Hop Spittle Day and Minogues

I’ve got my regular hospital check up today for the diabeticals. I say regular, its meant to be every 6 months, but I haven’t been for over a year and half. This, I would like to point out, is nothing to do with me, and everything to do with The Whittington Hospital, or Shittington as I prefer to call it. Time and time again, I’ve had an appointment in and they’ve cancelled it and rebooked it for several months later, as my health is obviously something that can be ignored for some time. I often wonder if people with terminal illnesses constantly have their appointments put off until they just die and the Shittington doesn’t have to bother seeing them. Not that I really want to see the doctor you understand. Its never the most fun time in the world. It generally involves me sitting around for at least an hour and half while everyone apologises that the surgery is running late. Then I eventually get seen by a nurse who tries to take my blood but stabs my arm several times instead as she ‘hasn’t taken blood before’ and decides I am the guinea pig/human pin cushion. Then after minimal torture, I have to sit back down for another two hours until I’m seen by a doctor who has a go at me for two minutes then says they’ll see me in six months, at which point the cycle of appointment chasing starts again. Today will be worse than normal as I really wanted an appointment before Edinburgh. Had that happened all my average blood sugar levels (HBA1 for the geeks) would have been perfect. Instead the in the aftermath of August and being ill, the numbers will be more up and down than a depressive in a lift. During Edinburgh I wrote this, that was published in the Scotsman:


Well I’m sad to say it didn’t apply this year, and instead I just had truly bad control for 5 weeks. Oh well.

I am a bit more awake today than I was yesterday. I wasted hours doing very little at all or playing Prince of Persia on the Xbox for hours on end. A game, I think now should just be called Prince of Iran. Everyone else knows the name has changed, so should they. Instead of fighting demons and hanging off cliffs, the main character merely has to be careful where and when he proclaims his preference towards Mousavi, fearing the tyranny of Ahmadinejad. Yes it may not be a great game and probably disturbing at times, but it would be far more accurate. I popped over to my parents yesterday night and my mum promptly handed me a batch of posters that used to be mine. I left them wrapped up till I got home, hoping to surprise myself with what tragic images I had chosen to put on my bedroom wall only 8 or so years ago. I surprised myself with most of them being very cool Ninja Tune posters back from when I was a runner at Ninja Tune Records straight after University. Then, in amongst the Mr Scruff, Ty and Cinematic Orchestra pics, was a giant Kylie poster. This poster, I’m pleased to say, was not to do with the music element, but rather the physique of the Minogue. I hadn’t bought the poster myself, but as I often used to exclaim my thoughts on the tint Antipodean when her videos would appear on the tellybox, it was one of several posters friends had bought me that would then adorn our student living rooms for some time. One poster in particular, had Kylie in a rather sordid pose in an extremely tight red thingy, and that stayed in the living room of our student house through the duration of 2001-2002. Often girlfriends would make comments about how she isn’t really all that nice and all members of our house would jokingly and yet also proudly defend the Minogue in all her tinyness and firm buttockage. Then, when it was time to leave the house, we knew there would be too many arguments about who would get to take the Kylie home with them, and so we set fire to the poster in the garden and had a small ceremony, before getting in trouble for setting a fire in our garden. The obsession went from Kylie to Rachel Stevens and the next student house worshipped the other tiny but excessively dull star, and this continued until a few years ago when my friend Stefan bought me a Rachel Stevens calendar knowing full well it would annoy Layla. It did. I put it up on purpose. Good times, good times.

I have already thrown the Kylie poster from yesterday away, but not before I pointed it out to Layla and joked about how it should go up in the living room. This illicited the exact response I had hoped – a sigh then a ‘no you bloody won’t’, and I promptly binned her overly chiseled face.