From Andrew
Hollyoaks at Sea
Yours truly has been to the Clap Clinic, purely in order get a free Hep B boaster that has been so cruelly denied by his local health centre - an earlier blog relates the sordid details and why I don’t want to fork out 25 quid, blah, blah, blah.
As clap clinics go, this one seems to vigorously operate an open door/ let’s not be ashamed of whom we are approach and, and we’re talking about the Lloyd Clinic at Guy’s Hospital with the words 'Sexual Health Clinic’ emblazoned over the entrance. For any teenager hesitantly taking his or her first steps into the world of safer sex, they would probably run a mile and end up in casualty with an advanced stage of syphilis.
As I pushed open the swing doors I still hadn’t made up my mind whether or not I was going to be a gay bloke, straight guy or a transgendered person in mufti. The question was kind of answered for me because the two receptionists looked rather like your mum or a favorite aunt and the only thing I felt like saying was 'do you sell toothpaste.'
After registering I sat down and started to read a book on French grammar, no straight up, I always do this kind of thing in sex clinics because of all the hanging about. Incidentally, it was demonstrative pronouns and then I could hear this very camp guy talking about one of his mates doing something naughty so that all his other mates had to get tested. Ah, so that’s the open door policy I thought as this man endlessly droned on and on and summarized everything with a ‘at the end of the day’. I thought of offering him free English lessons so that he could expand his vocabulary somewhat and then mum and auntie asked him to be quiet or leave the clinic; it turned out that he was on the bloody mobile and was not having a public one-to-one with the nurse.
It wasn’t very busy at 3.30 in the afternoon and then this guy called Robert was called to reception and he reminded me of a Hollyoaks actor, all teeth and bleached hair. I’ve only caught this series before Channel Four News and I recall lots of semi-male nudity and dumb chics and then I thought of the boat people in the news recently whom inadvertently drifted into Iranian national waters – the pricks- and were subsequently released.
These guys really were Hollyoaks/ex pat/provincial sex clinic material apropos the places they hailed from and my god, did you read the story in The Independent. Two were small town businessman from Scarborough – that’s endless rounds of British Legion meetings discussing ‘our boys’ in Afghanistan and ghastly Masonic nights with everybody wearing aprons and planning how to parcel out the lucrative contacts stitched up with the local authority.
Some kid came from Western-super-Mare, just like Geoffrey Archer. This is a town that I once saw from a car window for about 20 minutes and even that was too long. Another lived in Southampton, yuk, it’s all Street Crime UK stuff and anyway, the best bit is the right turning at the Toton roundabout at three in the morning with a sign saying London. Have you noticed that ‘our boys’ in Afghanistan do look a bit like Hollyoaks actors and, and I’m starting to stray into dangerous territory here so I’d better stop now.
Moving away from dreary provincialism, my ‘real’ name was called out and it was time to see the nurse. I thought it wise to use my real name because over the years, I found that using a false one can be a bit confusing since you can sit there for hours and then dear reader, when you ask why you haven’t been seen, ‘they’ ask for your name, you’ve forgotten the one you’ve made up and…rather embarrassing all round.
The nurse was delightful, the kind of girl you’d take home to ‘mother’ and when she asked when I last had sex, I just blurted out that I didn’t want to discuss such intimate secrets and she said that I had made her job much more difficult to help me. I concocted some story about me and a mate having unprotected sex with a couple of woman in Paris and my mate now has hepatitis B and is off work until March. The implication was ‘please give me a free hep B shot love.’ When she asked if we had sex with sex workers I was appalled, do I look so old now that the assumption must be that I need to pay for it!
I was sent back to reception and read something in the Indy about people not wanting to take up the swine flu vaccinations. I seem to recall a couple of gay friends years ago telling me that their NYC clinic offered counseling for those that didn’t want to take an HIV test. This got me thinking a bit, (a) about the horny nurse and (b) setting up a support group with govt funding for people who don’t want to have the swine flu jab yet. Naturally I’d be the Chief Executive and I could pan out the ‘yet’ bit for years. I could commission research papers, give speeches and run training courses for all the staff I’d employ – I might even set up a recovery approach while making sure that nobody ever actually recovers enough to want the jab.
