All Things Must Pass

Do you know what I reckon is one of the greatest creations of the last 150 years? The camera.

About a month ago, I spent a couple of hours with my nieces and we looked through a suitcase full of old photographs that my parents had accrued by either taking their own or, like me, inheriting ones from bygone eras. It's amazing what looking at old photos do - what memories they conjure and some of those memories you think have long been consigned to the overflow.

I was particularly drawn to shots taken in the early 1970s; specifically my eldest brother's first wedding. Some of the photos were extraordinary in that they were really snapshots of 1973, from a backwater town at the arse end of Northamptonshire. In every picture, there was no mistaking what era we were looking at - the hairstyles, the fashion, the general look - somehow different than today and not in the bleedin' obvious way, either. You realise that fashion does indeed go around and around, but with variations - girls, you really probably wouldn't be seen dead in some of the dresses from 1973, but guys, some of the fashion was just blinding! There's one great shot of a group of my relatives and on the periphery is my uncle Frank - my godfather - he's 83 now, so he was as old as I am now then. Jesus Christ the man looked as cool as fuck. He had a suit on with drainpipe trousers and a really nicely cut jacket, smart shoes, pencil thin tie and, even though he was losing his hair even then, a style that must have looked totally old fashioned to all those hip and trendy fuckers with their bum length hair. The man radiated cool - no wonder I've always loved him to bits. It also proves one thing, everything that goes around, comes around, again!

Then there was this other photo... one of me... and suddenly I was back in 1973 and I shuddered. Just yesterday, driving through town, I saw this kid, he must have about 12. He had the exact same hairstyle as I did in 1973. I literally did a double take!

Moving on...

I'm really prohibited in what I say at the moment, which is a shame because my life has been pretty miserably exciting over the last 10 days. But, ne'mind, eh. Maybe one day.

Been watching a mixture of television recently, some of it has been startling, while others have been... well, we'll get to that...

I missed Being Human, the first time round, despite recommendations. Decided to check it out this time and have been blown away by the total uniqueness of it all. It is so very British, yet I'm amazed there hasn't been a big money move by the Yanks to buy this up and turn it into a blockbuster bollock-loaded hit. The brilliant thing about the series is the way in which the almost absurd normality of it has a way of biting you on the arse. I'm waiting for the final episode, despite being able to download it - it has needed that old fashioned British habit of watching it weekly rather than doing it in one sitting via bit torrents.

Warehouse 13 is shite. It is stymied by two wooden lead actors, some appallingly bad CGI and what almost seems to be a desperate need to be funny. Yet, if you strip away all the crap, there's something of a brilliant TV series struggling to get out.

It takes one of the most tantalising end shots in cinema history and literally makes an entire series about it. At the end of Raiders of the Lost Arc, the Arc of the Covenant was being packed away in a top security warehouse and I've met very few people who have loved that film who didn't wonder what else was kept in that warehouse... Well W13 answers that question - pretty badly.

But, as I said, there is something about this series that draws me back and recently I've begun to understand why. Saul Rubinek as Artie Nielsen is quite brilliant as the eccentric, but madly driven head of the actual warehouse. He has more secrets than a classic Victorian suspense novel and comes across as a man who knows that the series he's working on is considerably better than it looks. CCH Pounder plays the irritating but mesmerising as Mrs Frederic - the actual head of this TOP top secret programme - who appears to have a bit of a mystery around her that even Nielsen can't quite fathom. However, the series is let down by the poor Mulder and Scully copies in Eddie McLintock (Pete Lattimer) and Joanne Kelly (Myka Bering). McLintock is overbearing and really annoying, while Bering, aided by almost concrete like acting by Kelly, has as much charisma as a house brick - most of the time she appears to be pouting, suggesting that top Secret Service personnel are obviously trained in pouting and acting like a spoilt child. Yes, the series is supposed to tread that thin line between comedy and drama, but this does the drama really well.

One saving grace is Alison Scagliotti-Smith (Claudia) who apart from having a crush on Artie is literally a genius in a cute little body. She started off as a rather clever villain and has since been adopted by W13. There is a very good subplot involving a former W13 agent who knows as much as Artie about the artifacts and is a serious threat to world security; another interesting development is the discovery of who the guardians of W13 really are; and there's some promising stuff regarding Artie's actual persona and just what he has been involved in over the previous 30 years.

