Gunk

Guten tag, huren!

Did you see Tribe last night? It was fabulous. Just when I though biofuels might save the planet, I'm shown how they're actually wrecking it.

I went to see Dr Bermingham (not Birmingham) this morning. We discussed my ongoing chest/coughing/mucus problems. I told him that I've a notion I'm allergic to dairy. Or at least, I have an intolerance. Or maybe wheat. My ever fabulous GP told me there's only one way to find out. I have to consume some and see what happens. But in a controlled experiment, of course. The only trouble is, I don't want to. I've avoided wheat and dairy since yesterday and to be frank, I'm fine. Well, not perfectly fine, there's still a wee something up, but nothing like twenty four hours ago. At its worst, I feel like I'm drowning in gunk, my throat is killing me and I feel more depressed than a lesbian with super-long fingernails.

I'm not too worried about this. Dr Bermingham (I think his name is Mark) told me the symptoms of such allergies/intolerances usually manifest themselves pretty quickly. They can dissipate over a period of hours, sometimes days, sometimes weeks. It all depends on what my body doesn't like and how it's reacting to it.

Of course, it's still not a given fact that I am allergic to a certain foodstuff or group. To be sure of this, I have to have an allergy/intolerance test which I will arrange soon (it's not available on the NHS).

And he also explained that the unusually high number of sinus and chest infections I've suffered with this year can all be explained away by the disgracefully large amount of mucus I'm producing because of this allergy. It's a perfect breeding ground for viruses and bacteria. The nasty airborne cunts fly into my nose and throat when I breathe in and immediately find a nice home for themselves, somewhere wet, warm and full of food. Then, I suppose, they start having it off and having babies. Yuck.

At least I now know it's not all in my head. I was beginning to wonder. No, seriously. A cough can irritate the back of the mouth and throat. And an irritation can make for a sore throat. And a sore throat can make the best of us cough. See how my mind works, dear reader?

I'm to go back and see Mark in a few weeks. He told me he'd be interested to know how this develops. How kind.

And his likeness to Salty Sailor is as deliciously disturbing as ever. It's uncanny. Incidentally, you should click here for his very interesting article on air transport and taxation. And while I'm on the subject of blogs, my comedy partner has just begun a new one: Broken Chalk.

I thank you.

News

Look what I've just seen as I glanced out of my bedroom window, dear reader!

Yes, the owners of the house next door have put it up for sale!  And by the look of the particulars, the lady next door has been doing a spot of tidying up and even thought to take the washing from the line which had been outside and exposed to the elements for weeks!

I hope the place is sold quickly.  No longer will I have to hear her shouting and swearing at her poor children, her vile transistor radio-sounding hi-fi blaring out at two in the morning or the slamming of doors at breakfast time as she rows with her husband!

The lady who lives on the other side of my neighbour will be as gleeful as I am, I'm sure.

Now, If I hadn't drunk the last bottle of champagne in the house on Saturday night, I'd be popping the cork at this very moment.

If you always dreamed, dear reader, of living next door to Minge and within spitting distance of J K Rowling, clickez-vous ici.

Also in the news...

Alex Salmond has started what he's calling a big conversation.  I call it a sly move, but who am I to speculate upon the shenanigans of a rat?

His chances are remote, and he knows this.  So why press ahead?  What's his wee game?  Win or lose, the break up of the union is his end game and wants to keep the idea fresh in our minds for as long as possible.

He'll succeed in that, I'm sure, especially if we as the United Kingdom elect a conservative government next time around.  A British Tory governement would be too much for many wavering Scots to stomach and I can predict, with reasonable ease, what the result of any independence referendum might be.

But of course, Mr Salmond is an awful way off from a referendum.  With a parliament well short of a fifty per cent nationalist majority, it's probably never going to happen.  The SNP like to cheerily snort and cackle about winning the election in May.  But I can't really see it as a victory.  With a margin of a handful of seats, the electoral equation gives a very curious answer to the SNP and the voters.  The numbers of Tory, Labour and Liberal Democrat seats remained pretty static.  The SNP took their additional seats from the Greens, Solidarity and the SSP - all of whom are also nationalist parties.

O grave, where is thy victory?

Other supposed successes for Salmond include populist moves like saving A&E departments, the abolition of prescription charges for people with chronic illnesses and tolls on the Forth and Tay bridges.  Though remember, dear reader, two things:

1. The money for these measures has to come from somewhere
2. The Scottish Parliament has tax raising powers

The Scottish political scene is going to be a very lively and interesting place over the next few years.  Lots of ifs, buts and maybes, though.  Does Alex Salmond have the balls to go for legislation that may be voted down by the parliament?  Does the parliament have the balls to go for a vote of no confidence in the government/executive and First Minister if the SNP lose a vote in the chamber, prompting a Scottish parliamentary election?

