Lowlife 117 – Don't be Critical

Don't be Critical

By Dominic Horton

When I tasked myself with writing last week's edition of Lowlife instead of staring at a blank computer screen, scrambling for what to write about, for once I had a definite plan and I had even made notes.  Yes, notes and they were not just brief, illegible drunken scribbes that I had made in the Flagon & Gorses, no siree, they were relatively comprehensive jottings that I had written when I was entirely sober. But due to my appalling handwriting they were still largely illegible. My shoddy handwriting makes the average doctor's look like carefully crafted calligraphy. But nonetheless I was well prepared and I thought that when I sit down to write Lowlife last Monday it would be a doddle and the theme was jovial and concerning pub life, a staple subject matter for this column. But life, as is its want, had other ideas and interjected with an untimely and unwelcome intrusion.

The imposing Queen Elizabeth II Hospital, Birmingham.

There was an air of excitement in my Codger Mansions home last Saturday as my dear son Kenteke and I awaited our trip to Wembley the following day to see our beloved Aston Villa play against Liverpool in the Football Association Challenge Cup (or the FA Cup as it is commonly known) semi-final. At that stage the only medical matter on my mind was a serious case of cup fever. I had developed a growing sense of anticipation regarding the semi-final for weeks and like most events that you look forward to before I knew it the day was upon us. Such was my obsessional fear of losing or being robbed of our Wembley tickets that I had carried them on my person wherever I went and I even took them with me when I went out running, cocooned in a small plastic bag for fear of the rain ruining them. So come Saturday I just had one more day to negotiate without misplacing the tickets and the travel plans were all in place, my morning alarm was set. All was settled and I even had a mood of optimism that Villa would defy the odds and win.

But then the phone rang. Harry Gout passed on word that our mutual close friend Tater, or Carl to give him his birth name, had suddenly collapsed at home and an ambulance had taken him to hospital. These were the only brief details that Gout possessed at that stage but they were enough to lead to great concern. In all the years I've known him I can't remember Carl being ill, let alone have to go to hospital. So on Sunday the gravitational pull was drawing me to Russells Hall hospital and not to Wembley stadium but I could hardly let down the quietly excited ten year old Kenteke, who eagerly awaited his first trip to the home of football. As you most probably know Villa defeated Liverpool in a thrillingly open game of football, so Kenteke and I, and our other Villan associates, were on a high.

Tater enjoying a cheeky half with the Big Un. 

Once we negotiated our way out of the dangerous crowd swell of bodies outside of Wembley (how can the FA spend £900m on a state of the art stadium and not have an adequate system for crowd dispersal? – we found ourselves in a packed throng of people that would have left the average tinned sardine feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and it was especially concerning as I had Kenteke with me, but like quicksand once you were in it there was no way out; it was like a repeat of football crowd crushes from when I was a kid in the 1970's and 80's that I thought that we had left behind post-Hillsborough) I had a telephone conversation with Toby In-Tents to discover more about Carl's condition but the line was awful and In-Tent's sounded like Norman Collier (doing his faulty microphone skit that is, not the funky chicken or car window routine), so the information was sketchy.

I went to the hospital first thing on Monday and even though I knew Carl was very ill, as he is in critical care, I didn't quite realise the gravity of his situation until I saw him, lying there heavily sedated and not conscious, wires everywhere, ventilated. But to all intents and purposes he looked normal, well, like he was simply sleeping. It was like he would come round at any moment and say, “Alright Dom, how am ya? Where on Earth am I and what am I doing here? Get me clothes, we're off.” When I first heard of Carl's illness I naively thought that he would be restored to health as quickly as he fell ill, a couple of nights in the hospital maybe to treat whatever ailment it is and off you pop for a couple of restorative refreshments in the Flagon & Gorses. But as the early part of last week wore on it was clear that this would not be the case, there was not going to be a quick fix, especially as Carl's condition appears to be very rare and the doctors are struggling to form a clear diagnosis.

