Even Less

Scratched record time...

One of the things, as a vegetarian, that pisses me off is that television, like supermarkets, seem to think that all vegetarians are freaks and therefore deserve no special attention.

In supermarkets, vegetarian sections are ghettoised to the point where they might as well have a big neon sign over the section saying 'Freaks Eat Here'. Television has this grudging sort of acknowledgement that vegetarians exist, but also seem to think that most vegetarians eat fish. Which, of course, is a vegetable. I mean, I've often picked fish off of trees or dug them up from underground. In fact, next year, I'm going to purchase some haddock and monk-fish seeds and grow them in my garden... Twats...

The fact there are a lot of veggies in the country and all over the world would sort of make having a TV programme about veggie food as kind of pre-requisite; but no. With the exception of the very talented Simon Rimmer most 'top chefs' regard people like the wife and I as odd hippy nutters who munch on seeds and forage for fallen fruit. Therefore I can only conclude that most top chefs are twats and that I'd like to eat lots of roughage and then take a really stinky shit on their collective heads. It wouldn't change the way they feel, but I'd get a lot of laughs out of it!

***

Illiteracy is not laziness. I suffer from laziness. I rarely edit my own work and normally only after Hollis or Trenwith have berated me for it. I got a visit from my gorgeous nieces on Friday. One of them is a stickler for correct grammar, while the other is as thick as horse shit; but both of them have friends who seem to have forgotten anything they might have learnt at school.

I'd like to start a pedants* campaign where by everyone who understands the first laws of the English language pulls up their ignoramus friends and shows them how to do it properly.

*for the benefit of all of those ignoramuses, a pedant isn't someone who fiddles with kiddies...

***

I'd just like to emphasise to music lovers who haven't yet discovered how brilliant Porcupine Tree are that they really should.

***

So the Red Shite have been bought out. Those thoroughly unlovable scousers can wave goodbye to the Yanks who destroyed their club and welcome a bunch of... Yanks (who, we can all hope, will continue to ruin this once proud club).

The thing is, I used to have a grudging respect for Liverpool. During the 70s and 80s, they were the 2nd team for many football fans. Representing England in the old (and much missed) European Cup and cementing a place for themselves as a likable club (unless you supported Everton or Man U) who the public wished well...

Currently Liverpool sit 3rd from bottom and in a relegation place. I'd seriously consider selling my soul to see this team get relegated and lose all of its star players. In fact, it has become so much of a desire on my part, its almost as obsessive as Shite fans belief in their own team. I'm praying to any deity that exists that Everton stuff them on Sunday and that the John W. Henry the new owner asset strips the club even more than Waldorf and Stadler. I hate them more now than I've ever hated Manchester United, Chelsea, Leeds or even Arsenal. I have a grudging respect for Roy Hodgson, but I'd like to see him destroy this club and have them playing Sheffield Wednesday in League One by the time I'm 50.

I'd also like to shag a 25 year old Felicity Kendal and that, sadly, isn't going to happen either.

***

I'll be having my second ever MRI scan on November 9. Which is nice.

***

Can I recommend Whites, the new Alan Davies comedy on BBC2. It is possibly the funniest TV show on at the moment and is quite surreal, yet almost totally realistic. I missed half of the 3rd episode because I was laughing so much.

***

"You pay your money and you take your chances" should be the motto of all insurance companies. I swear if we rang them up and said, "I'll pay my premiums when I can be arsed," we'd soon find out that we don't have a leg to stand on. Yet they can take money from us and drag their feet for as long as inhumanly possible.

The wife is still waiting for a resolution from her write off. She phoned the Co-op on Friday, six days after they received all the info they requested and two weeks since the car accident. The imbecile on the phone said, "Can you ring back on Monday as all the assessors go home at 5pm on a Friday." It was 4.50... She said she hoped the car we wanted to buy was still for sale, but she might as well have been talking to a mentally retarded frog.

Come to think of it, at least a retarded frog might have been entertaining...

***

In case I haven't mentioned this before. I fucking hate my new keyboard!

WOW!

The pain I'm suffering has been so bad it has started to make me feel ill; it is relentless and I've had virtually no relief from it. When people say pain is incredibly debilitating, they weren't joking; I can really understand why people top themselves because of it... Despite the incredible pain, which I've now been suffering for a week, I was left with a dilemma. Do I go to see Porcupine Tree at the Royal Albert Hall or do I give my ticket up?