Breaking up Britain would be a pointless and ridiculous leap in the dark.  Not in Scotland's interest at all.

Help!

I'm still coughing for Britain, there's a suspected case of foot and mouth in Kent and E.coli in Paisley.  Is it just me, or are we all dying?

Fear

As you may or may not know, dear reader, I've just come back to Edinburgh from an extended holiday to England and Ireland.  I must have been away around six weeks.

Six difficult weeks, it must be said.

Some of my earliest memories are of being afraid; of fearful situations.  I recall my brother telling me the funny man was on his way to get me.  That wasn't funny at all.  I recall trips to the toilet.  No relief was to be found there.  I was sure someone was on the stairs, watching me, watching me dart from the living room, across the hall to the bog.  I recall laying in bed at night, alone, unable to stand the fear anymore...  I'd creep down the stairs and sit by the living room door with the voices of adults for comfort.

I've always been afraid of being alone and of being got.  This fear, all too tangibly, has continued into my adult life.

A sickly child, ill health was a constant threat to my very existence.  Mother was very kind to me.  Without wrapping me up in cotton wool, she protected me from death and disaster.  Without explanation, I knew I was safe.  The sight of blood, however, mine or anyone else's, and I was in hysterics.

All those horrid fears; of threat and of solitude came to me like a fist to the face in the early 1990s when my work colleague and I were held up in an armed robbery at our place of work.

As an adult, I had to face things on my own.  I had to cope.  Unable to face these things, unable to cope, I fled from life itself and into my bedroom.  I did not come out, save for visits to the toilet and bathroom, for six months.

Slowly but surely, with the help of doctors, nurses and psychiatric specialists, I emerged from my bedroom.  Not really because I wanted to, no, but because my fear of letting down the medical staff and my Mother was greater than my fear of what might lie outside of my bedroom/stronghold.

However, regardless of the hows and whys, I did it and soon realised the outside world wasn't such a bad place after all.  My fears were based on something I'd suggested to myself rather than on anything real.  My fears were all about what might be, what could be.  Just like my funny man fear.  What he might do to me, what he might look like.  Just like my fear of someone watching me on the stairs and where they might take me if they caught me.

But aren't all fears like that?

What if?

Fear still plays a starring rôle in my life.  He's been a special guest star in The Minge Show since 1972.

Breathe.

Between then and now, fears have also been about self doubt and about a lack of explanation.  Being told I was daft and shouldn't worry have never been a cure for my fears.  I need proof that I'm daft and proof that my worries are groundless.  That's how I came out from my bedroom after six moths of self-imposed imprisonment.

From my Spring trip to Japan and through to my Summer trips to England and Ireland, my fears have been alive and well.  I've been coughing, without much of a break, since the beginning of this year.  Antibiotics have seen off chest and sinus infections, yet still the cough refuses to pack up and go home.

This week, I visited Dr Wendy here in Edinburgh.  I see her every so often for check-ups after the removal of the tumour from my tongue.  She knows of my ever present fear of the c word and understood my hints over the constant coughing.  She also knows about my fear of facing up to things, ever afraid that my thoughts could be confirmed as fact.

"See your GP," said Wendy.

So I did.

First of all, it must be noted that when I first saw the guy, a new doctor at the practice, I thought Alan was playing some kind of trick on me, impersonating my GP.  But no, the guy was either his doppelgänger or his long lost twin with an English accent.  As he called to me, with a wink, "Mr Tapping?" I nearly fell off of my chair.

What a wonderful man he was and put my fears to bed, I hope, once and for all.  And he certainly knew how to do that.  Not with a ruffle of my hair and a, "Don't be a silly lad," but with an explanation.

Apparently, after a chest infection and sinus infection quite close together, my sinuses are inflamed and inflamed sinuses tend to overproduce mucus.  That mucus finds itself on my chest, hence the coughing.  The wheezing is caused, not by an asthmatic lung or even a cancerous one, but by the constant coughing and the bronchioles tightening, then not relaxing.

I'm not to worry.

And spookily, I'm not.

For the first time in months, I'm able to spend moments alone without my mind wandering into the realms of pain, death and funerals.  I've actually read a passage from a book today.  Something I've been unable to do for some weeks.  This afternoon, after I've taken my ladies out for another walk, I plan on watching The Weakest Link.

I love this sense of freedom.

But still, I look back into the past and ponder my theories of fear and regret.

I'd love to be a person who can look back upon their life and say, hand on heart, "No regrets."  Sadly, I regret a lot of things, from ugly romantic relationships, fucked-up thoughts on how to keep a man, smoking and always wondering what people thought of me (and the tests I put them through to discover the answer).

