

Porn is everywhere. It is the ‘new’ way for kids to learn about sex. No different to the old way in some respects. I used to find porn in the woods (such a cliché that it seems almost impossible to believe, but it really did happen, and – after taking a walk along the river recently – I can confirm that it still does) or under my uncle’s bed. Kids still find porn, but there are some key differences in the way they do it. Nowadays, they can get it online, all the time. It’s moving images as well, so that makes a difference. It’s free, and that’s also very relevant. Additionally, the sheer range of available stuff is mind blowing. Within a few clicks, it’s possible to navigate to some very dodgy areas indeed. My first introduction to acts out of the ordinary (or perversion if that’s what you want to call it) was amputee related sex. It was, needless to say, from a mag under my uncle’s bed (Whitehouse, I think) and induced shock and laughter in equal measure. At the age I was then, the very fact of sex was shocking in any case. Since then I think I have at least glimpsed most of the possible curiosities that people can indulge in. There is a disturbing prevalence of violence and rape imagery in much of the stuff online these days, and that is definitely not a good thing.

That said, I’m not one for censorship in any form (though I have paused more than once when presented with material on TV with my kids present. Most recently, their imploring me to allow them to watch The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo led to some interesting discussions, let me tell you...). Context is vital, and part of this is talking to kids about what they’re watching, and not just allowing it to enter their consciousness willy-nilly.

In answer to the latest bout of hysterical bullshit from Cameron et al - get over it! We all masturbate. Remember that documentary repeated recently about the bloke with the small cock? He said he had never had a wank in his life. Wholly remarkable and very unusual. Apart from the odd curiosity like him, everybody’s doing it, etc. If we accept this, and accept that we can’t all have a sexual partner (indeed, even if we do, sometimes a solo performance is the preferred option) at all times, then porn is a useful aid in getting us where we need to be.

So should we change it? At the risk of being ridiculed, I would align – in some ways – with Alain de Botton on the subject. If it’s there, and if it isn’t going to go away, why not make efforts to change it? Is there decent material around already? This does raise rather a lot of questions of course. How do we cover the fetish areas? Where do we draw the line in acceptability of these fetishes? I suppose that the law isn’t much fucking use, so we would need to consider some arbitrary code of morality. When I say arbitrary, I mean, for example, some of the following:

Who am I to judge someone who likes being thwacked having a good time with someone who likes giving a good thwacking? Or someone who likes to pour on others – or have poured on them – non sexual bodily fluids? For example. Not only do neither of these activities interest me at all, they actively turn me off, but - hey - if you want to do it and you’re not causing anyone any harm, then go for your life. I would suggest that as long as the activities are between consenting adult humans then it’s OK. Anything which involves minors (‘18’ – yeah right! – seems to be the suggested age of majority) animals or coercion is not allowed. But what does that mean if we consider people who appear to be underage, but are in fact over 18? What of other ‘acted out’ scenarios? Are they OK? And does their erotic power decline for the fetishist by knowing that they are acted out, leading to an underground industry producing the real thing? Even if you do ban stuff, people still have these urges. They always did and always will. In any case, isn’t the production of this kind of material in contravention of the moral code, if not any legal one?

There are no easy answers. Are there ever? I think we can only try to allow our kids a bit of freedom to make up their own minds about this very complex area of human existence, and give them a bit of credit for trying to get through it. That doesn't mean simply banning all sexual imagery, does it?

A Day in the Life

No doubt he took the tube/bus/train/bike as he always did. I can't say if he had bacon and eggs, or porridge, or just a cup of coffee and a rueful cigarette as part of his normal breakfast routine; can't know whether he might have popped into a Caffé Nero or a Starbucks or a Fitness First before heading into the office. I don't even know if he had a wife, husband, kids or a dog to give a kiss to as he headed out the door, or if he stared at his reflection with a grin or a scowl while brushing his teeth or letting them stay stained - just for today, or most days - because he was sleeping on a friend's sofa.