When I walked into critical care on Thursday and approached Carl's bed the nurse in attendance inquired of me, “are you the doctor?” Of course one's first instinct is to play along with such a comment and thoughts of having unfettered access to stockpiles of free medicinal brandy and delectable morphine flashed through my mind. But is was neither the time or the place so I had to come clean and disappoint the nurse. We are constantly informed in the newspapers that the NHS's resources are stretched to breaking point but it will be a worrying day if they have to draft me in as a cut-price doctor; my advice of “all he needs is a couple of pints and a packet of the cure-all-ills Mini Cheddars” will wear a bit thin after a while and besides the Pirate at the Flagon & Gorses doesn't pour his beer on prescription.

Kenteke at Wembley stadium. 

It always amazes me how the people who are closest to a seriously ill patient show such strength and humanity in such heart wrenching circumstances and Carl's wife, Sarah, and his family are no exception. Having to play a waiting game in ordinary life is not generally an enjoyable past-time but when you are waiting for a bus or to see the dentist at least the time frame is finite, there is a clear end game. But waiting hours on end in a cheerless family room in critical care is a soul sapping experience for Carl's family, hoping for any slight sign of improvement, longing for news from the doctors. The décor or the room itself is enough to make the most upbeat person feel gloomy.

On Friday Carl was moved from Russells Hall to the Queen Elizabeth II hospital in Birmingham, which is known to be the best neurological centre of excellence in the whole of England, so comfortingly he will receive the very best of care there. The QE is a Soviet superstructure of a building and it makes Russells Hall hospital in Dudley – which is sizeable hospital as well – look like a village surgery. The whole sprawling hospital site is about the size of a provincial town centre and when I approached it I gave myself odds of 6-1 of actually finding the ward that Carl is on. I should have had 50p each way on myself as to my surprise and delight I found the ward first time of asking, with a little help from hospital staff but that is hardly cheating. The entrance hall to the building has more of the feel of an airport departures lounge than a hospital, with shops and cafes and a high, spacious ceiling – how the staff, patients and visitors filing in and out of the building wish they were going on holiday instead of being involved in medical matters.

An illustration from The Iron Man, by Ted Hughes.

When I was at Carl's bedside on Saturday the nurse encouraged me to talk to him but after a few words I had run out of things to say and I am generally not the most talkative of persons at the best of times. The nurse explained that although Carl is in an induced coma he might be able to hear voices and listening to ones he recognises might comfort him. I asked the nurse if it would be a good idea if I read to Carl and she agreed that it would be. So on Sunday I took a book with me and not wanting to burden Carl with anything too heavy I chose The Iron Man by Ted Hughes, a favourite of mine. I could have been devilish and read to him a Mills & Boon, or even Mein Kampf, but I behaved myself and refrained. Although I read aloud to others every week it was an odd experience reading in the to-ings and fro-ings of a critical care ward but once I got into the swing of things it was fine. And at least I felt like I was doing something positive to help.

They say a week is a long time in politics and applying that rule I hope by the time I come to write my next dispatch of Lowlife that the news regarding my valued friend will be bright for the sake of Carl, his family and all who hold him dear. 

© Dominic Horton, April 2015.

 Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 116 – Labour Pains

Labour Pains

By Dominic Horton

So the general election will soon be upon us and the politicians have burst into action in a frenzy of activity spewing forth their policies, promises and polemics. The main parties are all looking for an angle, any angle, to give them an advantage over the competition, much in the same way that big businesses do to sell their goods and services; the businesses pursue profit and the politicians power.

The late Screaming Lord Sutch - general elections

are just not the same without him.

When I have a number of jobs to tackle I usually get the hardest, most onerous tasks out of the way first. So, for example, if I have a number of shirts and T-shirts to iron I will tackle the more difficult shirts first. The ironing will follow changing my bed sheets, such a quick yet tedious chore I find, just like voting in a general election I suppose. Labour leader Ed Miliband must use a similar approach to mine when undertaking tasks for the election as last week he decided to get his visit to Blackheath, West Midlands, out of the way on his campaign trail. 

Blackheath forms part of the constituency where I live, Halesowen & Rowley Regis, which the Labour party inexplicably lost to the Conservatives in the last election when the bouffant-haired, permanently grinning James Morris took up the seat. It is very off putting when Tories like Morris try to be nice all of the time. It makes you wonder what dark skeletons they have in their cupboards.