I was called back to see the nurse again. Luckily it was a different one, the thought of dropping my trousers with the other nurse, well, you know what happens to guys when they get…it was all very quick, blood taken for HIV et al, a urine sample and see you in two weeks. She even offered me free condoms; so I’m young after all.
The Lloyd Clinic is a waste of money. With staff like mums, sisters and aunts, no one is really going to feel comfortable talking about his or her sexual history in such an environment. Am I really going to tell Great Aunt Sue that I got hepatitis A by having unprotected sex in a Paris nightclub, of course not. This fluffy bunny rabbit approach to sexual health aint gonna work Reggie. Let’s take an 18 years old gay guy from Southwark arriving at the clinic for the first time. He’s probably spent his teen years being called a faggot and bunking off school to avoid getting walloped. He’s 'out' to no one and then meets a guy through the Internet and the condom breaks. He’s spending his waking hours worrying about HIV infection and at the clinic, he's confronted by Auntie Jean holding a fluffy teddy bear and asking loudly for his name and GP - in full view of all. Give us a break Reggie.
Cheers.
Andrew
CHARITY WORKER IN DRAG SCENE SCARE AT GUY’S HOSPITAL
Yours truly has been a travelling a bit, well actually not much, just jetted off to my local health centre to get my hepatitis B booster. BEFORE, this meant visiting a most delightful nurse who chatted and chitted, took blood, I'd go back later and she’d say “Oh dear me, you require another shot” and the deed was done.
During my last visit, the new nurse hardly spoke at all and merely said you can ring up to find out the results of your blood test so bugger off. At the time, I had a feeling that I might be about to embark on a skirmish with the medical profession.
On the way to the library recently, I popped into the health centre and they said to ring up the ‘Miss Well Nurse’ between 12.30 and 1pm to find out if I needed another vaccination. I was told that I did but that I would have to get my work people to pay because it came under ‘occupational therapy’ i.e. because I was working with homeless people blah, blah blah and one more blah for luck.
Twenty-five quid is not a lot of money but it starts adding up, especially if you require two or three shots which I usually do. I thought I'd better be gracious so I rang up again, no joy there and I even spoke to a GP too.
The health centre I use caters for retired ex dockers and they’re all told me wonderful stories, there are the chavs of course and quite a large contingent of migrants, none of whom, how can I put this nicely, would easily be able to complain in an articulate manner and get decisions reversed. On the other hand, when thye kick off… None of the yuppies living in the area would be seen dead in this place and I suppose, the receptionists, doctors, nurses and even the patients too, probably think in their heart of hearts that I should be doing all this stuff at the Harley Street Clinic. In fact, when I cancelled the appointment with the nurse, the receptionist thought I was having a holiday vaccination; so that was the ledger heading they were using!
Having made certain that work wouldn’t pay, the letter was a lot of polite rhetorical nonsense but also enquiring about the policy relating to vaccinations, vacations and what was exactly meant by 'occupational therapy'. When I write to my MP, I usually like to draft the reply too - not literally of course – and officials like something solid and simple i.e. being asked for information that can easily be obtained. What they like less is the killer question which usually comes in the last paragraph such as ‘why was my injection free last time but not now’. You may not know dear reader but medical people are bit like their legal counterparts, they go on precedent so if you want a flu jab they always ask if you’ve had it before. Once a medical decision has been reached, any more treatment is merely seen as a confirmation of that original decision.