Right up until yesterday morning - sitting in the bath with gritted teeth and the feeling that it was never going to stop - I hadn't made my mind up. Then I realised that this was one of those once in a lifetime moments. Porcupine Tree are one of my favourite bands of all time; I might have seen them 3 times already, but I'll probably never see them at such an incredible venue and probably wouldn't see them do tracks I've been dying to see them perform, but probably wouldn't ever again. In the end, I decided to dose myself up with painkillers, bite the bullet and go. As those of you who have read the review, I was glad I did. But what they review doesn't do is explain what it was like for me...

I've taken to using a walking stick. It gives me a little bit of support on the left side, which is where I have the problem. The slipped or compacted disc I'm suffering from is all down the left side of my body - bad pain in the back, excruciating pain in my groin and sharp shooting pains in my left thigh, disappearing into numbness and odd tingling sensations in my calf and foot. The prospect of sitting on a train and then the tube and then in a cramped seat at the Albert Hall was quite frightening and daunting, but like I said - a once in a lifetime chance, fuck the pain.

The train journey down was fine - the painkillers were doing their job and it was so deserted I could walk around, keep myself active and it only took 52 minutes before we got to Euston. However, we got there just as rush hour was starting; it was like the inside of the terraces at Wembley stadium on a good day; yet amazingly the combination of me limping around like a raspberry and the walking stick seemed to generate an enormous amount of respect from people I encountered. Especially on the tube when, despite it being packed to the brim, I was constantly offered a seat by at least 3 very kind hearted people. I thanked them wholeheartedly for their consideration, but explained that if I sat, I'd probably have trouble getting up again and didn't bother to tell them that sitting is considerably more painful than standing.

We met one of my bestest buddies in the entire world at Euston. Martin Shipp and I have been friends since 1989; we instantly hit it off and don't see enough of each other. He was my right hand man on Borderline and two years ago we attempted to write a TV series together. The wife thinks the world of him and it upsets me that we only see each other as little as we do. But life, work and the lack of time and money means that we have to make the most of the few times we do see each other. He's a man I have no problem giving a massive hug to each and every time I see him. Me, him and Roger made our way to Charing Cross Road and the truly wonderful Pillars of Hercules pub - after a couple of pints and a lot of catching up; we made our way to the tube station and headed off, without him, to the Royal Albert Hall. Unfortunately there was tube trouble, our train was delayed and we were stuck about two miles from the RAH with no obvious way of getting there. we opted for Queensway tube station, on the opposite side of Hyde Park and decided to walk across the 2 miles of parkland to the venue... Except Hyde Park was shut. So we got a taxi, which only cost us b£6.50 - a bargain.

What made the evening even better was that our seats were directly in front of the stage and my one was right by the aisle; so instead of being cooped up in a cramped space, I could have all the room I wanted and I needed it, because by the hour mark in the show my back was screaming at me, my groin was beating me about with a club studded with nails and my left leg had gone to sleep; but because of the perfectly placed intervals, I got to get up and walk around inside one of the most stunning buildings I have ever had the pleasure to be in. And because I had a walking stick and was limping like I had a prosthetic leg, every one I saw was helpful and courteous. I had doors opened for me, people allowed me to push into queues and it struck me that if someone wanted to, all they'd need to do is borrow some crutches and London would just roll out the hospitality mat.

We had at least a mile walk to Kensington High Street tube station and after the gig, despite having a virtually seized up leg, I insisted we walked rather than got another taxi. I needed to exercise the leg and hip because that would make the train journey back easier. We walked past some wonderful landmarks that I'd never seen before - The Albert Memorial, the National Geographic Society, Harvey Nicks and just down the road was Harrods. It was a painful but truly uplifting walk after what was one of the best gigs I'd ever seen.