However, apart from some of the lame humour; it really is let down by some of the poorest special effects I've ever seen on a recent SyFy show (ugh, don't you just hate that name?). I expect it will cancelled, but I really think there's a truly brilliant idea here that is failing miserably to get out and that's a shame as the extraordinary Jane Espenson (of BtVS fame) is the show runner.

A footnote to this: I've been a fan of Eureka since it started, which is essentially a free form version of W13 and like W13 the most recent season (already a hold back from the writers' strike) has also suffered badly from awful CGI, suggesting to me that SyFy's love affair with its own produced shows might be coming to an end. Eureka has always trodden that line between drama and comedy, but for some reason, the comedy does work because of the premise; the drama also works very well, but whether that's because of money constraints or just clever writing, I don't know. But one thing appears to be sure about this particular TV show, unless you're the sheriff there's no guarantee that you're going to survive.

Amazing how you can write so much more about something that's not good?

A quick word about True Blood. Alan Ball appears to have done with monsters what he achieved with death - turned it into a hugely popular TV series. Unlike most of Six Feet Under, the dead don't stay buried for very long and the main protagonists aren't feuding undertakers but vampires, shape-shifters, demi-gods and possibly (in season 3) werewolves. For those of you still watching season 1, let me say that season 2 is a real hoot and takes the fantasy element completely out to left field. I'm surprised that it has been so welcomed in the USA, but maybe that's because they now have a black president, so anything is possible. One word of warning; season 2 has some plot holes you can drive a truck through (which may or may not be explained in tonight's US season finale), but because it turns into a riot from about the halfway mark, you tend to overlook them because of the spectacle unfolding in front of you. Suffice it to say, but if you thought season 1 was raucous, season 2 shows you why its on HBO and not Fox.

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Everybody appears to be really happy about my shoulder; that is everybody except me. Pain has returned, but I'm assured by almost everyone that the pain I'm getting now is a good pain and means that I'm building up my muscles again and stretching those atrophied tendons. But at times it doesn't feel that way and I know I'm just being paranoid, but after months and months of pain I'm probably entitled to be a little nervous about everyone saying it's going to be 100% recovered. Maybe next physio appointment I have I'll ask why my upper arm goes spookily numb at times - almost like it's been removed without my knowledge.

But, talking shoulders; one of the kicks I did get at work when I returned was asking people if they wanted to see the scar. As you can probably guess, most wanted to, and all expected this ugly wound with stitch marks and all kinds of nastiness; so their reactions were all the more amusing when they saw that I have a scar smaller than some people's chicken pox scars. It is now literally a white X or a + depending on what angle you look at it. The wonders of keyhole surgery.

Interestingly, and also shoulder related, I play in a scrabble league and one of my opponents is an American lady who had rather Republican views about our NHS; so I put her right. I told her that I paid nothing for my operation; was given excellent aftercare, which includes up to 10 physio sessions, more if needed; that the hospital I was operated on was brand new, very clean and all the staff couldn't be more helpful. Her reaction was very good; she asked me about cock-ups and bad press and my response was everywhere gets bad press, but few places get good press; after all there's no headline in "Man makes an excellent recovery, goes home next week!" is there? I can't say I made a lasting change to her opinion of an NHS, but she admitted that she now has second hand experience, which is better than reading rabid right wing journalists or listening to idiotic Tories on Fox News.

It's Sunday afternoon; I should go and at least try and do something constructive...

Love in a Car

What kind of a cunt has his/her mini sprayed in the style of a leopard skin? One just drove past and it's completely thrown me; I've lost my thread and I'm going to have to sit down for a minute... except, I am sitting down.

Just a brief mention of the shoulder. It went up to warp factor 11 for a few days this week and made me realise fully why I need an operation on it. As much as it pains me to admit it, some of these doctor fellows seem to have some idea what they're doing.

Why on earth would anyone who hasn't got kids want to go on holiday during the first week of the school break; a time of year when there are more screaming rugrats than flies and just as stinky?

