In
the Wee Small Hours
By
Dominic Horton
Without
wishing to sound like a raving hypochondriac I seem to be
having a rather poor run of health at the moment: aside from the
usual incumbents of anxiety disorder and hay fever I am under the
physiotherapist for my back, I have the dreaded dizzy-wobbles –
otherwise known as labyrinthitis – and I even have a touch of the
old Chalfonts. When the government recommended that you have at least
five a day I suspect that they were not referring to ailments. I did
have an odd sensation the other day though when I was sitting in the
garden: I felt relaxed. Suffering from anxiety disorder as I do alarm
bells start to ring when I feel relaxed and I felt suspicious as to
why I was in such a foreign state. True, I was sitting in the sun
having a pleasant time with the lovely Babushka but I normally feel
fearful to one degree or another in all and any circumstances. My
suspicions turned out to be justified as I had been unwittingly
drugged with a medication that is used to counter the jitters.
 |
| Pat Jennings, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
I
had taken the medication stemetil, as prescribed by my GP,
which is supposed to soften the effect of dizziness, and being a
nurse Babushka followed her second nature and looked the drug up and
found that it is indeed used to treat dizziness and vertigo but also
mania and bi-polar disorder, mood disorders, nausea and vomiting,
schizophrenia and psychosis and anxiety. I
purposefully have always resisted taking drugs for my anxiety
disorder (always pushing my GP for talking treatments when needed)
only for them now to get in through the back door.
Later
that evening after the meds wore off I was back to my old anxious
self and I was grappling with Mr Insomnia in the wee
small hours and Mr I was winning. To pass the time I was having a
debate with myself as to which is worse: sleeplessness or nightmares.
It was like a Nicky Campbell phone-in. Just without Nicky Campbell,
the callers and any telephones. I concluded that nightmares are
favourable to insomnia as at least once the nightmare episode
has finished and the end credits have gone up you can tell yourself
that it is only a dream and not reality and get back to sleep.
Later
- after a tea break and a read of the newspaper for an hour – my
wishes were to come true as when I finally nodded off at dawn I
quickly had a nightmare, which oddly consisted of me being menaced by
the legendary goal keeper Pat Jennings. In real life Jennings is a
mild mannered and softly spoken Ulsterman, so he was badly cast in
his role as tormentor in the nightmare.
I
did wonder where the phantasm was (who usually haunts my dreams) and
why he didn't make an appearance but given the time of year he is
probably off sunning himself somewhere and terrorising sleeping
holiday makers in the night to keep his hand in. Even nightmare
inhabiting ghouls such as the phantasm have the right to a holiday
and I hope his union have secured a decent pension for him, private
healthcare and reasonable sick pay. Given the amount of times he
visits me if nothing else the phantasm is a hard worker so I'm glad
he's recharging his batteries, especially as it has given me the
chance to meet Pat Jennings, a childhood hero, even if it wasn't in
the most pleasant of circumstances.
 |
| A collapsible donkey toy. |
The
dizzy-wobbles meant that I hadn't ventured up the Flagon & Gorses
all week but last night I reached crisis point and despite having a
giddy spell I scaled Furnace Hill and headed to the pub. It is hard
to describe labyrinthitis but it is like your backbone has been
removed – literally not metaphorically – so you feel like a rag
doll or like one of those old collapsing donkey toy puppets who's had
his button pressed. It is not only a case of feeling dizzy though,
when I have a spell I am also overcome with tiredness and it plays
havoc with my cognitive functions, which struggle at the best of
times. A packet of Cheddars (not Mini-Cheddars but the full monty
version) that I bought for Neddy La Chouffe felt banana shaped in my
hand – these are the kind of tricks that labyrinthitis can play on
you. It also gives me a bit of dyslexia – a sign saying “no
fires” in the park became “no fries” and in Halesowen town
centre a fella's t-shirt that read, “I ♥
rapid
rafting” became “I ♥
rapid farting.”
The
sun was out as I walked up Furnace Hill and it was on the face of it
a pleasant evening but my dizzy-wobbles meant that there was a latent
unrest in the air and I was ill at ease. I felt like I was going to
fall over, bump into a lamp post or wander into the road, though
experience of the condition told me that in actuality I wasn't going
to do any of these things. Walking home from the pub might be a
different matter. Everything seemed threatening and daunting. Even
the pretty flowers were b*stards. I ploughed on and got to Earl's
roundabout but the flowers on it looked wonderful not malevolent, a
sea of dynamic poppies. I think that the success of the poppy as a
symbol of remembrance is due to its vibrant, bold,
life-affirming quality being paradoxical to the dark, sorrowful
grief of mourning lost soldiers.
 |
| Poppies on Earl's Roundabout, Halesowen |
In
the Flagon & Gorses nothing much had changed in the time since I
last visited - the scotch eggs have sold out; some of the spirits
have been moved from one shelf to another; fish and chips have been
added to the menu; Richie Ramone has put up a small plaque in Tom
Corneronly's corner. In pub life the minutiae matters, it keeps the
interest, it helps the soothing stream of booze to flow along gently.
As the Flagon's regular inmates sit around waiting for something to
happen every detail is significant, eventful. The significant event
of my week (other than having a job interview at The Heritage Lottery
Fund and having an MRI scan on my back conducted by a stern German
radiologist) was the father's race at my dear son Kenteke's sports
day at school.
Last
year there was prejudicially only a mom's race and not a dad's, so I
wasn't expecting to compete and I was glad not to anyway given my
dizzy-wobbles. But the sports teacher announced that it was time for
the father's race and Kenteke was insistent that I partake. Five dads,
including me, stepped forward leaving one spare lane on the race
track. I looked around at the other competitors and decided,
notwithstanding my giddiness, that I fancied my chances. Then, at the
eleventh hour, an enthusiastic young teacher stepped forward to
fill the spare lane next to me, a lad in his mid-20's at a push.
Given his youthfulness the teacher was rank favourite, so now my
heckles were up and my old sportsman's instincts took over
and under no circumstances did I want to be beat.
 |
| My shiny "1st" Sticker. |
It
was not a straight sprint as each competitor had to pick up three
bean bags, which were set away from the start line in intervals, and
return them individually to the start line before then making a fifty
yard dash. I started well enough but then disaster, I slipped on my
ars* and from that position I could see the teacher get away and the
game seemed to be up but with a mixture of dogged determination and
blind faith I chased him down and pipped him by a short head at the
finishing line. A shiny “1st” sticker was slapped on me to
declare me the winner. The adrenaline rush was wonderful and it
reminded me as to why I played football for all of those years but
the likes of Harry Gout will be quick to tell you that I rarely won
any running races in my footballing days and if it was a test of pure
pace between me and the centre forward the striker would usually win.
I
had a price to pay for my victory though as my dizzy-wobbles went off
the richter scale and the rest of the day was challenging as I had to
struggle through getting prepared for my interview, which was the
following day. If I am lucky enough to get the job at the Heritage
Lottery Fund I will make it my urgent business to ensure that notable
British sporting achievements are preserved for posterity, namely
victorious fathers at primary school sports day races in Halesowen on
Tuesday 30th June, 2015.
©
Dominic Horton, July 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
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