However, London becomes a different place after dark. Where I was overwhelmed with the generosity of people towards the disabled in daylight hours; all the selfish cunts in the world surface after dark. We got on our tube to Euston and it was almost 11.30. The tubes were busy, but nowhere near as packed as they were earlier. When we got on our train there were no spare seats, just standing room and I hobbled onto the tube and the two people sitting in the spaces reserved for the old or disabled both looked at me and then dropped their eyes and looked at the floor - neither of the two seats and occupants were going to give their seats up for the raspberry with the cane. That gave me a wry smile and gave me an idea. You shouldn't really look anyone in the eyes on the tube - this is advice I've been given - but I decided to stare at the one particular guy who quickly averted his gaze away from me - making sure that every time he looked up he could see me staring at him - burrowing into him with my disabled eyes. God, did he look guilty and uncomfortable - but did he give his seat up? Did he fuck...

Now, when we got on the 12.05 train back to Northampton. It was packed and there wasn't a seat to be had; yet within two minutes of struggling onto the train a very nice man from Tring - an insurance assessor for Lloyds - offered me his seat. he was the oldest person in the that section of train. Everyone else, all averted their eyes, looked at the floor or at their copies of Metro and probably all hoped that I'd just disappear. I thanked the man from Tring (in Bedfordshire), but declined. I needed to stand for a while, and I also knew that by the time we got to Watford a third of the people on the train would have got off - which was exactly what happened. I ended up sitting next to guy from Tring as we listened to two arseholes arguing over their personal space and human rights. It was laughably pathetic and almost came to blows and yet both of them could see and saw this disabled bloke in front of them and neither considered for a minute that they were being ignorant, stupid, selfish and basically a couple of worthless cunts. It made me smile.

We got back into Northampton at 1.30 and I was home in bed by 2.15 am; dosed up on my new drugs. Drugs, incidentally, that have been really difficult to get. Oxycodone hadn't been dispensed by Boots for over a year; yet on first results appear to work - quite well. Can't quite work out if they kill the pain or they just make me not actually give a shit even more than the last lot.

Now, depending on how much I've rambled and wibbled about, you can make your own minds up!

Gig Guide 6: Porcupine Tree at The Royal Albert Hall; October 14, 2010

I've been to a few gigs (not as many as my best friend Roger, but still well into the 70s) and I can honestly say that some of them will be hours that I will never get back. While not quite a bad gig, when I saw Porcupine Tree in Wolverhampton last December, I was a little less than enamoured; basically I'd missed this band playing live when they produced music that I loved and now they'd ventured into the territory of heavy metal I figured I'd never really get the chance to see the band performing classics from The Sky Moves Sideways, Signify or anything earlier...

But first... The Royal Albert Hall - every gig should be played there! It is quite possibly the most stunning live music venue in existence. Everything about it is... plush. Even the centrally heated toilets with their wood panelling and actual flushable toilets. The place is everything you've ever read or heard about and above all else, acoustically it is the dog's bollocks.

This gig was Porcupine Tree's final date in a world tour that had lasted 13 months taken them all over the world (to countries where their music is far more appreciated than in the UK) and culminated in what can only be regarded as the pinnacle of any band's life; to play at the mother of all venues.

We were positioned in the circle, about two-thirds of the way up and directly in front of the stage; far enough away to only work out that Steven Wilson was in his trademark bare feet, but at an optimum stereo effect distance. It was like we'd been granted the best seats in the house and the band proceeded to produce a show that immediately catapulted itself into one of the 3 best gigs I've ever been to.

Three hours! Yes, three hours of some of the most beautifully produced rock (and prog) music I've ever witnessed. The first part was a semi-acoustic set lasting about 40 minutes; this included 'unplugged' versions of some of their classic songs and in some cases tracks that you would never have imagined being done in that style. The five band members (having John Westley with them) stood at the front of their stage - Westley playing an electric acoustic, Steven Wilson with a plain old acoustic, Richard Barbieri playing a piano, Gavin Harrison on a stripped down drum kit and Colin Edwin on a massive double bass. It was cute, poignant and quite stunning. They then went off for a five minute break before coming back on for part 2.

This was a mix of new and old stuff; Westley departing whenever they played anything pre-1999 and this had a number of highlights including a great version of Even Less and an even better version of the classic The Sky Moves Sideways. After a ten minute interval the band returned for the final segment of the show and this was spellbinding; a mixture of stuff from The Incident mixed with classics; the highlights being a brilliant version of Time Flies and the resurrection of Up The Downstair. The crowd really erupted during this and I found myself quite disgusted when some of their 'fans' left during the older stuff - these people wouldn't know wonderful real music if it bit them on the collective arses.