Providing I'm able and I very much hope I am, I'm going to a festival next weekend, just for one day, but it will the first time I've ventured near one in over two decades. I really have no idea what to expect. It's the 2000 Trees Festival just outside of Cheltenham; me and Roger are off to see Amplifier and intend to be heading home by the time Fightstar come on stage. Apparently, it's very good for real ale, veggie food and rock bands... sounds positively wonderful.

As I'm writing this the final episode of Torchwood - Children of Earth has yet to air, but if and when the series comes back, I expect it's going to be considerably different.

Optical Illusions

I feel it's time to, at least, trace a line under my ill health. I'm sure that I'll revisit it soon enough.

The appointment with the consultant went surprisingly well considering I have to have keyhole surgery on my shoulder on July 31st and am going under a general anaesthetic. I have this impingement, which is really aggravating the shoulder joint and causing the bone to rub against already inflamed muscle. See! I said there was something wrong with me!!!

As a result, it looks like I might not get my wish. Boredom has been a key factor in me thinking I'm going out of my mind and my consultant informed me that he doesn't think I should be driving still and that the more rest I give my shoulder the less pain I will suffer; and to be fair, he's been right about that. I have done very little conventional work using my left arm and subsequently it has felt better. However, if I use it, I suffer the next day. Take the appointment on Tuesday; I opted to drive myself over to Kettering in my own car (yay!); if I could manage that okay then I could at least go back to work for the month before the op.

My shoulder was screaming abuse at me by the time I got to the Holcot roundabout on the way home and all day Wednesday it just sat there and called me all the cunts under the sun. The sad truth is it's fucked and this operation will hopefully solve the majority of the problem.

So, I'm off to see my GP in the morning and the odds are is that he will agree with the consultant and sign me off for quite possibly the next 6 weeks with the proviso to visit him again two weeks after the operation to see how much progress I've been making; but the consultant said two to four weeks recovery; so I might be looking at going back to work after August Bank Holiday...

Jesus Christ on stilts, I need a new hobby! One that doesn't involve using my arms preferably (or my back).

Of course, the heat hasn't made things better. I might have a Mediterranean sun tan and look healthy, but this heat, while fantastic, has made it very difficult to do anything. I spent half an hour yesterday picking strawberries (we have a glut of them this year), wearing only a pair of shorts and boxers; I had to change when I finished because the sweat had soaked everything. I don't sleep very well at the best of times, so sleep has been hard to come by and because I'm bored, the heat makes me restless. There has been very little positive to come out of the last 4 weeks, but I'm grateful for what has been, all the same.

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JJ Abrams appears to be the new Spielberg; most everything he touches at the moment turns to gold. I'm a bit of a fan, as much as I hate admitting it, but he does seem to produce stuff that pushes the right buttons with me. That's not to say I don't find a lot of faults with his stuff, but I find faults in most things if hard pressed.

This year I've had two visual treats: The Star Trek film, while leaving me a little dissatisfied was still one of the highlights of the year so far and Lost has developed into quite possibly the maddest, most fucked up bit of television in existence and I no longer care what happens, I'm just blown away by the way the series has just never gone the way you think it will.

But recently, me and the wife sat down and watched Fringe, over the space of 3 weeks rather than 20. I think it's quite an extraordinary series that suffers from a little stiffness in some of the characters, but so did the cast of Lost when they first appeared. Over the space of 20 episodes, the plot has moved forward much further than the X Files managed in almost its entire series. In fact it's gone from being a bit of a shiny 21st century Mulder and Scully + granddad to being just as fucked up as Lost.

For those of you who haven't been tempted; there are some genuinely naff episodes, but John Noble - Walter Bishop - can make shit shine and as the series gathers pace, you realise that this eccentric slightly mad scientist is one of the most complex and likable characters to appear on television in years. Fringe starts with an FBI agent, Olivia Dunham, being recruited to the Fringe Science Dept, funded by Homeland Security, which looks into a series of totally unexplained incidents that have been taking place all over the world. In turn she recruits the fore-father of Fringe science, Walter Bishop, but he'll only work with them if his son is there. His son, Peter, is basically a freelancer - he can do many things and had shown no interest in settling down. Walter is totally bonkers and the only way the FBI can have him is for his son to be with him.

