All Along the WatchTower.... Part One

Im not one to have a pop at organised religion. I mean , I respect anyone who is organised, given my general lack thereof.

I dont have a a problem with religion per se. I think in an increasingly bleak world, it can be beneficial to have a rigid belief in something, even if it is just to make sense of the environment around us. Whether it be God, Allah, Colonel Sanders or Noel Edmond's Beard.

But some of these organisations could maybe benefit from a PA makeover.

I was at mein papa's just this evening actually, and for some reason unbeknownst to any of us, he has been recieving publications from the Jehovah's Witnesses for quite sometime.

Note this flyer.


This would very much appear to be the SummerSlam of religion. I mean, nothing enables a free thinking individual to decide on a lifestyle choice than being gangbanged by a representative from each division. Its the spiritual equivalent of walking around Currys in the LCD flat screen TV section, only to have twelve plaid shirt-clad freshly pimpled adolescent trainees bouncing all over your clearly feeble brain with the latest offers and advice on HD- Ready.

Personally, I cant decide on the open handed gesture on this flyer. Is it a 'here, check out this religion, behold the perks.' Or is it, 'See this? I call this one the Benevolent Backhand. Feel it on your sinful cheek.' I mean, attitude like that will certainly grab the attention.

But the thing that worries me most... lack of a representative from the Jedi faith. Poor show chaps. I mean that makes a ball breaking decision like that alot easier, surely....

All this from a group of people, who make it their business to arrive on your doorstep proclaiming the end of the world and telling you your birthday is simply just out of order.

Surely a slap from a clergyman is comparatively no great shakes?

Novel Update #1! The Decent Guy

After much deliberation, and even more general laziness, a new direction and title has been decided for the first Adam Mellow novella!

I have settled on a title; The Decent Guy.

Where did this come from? Well, based on recent events, it has been revealed that being a 'Decent Guy' just isnt enough for a modern man to get by in modern society.

Why does it work for the book?
Well.... The character in question (for now called Greg) is one of life's good guys, a good egg, a good old boy, an all round nice guy, a good apple. But very, very emotionally unsound. As a wonky pound.

The man cant hold down a relationship to save his life, even if it was with a fully licensed and trained Paramedic. Girl after girl eventually just gives up on him due to his crippling confidence issues and quirky lack of faith in himself.

A mans problems can escalate in these situations.
Youre telling me!

We actually begin the story to find Dear Old Greg, roundly trounced once more by a woman who seemed to possess everything a pessimist could want, except pessimism itself.
After 3 blissful months, and a perceivable happiness, Greg lets cynicism and a prolonged case of the 'Mondays' take hold.
Exit girl, Stage Right.
Enter contract on oneself, with an equally self loathing but no less black humored female hired gun.


I think this is an excellent title, and am possibly going to apply it to a book of poems I am working on featuring such hopeless characters.

'The Decent Guy and Others'

Keep watching.

LOVE: What the Fuck is that all about?

Having been very recently roundly trounced by both Cupid and his arrow, I have mostly spent this month wondering where, why, how, and when(?) is the right time for me to become involved in a reciprocal, stable, and fun relationship. And where exactly did I go wrong?
Could it have been....


1- Using a dating website : frequently, this can be a tool to meet, woo, and eventually capture a partner. It can almost be used as a pre-date date. You can browse the ones you like, the ones you dont, and the ones you would consider dusting for prints two blocks from a murder in a crack-den. Then you can email each other at your own leisure, without the awkward ad-lib panic a phone call might afford you. And ocassionally it might even actually lead somewhere. So whats the drawback?
It. Isnt. Real. Life. The problem with meeting someone in this way, is an email cant replicate a persons awkwardness, or enable the recipient the would be beads of sweat that follow each horrendous attempt at engaging the co-dater in a conversation that goes further than her hair dressing course. Using a dating website is like being told youre on your way to a certain doom , only,as youve already sort of had a 'bit' of time together online, you know more about this particular doom than anyone who ever took part in the building of the Bridge over the River Kwai. Its like ordering blowfish, than being shown the poison being extracted.

Seriously, if you want to find true love... well.. there are bars for that kind of thing.

2-Allowing the woman to call the shots from day one. In previous experiences, women just pure and simple cant make a decision to save their life, particularly if the decision was indeed between Life or, I dont know, say, Death.

One thing Ive learned. TAKE. THE. LEAD. As if your life depended on it. Never for one flame-haired second assume that women are attracted to a bloke who just appears to do whatever she wants to do. This also applies to bedroom antics. Seriously, paw your woman. Try it on with her. In fact, I would possibly even go as far as to say she would rather drink a seductive cocktail of vodka and rufies than settle for a night of cuddling. Again.

Dont worry if you think your chest is smoother than Ross Kemp's bonce, or you have fatty deposits just above the belt line. GET OVER IT. You want that girl? Take her. Shes chosen you.
Because theres a pretty darn good chance she will shortly get fed up, and move onto someone else (possible in her new sales job, say) , more confident and able than yourself who wont just want to talk about feelings all the time.
WHICH BRINGS ME NICELY ON TO MY NEXT POINT.