Encores have become a bit passe; it's expected now so many people don't bother clapping and cheering; not last night. The 3800 fans raised the roof and the band came back out to play two stunning encores - the first being Arriving Somewhere (but not here) from Deadwing and the truly wonderful Trains. The total gig took just over 3 hours of which they played for 95% of it, yet still only managed 24 tracks. Even a couple of the tracks from Fear of a Blank Planet hit the right spot.

I would have been even happier had they played Half Light, Halo, Waiting, Dark Matter, Signify, Stop Swimming, Mellotron Scratch, and Yellow Hedgerow Dreamscape, but beggars can't be choosers. It was a quite brilliant show and it will take a lot of beating.

1. First Set (Semi-Acoustic "Opening Act" Set)
1. Stranger By The Minute
2. Small Fish
3. Pure Narcotic
4. Black Dahlia
5. Futile
6. Second Set
6. Even Less (Full version)
7. Open Car
8. Lazarus
9. Dislocated Day
10. The Sky Moves Sideways (Phase One)
11. I Drive the Hearse
12. Bonnie the Cat
13. Third Set
13. Occam's Razor
14. The Blind House
15. Great Expectations
16. Kneel and Disconnect
17. Drawing the Line
18. Tinto Brass
19. Time Flies
20. Anesthetize (only Second Part: The Pills I'm Taking)
21. Up the Downstair
22. Sleep Together
23. Encore:
23. Arriving Somewhere But Not Here
24. Trains

If I had to rate this I'd probably give it 9½ out of 10. it was that good.

(For a companion piece to this see the entry called WOW!)

Pentamerous Metamorphosis

I think I'm a fucking star. Considering the amount of pain I'm currently in, the fact that I haven't caved in and gone and bought some fags, or even some drugs, is nothing short of excellent; miraculous even. Once upon a time, I'd look for any excuse to contaminate my body with smoke related gubbins.

Someone actually suggested that buying some cannabis might actually help with the back pain. It's a well thought out idea - after all, cannabis is used by MS sufferers and people who do suffer from chronic pain. The problem is I don't actually know anyone who sells it and long gone are the days when I'd sit in the car waiting for some dodgy geeza to go to some other dodgy geeza's house to score me something that was undoubtedly underweight and too expensive. Besides, my long experience with pot has always suggested that it actually accentuates things rather than dull them down. It was a substance I used to expand my mind and allow me to think and concentrate deeply on something. At the moment, I'd like to forget about the pain, not have it polarised in my mind.

Fortunately for me, the cough I thought was going to hit me hard hasn't. I got some good advice regarding things I should take to sooth it or even help drive it away, but I think the stopping smoking was probably the best remedy. But special thanks to Gillion for the Chinese Herbal advice - it's something I'll investigate when (not if) the next chest problem happens.

It's a real shame that my back is the way it is, because today is one of those days you dream about, especially when you are a low level SADS sufferer, like I have been for years. There's barely a cloud in the sky, the thermometer is reading 20 degrees and it's the kind of weather where a pair of shorts and a T-shirt are the best things to be wearing. Yesterday, on the phone to brother Ron, he was telling me that Southport was basking in the same kind of weather Northampton is today, except it was at least 3 degrees warmer. He was sitting on his decking, by the sluice trough, watching the fish feed and the ducks dive and feeling slightly melancholy that days like this are a rarity until at least next March (if we're lucky).

***

Changing the subject completely; I'm more than aware that I make grammatical mistakes, allow all kinds of stuff to filter through my writing that my former employer would berate me mercilessly for; but just recently I've noticed, especially on Facebook, people writing all kinds of ridiculous stuff, which leads me to the conclusion that these people are either imbeciles of the first order, couldn't find a punctuation mark with a map and a satnav or are just fucking stupid. I can't even suggest that they're dyslexic, because I have dyslexic friends and they, at times, have far better grammar. A perfect example are some of the friends of my niece - who like me is a bit of a snob for proper English. regardless of her high standards, her friends seem to be as thick as pig shit - except that would be an insult to pigs. The latest example of fuckwittedness (yes, I know that's a made up word) was spelling the word 'busy' with an I in it just after the U and before the S. Not only spelling it wrongly, but completely ignoring the red line that appears under it and managing to repeat the incorrect spelling 3 times, straight after one and other!