There might have been a long wait for the bus in the rain, or a steady walk to the tube station - unseasonably warm as it was; alternatively, he was given a lift, dropped off perhaps with a kiss. Or not. Always a chance that he stood on the train all the way, cramped and pressed against others' sweaty frames, holding his nose or holding in his own foul breath to blot out the smells around him or from him. Maybe there was a raised voice, a small increase in the tension of the commuters from some real or imagined slight that served to changed the tenor of the day. Or else he was blessed with a safe middle seat as soon as he got on, able to read his Metro or his Dostoyevsky - his James Patterson or his Daily Star amid the blissful racket of the clattering wheels against the rails.

Maybe someone who knew him would have detected a difference in his demeanour, something not quite right about him. Perhaps he was sweating, agitated, quick to anger or suddenly sullen. But if no-one on his tube or train carriage or bus had ever seen him before, or had perhaps only glimpsed him on the odd morning - a slightly more familiar face in the relentless faceless crowd, but nothing more - then who could have had a clue that today would be any different to the hundreds of other days which had gone before? Only him, maybe. Unless at home, the significant other fumed or fretted, raged and texted and fruitlessly called, cried and wailed, plotted and schemed, laughed and derided...

When he walked past the security guard on arrival at the office, showing his pass as required, it might have been that a gentle half smile, perhaps a word or two, were exchanged. And it might have been that there was only the almost unnoticeable flash of recognition that the pass had been seen and that he was clear to go through. His co-workers on the 4th floor could have wished him a good morning, chatting about last night's telly amid the clatter of kettles, and milk taken from fridges, waste bin lids opened and closed. Or on an early shift, he might have been alone at his desk, reading emails and answering calls.

As he typed, he may have felt the itch of needle marks in his arms, or the familiar nagging pain of the tumour in his belly, pressing against his ribcage; may have confronted again whatever demon had hold of his mind - debts, disease, religious fervour, loneliness... And the hours would have passed - no doubt - the hands making their relentless circuit around the face until lunchtime arrived.

He took the lift the last two flights up and stepped out to look over the balcony, where he saw the usual hubbub of a Friday passing on the floors below; straddled the balustrade and lifted his leg over the top... Then he pitched himself forward and down the 80ft drop to the hard tiled floor, smashing his body apart in front of the groups who were sitting eating their sandwiches.

Falling Apart

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons - uploaded (as far as I can tell) by someone called Patrick Gijsbers in 2007

It's all falling apart, isn't it?

Just finished William Leith's book of a similar name, and he really says it all, writing as he was from the viewpoint of a man only a year older than I am. Ironically, given that its theme is (partly at least) decrepitude, I took the book to the park with the kids at the weekend (intending to read it a little later on the bus, just in case you might think I would read in the park with the kids. Perish the thought! I actually played cricket with them. And won, as it happens) and ended up leaving it on a bench there, not realising until we had walked the 15 minutes or so up to the high road. If it hadn't have been a library book, I might well have left it lying where it was, but I didn't want the hassle or expense of buying a new one.

So I deposited the kids in McDonald's with milkshakes and started to lope/jog back down to the park, feeling fairly confident that the book would not have been half-inched in the meantime - due mostly to the inclement weather. William Leith says he could probably run half a mile if pushed, and I guess that the 15 minute walk (I feel I must debunk the old chestnut of walking speed being 4mph, especially when there are two kids walking with you) would be equal to about that. Let's just say that, though I wasn't suitably dressed for running, I didn't actually manage to make it all the way to the park before running out of puff. Since then, I have been feeling rather old, what with the lump on my foot and a pain in the kidneys; perennially blocked sinuses; occasional toilet problems, etc...

Though rather frightening, and sadly looking to be always topical, the other theme of interest in the book is the state of the global economy. Leith uses the cod as an analogy of the way in which our system is doomed to certain failure. Cod - he says - have a survival strategy of, well, just getting really big. This works pretty well in the prime of their lives as their sheer magnitude protects them from most predators (humans - as always - excepted) and they grow quickly to become fierce hunters of the sea. In the end, though, their size works against them, causing them to become unable to survive. Or something. This mirrors the edifice of global capitalism, which continues to rush into its own destruction in pell-mell fashion. Style of thing. In any case, I was seduced by the argument, like Winston Smith I suppose, enjoying most the books which tell me what I already know. It is self-evident - despite the profit announced by Apple - that year-on-year growth is simply not achievable, and the flimsy facade of promises looks perilously close to crashing down on all our heads. This argument is given added resonance of course because of the decimation of cod stocks across the world.