This is essentially the team, they are joined by Broyles, who is the boss, in a very much Mitch Pillegi style; Astrid Farnsworth, who is Agent Dunham's assistant and Charlie Francis, who is a former partner of Olivia and a close friend who acts as liaison between the Fringe team and the rest of the FBI. There is an organisation called Massive Dynamics, which has links to Walter Bishop; a bald man in a suit called The Observer and lots of weird shit, which gets weirder towards the end of season 1 when we learn all manner of interesting teasers.

Depending on whether they can keep the momentum going, I can see Fringe being a big success for Fox, who, of course, were responsible for the X Files. I get the impression the producers took a look at Charlie Jade and thought 'we can do that better!'.

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Some other things have not gone according to plan this week, but mustn't grumble, eh?

Asleep at the back

Private hospitals versus the NHS, should, technically, be a no contest, but for some reason unbeknown to me, I was on the receiving end of a massive cock-up by a private hospital called The Woodland Hospital, which is situated between Kettering and Rothwell. On the 27th May, I had an MRI scan on this pesky shoulder of mine. After the scan, the nurses told me to go to reception and book a follow-up appointment. I went there and spoke to a woman called Patricia (I remember it because it was my mum's name), who called Helen, my consultant's secretary, but she was busy, so she said that she would contact me directly with the follow up.

I waited a week, then two and then 3 and then I started to think something was very wrong. But because I'm sometimes a great procrastinator, I waited until almost a month before phoning the Woodland Hospital and finding out what the bloody hell has been going on.

I have to say that I haven't been apologised to so much in years, if ever. The initial receptionist apologised, the woman in x-ray apologised and then apologised again when she handed me to a third person, who in turn apologised and said she couldn't understand what had happened. All the time, I stayed calm, collected, slightly miffed, but generally good natured. Then I was told that Helen would call me directly to book a follow up appointment. It was when she phoned that it all got a bit nasty. You see, I don't like being lied to and this is exactly what Helen did from almost the first words out of her mouth. She literally started the conversation by slagging off the people on reception and saying they weren't doing their jobs properly. I just saw red and this is what I said (slightly paraphrased because I can't remember it verbatim):

"Excuse me, but please don't lie to me. On the day of my scan I went to reception, spoke to Patricia and she in turn phoned you. You told her to tell me that you were busy and you would book the appointment and let me know. I remember this clearly. I think its wrong that you should pass the buck here, especially as I'm the person who has been let down here. I've waited for an entire month for the results of my scan, as a consequence, my doctor has signed me off of work for the last month, my clients have suffered, I've been going out of my mind with boredom and you're trying to blame someone else. I think that is very poor."

I got silence from the other end and then eventually, another apology. I also got my follow up appointment, it's at 6.10 on Tuesday 30th - I hope they haven't lost the results.

Ironically, things seem to be sorting themselves out. I think that a month of inactivity and gentle swimming have been extremely beneficial to my health. My shoulder is still causing me grief, but not as much as it did and I have more movement in it than I have had for a month. Yeah, my back still aches, but that's probably going to hurt for the rest of my life; yes, my fingers ache and I struggle to write freehand for more than ten minutes; and yes, various other parts of my body are beginning to show exaggerated wear and tear, but I actually feel good; in fact, I feel better than I have for about 18 months - physically, at least. It might be because of the warm dry weather, it might be the latest concoction of drugs I'm on; but for fuck's sake Carpe Diem!

Swimming has been a revelation; that and the mixture of a sauna, a steam room and a spa bath. When I started I could barely muster a length of the pool, now I'm doing between 10 and 20 a session. Now, I'm not a brilliant swimmer, but I wouldn't drown if I got out of my depth, but I am exercising more than I have for years, plus I'm doing some aqua-aerobic exercises which have been helping strengthen up my back and legs. Did you know that attempting to jog up and down a swimming pool for 10 lengths is the equivalent of running a mile? Unfortunately, the pool I use is looking like it might be hit by cuts, so I may have to find a club to do my swimming, as the only other pool available to me would be at a place I used to work and frankly, I wouldn't want to swim there...