Now, I'm sure these people don't give a flying fuck that they're making other people think they are some kind of thicko, but what kind of example are they setting for their children, who already seem to be writing in a bizarre form of short hand that eliminates the need for vowels? Having never seen the word 'busy' spelled 'buisy' in my life, it makes me wonder what kind of logic goes through this person's mind to think it needs a extraneous 'I' in the first place. Probably the same kind of logic that allows them to have six children by seven different fathers, no doubt...

***

I'm going to have to conclude this blog entry because I can't sit in the same place for more than 20 minutes without being given a reminder of how much pain I'm in; so subjects such as Liverpool's potential 9 point deduction; Chris Huhne's slightly remarkable budget deficit statement and my chickenless chicken and mushroom pie will have to wait for another window of opportunity.

But, have I mentioned how much I fucking hate this new keyboard?

You Can Call Me Al

Possibly the most incredible television news of the decade is that Haven has been renewed for a second season. I'm acutely aware that the SyFy Channel can make universally bad programmes, but surely none of them, even Sanctuary, can possibly be as badly acted, badly scripted, badly plotted or badly put together than Haven. It is, quite possibly, the poorest piece of television ever made.

According to SyFy (is that just the worst renaming of a channel in the history of renaming anything?) it is averaging 2.6 million viewers, and almost a million of them are in the key 18-25 demographic (why that should be key is pretty much beyond me considering most 18-25 year olds I know are about as imbecilic as a goat in a clown's outfit with a massive comedy codpiece). This means that it is worthy of a second season; The Gates, which wasn't as bad, was averaging 3 million viewers and got canned so fast that the stars are still probably attempting to come to terms with it and the damage its cancellation will have on their bank balances and future job opportunities.

Don't get me wrong; if Haven had been done by, oh, I don't know, a little league baseball team, it might have actually been half decent. The production team might have had some experience in producing a TV show, but it didn't show. Instead of being a complete idea, Haven lacked some key elements. Actually, it lacked in just about every element.

Watching an episode was a little like renting a bad 90 minute 1980s horror flick and fast forwarding through 50% of it - the 50% that actually told you what was supposed to be happening. The scripts were poor, the pacing was worse, the acting was almost laughable and the way it was put together would have made a 5 year old question the director's ability - but worst of all, the editing appeared to be done by a dead chimpanzee with Alzheimer's. Why Eric Balfour got involved is any one's guess - he presumably needed the money.

Yet, it had that car crash quality. I just wanted to watch each episode to see if it got any worse and I was never disappointed. It continued to plumb depths I thought were never going to be reached by even the most outrageously bad TV shows (and frankly only Lost Girl is the only thing I've seen that made less sense). It tried very hard to be mysterious, strange and different and only succeeded in making me laugh like a demented fool on acid. Except, even a demented fool on acid could have put together something that was infinitely better than this.

As I've said before, Emily Rose aka FBI agent Audrey Parker would make a great 30 year old Buffy Summers. Lucas Bryant aka Nathan Wournos would be the ONLY choice to play Roland of Gilead in any Dark Tower film adaptation and neither of them, in an honest world, would ever work again, if there was anything like real justice...

Parker arrives in Haven on the trail of an escaped FBI suspect and after finding out that weird shit is going on decides to stay. She quickly finds out that she had links to the place that she isn't consciously aware of and it appears that her boss - a strange FBI senior official - knows more about what is going on than anyone else. On paper, the entire idea looks great. In reality... Jesus Harry Christ...

There is as much consistency in the series as there is in the British weather. Things happen with no explanation, no questions asked and no sense of reality. It is like the characters in the series are activated for the 44 minutes of each show and then switched off again at the conclusion. No one acts like a real person; everyone acts like they're keeping a secret, yet crack FBI agent Parker displays all the detective acumen of Eyore. I'm amazed that there isn't more damning reviews of this series on the net; because it certainly deserves intellectual reviewers ripping it to shreds. Everything about the series smacks of amateurism, from the scripts to the acting to the production.