With the United States on the brink of being unable to pay its soldiers, with countries like Italy and Spain all but financially collapsed, with the UK establishment daily being further exposed as a stinking cess-pit of corruption and cronyism, it will be a wonder if we make it through to August 7th and the Community Shield, where Agűero will probably line up alongside Tevez and JÔ's name will not be on the team sheet.

Fiddling About

The end of another decade. Happy new one.

Having almost recovered from my illness (the worst I've had for many a year) and whilst hallucinating powerfully in my sleep (think epic 2 hour dream timescales involving spiking Xeni Jardin's vegan noodle soup with parmesan cheese and my mum being arrested for trying to break into a Government building, to worrying about the mess a dead goose leaves if not cleaned off the carpet quickly enough, and you will see what I mean) due to the intake of Champix I have been fiddling about with the layout of this thing. Hope you like it.


I was concerned that things were getting a little stale and that I was almost being held to ransom by my own creation, so I am actively considering which direction to take. Any suggestions gratefully received.

In the meantime, City till I die of course, and things are looking good for 2011 in that regard, despite our inability to put more than one past Holloway's corsairs. I just can't believe that that twat Neville got away with murder again yesterday, and shurely there must be shome jushtice somewhere in the world. Onward to the Emirates for the first real test we'll have faced for quite a few weeks.

Miracles

A graph from the Office for National Statistics on age profiles. Interesting how it resembles a Rorschach blot, don't you think?

DISCLAIMER. This post was due to go live tomorrow, but I've been looking through my archives and realised that I have posted on 2nd February in each year since I started this thing (I only began in June 2007, and could not have done so in that year, even if I'd wanted to) so the anally retentive numerologist in me just had to make the change to today. For that reason, the piece may not be as (ahem) exquisitely crafted, and adherent to Aristotelian Unities as you would normally expect, so please forgive me, but here goes.

As I watch my life ebbing away to the background of Bargain Hunt and re-runs of Top Gear, I realise that all the current noise about ageing, death and all that brouhaha is becoming increasingly relevant to me. A terrifying spectre punctured the fog of my cold-infected brain the other morning as I listened to Today on Radio 4. Somebody was speaking about the population profile of the UK, and came up with an image of certain towns in this country only being populated by pensioners as our inevitable march towards immortality (though it looks set to be an immortality of almost total lameness, propped up by countless interventions and cocktails of drugs. No thank you) continues. I'm no spring chicken, as you are doubtless fully aware, but the thought of living only among the over 60s in such circumstances is not an attractive one, to say the least. I've nothing against the older generation per se, and as with any age group, I do try to speak as I find. There are of course as many curmudgeonly kids as there are sprightly OAPs. But I digress.

What I wanted to elucidate was the feeling of confusion I have over medical science in these marvellous modern times. We are proving ourselves increasingly able to defy nature and prolong life (in whatever condition said life may be) almost indefinitely. Don't misunderstand me, I have no ethical objection to stem cell research or any of that good stuff, and I can too completely understand why any family would wish to try and keep someone alive for as long as possible. I also respect those who (on the flip side, if you will) wish to push the boundaries of legality and question the status quo when it comes to the right to die. Terry Pratchett is - and we would expect no less - making a fine stand on this point, as I'm sure you will have heard. It is a complex issue, no doubt about it, and open to some SERIOUS abuse, which is why I feel that English law (though an ass, let's face it) is perhaps for once best suited to dealing with it - i.e., on a case-by-case basis. If only the media could be kept at a distance, we might see some sense. But that ain't gonna happen.

So (once again trying desperately to return my thoughts to the original argument) I really want to talk about the disparity between what we are capable of when it comes to keeping people alive, thanks to increasingly sophisticated treatments (along with - naturally - much hand-wringing to accompany them) and our inability to safeguard the health of children for the want of the most basic care in countries less fortunate than our own.