When the manager of the health centre gets my MP’s letter, he or she will probably be on a rather sharp learning curve, why, because I doubt whether any of the other patients could string two words together, ok, ok, that was harsh but I’m sure you know what I mean. The manager has two problems, (1) I was asked to pay even though there has been no change to the Ministry of Health’s policy and I didn’t have to pay before and (2) a cursory glance at my appalling medical history would reveal that I qualify anyway, dodgy liver and all that malarkey. The manager has one option, give me a free jab or risk getting a follow up letter and oh dear, it’s all such fun that I’ve even drafted the reply to that letter too.
Meantime, I’m, going to visit a sexual health clinic, that's even more fun, especially the furtive looks that the clients give each other. I could of course say that I’ve had unprotected sex in Manila, thereby triggering all the free hepatitis jabs you want. I might even spice it up by saying that I’ve taken it up the arse in Buenos Aires – without protection naturally – and get free jabs for everything. Even better, I could put on the Misses’s red dress and shoes, gently masturbate while holding a top-shelf-girlie magazine and then get sectioned - that’s free board and lodgings plus reading time to boot, super. I bet you’d get more that furtive glances from the other patients – ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
To be concluded.
Andrew
IT’S AN MP’S CASE
Regular readers may recall a recent blog when I complained about shaving in the mountains, apropos, the tiles had come off around the washbasin; hence I was able to admire the stunning chunks of brick while um, doing the said shaving. Now I must confess that taking one’s toilette is always a bit of chore, especially when bits of shaving foam and toothpaste get stuck to the aforementioned…it was the hassle of trying to clean the stuff off you know.
I eventually pressed the repair button on my housing association’s website containing a message, the bare essentials of which said: “Listen Reggie, I’m sick of the mountains I want something else, mate.” The kindly caring housing people responded by sending out Reggie who sent me off to the Sahara; in plain lingo, he put soothing plaster over the exposed brickwork and said he’d be back in 24 hours or so. He never came but the plaster really did resemble the Sahara in springtime, with greenish bits everywhere.
I eventually contacted Reggie again using the some old repair button and asked him to come back and finish the job by putting up the tiles in the traditional manner. About a couple of weeks later I received a call from Reggie saying he’d come and put up the tiles on such and such a date and I said “super” and that I’d leave the front door unlocked. After work, I turned on my mobile and Reggie said “Sorry me old fruit cake – or words to that effect – but I had to do another job, can we make another appointment me old cock”.
After the fifth time Reggie said “Can we make another appointment” well actually he didn’t say that, he didn’t really say anything constructive at all although I do recall something about the traffic maybe.
Ah the traffic and immediately I kind of knew that the whole business would be sorted in about five weeks or so, perhaps with a little something for me too. Normally letters to the House of Commons are acted upon by MP’s assistants after about three weeks. You get to hear something within four weeks but I added an additional week for postal delays
The letter to my MP said: “Eventually appointments were made for the 24th August, 7th September, 11th September, 16th September and the 17th September, none of them have been kept and this work has still not been finished.”
Let’s digress for a moment and consider housing associations. Started by that great Anglo-Catholic priest Father Jellico in St. Pancras between the wars, one way or another these days, their funding comes from central Government so naturally they get a bit jumpy if members of parliament, who actually vote the money through, start snooping and asking awkward questions in letters. They are positively leaping, if the said MP in question takes a keen interest in social housing which in fact is the bulk of the properties in my constituency. Having said all that, I just sat back and waited for the inevitable.
I was leaving work and the supermarket bleep, sorry, the phone went bleep indicating that yours truly had an answer phone message that began with: “I want to sincerely apologize…”; they don’t teach the conditional anymore in modern education I thought. I had another 'sincerely apologize message' before a very nice woman rang and fixed up a time for the work to be completed and this very, very, very nice woman offered compensation of £15 for each missed appointment, that’s cool 75 quid. Ah yes I thought, that’s the little something – all for the price of a 2nd class stamp.
There have been tedious phone calls from the Housing Association to find out if the work had been completed on time and to my satisfaction. The last guy said he was checking up because: “It’s an MP’s case you know.” “Everything is spiffing” I said but held back from saying “Where’s my dosh Reggie”.
