Lord of the Mildgraines
By Dominic Horton
I
have developed a new hobby this past week: having migraines (or in my
case, given that I am partial to a drop of dark beer they would be
better known as mildgraines.) Having reached my fourth decade
without having indulged in a migraine it was not a pastime that I
ever expected to partake in but on Tuesday last while I was sitting
at my desk at work I suddenly experienced flashing lights and partial
blindness; it was a little bit like watching the Aurora Borealis but
unlike the Northern Lights it was not very pleasant. Being from
Halesowen I should have said that it was like watching the Midlands
lights but if I had told the doctor on Monday morning that I have
suffered attacks of the Walsall Arboretums I would most likely have
been diagnosed with another mental disorder to add to the collection.
In
case it was important to her diagnosis I did tell the doctor that I
have in the past had a complaint known as labyrinthitus (where the
sufferer feels permanently dizzy [much like the members of the Spice
Girls]) and that I suffer from anxiety disorder but she gave me that
stare that I think most of us have experienced which seemed to say,
“I'm the f*cking doctor here, not you pal.” Given that the
surgery was packed with bodies like a busy London tube train the doc
quickly took my blood pressure, looked into my eyes (which must have
been a harrowing experience for her) and shooed me out of her surgery
with a diagnosis of virus induced mildgraines advising me to take a
few days off work and the mild and to rest.
There
has been a proliferation in recent years of clothing, posters and
goods of all manner on the “keep calm and carry on” theme but
they are of little use to us suffers of anxiety disorder who need a
different range of products to reflect the way we experience our
lives. I did see a T-shirt at a beer festival a little while ago
that read something like, “I don't want to keep calm and carry on
so f*ck off” (I didn't buy it as the design was poor and
substantially I don't wear T-shirts anyway as I prefer to wear a
collar) but it would be more fitting if I had a T-shirt that states,
“I would love to keep calm and carry on but I suffer from anxiety
disorder so I find that difficult. So f*ck off.” I do however
like to see Private Jones in the enduring and endearing comedy series
Dad's Army counsel his
superior, “Don't panic Mr Mainwaring!” while paradoxically going
into a hysterical frenzy himself.
On
his recent visit to these shores from Australia my fellow scribing
crony DG Depardieu was uncharacteristically wearing a coat with a “No
Fear” logo. I suspect DG had borrowed the coat from one of his
brothers and had not heeded its design or make as he pays less
attention to his appearance than Albert Steptoe. Again, the “No
Fear” clothing range is hardly suitable for me given my anxiety and
as the names of clothing brands need to be concise and punchy I
suppose I would need it to be changed to something like “Brickin'
it.” Fearlessness is a trait that is generally held in high
esteem in society but it could lead to recklessness as the presence
of fear can mean that one makes a more rational judgement.
Additionally, bravery to my mind is undertaking an action despite
being fearful, like going on a day out drinking with the Pirate, as
notwithstanding all of his charms the man can be a social hand
grenade.
One
chap who seems like a fearless sort is Frodo Baggins and Friday night
saw the Codger Mansions premier of the first film in The Lord of
the Rings trilogy, which my dear son Kenteke watched wide eyed
and transfixed. There was no red carpet treatment for the premier as
I have laminate flooring at Codger Mansions and the best I could
muster is a welcome mat that, like the Pirate, has seen better days.
Baggins is of course tasked with the unenviable challenge of taking
the bedevilled ring to be destroyed to save life in the Shire as they
know it but if I had been in his shoes (metaphorically speaking of
course as hobbits as you know do not wear shoes [or carpet slippers
etc.]) I would have chucked the accursed ring in the cut and
proceeded straight to Mordor Wetherspoons, which would have made for
a short film I grant you. Frodo asks the wise old Gandalf how he
will know where to take the ring and the sage replied, “just follow
your nose”, which again in my case would have lead me to Mordor
Wetherspoons, being blessed like most drinkers with being able to
root out a pub like a pig in the Dordogne sniffing out truffles.
Given
his half pint stature it is surprising that Frodo Baggins was chosen
for such a momentous job. I wouldn't even trust the diminutive
Fudgkins to go on a quest down the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away
to get beef fried rice and curry sauce for me off my arch nemesis the
Baby Faced Assassin. One character in the film who is anything but
diminutive is the terrifying goodie turned baddie Saruman, played by
the now nonagenarian actor Sir Christopher Lee. Poor old Lee is
probably sick to his hind teeth (or fangs) of playing evil monsters
and I can just see him turning up to the rehearsals of the film
begging the films director Peter Jackson to let him play a kindly
hobbit, only to be swiftly rebuffed.
At
one point the wizardly Gandalf is having a bit of a barny with a
malevolent monster who didn't seem in the best of moods and the
elderly sorcerer suggests to the monster, “go back to the shadows”
but disappointingly the slow witted monster missed out on retorting
with what would have been the cheap line of, “who the f*ck do you
think I am, Cliff Richard.” But it was certainly no summer holiday
for the old duffer Gandalf.
Being
full of sagacity Gandalph punctuates the movie with his philosophical
insights and at one point he forewarns Baggins, “to bear a ring of
power is to be alone.” Gandalph could well have substituted the
words “to bear a ring of power” with “to be a writer” as
writing is mostly by its very nature a lonely occupation and no doubt
the underlying melancholy in this pages makes you miserable but I
make no excuses as A J Carr explained in his book How Steeple
Sinderby Wanderers Won the FA Cup, “An Englishman is partial to
doom talk,” which certainly is the case with my younger brother and
landlord Roger the Codger.
My
other landlord the Pirate, being the governor of the Flagon &
Gorses, has had an eventful week. Wednesday last the Pirate had an
altercation with a chair in the bar of the Flagon after the staff
Christmas meal, which left the chair minus an arm. Most pubs have a
one arm bandit but the Flagon now has a one arm chair. At least you
can't “do your boll*cks” (as the gambling phrase goes) on a one
arm chair though I suppose you could hurt your boll*cks if you
hastily sit down in an awkward fashion. The Pirate also had an
unusual but not necessarily unpleasant dream where he was £14
overdrawn at the bank. I think the Pirate has hit on something as
contrary to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy the answer to
the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything is to be
exactly £14 overdrawn at the bank and not £42 in credit.
Incidentally, when Jimi Hendrix died in 1971 it was reported that
after effectively being exploited by his management he only had £17
in his Martin's bank account; if only he had spent £31 he still
might be alive today and sitting pretty in his red house over yonder.
I
conclude this week by returning to an earlier theme; coincidentally
the official Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy companion
by Neil Gaiman was entitled
Don't Panic, which is
something that I am desperately trying to do right now in my Codger
Mansions bolt hole as I can feel the unwelcome and untimely onset of
another dreaded and highly inconvenient mildgraine.
©
Dominic Horton, December, 2013.
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
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