Anyhow, the upshot is that if I continue through next week feeling as positive and a ... supple... as I do now, then I'm going to be looking at going back to work.

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I have to say that I'm about as ambivalent as an ambivalent thing regarding the sudden (and I don't think unexpected) death of Michael Jackson. He was undeniably a talented guy, but he was also quite possibly a paedophile and this seems to have been overlooked while we get blanket news coverage of his death. Yes, it might not be very proper to discuss this rather sordid aspect of his life, especially straight after his death, but we have to face facts; he paid off one family to keep him out of court and he only failed to be prosecuted by the other family because they turned out to be not very credible; he admitted in an interview that he shared his bed with kids and he was, essentially a walking freak show. I just find it a little distasteful that he's being beatified. Jonathan King, Chris Langham and Gary Glitter all must be hoping they get the same treatment when they die... Oh yeah, they got convicted, big difference.

UFOs

It's late. I have to get up in the morning because I'm actually getting out of the house for a few hours, yet I don't feel tired at all (might have something to do with finding it increasingly difficult to get comfortable in the bed).

I've been 'off sick' for the last month. The quotation marks around off sick are there because I'm not actually sick. It's these blasted bones of mine and in particular the shoulder from hell. Had an MRI on it because it's been giving me so much grief - still waiting, over 3 weeks, for the results. I can't really drive - so, as a consequence, my shiny new car has less than 100 miles on the clock and the wife is responsible for two-thirds of those. Everyone at the local surgery seems to think I'm going under the knife, regardless and, to be honest, at times, if that's going to solve the problem, then I'll pick the friggin' scalpel blades!

The shoulder is also the reason I haven't been blogging. It fucks me off unbelievably that I have all this time and yet I can't sit and type for more than twenty minutes max without my left shoulder screaming a Lena Lovitch song at me, at 500 decibels and out of time... I could be writing... Anything! But my output has been limited to a short story that I have no ending for, status updates on Facebook and, er, um...

There you have it, in a nutshell. I'm stuck at home, completely lucid. My shoulder pain makes my arthritis seem like a feather tickle. I sit and watch TV. I surf the net. I play Texas Hold'em and Scrabble and I've learnt to cook using only one hand. I have watched some truly dreadful films - I went through a patch a couple of weeks ago where I decided that I was going to download a number of films I remember from the 80s, either banned or really nasty. I downloaded - Last House on the Left, The Little Girl Who Lived Down the Lane, Evil Dead, I Spit on Your Grave and Cannibal Holocaust.
LHOTL was Wes Craven's début feature I believe. It was banned. One can only presume because of the intent, because even the most uncut version I could find was slightly laughable.
TLGWLDTL is actually a really good one-set play. It's a little contrived, but Martin Sheen exudes creepy, even if his character is so stereotypical he's risible.
ED is fucking awesome.
ISOYG is a truly dreadful piece of film making with little or no redeeming features - it even tries to give itself some sense of justification when all it is is exploitative shite. That scene still makes me wince though...
CH pisses all over The Blair Witch Project; in fact, if it wasn't for some bad dubbing and some naff acting, Cannibal Holocaust is actually a really good, but thoroughly nasty, bit of film making. There's a lot wrong with this film, but those are outweighed by a spanking good story and some truly worrying scenes.

Next week, because I can't see me going back to work yet, I intend to download some Hollywood musicals. I've also tracked down Jacques Tati's Trafic, which I hope is as good as I remember it.

****

That was last week and this is now. Still no MRI results. I have driven the car though, because I'm swimming as often as possible now. Or at least I'm doing my own variation of aqua aerobics and it helps with the arthritis and it helps me actually move this dead piece of meat I carry with me.

But, enough of this maudlin self pity, there's sunshine on the agenda. Football is over (sort of) for a whole 8 weeks, so we can entertain dreams of winning the Ashes and despite all the aches and pains - the sex is great!

Destroy Everything you Touch

The other day, I found myself doing something I haven't done since April 1997. I was cursing at the BBC news about an MP fucking up and this time I realised that the MP was a member of the (so-called) Labour Party and I felt slightly soiled...