The race between Labour and the Tories for the seat of Halesowen & Rowley Regis is likely to be a close fought one, hence the appearance of the Labour head honcho on Wednesday. You could describe the Black Country town of Blackheath as “earthy” and it is unlikely to be Miliband's ideal type of place. Blackheath is apparently a bastardisation of the words “bleak heath” so that gives you an indication of the kind of town that it is. I like it, mind you. You can be sure that he didn't kiss any snotty nosed babies or visit a local public house so that he could hold up a pint of bitter to the cameras. I hope he didn't anyway, on both fronts, for his sake.

The front page of this week's edition of my local newspaper, The Halesowen News, shows a photograph of Ed Miliband and local party candidate, Stephanie Peacock, greeting the crowds in Blackheath. When I ask my dear son Kenteke to pose for a photograph he has a very distinct grin, where the muscles around his mouth form a smile for the camera, but it is false, for show. This was exactly the kind of smile that Miliband was putting on for the newspaper's camera. In truth he couldn't wait to get back to the safety of Westminster. 

Stephanie Peacock and Ed Miliband with his false grin.

You can picture Miliband asking his secretary on Wednesday morning what places he had to visit on that day and being told that Blackheath is on the agenda. “Oh fine,” Miliband would say, “that's only down the road.” “No, not Blackheath, South-East London,” his secretary would correct him, “Blackheath, West Midlands.” “Oh dear.”

Miliband has sent me a personal letter and I know it is personal as it is headed, “Dear Dominic.” But in Ed's letter to me he refers to “me and my family” and my “working family” but he should know, with it being a personal letter, that I live alone as a bachelor and that I am currently a job seeker. I wish Ed would either get his facts straight or just head the letter “Dear Sir/ Madam” (or even better “Dear Madam/ Sir” as I don't see why women have to come second all of the time) to show the letter for what it is, a mass mailshot to the electorate. So Ed Miliband has annoyed me this week. The Liberal Democrats have been annoying too as they keep sending me emails despite me repeatedly clicking on the “unsubscribe” link. The Tories have not done anything specific to upset me this week but they don't need to as they are just plain annoying.

But even the Tories are not top of the league table of annoying political parties as they are outdone by the madcap fantasists of UKIP. The UKIP pound sign logo looks like a joke and reminds me of the pound sign that used to be on the box of the board game Monopoly in the 1970's, which is indeed very fitting as UKIP almost have a monopoly of being hapless politically inept berks. I thought that our local UKIP candidate is a man named Nathan Hunt as Neddy La Chouffe told me about him as he is one of Neddy's neighbours, but it transpires that Hunt is not standing for UKIP in the election, though he did stand in the council elections earlier in the year. It is difficult to have any confidence in a man who has misspelt tirelessly as “tirelsly” in his council campaign literature and put a rogue apostrophe after the word “business” in a sentence where none is needed – he obviously didn't work tirelessly enough in proof reading his leaflet.

James Morris MP with an even worse false

grin than Miliband's, by request of Toby In-Tents.

But at least Hunt has his priorities right. In his list of six key issues he cited his second priority as, “clean all signage coming in and out of the ward.” I reckon that is a guaranteed vote winner if ever there was one; I just hope Hunt is not given the responsibility of spelling any words that appear on new signs.

At least I have yet to have a door knocker disturbing the quietude of my Codger Mansions home. Thinking about it, I have never had a political candidate knock my door in the build up to an election. Maybe they give Codger Mansions a wide berth knowing that they will get short shrift from me. James Morris MP certainly got short shrift from me when he approached me after a fun run in Halesowen last year. I was having tea and cake with Kenteke and with his perma-grin Morris asked me, “Did you enjoy the run?” An innocent enough question you might think but politicians are never off duty and they always have an agenda so I replied, “You are wasting your time talking to me I will never, ever vote Conservative, I vote Labour and that's that.” My words, and the menace in my delivery, did the trick and he sloped off to irritate another potential victim.