I have a problem understanding where we're going with this, and begin to question the point of it. Why do we expend so much money and effort in developing procedures and medicines which can fight almost any disease (even the most fundamental disease of growing old) and injury when we allow millions of kids to die from malaria (I'm sure Ashton Kutcher is well-intentioned and all, but it won't really cut the mustard, will it?) and malnutrition every year? Especially when the treatments are only available to a - in relative terms - select few. In much the same way as Barack is diverting vast sums from the 'folly' of space flight to pay for some much needed basic stuff back home, perhaps we could think about doing something similar with the extraordinary sums pumped into prolonging what is often already a lost cause on the hospital wards? Easily said, I know.

Soft Tissue Damage

Happy New Year. It all started so well.

I was enjoying a bit of Stooges back and to on Twitter with a City fan somewhere in the US (we even acted out in tweets the old 'pick two' routine) and was feeling well set up for a jolly New Year's Eve with a sip at my one remaining Cambrian Gold. The eclipse of the blue moon was looking good next to the flats. I took a picture with the phone, which of course didn't come out so well, so I legged it upstairs to get my camera, telling the kids to look out through the window to watch this rare phenomenon, and then rushed back down again, switching the camera on as I went. To my dismay I noticed that the battery was almost completely exhausted, and as I neared the bottom step, I was wondering whether I would be able to squeeze a shot out before the thing died on its arse.
I was not to be so lucky, and just as I heard the terminal triple beep, the world suddenly flipped up and I saw my foot fold under me in a rapid and alarming fashion. In my haste and excitement, I had missed the second-last step and fell heavily on the foot, also bashing my arm trying to prevent damage to the camera. Although the immediate panic that I might have snapped my foot or shin completely off was not to be realised, I was still in pain, and the kids were yelling - asking if I was OK - from the upstairs window. For a moment I hesitated, thinking that I might try to fire up the camera again and get the shot of the moon I wanted, but quickly realised the futility of such an action (because a) the camera battery has to be charged in a separate unit, and it takes a good couple of hours, b) I wasn't really in the mood any more and c) the camera doesn't take night shots very well) and gingerly climbed the stairs again, testing my ankle as I went. My first impressions were that it was going to be bad in the morning - as these things often are - but that it wasn't really really serious, i.e., involving fractured bones.

As per the plan, much alcohol was consumed in any case, but it did dampen the evening to a certain extent, inclining me to be even more angry with Jools' Hootenanny with the bloody brass section and the terribly unfunny audience clips (Martin Brundle, David Coulthard and crew were particularly irritating) and the indestructible Tom fucking Jones. But I watched The Hill till about 3am and that made me feel better, as I realised that the penal institution depicted in the film was exactly the kind of place most mainstream politicians and almost all of the Press in this country, seem to want to introduce.

By the time I had woken up, the pain had, as I expected, increased considerably and any movement of my foot forwards or sideways was excruciating. Aware of the possible down side, I felt I really had to go and get the thing checked out at hospital. Hence, my New Year's Day (or around 4 hours of it in any case) was spent in the A&E of the Whittington Hospital, which was nowhere near as exciting and sexy as Holby. There was a grouchy Irish staff nurse (I know that there isn't one of those in Casualty any more) or sister, or midwife - whatever they're called these days - who publicly carpeted am old man in a wheelchair before telling him to 'drop the attitude' and pointing out that the hospital and its staff would do nothing to help him. She reminded me of one of those really shit coppers who end up causing more trouble than they stop.

Turns out there was nothing broken. Only soft tissue damage.

Seeking Inspiration, or Saint Philip

I do appreciate the imagination of those who compile the Catholic Encyclopedia, as well as those in general who have made up stories based on a few inconclusive lines from inconclusive books. Get this (from the Catholic Encyclopedia) for example:

• Before the miraculous feeding of the multitude, Christ turns towards Philip with the question: "Whence shall we buy bread, that these may eat?" to which the Apostle answers: "Two hundred penny-worth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one may take a little" (vi, 5-7).
• When some heathens in Jerusalem came to Philip and expressed their desire to see Jesus, Philipreported the fact to Andrew and then both brought the news to the Saviour (xii, 21-23).
• When Philip, after Christ had spoken to His Apostles of knowing and seeing the Father, said to Him: "Lord, shew us the Father, and it is enough for us", he received the answer: "He that seeth me, seeth the Father also" (xiv, 8-9).

These three episodes furnish a consistent character-sketch of Philip as a naïve, somewhat shy, sober-minded man.