The current scandals besetting the parliament is in many ways no worse than all the shit that the Conservatives had back in the early 1990s; the problem is we've all changed, because of this current political party, so therefore we can't take it when we see barefaced hypocrisy.

I had initially intended a huge long rant about the state of politics and how its time for some altruism to replace the dogma and rhetoric. I was going to say that we shouldn't be voting for any of the main parties in the Euro elections - vote Green! And I was going to suggest that perhaps now was a time for political parties to be thinking about recruiting NORMAL people; housewives, workers, dads and younger people. I don't actually give a wet fart that these people aren't politically trained; if they have common sense and can see a load of bollocks and call it that, then they can be trained on the job. There's a damn sight more integrity in your average Joe than there is in 95% of the cunts that run this country.

Oh and I'm never voting Labour again, at least until they become the Labour Party again.

****

As much as I hate to admit it, I am probably going to be officially disabled by the end of 2009. I've even filled out the form for my Blue Parking Permit, but I've yet to pluck up the guts to send it off. I am due to have an MRI scan on my back and left shoulder on the 27th and the consultant actually said you could see that one of my shoulders was considerably... wrong. I have to admit, I watched Bad Day at Black Rock the other day (classic film) and Spencer Tracey wandered around with his left arm strapped against his side, to give the illusion of him only having one arm, and I thought, 'Jesus, I look like that when I walk". My left arm doesn't do an awful lot, it can change a gear, but struggles with the handbrake; I can hang things from my hand but I can't barely lift anything; I bloody struggle with a full mug of tea!

There is an upside to this enormous pain; it's made me forget just how grumbly and constant the pain in my lower back is.

It just fucks me off that I'm actually watching myself fall to bits - I always hoped that I'd be a dribbling incoherent wreck when that happened...

What do you mean..?

****

Short recommendation:

Amplifier - rock band, grungy, psychedelic and quite excellent. Check out their eponymous album - it really is a corker!

****

I see lots of things in my job that I find stressful and upsetting (the same applied to my old job, you know the one, but in a completely different way) and this Friday just gone was no exception. It was a harrowing day that started with an intense physio session and continued into a family breakdown. Then I had a runaway and then over an hour in the local nick making statements, finally another young lad I work with has been the victim of intimidation and aggravated burglary; he was in a mess and justifiably terrified of even stepping outside his front door...

Even giving the statement to the old bill, I felt helpless, like everything that happened on that day was designed to make me nothing more than a spectator in a Mike Leigh styled human drama.

I got home, knackered, pissed off and wanting to be left on my own. My work ethos of never taking it home with me got blown out of the window and last night I sat here and just thought.

****

Death continues to haunt me this year. 2009 has been a dreadful year for deaths and its not even half way. The woman responsible for me being in the business I'm in now, committed suicide 10 days ago. She threw herself under a train...

Back in the dark days after CI, I struggled to make any money at all. I was producing Borderline, but doing little else and gradually we were sinking into debt (again). In February 2002, we bumped into Ian and Sarah Bates outside of a local shop and they asked us how things were going. The wife launched into one about me not having worked much in the last 6 months and how we were on the verge of destitution. Sarah, who I had known for nearly 20 years and had been the partner of one of my best friends, turned to me and said, "You should go and work for Ian, I think you'd make a great support worker." Her husband was the Chief exec of the Northampton YMCA (strange but true, he wasn't a Christian, he was a Pagan, but made it far more successful than any bloody Christian managed, but that's another story).
"You have got to be kidding? I wouldn't work with those scumbags." I was shocked and appalled and figured if nothing else calling them scumbags would put the very PC Ian off. But instead the two of them made a case for why I'd be good working with kids. The wife, sensing some kind of victory, joined in and I reluctantly agreed to go and check the place out, do a two-hour voluntary shift, to see what I thought.