3- Becoming a 'best friend'. A wise person once said (and Im pretty sure it wasnt Confuscious), ' I want my best friend and my boyfriend to be separate.
Confused?
Yeah, me too.

This basically comes down to the fact, if you ever get to the stage within your new found relationship, where you are positive you can tell your partner whatever is on your mind, that she only wants you for man duties. Not he-bitch, emotional to-ing and fro-ing, if-ing and am-ing, hugs and tears. Shes got best friends for that shit. She needs you to man-up, take control, and never look back. All that new man bullshit? Well, thats exactly what it is. Write poetry? Bare your soul in a note? Tell her how special she is to you by arranging your Cheerios in a romantic manner (though Im not entirely sure how that works)?

Forget about it.

She would sooner thank you for maybe drowning a puppy, or starting a racially charged fight. Or phoning every elderly relative you have and telling them what a shrivelled up old Nazi they are. Women are fickle creatures. Cold. Heartless. And often monotone. Im not sure theyre actually interested unless theres a good chance you will beat them or cheat on them.

4- Admitting to doubts. This is a huge big no. And if youve made it through the first few points, then youre already far more accomplished a violinist than I (insert quip involving strings, strung, strung along, get it?). Im one of those (pussies) who seems to let his emotions often get the better of him. And also, makes a point of vocalising them.
Like this one time, I was feeling a bit down, and I suppose, in hindsight I could probably have done some Yoga, shot some guns, and gotten over it.

What'd I actually do though? I gave her the chance to up and leave. Me, stupidly, thinking I was doing the big and best decent thing, letting someone that I had truly come to love, go. I didnt want to (but yeah I can see how it looked).
In fact, it helped noone. My mood improved by tea time, and by midnight I was sending out the loving text messages.
Damage undone?
No. Not likely.

Because your doubt, whether it stems from the constant bullshit going around your head, or actual problems with the relationship itself, soon becomes her doubt. Those few months you spent wooing her, making her feel like the most special person in your entire world.. well... you can just about kiss them good bye. Its down hill from there.
Its not like the films, women rarely fall in love the minute you breathe on them, and it doesnt mater how much garlic you have or havent eaten. It takes time, nurturing, trust and alot of bad impressions (Mainly of Zippy from Rainbow) to get their guard down just long enough to show feelings towards them. And it can be snuffed out, in a 10 minute, lunchtime phone call.
Dont say I never told you. It doesnt matter how many flawless months youve had. This can really not go in your favour. Quite understandably.

5- Assuming that you are important enough for just a bit of effort. Yeah, this one is tricky. If both members in this thing we call coupledom are comfortable enough around each other to have gotten themselves into a near routine, particularly if there is some physical distance involved, than it can be frustrating when routine is broken. Spontaenaity is the key.
Saying that, theyre not always right about these things.
Routine implies seriousness, and who wants that in the first few months of a new thing? It doesnt matter whats been said between the two of you. You might be dumb enough to actually believe she knew what she was doing when she said she loved you. And then from that moment on, love might be followed by patience, understanding.
Sometimes yes. Mostly no.

6- Never, EVER say what you are actually thinking/feeling. Im pretty sure they hate that. Like sunlight.
Oh wait, thats vampires, right?


Relationships. They should really be called relationshits. Or 'ships' that noone goes down on.

Out of the mouths of babes.

People always say 'I remember being a child. Such simpler times'.
Of course they were simpler times! You were a child, you bloody idiot. You didn't have a car that would financially rape you on a monthly basis, or a home to run, a family to regiment, or the increasingly alarming grip the media seems to be currently exercising in terms of telling us what we should be worried about.

'Bird Flu Pandemic!' (Not a bird, not a problem).

'Unemployment highest its ever been!' (Though if youre watching this on the lunchtime news, than you probably know what they're talking about).

'Fast Food Coronary!' and then in grim contrast 'Bananas: The Cancer Fruit!'

'Smoking Kills!' (but so can standing around innocently outside a pub,. puffing away, on a Friday night).

'UK on high TERRORISM alert!'. And equally terrifying, 'David Jason: Racist?'.

All this aside, being a child is obviously the simplest of all times, no matter what the era. And even then, is stitching a few hundred footballs a day really that bad? I mean, it's a safe industry, we're always gonna need footballs, as there will always be idiots waiting to be paid ridiculously stupid amounts of money to kick them.

Judging from the current media output specifically aimed at children and toddlers, the current programming is either entertainment in its purest and simplest form. Or sheer. Twisted. GENIUS.