How the hell could those three episodes furnish a consistent character sketch of anyone? Let alone of a shy, sober-minded man? Yet it is accepted as part of 'doctrine'. They're all mad I tells ya. Mad as boxes of frogs.

With the increasing likelihood of my not finding employment (gainful or otherwise) in the near future, I need some inspiration. I have been afflicted with some dreaded lergy or other over the past week or so, and feel a shadow of my former self. Simply because I can, I will go into some detail, which may be repulsive to some and entertaining to others.

Whilst in Oswestry a couple of weeks back I developed a sore spot (looking back, I blame it on the Turkish Cypriot barber who gave me a trim before I left. Probably didn't sterilise his cutthroat properly) on the back of my neck, and a few days after returning to London, it had developed into a monstrous carbuncle of Charles Windsorian proportions. I'm not unusual I think in avoiding visiting the doctor, so things had degenerated pretty badly by the time I did finally make an appointment, the thing had grown to almost an inch across and was dominating my body. The doc took one very brief look (he didn't even come close to me, let alone touch the damned thing) and prescribed a sackful of flucloxacyllin and penicillin to be taken 4 times daily for a period of one week plus, the which I am still forcing down my neck.

These medicaments in themselves had a negative effect on my system, and contributed to the general feeling of malaise and enervation I was suffering. Then, finally, on Wednesday evening, just after enduring the pathetic City display, things came to a head. Enough detail for you, I reckon. Save to say that I doubt I will ever be able to eat toffee sauce again. Two days later, and still the goo was draining out, and still my guts were troubled by the fungal antibiotic activity.

One could hardly say the weather has been perfect, but there have been some days when I could feasibly have taken the bike out for a bracing spin, but I have not felt in any shape to do so. I am therefore reduced to Twitter and Facebook, along with regular flips into my Gmail to see if any of the numerous applications I've sent are going anywhere. Nada, if you want to know.

It is imperative, now that I am at last starting to feel almost normal again, that I find a couple of activities to occupy mind and body. I will aim to write a book, and resolve to get out on two wheels on the mean streets before I lose my sanity. I will have to ignore the countdown to Christmas, difficult as that will be.

Tripitaka

For fear of boring anyone, or of being accused of fishing for sympathy, this will be the last mention of my cluster headaches, which are (I keep telling myself) surely on their way out by now. I did have an attack or two yesterday, but they were relatively brief and less intense than they have been, so I am somewhat hopeful. Only time will tell. Tick tock.

In any case, I have been intrigued when - during the last cluster over two years ago - I came across the use of sumatriptan as a palliative in my research. Intrigued because of what one might I suppose call a misspent youth (though it was - mostly - a lot of fun at the time) and an indulgence in those fungi which can tend to bend the mind rather. Sumatriptan, you see, is derived from a compound found in magic mushrooms, and many sufferers have reported that it is particularly effective both in combatting the headaches when they hit, and in delaying their onset, or in prolonging the time between episodes.

Now that the government, in its infinite wisdom as regards drugs, has declared the psilocybin mushroom to be illegal, it is very difficult to get hold of any. The organisation Cluster Busters has resources for procuring spore kits, but I fear that a mushroom farm would not go down too well in the flat, what with the kids around, and the almost total lack of any area in which to cultivate the little buggers, so it looks as if this will be one prospective medicine with which I will not be able to avail myself. On top of that, I'm not sure if I could actually handle taking mushrooms again. It was bad enough when I had nary a care in the world, but with the weight of the years upon me, and the burden of life's responsibilities, I am fairly sure that my brain would explode with the sheer cosmic-ness of it all.

I do wonder how many of the pointy caps my fellow cluster sufferers imbibe, because I'm damned sure you wouldn't want to be tripping with a skull-splitting headache, so I'm guessing 10-15 would probably suffice. I also wonder about tolerance levels, and whether that is a problem for those poor souls who are chronic sufferers (I'm talking several headaches a day, with perhaps a couple of hours in between, and EVERY SINGLE DAY of the year) meaning that they have to keep upping the dose, so could well end up dropping a couple of hundred just to stave off the pain. Not to mention the hassle of having to grow that many.