If a one Sir K Frazer Commons was standing for office then I would definitely vote for him given his opinions. For my Uncle Albert's birthday my brother, Albino Duxbury, bought him the wonderful gift of a leather bound volume of Aston Villa related newspaper articles from the late 19th century to the present day. Some of the match reports were accompanied by other articles and one such piece caught my eye because of the fascinating headline: “Injustice of Abstainers Escaping Taxation.” The article from an edition of the Daily Mirror from 1913 explained that Commons had put forward a view in the Commons (confusing I know) that teetotalers should be taxed as unlike their beer drinking contemporaries they are not contributing to the Treasury through alcohol duty.

The author & Kenteke, shortly before being 

disturbed by James Morris MP.

In effect Commons was arguing that abstainers were shirking their responsibility to the nation by not drinking. I have never thought as beer drinking as a patriotic act but it is an interesting angle. There were a few inmates in the Flagon & Gorses last night who were extremely patriotic by the time I arrived. There was no point trying to discuss the election with the drinkers in question as given the state they were in they probably wouldn't have been able to remember who the current Prime Minister is let alone be able to engage in constructive political debate.

In this country we scoff at foreign elections that are rigged, usually in favour of the ruling party who are dictators in all but name. We British can smugly declare that our electoral system is fair, uncorrupt and water tight in its security and integrity. That being the case the oddest thing about the voting process is when you come to the big moment of casting your vote pencils, and not pens, are provided for you to put a tick in a box. Hardly foolproof as a simple rubber eraser could compromise the process. It is a shame that Nathan Hunt didn't have an eraser when he was drafting his campaign leaflet as he could have corrected his glaring mistakes. Except for the biggest mistake of standing for UKIP of course.  

© Dominic Horton, April 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 115 – Rough Treatment

Rough Treatment

By Dominic Horton

In last week's edition I wrote about Joe Mallen, the chainsmith from Cradley Heath, who used to make chain by hand in the middle part of the last century. Given the physicality and rigours of Joe's job it would be no surprise if he suffered from a bad back during his time and I would imagine that it was an occupational hazard for him. The bad back that I suffer from periodically has got progressively worse recently and it has lead me to seek physiotherapy treatment from the NHS. But given that the cause of my discomfort is not due the kind of physical exertions that Joe Mallen undertook, but rather by sedentarily sitting at a desk for long spells, I feel like a bit of a fraud.

Jolly D daring to sit in Tom Corneronly's seat in the
Flagon & Gorses - it didn't last long, when Corneronly came
in the pub Jolly D moved immediately, out of respect. 

I first experienced the back problem 10 odd years ago while I was playing for Greenhill FC. I took a throw-in during a match I felt a sudden pain up my back and in my shoulder and consequently I couldn't raise my arm above waist height as it was agony. I told the team manager, my associate Harry Gout, that I wasn't able to take throw-ins because of the pain and that I was going to have to be substituted as I was in great discomfort.   His predictably unsympathetic reply was, “you'll be ok, just get someone else to take throw-ins. You're not coming off, just get on with it.” We won the game so I suppose Gout was justified in his decision, though it was hardly reminiscent of Jose Mourinho. 

I sought treatment and the physiotherapist, Lucy, told me that I have an incredibly stiff back and in her opinion it is due to being desk-based all day. She explained to me that she was going to manipulate my spine, which would hurt but it would do me good. She was right on both counts. Lucy is only a wee strip of a woman so I don't know where she found the force from to bash my back around so vigorously but her frame belies her strength. Lucy said that she is going on holiday for two weeks but another physio at the practice, Jerome, would continue the treatment. At the next appointment Jerome walked into the room and he was a muscle bound man mountain of 6' 5” and 17 stones and he said, “I am going to give your spine a good working to loosen it up.” I thought, “Oh, f*ck, if little Lucy generated that much power this fella is going to kill me.”

Jerome started to manipulate my back and I was bracing myself for a battering from the big man but it turned out that he was a gentle giant and instead of the force ten gale I was expecting I was given what seemed like a pleasant massage. I could have kept silent but I knew he needed to exert a bit more pressure on my back for the treatment to be successful so I said, “Lucy was a little more robust when she manipulated my back so you can put a bit more clout into it if you want to.” This was a mistake. His first thrust on my back winded me and I thought he was going to break my ribs with the pressure. I thought that I was going to walk out of the surgery as flat as a cartoon character that has been run over by a steam roller.