It even has a clever premise that seems to get forgotten more often than I take a shit. It is unbelievably awful. Yet, someone somewhere figured it deserves a second season... Wonders never cease.

You get the impression that it's written by a 6 year old, directed by a 5 year old and put through post production by a teething 2 year old. How the actors could get involved and keep straight faces is truly an even bigger mystery than that of the Colorado Kid himself (which the series is so loosely based on you could arguably say that my life is based on the life and times of Donald Duck). The final episode even had a cliffhanger ending that was actually really clever, it just lost every shred of credibility along the way. Not even the characters could stay consistent from one episode to another, yet I watched all 13 of them and, as much as I hate to say this, I'll watch, at least, some of the next season - if only to a) remind myself how bad it was and b) to see if they actually can come up with a plausible explanation. I've no doubt it will be and I doubt they will.

Haven needs to be observed to be believed. You need to watch it to realise that whatever you thought was the worst television programme you've ever seen - wasn't (unless you watched Lost Girl). It needs to be savoured like a 99p bottle of cheap plonk. It needs to be watched to remind yourself that you, of little faith or talent, could do a 101% better job with a budget consisting of a tin of sardines and a Betamax video camera.

The finale was so bad that I actually laughed hysterically at parts of it. That's 685 minutes of my life I will never see again - but at least I got my maths right. In the final episode, a man claims to have been in prison for 10,000 days or 25 years. 25 years is actually 8825 days, yet within seconds of this someone else says he served 20 years in prison, which is actually 7300 days. 10,000 days is actually 28 years and 3 months, give or take a leap year or six. The person in question got swallowed up by a big hole in the ground; you'll wish the same hole swallowed you after realising that no one working on the show understands the meaning of the words 'common sense' or even 'continuity editor'.

If this review doesn't make a lot of sense, then I've achieved what I set out to do...

Monday - Paracetamol

I'm quite amazed that I'm now entering Day 9 of the Nosmo King Extravaganza. Sleep has slowly crept back into my life, albeit in small increments. However, while the last 8 days have been pretty much horrendous on many fronts, nothing could beat Friday.

I can't really say I've had a happy week; what with the lurgy and a flare up of my back problems, thanks to a stray cough. But Thursday saw me return to work and it was a surprisingly good day. I felt as though I was getting back on the horse, so to speak, and facing new challenges (or to be more precise, old challenges with renewed vigour).

I got home from work on Thursday afternoon and I was actually really buoyant and, dare I say it, happy. I went to the pub, drank a couple of pints of one of my favourite beers - Kingston Topaz - and... well... I felt like I'd broken the back of the previous 7 days.

Friday morning rolled around and I thought I'd broken my back.

I've been no stranger to pain, especially chronic pain, over the last couple of years, but what I suffered Friday morning was pretty much the worst back pain I've had EVER. Worse than sciatica, worse than having my soft tissue ripped to shreds in my shoulder, worse than when I had my tonsils out when I was 25. It was so bad, I considered phoning the wife up, getting her to come home from work, so she could wipe my arse. Yes, that bad!

I don't know what I did apart from feel happy 8 hours earlier, but obviously that short burst of happiness was enough to screw my back up so bad that I was in tears to the doctor at 8.40am.

The upshot is that I'm now on Co-Codamol 30mg - which is the highest dose you can get of this paracetamol/codeine mixture and I had a quick and timely reminder of what its like to be stoned again. It didn't really take the pain away, I just didn't give a shit about it. By midday Friday, I could have been on Planet Bazongo drinking dolphin's piss out of a donkey's arse and I wouldn't have given a flying fuck.

But that wasn't just it. God, if that was just it I'd almost be happy...

Wheat bags - great things for applying heat to an area of your body for soothing relief. Also, when you're out of your face on painkillers, capable of causing even more damage than you could possibly wish for. Just to add injury to insulted injury, I successfully scalded my lower back. Friday night about 9.30, I suddenly realised that my back was really sore; like it had been burnt or something. Lifting my top up, that's exactly what it was - burnt. Red raw. Like I'd just poured some lighter fluid on it and set fire to it. Fuck me is there anything else I can do over the next few days that'll just fucking kill me off?