They do say that excessive consumption can actually bring the headaches on, which might perhaps explain why I have been afflicted with them. I am paying the price for that misspent youth, and taking it into misspent middle age.

If they dare touch a hair on my head

I am - hopefully - nearing the top of the bell curve, wracked as I have been with terrible pain over the last few days. My worst fear is now not dying, but that the pain will never stop; that I will be forever trapped in some living hell of a never-ending cycle of agony. Or worse.

Based on some extremely unscientific research, there is a strong possibility that alcohol may be a trigger for the headaches' onset. Though it has been revelatory to have a clear head for the past week or more, I would like to be able for at least one evening to enjoy a glass of vino. Ah well. These things are sent to try us I suppose.

At least this morning I was invigorated by the Turkish Cypriot head doctors down the road. I am not known as a smartly dressed person, and whatever I wear seems to tend rather too easily towards scruffiness, however hard I try. So when I say that I enjoy the 'sharp' feeling of a proper haircut, I don't mean 'sharp' in the model sense. It's simply that the edges are neat, the angles well trimmed, and all the bits of unwanted shag removed from the various orifices. The barber who usually seems to cut my hair is small and bald with bottle glasses. He moans in a disturbingly sexual sort of way as he passes around his punters, but one quickly gets used to this and soon accepts it as entirely normal.

The barber's seats have fancy sliding ashtrays set into the arms (though smoking is of course no longer allowed in the salon, which is why a table and chairs have been set up outside the window) and one is always offered a tea or coffee by the old man who sweeps up the hair. As I was being attended to by the moaning man today, the hair sweeper began to recount a story to his two companions, and I watched their reaction in the mirrors.

"Before I came to this country," he began "Back in the 50s. My nephew, who was a young man - a single man - was on his way to work when he saw a young woman lying on the floor. Someone had hit her, and all these people were coming up to her and speaking to her, but she could not understand them." The two companions nodded, listening intently, and the old man went on. "My nephew, he got off the bus near the factory and he went over to the woman. 'Are you all right?' he asked the woman in Turkish, but she said nothing, so again, in Greek, he asked if she was all right, and she said 'No'. My nephew spoke Turkish and Greek you see. He said to her: 'These people are asking if you want to go to hospital..."

Just then, a man came in waving a Turkish newspaper.

"Do you think I could make this picture bigger?" he asked, pointing excitedly at one of the pages. There were lengthy exchanges about the internet and print shops, and the old man's story of the beaten woman was quickly forgotten. I never found out how the story ended.

Old Friend

In the very first post I ever put up, I mentioned my cluster headaches. That was over two years ago, and I have not been troubled by them again since. Till now.

I wanted to try (for no-one's benefit other than my own) and get across some of the experience.

There are some practical things which intrigue me. For example, why do the damned things go away for such long periods before returning? I understand (though there is still some science to be done, I believe) that there may be a link to the hypothalamus, which explains their clockwork nature, but how can it be that they attack in such a pronounced curve - from minor every few days, to extreme every few hours and then back down again - over a period of two or three weeks?

But most of all, the headaches force me to examine my relationship with pain. The pain they cause is a very specific one, a pulsing throb at the back of my left eye, accompanied by a watering eye and a streaming nose. It is extremely intense, and causes me great distress. There is no escape, and lying down (that classic tactic for ills) is the worst thing I could possibly do. All I can do is to pace back and forth in a darkened room and wait for the storm to subside, all the while clutching a tissue to mop up the tears and snot, simpering or moaning occasionally. After a while, the pain can migrate (migrainate?) to the top of my head, where it feels spiky, as if it is running along the scalp. This can mean that the attack is about to stop, or - in a cruel twist of fate - it can simply bounce back down to the eye again, spending its time travelling between the two areas. I can also feel a slight weakness in my legs and a tension across my shoulders. When the pain finally does subside, there is a different result, depending on where I am in relation to the cluster. At the beginning or the end, I return to whatever passes for normal in my mind; but at the top of the curve, I am left feeling washed out and tired, as if I have been through the wringer. I often drift to sleep for a short while. I feel thirsty and - occasionally - hungry.