I recently returned home to find the caretaker; the area manager and some other bigwigs all huddled in a corner in reception and quietly watching me. They’ll be doing a lot more that that if I don’t get that compensation. I’ll give them time of course but I have a feeling that it may come down to me quoting the 1968 Housing Act and the duty of care imposed by that legislation, well not me personally of course, it’ll be the Rt Hon Member for… surely not, they’ll pay, won’t they?
Cheers.
Andrew
A Funeral Right [sic]
The media recently covered a story about a CofE priest who was ranting on about the ghastliness of modern funerals. I did have some sympathy with his reverence, but lets up the ante a bit, my bet noir is the number of humanist ones I’ve been obliged to attend over the years. On the other hand, they can be funny, especially if the deceased is a bit of a cunt. Let me explain some more my dear, lovable, cuddly - not easily shocked by the C word - reader.
Let’s take the glories of the Anglican Communion and Pol Pot. Supposing I was invited to atone, sorry, attend the late Pol Pot’s funeral in Cambodia. The guy murdered millions in the pursuit of a dream hatched in a Parisian bed-sit to establish Treblinka style farming methods circa 1350. Version 1, the Anglican funeral rite and the Book of Common Prayer revised 1662 edition. The sheer poetry of the words in the setting of a wonderful Cambodian Gothic cathedral – sorry that’s silly - full choir naturally, a bit of incense maybe, would quickly take my mind of the guy lying in the coffin. Version 2, a right on humanist shindig at Kensal Rise Cemetery with a lot of “let us celebrate the life today of Pol Pot by contemplating his achievements to bring about a just and more equal society…”, listen Reggie, it aint gonna work?
I went to my first humanist funeral over 30 years ago in Brighton for someone who’d topped himself because his Misses went off with another fella. This poor guy had actually spent the last years of his life planning to do himself in; we’re talking over 10 years. When we were asked to ‘celebrate’ his life I looked at the coffin and wondered if we had to exclude the final bit. The thing is, his suicidal thoughts were so much part of his life latterly, that I had to go though mental contortions to keep these thoughts, um, out. I had to try to forget his failed suicide attempts with pills and the final manner of his exit, live wires in the bath tub – it’s absolutely horrible; he should have been sectioned years ago. A religious service really would have been more preferable.
Another was for a cool cat mate who’d overdosed on heroine. This poor guy’s service was totally bizarre. We were told to think of a party, I just thought of a party with a corpse! Since this guy was handsome and all the girlies loved him, there was a kind of sexual edge to this ‘party’ with picces placed around the chapel – of him - it was disgusting. I couldn’t face going back to one of his chic’s flats for nibbles and got the first train out of there.
Finally, a relation popped his clogs who wasn’t very nice. This made some of the eulogies a tad awkward but no matter, the situation might have been retrieved but it was the service. Somebody played a recorder but they couldn’t, accompanied by someone on a drum who could. Two perforated ear drums later, lots of silences interrupted by bongs and, and we hadn’t even left the chapel/ house of remembrance before his wife kicked off on a tirade against religion. Being a militant atheist like her deceased hubby is her business, being totally pissed and making her views known to the people outside cueing for the next slot was somewhat tasteless I thought. When she said that death is final and that she’d never see her husband again I thought phew, what a relief. Now, I would never have thought that in Chichester Cathedral, would I?
Cheers.
Hey Fellow-Fablers:
SCI-FI STORY CONTEST
The Universe’s Fabulousest Writing Group Strikes Again!
*************
There’s half month left to spell check S.F. short stories/ cartoons/ poems for the Special Autumn Sci-Fi PRIZE COMPETITION* Issue of Sauce (sic, as Andrew “Blogger” Jones would write. He’s got an Exhibition of his blogs and the Medway housing Association’s offered him a house for a prize!!! Big up Andy…) …I got mine, a short story, finished last fortnight so I can breathe again.