A sinister looking Neddy La Chouffe outside the Flagon

 & Gorses

Now that I no longer work for the bank I don't have the luxury any more of private health care where you can pick your physiotherapy appointment date and they even pop the kettle on for you when you turn up. This time my GP told me that I would have to wait weeks for an appointment but not to worry as one of the GPs in the surgery is an acupuncture specialist and that will be of great help to me. But the receptionist informed me that all acupuncture slots are full and she told me to call back in a month.

The woman at physio department said to me on the telephone that it would be eight weeks before a therapist could see me and she gave me details of the appointment and she said she would send me a confirmation letter. I said you don't need to confirm things in writing as I have it down in my diary. The woman said no, she has to send me a letter; I said just pop me an email then, it's cheaper than the post but she said no, it has to be a letter. One wonders how much money the cash strapped NHS wastes on sending out letters in this digital age where in most cases people are happy with an email or text message, which are considerably cheaper to send (not to mention better for the environment as no paper is used and there are no transport costs.)

Geraldine Strathdee, Clinical Director
for Mental Health, NHS England.

The woman called back later in the day to say there had been a cancellation and that I could have treatment first thing the following day. I thought I had better see the physio with a clear mind given my previous experiences as the treatment was painful enough without being groggy headed after a few tipples the night before. But being Magic Monday I had already planned to meet Neddy La Chouffe, Jolly D and the rest of the crew for the usual start to the week routine at the Flagon & Gorses. It will be fine, I'll take it steady I thought. Which in my defence I did.

I drank loads of water before I went to the appointment and all in all I didn't feel too bad. But the surgery waiting room was roasting and immediately I felt dry mouthed and dehydrated. I started to emit a light sweat and the booze terrors kicked in. I couldn't look at any of the other waiting patients in the eye. I glanced up to the TV, which like most doctor's practices does not show normal programmes but broadcasts short health information films and the like. Ominously the screen had facts and information about boozing from Drink Aware and it told me that alcohol can lead to suicide, self-harm or psychosis: top of the morning to you too.

A recent article by Geraldine Strathdee, Clinical Director for Mental Health NHS England, in The Guardian stated that a third of all GP visits are by people with a mental health condition so scanning round the waiting room I decided to pass the time by having a game of guess the mental health patient. There were six people in the room including me so it was perm any two from the remaining five. A fella with a beard, a sullen demeanor and shoddy, unpolished shoes looked like a prime candidate (not that I am stereotyping as anyone can have mental health problems of course) but before I could assess the other runners and riders the physiotherapist popped her head around the door and shouted, “Dominic Horton please.”

The physio was an attractive woman in her 30's, Laura, and her sunny disposition made my booze terrors melt away into the spring day. Laura asked me a series of questions and put me through a number of tests to determine the problem and to make a diagnosis. She opined that there is more to my back issue than sitting at a desk as given all of the exercises that I do daily to loosen my spine up it should not be as stiff as it is. Laura said she wants to me to go for an x-ray, a blood test and possibly an MRI scan to investigate further. The booze terrors came back with a vengeance and my mind ran wild with the possibilities of what is causing the bad back.

Jose Mourinho having bubble trouble, by request of 

Toby In-Tents.

As is usually the case the whole of the appointment was taken up by the physio's examinations so I didn't receive any treatment. I asked Laura if she could manipulate by back, even if it was just for ten minutes or so, but she said, sorry time's up. And I have to wait three weeks to see Laura again as she is going on holiday which means I'll either have to bite the bullet and pay for a private physiotherapist or get my dear son Kenteke to watch a Youtube video of how to manipulate a back so he can perform the procedure on me. For payment of a bag of sweets of course.

My comfy sofa doesn't do my back any good at all and Lucy the physio advised me years ago that hard seats and beds are more helpful than soft ones. That is the very reason why I spend many an hour sitting on the firm settles in the Flagon & Gorses, it is not for enjoyment but purely for curative reasons.

© Dominic Horton, April 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com