I really don't like turning this blog into a diary of my woes and ills; but I've got bugger all else to talk about and people should be aware that I'm a walking disaster at times.

Fortunately, I've taken some more of my new magic pills and I'm pretty sure that in the next 15 minutes I'll be away with the shit faeries again, not caring a fig about anything and dreaming of a full night's sleep.

Obviously, I didn't go to work. Driving would have been a bad idea with the way my back was and after taking the pills, driving would have been slightly more dangerous than kicking a hungry tiger in the nuts. The doctor - a lovely woman who genuinely seemed sympathetic to my plight - thought it was pointless doing any form of examination until the worst of the pain had subsided. I tried to explain to her that my back has been giving me real gyp since the middle of May and while I welcomed her optimism I thought that perhaps something should be done about it before I die, so we compromised on next Wednesday.

The day was spent in an attempt to find a half comfortable position to sit in; by midday I really couldn't give a shit and by 2pm any guilty feelings I had about having my 6th day off in 7 days had completely disappeared. I'm fed up with being sorry about not being at work. It's not like I'm purposely putting myself through the pain barrier. I'd rather be at work and pain free; but I'm not and I'm going to stop apologising to people for being a fucking cripple.

As you can gather, I'm not a very happy bunny at the moment. But... I've not wanted to start smoking again. I can't see the point. I've gone this far and done really well, why sacrifice all the cravings and addiction withdrawals for the sake of a bit of acute mindblowingly awful pain?

Friday night, we were being taken out for a meal by my godson and his nubile young girlfriend; I had to cancel that because I can't sit straight. I probably can't shit straight either, but won't find that out until the morning. Therefore Friday evening was spent avoiding programmes that would make me laugh and... and... and... oh joy the codeine is kicking in; time for me to try and get some sleep, possibly to have some dreams about dead people coming to visit me. Last night, I dreamt about about a guy called Ted, who died in 1980 something or other and was responsible for us having our first house rabbit - Harvey. The other night I saw my parents for the first time in ages - yes, it was a dream, but it was a damned fine dream and I was slightly disappointed to wake up. I'm not just dreaming of dead people though; I thought I got woken up by my brother-in-law the other day. It was so vivid, I got out of bed and called down the stairs, just to make sure he wasn't there. I also dreamt about having dinner with Phil Collins and I spent the entire dream trying to convince him that his future lay in drumming and he should give up this stupid idea of being a singer...

wibble wibble wibble ...

Never Be the Same

Wednesday 23.10 pm

It appears the cravings have gone. Literally just disappeared, almost over night. When I say 'gone', what I mean is they've dissipated to an irregular crave. I find myself thinking about smoking less and less and this can't be bad.

I got 4 hours sleep last night. I was asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow. I woke up at 4am and didn't get back to sleep. I got an extra 2 hours sleep this morning - woke up saturated in sweat with my fingers looking like I'd just spent a week in a swimming pool.

I felt human enough to walk down to the doctor's today and drop off a repeat prescription and make (yet another) appointment for next week. I'm not completely sure why, but as I said the other day, I feel like a season ticket holder, so I probably did it through habit. The point was, I walked back, up a hill, in the warm sunshine and despite it only being 5 days, I felt better - considerably better.

My mate Phil (who stopped smoking about 12 hours before I did) said he was surprised at how much better he felt after cycling across the Racecourse on Tuesday night; surprised at how quick it seemed to have improved. One of the reasons I insisted I needed to stop was how out of breath I was getting doing simple things like walking. I was most impressed at how little I was out of breath and that it can only get better. The last time I tried to stop smoking, seriously, was when I was still at the YMCA - over 5 years ago - and at the time I rather stupidly suggested that I would enter a London Marathon within 2 years of stopping. I'm not about to make any grandiose forecasts this time, but I might consider getting my bike out again before I turn 50!

23.22 pm

The wife has me taking Kalms - this herbal sleeping potion. I was quite surprised to see that they contain something called vervain, which, according to the TV series The Vampire Diaries is poisonous to vampires. They also contain wild lettuce extract... there's wild lettuces out there? Freaky!

I took them last night, so they either work or they trick you into thinking they work. The only reason I'm up now is I'm waiting for them to take effect. You have to give them an hour. What's an hour after 31 years of smoking?