Now I’ve had a chill summertime celebrating MY BIRTHDAY + Barak Obama’s victory;) and for those who recall Jerzy Polakov from Baddaboom N.J.,U.S.A.(the man for whom the proof of America’s superior democracy was auntie Maria’s pasta and the fed’s arresting the Illinois state guvna for selling Barak’s still warm chair… “You limey bastard’s”, he sez cheerfully.”Woulda let your lords auction the Buckingham place and sweep it under the carpet, that old Limey red carpet yours got… ha! I got you…” he sways dangerously close to Vic’s telly. Vic glowers warningly at the massive New Jerzyan. “We arrest fuckers for dat,” sez Jerzy proudly, and asked Andrew the way to the nearest detox.
Anyway I’m back, looking for a six million pound fee for adjusting the world which President Shrub put askew ;) Sofar Barak has shown perfect character judgement for British would be p/m Cameron (“lightweight”) and the financial realism his Americans can support grudgingly while pulling their horns out of the near eastern shrubbery. So to speak. He seems the first POTUS since Kennedy whose worldview exceeds war and who understands money. After thirty years being sidelined while the Cold War froze relations, Africa and Trade are America’s chief agendas ;)…. How fresh air helps. A million Kmsquared for solar power and another for hydroponics, and Saharan outputs balance global warming (solar panel shading cools sands; electricity without carbon gassing dodges greenhouses; and 250 million acres of clean irrigated sands feeds all the human bellies you’ve got… ;) Yesterday’s dream becomes reality today and after USA frees herself from the shrubbery given her love of deserts and challenge she may out-rival Libya whose great manmade river project plods along a few kilo hectare strips greener per annum using rolls Royce naval jet engines and north sea oil pumps. After all you could use Illinois University’s STAR reactor/fuel cells and get a half/million horsepower STEAM-DRIVEN shaft; and MHD options. And it’s intrinsically non-weaponisable. While gas turbine MT30’s deliver but 50,000shp. It’s good Yankee technology. Share it! Restore the world’s confidence in America!
Okay folks y’all heard it here first… Last year Booker-prize long-listed best-selling thriller writer Tom Rob Smith (Child 44) visited our fabulous group and spoke about writing. Get his novel, it’s a brilliant stark detective story set in Stalin’s USSR. The hero’s a MVD investigator hunting a serial killer who, the Party has decreed, cannot exist in the perfect socialist State… I found the plot’s twist reminding me of Iain M. Banks’s ‘Use of Weapons’. Which you must read, too. `Child 44’ is in paperback and hardcover; ISBN/978/1/84739/373/9 the paperback’s 6.99 in the Pocket Books edition.
Sayonara
*FOR COMPETITION DETAILS CONTACT: Simon at the Bridge / Martyn at where you can find me (get a job ;-) and if you didn’t get Alison’s phone nos./email URLs update see you Fridays @ the FCWG (bring exotic snack foods! Hot chilli crisps and thing!)
“HASTA LAVISTA, BABEE”
Martyn
Well
my little apartment in the fashionable suburbs of Hackney which is the new
Inner City Green Belt (between Victoria Park and London Fields) has a microwave
oven and a little fridge in the corner. Nothing wrong with that. And as it's only
5 minutes from the Regents Canal I might entertain a
mermaid there. A shower stall, showers beat baths; they overflow less and you
can wash your socks in showers.
And there
are green organic signs all over the place so I may take a leaf out of your
book and sell my bottled wee-wee to the hoi polloi and become a proper capitalist pisstaker.