The latest cluster has displayed slightly different characteristics to the others (as far as I can remember them) About two weeks ago, I was awoken at around 4am by a pain. It was reminiscent of cluster headache pain when I later thought about it, but at the time it didn't register as such. I got out of bed and popped a couple of paracetomol, but the pain had subsided by the time I crawled back into bed. Then again, a few days later, the same thing happened once more, and the first flicker of fear began to cross my mind. I had recognised my old adversary, and was dreading his latest onslaught. Then, the first bona fide attack occurred on Wednesday evening as I was watching England thrash Croatia at a friend's house. Since then, they have occurred nightly, with Friday so far being the worst. I felt a twinge at around 7pm, then a full-blown monster hit me at just after 9.00, forcing me to leave the pub and laying me low till around 11.00. Twice more, during the night, I was hit, the last time around 5am.

Though, and this is a characteristic also, the next day when I awoke, I felt fine. It could have been that the headaches had never been there. Towards the end of my last cluster, I was referred to a neurology specialist who is a particular expert in cluster headaches. He gave me a load of packs of injectable sumatriptan, which fell out of date, and which I no longer have. I never tried them, and am of course scared to death of sticking a needle in myself. I will play it by ear (or by eye, if you like) and take whatever action I feel is necessary as this one plays itself out.

I suppose I should try and explain what I mean about my relationship with pain, and the title of this post as 'Old Friend', but it's not easy to put into words. I definitely do not like the experience. I cannot abide people seeing me during an attack (for fear of distressing those close to me, and of embarrassment if anyone else watches me) and there is such a feeling of elation when I can finally be sure that I am on the downward curve towards normality, but there is something almost reassuring about the headaches being there, about the pain being so familiar to me. I have tried to turn this odd feeling into a weapon, reasoning that the pain will not be so bad if I can change the way we look at each other. Pain is, however, difficult to reason with, I have found.

Incapacitated

Due to a ridiculous injury sustained whilst trying to negotiate the entry ramp to the underground car park at work with my bike, I find myself unable to function normally. I was attempting to put my security pass in my mouth so that I could ride safely down the steep ramp before the barrier came down. No doubt the bloody thing has sensors, but I'm always afraid it's going to bop me on the head as it takes a few seconds to sort oneself out before riding on. Anyways, the bike got away from me a bit and I could feel that I was going to over-balance and fall in a heap of sharp metal and concrete face first, so I took emergency action and yanked hard on the anchors, which stopped the topple, but meant that the bike caromed into my achilles tendon at some velocity, dislodging the chain and giving me a sharp intake of breath and a jabbing pain at my ankle.

Now, a pedal bash (sounds similar to pebble dash, doesn't it?) is an occupational hazard for any cyclist, and I'm almost always carrying a cut, graze or bruise on my lower leg, but I could tell immediately that this was going to be a sore one - though I did manage to ride the bike back home at the end of the day. This was probably a mistake.

The next day when I awoke, it was painful to walk, and so I hobbled onto the tube. As is always the way when you have a limp, you seem to come across someone else who also has one, and I was afraid, when the guy opposite me painfully struggled to get off the train, that he would think I was taking the piss. Luckily, the morning crowd at Victoria soon swallowed him up and so I could hop my way to the escalator without fear of such things.

Needless to say, everyone has been offering advice (see a doctor, use Deep Heat - er, no - take anti-inflammatories - er, yes) and needless to say I have ignored most of it, thinking that it would wear off in a matter of days. It hasn't though, and I have just started taking some ibuprofen, which seems to help a little for a brief period. If there is no improvement by Monday, I will force myself to attend at the quack.

It seems such a trifling thing, but is in such a vital place (I have previously suffered from a couple of stress fractures in my foot, so I am not unaware of the hassle of a foot injury) that it impacts on almost all areas of your life. Except using a computer, thank god. More than usual, however, the injury has made me think about getting old. Despite the systematic abuse I subject it to, my body has held up reasonably well so far, and though I'm no Daley Thompson, I can at least manage to ride to work most days, swim 42 lengths (soon to be 43) every Sunday and generally run around with the kids, playing footie or 'what have you'. As time goes by, I am of course likely to suffer from longer term and more serious mobility problems, and that scares the living crap out of me. I really value my independence (cycling is a true expression of that) and shudder to think how I would cope with either a mobility chair or simply lying in bed, waiting for the meals on wheels to arrive.