I can't live a life of fear.  I can't.  It's horrible.  The depression that comes with it is like a lid on my kettle.  I want to whistle, sing and let all that steam out.  Crying, lying on the bed in a ball, pulling out my eyebrows - all things I want consigned to the past.  I'm doing my best.

I'm high maintenance, I'll admit that, and a needy person, though I won't ask.  I'm not ashamed of being needy.  I'm not ashamed of myself, though I am ashamed, on some level, of not asking for help.

But I do get help.  Sometimes it's a surprise, sometimes it's from the dependable people in my life.  My fears of being alone are, I think, at last allayed.

I'm still coughing, but I'm no longer afraid.

Water

Today, on my return from Borders here in Edinburgh, I was listening to PM with Eddie Mair.

How shocked, dear reader, do you suppose I was on hearing a moaning fish wife from England calling in to complain about having no drinking water on tap for the past thirteen days?  I'll tell you.  I was very shocked indeed.

Shocked.

I cannot believe, in a world where a child has to travel many miles on foot to collect the dregs of a muddy puddle, a woman in Gloucestershire seriously expects us to pity her having to boil the water coming through the tap in her MFI kitchen.

Yes, floods are terrible but, hey, at least the moaning Gloucester bint is alive.  I wonder if it crossed her tiny mind, while waiting to go to air, in the silence of her own thoughts, not to yack on about having to boil water in her electric kettle but to beg for more media attention and aid for the two hundred million people affected by flooding in South Asia?

Sadly, two hundred and forty people have died in India...

...And three people here in the UK.

But those three people are the tip of the iceberg.  It's been revealed today that the flooding may be the cause of Britain's latest foot and mouth outbreak.  Debby Reynolds (Debby, sadly and not Debbie) appears worried.

I'd be more worried if I were a cow, pig, sheep or goat.  Many cows have already been slaughtered and I expect more animals will be murdered yet.

It's time people sat back and really considered their own positions.  Boiling water in order to make it drinkable isn't such a dreadful thing and certainly nothing to grizzle over.  At least there's water on tap and it's only been unfit for human use for the past two weeks.  The slaughter of sentient beings and the plight of millions of Asian people affected by floods might move me to telephone a radio news programme. Boiling my kettle would not.

Gestern

Gestern, im bilder...

I went into the city for my monthly oral check-up. I have to go back to the hospital today or tomorrow. The Doctor who treats me would like me to have a second opinion. So I'm nervous, fractious and scared for the next forty eight hours.

On arriving, I saw a woman waiting for a bus. She wore training shoes with gold detail. Seeing a ninety year old woman wearing trainers is one thing, but ones with gold detail is another! The rest of her outfit was extremely well coordinated, including a baby blue bag for contrast.

From the hospital, I took a walk along Princes Street, finding a bin on fire.

A couple of CDs were purchased in Virgin. Hailing from the westcountry, I was unashamedly drawn to a Wurzels single. The first track features Tony Blackburn, so I'll ignore it, but track two, Combine Harvester, is a delightful reminder of my boyhood. I've played it a few times since yesterday and sung along.

I bought a funky egg timer in Frasers, then popped to the top floor for a coffee and a slice of trashy lemon meringue pie. J'adored it.

Then it was time to take the bus home, enjoying the blossom in the city as I made my way to Lothian Road.

I'd only been home for a couple of hours when Ian returned home from work. We didn't hang around the house, but went immediately for a walk with the dogs across The Meadows and Bruntsfield Links, stopping for chips on the way. Mine came with white pudding, Ian had breaded scampi.

When in a state of melancholy, the filling of the mind with anything but the matters at hand is a good idea, dear reader, at least until one has mustered the strength to cope.

22/23

Mum found this old coach card of mine while I was staying with her in Bournemouth, last week.

I'd have been twenty two years old when that photograph was taken. Although I've always appeared to be older than my real age, I can say, hand on heart, that the past few years have really taken their toll on Minge. Looking at that old coach card makes me feel ancient and obese.

I plan to do something about it.

Short of having a time machine and the hundreds of millions of pounds it would take for all the necessary surgery, I plan to return to yoga and stop eating all the rubbish I constantly throw down my throat. I'm not going to turn into a heath queen or gym bunny, though, no. I intend to keep it real. But I am going to turn into someone who has a little more self respect than he did a few months back.

I've had time, recently, to think about many aspects of my life. Although it's a cliché, it's quite true: without your health, you've got nothing, dear reader. I thought I had nothing. Now, I'm quite hopeful I have everything. I don't plan on letting any of it go any time during the foreseeable future.