Since reading of the lawsuit against a German merchants banking house in the City by sacked staff who claim their ex-employers owe them bonuses for, I presume, unproductively (those fat arses got fired after losing loads of money); and 6 Haringey social workers who got fired (or ‘de-hired’ in the jargon of the would-be upper class of beauraucrats in today’s classless society) for letting a baby get beaten to death by two neo-Nazi nonce’s from the National Front are suing for six-figure compensation I get a feeling I ought to start being greedy too, and my rationale follows:
If our society rewards greed and laziness then those are our new virtues. Now an ancient Greek philosopher I think Plato wrote that a virtuous man obeys and upholds the law and follows the example of the City Fathers; I think he was trying to justify the death sentence the Athenian state imposed on Socrates for disputing the wisdom of said City Fathers. I.e. ‘The government is always right’, so I must bow to the great wisdom of the Establishment and practise greed. After all, getting rich beats drinking hemlock and the Eurocrats are debating legal euthanasia.
Sayonara, gentle reader; catch you later (I’m just off to eat my friend’s noodle salad),
Martyn the Mad Scientist
Le Mermaid
Did you know that David Beckham is transgendered, no; well it’s true ‘cos I saw it in a newspaper that one of my colleagues at work was reading. I must add that it wasn’t MY newspaper; I’m much too toffee-nosed and stuck-up to read one of THOSE newspapers. It was a picture of him topless and my dears, the guy’s torso is covered in tattoos, and it’s positively revolting, his skin now resembles that of a fish; hence my thoughts of how he looked like a mermaid. Sticking with fishy things, I think there’s something fishy why women find him so attractive, I mean, he never shaves properly, has little squinty eyes and that voice, oh my god. It must be the $ signs in his eyes but no matter.
As we all know, fish like water but did you know that water likes me. Over the years, I’ve lived in flats where there has always been a bit of a problem with the wet stuff. Let me explain some more my dear, cuddly, loveable reader. In my current abode, which incidentally, is mermaid friendly because it’s literally by the Thames, the flat is a bit of a tip. Apparently, so I’m told, the previous occupant – a News of the Screws journalist – was so embarrassed by its state that when he, I’m sorry about this but it's true, when he wanted to screw himself – with a her not the cheap solo substitute - he used to take the young lady off to a hotel for the night. I’m told by the same source that the current occupant i.e. me, is much tidier. Come to think of it, like the previous tenant, I too have never…
The problem with my present apartment is the kitchen and bathroom. The kitchen hasn’t any space for a fridge AND an oven. I make do with a microwave and, and the bathroom has been challenging. Basically, the tiles and plaster have come off exposing the brickwork around the wash basin so it’s like shaving in the Rocky Mountains; very unfriendly to Mermaids too. Round the bath, the tiles started falling off like rose petals leaving the most horrible black gungy fungus on the walls. This fungus even started seeping from under the bath as well and smearing the floor and whatnot. I did contact my housing association by using their website button called ‘repairs’ but that too was in need of repair because they never got back to me. That must have been a year ago and I’d kind of got used to the problem by adjusting, as they say.
A couple of weeks ago the caretaker knocked on my door while I was shaving in the mountains, with him were a couple of David Beckham look-alikes and asked if they could inspect my bathroom. Not right know I said but I promised I'd give them the spare key to check when I was out. To cut a long story short, the bath and tiles problem has been sorted out but not the washbasin bit yet. The care taker said that next time I’d be charged for the work. This sudden adjustment to the English common law whereby tenants pay rent, a service charge AND pay for repairs too left me a tad perplexed.
Below my flat is a common room and bar which is frequently used for meetings and parties; come to think of it, there haven’ t been any lately. My neighbough told me that there’d been ‘a bit of a problem' there caused by my bath. I rather nonchalantly strolled down there and oh my stars, the black stuff was back and the ceiling, just avoid dancing in the south east corner my darling.
We’re holding an art exhibition in the common room soon where some of the writing from this blog is to be exhibited – plus piccies, arty farty stuff and all that malarkey; in fact a lot of money is at stake. . It's being rigorously promoted by the housing association, which owns my block, is advertised in the local rag and has become something of an ‘event’ amongst the local Rotherhithe set. The problem is that we’d need an ambulance standing by in case a chunk of plaster falls on someone’s head. I’m keeping a low profile just now in case the exhibition has to be um, postponed or worse. Having just peeped at the common room again, it really does look dreadful, I can see ‘Notice to Quit written all over it.