On my late Mother's birthday, I walked into St Matthew's YMCA - a homeless hostel - and thought I was going to be sick. It was awful; it was grubby, it smelled of unpleasant food and it had some really horrid spotty oiks running around like kids injected with aspartame. I was ushered into the staff room, met the manager and her assistant and the two workers I would shadow for a couple of hours. They took me around the hostel and introduced me to some of the residents, eventually I was challenged to a game of Scrabble by one of them and went into the lounge to play. I chatted to a lot of the residents, helped cook lunch and before I knew it I had been there for SEVEN hours. I started at 12 and was supposed to be home by 2.15.

Rose, the manager, had phoned Ian at 5pm and told him that I was fantastic, the kids loved me and when could she hire me. She also stayed there until I finished at 7 - after cooking the residents evening meal (which they all thought was awesome!) - and told me that she wanted to give me a job if I wanted it. She didn't need an answer from me, I had a beaming smile on my face and had enjoyed myself immensely. Three days later, I was on an induction course and, two days after that, on the wife's birthday, I was offered a job at the YMCA.

If Sarah hadn't suggested it, it would never have happened and I have no idea what my life would have been like now. I can't imagine I would have come here of my own volition. During my first two years at the YMCA, Sarah proved to be really useful person for peer supervision; she was a counsellor herself and she put me right on some things and helped me deal with lots of deep-rooted prejudices and judgemental issues I'd developed after years of working for Skizz.

And now she's dead. 45. A lovely woman who would do anything for you; but equally could be almost impossible to live with at times. Sarah was a political animal, so far left wing she'd be on the running track at the old Wembley, but she was also deeply troubled and suffered from severe depression, normally as a result of getting too immersed in one cause or another. She was the kind of person you had to have on your side if you wanted someone to drive it along, to motivate the unmotivated and to campaign tirelessly for your cause. I just wish the last 12 months of her life hadn't been so turbulent, she might still be here...

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Heck, who knows, I might have something positive to write about next time...

I'm also in the process of doing another of my now occasional columns for the Comics Village (www.comicsvillage.com), so look out for that, from what I'm told it's still one of the highlights, however long it is between instalments!

Oink oink cough splutter die

Imagine this: swine flu mutates and becomes a global mega-pandemic killing off 95% of the population of the world - ala Captain Trips from The Stand - except because there isn't really a god, so there won't be one last battle between good and evil for the fate of the world. The 5% who survive are likely to be those who have had influenza vaccinations, giving them more protection against the rampaging virus than Joe Average will have.

The 5% who survive will be over 60 years of age, or suffer from bronchial conditions such as asthma - which means that I'd survive - who get NHS flu jabs as a matter of course every autumn.

What a fantastic premise, eh? The world gets left to a bunch of ageing cripples and sickly 40 somethings. Can you imagine it? The future of humanity in the hands of crumblies and the future of mankind in the loins of people with chronic respiratory problems.

One would think that these survivors would be heading for their nearest hospitals - not for treatment as all the doctors will be dead, but to set up residence in the only places that can keep them alive for a few more years. One has to hope that of the septuagenarian survivors there will be electricians, plumbers, engineers and go-to-it individuals who can keep the power going, at least until they can teach the asthmatics how to do it.

Of course, having already been turned into a seedless Jaffa, I wouldn't be much good to the future of civilisation, so they could always make me President. Of course, if they bestowed this honour on me the first thing I'd do is get anyone able to do medical research to develop more flu vaccines, because by the next winter, if another flu bug surfaces, our merry band of ancient survivors will all get killed off by that.

If that works, I'd ban all the oldies from growing flowers, they damn well need to grow more veg. I'd target the frailest most timid old woman to become keepers of the abattoir and encourage vegetarianism among my followers. I'd also send squads of survivors to all the chemists in the vicinity and get them to hide all the purple rinses - we don't need distractions in this post-apocalyptic world.

Naturally, this wouldn't happen because all of the suits in Whitehall will have had flu vaccinations already, so as well as OAPs and people with breathing problems, the world will be over run with politicians, their wives, families, mistresses, boyfriends, housekeepers and psychiatrists. So, my first job would be to train these geriatrics into a crack murder squad to hunt out these people and kill them, while kidnapping their child-bearing women for lives of servitude to my hordes of lecherous old bastards. But, this will all be done for the safety and future of mankind.

I might have swine flu, I have flu symptoms and I'm craving a bacon sandwich...