Many years ago I had a flat where the bath emptied itself fully into the bedroom below and brought the ceiling down. A little while later I came home from work to find very official looking men wanting to get into my flat; ‘it’s ‘im’ cried the neirghbour below. Apparently, water was poring into her flat like a waterfall. It turned out that it was my neighbour upstairs who’d got stoned and left the bath taps running – two ceilings down and her downstairs weren’t happy - ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha and three more ha- ha[s].
Cheers.
Andrew
Feast of the Assumption of the BVM
16th August 2009 (once removed)
The Grotto {sic] Shop
William Shakespeare in ‘As you Like It’ has a character who says “All the World’s a Stage”. Indeed it is and Reggie Perrin from that famous TV series quite clearly had taken this on board when he plays different roles from farm hand to successful entrepreneur by establishing a chain of shops selling grot or absolute rubbish; the stuff sold like hot cakes. I thought of Reggie when looking at a copy of a newspaper recently in which the founder of an organic chain of shops admitted that most of the things he had been selling were in fact, um, crap. Well OF COURSE it was all crap, I mean...
I recall once being in one of the organic crap shops in Bayswater and thinking of the marvels of an economic system whereby people with a considerable amount of disposable income will part with his or her hard earned cash to buy fresh vegetables costing about four times more than those found in Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s. Apparently, organic stuff is more natural and good for you, what a load of crap [sic]. The way to save the planet is to go for genetically modified veggie as a first stage and then genetically modified human beings too, so that they don’t spend an eternity trying to bump each other off. Personally, I’d have genetically modified Adolph Hitler and turned him/her into a lesbian and the first ever inclusive Archbishop of Canterbury who couldn’t speak English, hmm, sounds quite funny. I digress, sorry.
Let’s pretend that I was running this organic shop in the said Bayswater. There’s a lot of rich media types there with ‘loads of money’ so I’d first sell ‘em real crap as a starter, mine in fact. Say I go once a day - if we include the Misses, I’ve already doubled the output - easy money my dears. I’ll just call it ‘Chinese-herble-wong-cheung-yeti manure’ and say it contains special nutrients that help slow the growth of cancer cells. I could make up posh looking instructions about how to spread it in on a vegetable patch etc, the problem I suppose is that there would be a certain perfume. This odeur [sic] could well become a stench in time, especially if I also sold bottled Japanese anti-winkle cologne – basically my piss. I could of course go to Sainsbury’s and buy their basic bottled water which only costs 11 pence. I could label it and sell it for 11 quid as ‘Nepalese holy water from the monastery of Ding-Doing province which makes you sexy and desirable’, phew.
The best surely would be to run a dating agency in the upper-east-side, New York City. First, I adore NYC and second, Americans are so gullible. Ideally, I’d sign up really ugly men and promise them beautiful dates. The girls would be recruited from ‘those’ places and told to give the guys a good time. I’d pay the hostesses handsomely but the guys would be taken to the cleaners by me. The guys would keep coming back for more, paying a fortune for the ever elusive wife, ha, ha, ha, ha ha ha. Think I’m being silly dear reader, each week millions of Brits buy a Lotto ticket; they’ve actually got more chance of being hit by an asteroid than scooping the jackpot ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha and err, ha.
See yer.
Andrew.
NVQ Land
Yours truly is doing an NVQ in NVQing. I’m very sorry; I know I’m being silly. I’ve atoned for my sins now and it’s…err…thinking…still thinking but I’ve only attended three sessions, honest guv. Yes, I’ve got it; it is an NVQ in Assisted Suicide Level 2. No, that can’t be right, surely. Let’s start again by actually spelling out what NVQ stands for. It is the National Vertical Queen; that sounds a bit rude, the Queen Mother was never vertical, oh well; it must be the Nautical Variant Queen or how about one with the queen bit taken out, the Nautical Variant Qualification, got it at last, phew!
During the first session, the dear lady from Burgess Hill, or was it Bexhill, that can’t be right because she comes into King’s Cross, anyway, the sweet dear lady was a little shocked when I produced a rather large case containing various implements to do down the riff-raff. The electric chair didn’t work, in fact it caused a black out in Sauf East London [sic]. That meant I couldn’t try out the nice mahogany electric guillotine, made in Germany, circa 1941. Just as well really since I couldn’t understand the instructions. I was about to bring in the firing squad when Dartford Jean said, stop!, this is supposed to be about social care and all you’re doing is trying to kill people; that’s funny, I could have sworn she was Walton-on-Thames Brenda but no matter.
The lads from the hostel weren’t half mad at not getting their £25 Tesco voucher which was a pity really, especially since I’d spent a good hour or so explaining the pecuniary advantages of being executed i.e. zero cost of living expenses and all that. Moving from being an executioner to a social care worker in a few minutes is less difficult than you’d expect. For instance, both roles probably come under the auspices of the Third Sector. Both arguably are jobs that aren’t done to make a profit and both use the recovery model. In the case of the latter, let’s take an alcoholic for example. I could aid him or her by assisting with a detox/rehap. Using the recovery model sensibly, a client at some point will hopefully be able to get a flat and a job. On the other hand, with my German guillotine they’ll recover from being a heavy drinker in about one and half seconds, not bad eh?
Once I’d convinced Staines Deirdre that I was serious about my NVQ in care thingamabob, she agreed that I could carry on. In the past, I’ve usually known the title of the course I’m taking, how the assessment will be conducted and when the bloody thing will actually finish. This time in church parlance, it’s all a great mystery but I’m hopeful all will become clear and now, dam, Northampton Lil wants to come to my hostel and assess me. Oh god, why can’t she just stay in NVQ land and leave me be.
I’ve been thinking of writing a play called, um, NVQ Land. Geographically challenging, the play is set in Swindon and then moves to the Windows of the World restaurant at the top of the World Trade Centre. The time is 8.15pm, sorry am, and the date is 11th September 2001. The plot, a sort of Romeo and Juliet, is about two students from Swindon who are undertaking a stage 3 NVQ in catering at Swindon Technical College with an additional examination in…I do apologize, this is becoming tasteless but now I’ve started I ought to continue. The two principal characters are Brian and Audrey. They already have the much coveted NVQ Class 1 in ‘how to teach sales representatives the art of selling things to people who believe in Santa’ i.e. pills which make us all look 25 again and actually stop the ageing process. These pills were made by Brian’s Uncle Bob, in his garden shed in Frome, Somerset. Uncle Bob has an NVQ Class 2 in ‘being nice to people you don’t like’ – the British Foreign Office were the invigilators in this instance.
The play is quite salacious in parts and starts with Audrey getting bonked by her tutor before achieving an A star in the practical part of the course. In fact, Audrey’s grade was the highest ever achieved in this bit of an NVQ and it made the national headlines. Pretty soon, the soaps caught the bug and the entire cast of EastEnders signed up for an NVQ at Barking College in acting. Even the players in Australian soaps signed up too, to do an NVQ in interpreting the shenanigans of the secularists in the French Third Republic - in French of course.
The exciting climax takes place in the aforementioned restaurant when Audrey and Brian have to serve a lightening breakfast in about 20 seconds – speed really is of the essence here so Uncle Bob helps too. At this point Eastbourne Sheila steps forward and tries to present their certificates, just before Uncle Bob hands out the elixir of life pills. Not too far way, another group is taking the practical in ‘the art of flying jet liners very close to skyscrapers’. Unfortunately, the examiners on board were unable to complete their task.
Finally we return to Swindon, where in honour of Audrey and Brian, an NVQ is established entitled ‘The Art of Tasteful Bogs’ [sic]. The play closes to the theme tune of Neighbours.
G’day.
Andrew