First up, Big Cook, Little Cook. Not a celebrity cook off between the late Andre The Giant and bearded toby jug Anthony Worral Thompson, but a show set in a fantastical kitchen, fronted by a couple of hyper-actively insufferable twats (literally Big and Small, in nature and name) sporting haircuts that signify what might happen if Tony & Guy were at the heart of the Apocalypse.
An apocalypse that must have clearly been incited by all the fucking morris dance-style, hanky-waving hi-jinks this pair get up to. Not to mention the atypically gawdy outfits, seemingly inspired by Gay Night at Santa's Grotto. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmQz0nwX5n0

Of course, we know in their most formative of years that a child responds well to bold gestures, and dramatic movements, particularly when it comes to a bloody good story time, but is there any real need for jerky body movements for every. Last (Clap!). Syll (Dozey-do!). A (Squat Thrust!). Ble (Jazz hands!). If I was two years old again, I'm sure there would be a good chance that I would grow up thinking it would be wise to stay out of the kitchen, in case I evoked a brightly coloured seizure.

And the kitchen.... Ramsay would shit a brick over it. I havent seen their invoices, purchase agreements, or the new stock coming in. But I dont think these pair have either. And what of waiting staff?? Yeah, forget about it.

Principle set-up. Big COCK and Little COCK dick around, usually after a lame 'size' gag (one should never be defined by one's physical differentials). Until... a customer arrives. No formal order is taken, and the food prep cant begin until theyve had a story from Little Cook's story book. ALAS, still no idea what to prepare. FUCKING ASK THEM!! No, too simple.
So out with Big Cook's cook book. Eureka. Recipe found. But... one ingredient missing, which is typical, particularly when eating in a new Wetherspoons'. Solution? Tell said customer that is simply isnt going to happen, and recommend the Beer and Burger Special.
Im probably being a bit unfair on this show, as my niece seems to love it, and what gives me a bit of peace and quiet when she's here, is just fine by me. Furthermore, this show does demonstrate a little bit of basic food preparation details, and my Jacket Potatoes have only come on leaps and bounds since.

The Teletubbies, what the hell was that all about? To me, it was some kind of LSD-induced bachelor's (or bachelorettes') to live on a golf course, only eat toast and custard, and to ave the hoovering done automatically for you by what can only be described as a poor man's K-9.
And when you thought children's television couldnt possibly resemble the inside of John Lennon's mind anymore than it already does, along comes a piece of quality programming such as In The Night Garden. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZx1k4woJkk
I personally liken it to a kind of soft edged Lost Boys dynamic, a seemingly fairytale land where the felt and patchwork-style characters remain in a state of vulnerable youth, and grown ups are scarcely found (other than the much needed narration of course, which here is provided by Sir Derek Jacobi).

The show seems to revolve around IgglePiggle (a blue and slightly retarded looking Tin Tin-type entity, fashioning a weird mo ho fringe, who is never far from his crusty red blanket-its stiff as a board), who travels to the Night Garden in his dreams, after falling asleep on his wooden sail boat, devoid of any of the inter-bestial relations set up echelons ago between the Owl and the Pussycat. And no one raised an eyebrow back then, either...

IgglePiggle's best friend within the largely CGI'd Night Garden, is UpsyDaisy, an attractive (for what is essentially a female felt role-model for toddlers) but verbally incoherent quirky type, who dresses as though its Fresher's week, and she is gunning to be known as the 'attractive bohemian one' amongst her male peers. IgglePiggle and UpsyDaisy seem to have a very 'Mulder and Scully' relationship, a sort of will-they-wont-they dynamic, that was possibly only heavily hinted at after IgglePiggle fell asleep on her bed after one brightly coloured cerebral visit to the garden (he always leaves the garden on his boat, before a return to his waking life, which I can only assume consists largely of drinking rum, and avoiding compounded boat repayments).

These two are undoubtedly the 'main' characters, with a supporting cast that consists of the Tombliboos, who are seemingly three travelling circus rejects, in bizarre futuristic gay night garb, and who spend much of their life living in a bush (which isnt a euphanism).

Then there are the Pontepines and Wottingers, two neighbouring families of tiny people, who seem to be the only residents of the Night Garden who have gone through the necessary bureaucratic red tape, to secure accomodation in an actual real house, as opposed to a pine cone, or a pigeon's fart, or something equally magical. These two families are ten-a-penny, sharing two semi-detached terrace houses, with a communal garden. In The Night Garden... commenting on immigration and living conditions? Or a pop at benefit schemers? Too much for a three year old to take in? Or shall we have them inciting socio-political opinions before they can even crawl. Everyone's a critic...

But it is glum faced dullard MakkaPakka I feel most sorry for. He likes to clean. Well, whether he likes to clean or not is quite evidential, rom the fact that... he obviously is a dab hand at it. But one wonders in the current economical climate whether the cleaning job is one he was forced to take, Degree in Accelerated Business Studies or not. I can only liken him to a Community Carer, who on occasion, will clean his own place of residence (he has a STONE for a bed), before travelling around with his trolley of wonderful cleaning things, giveing various members of the Night Garden a firm scrubbing down as he goes. No money changes hands, and one can only assume that this service is inclusive in the Council Tax these people are paying for.

Bottom line. He wakes alone. He cleans faces with not even a thankyou. And he goes to sleep alone. Hugging a rock. Kids, stay in school.
Thogh what is good about this programme, and refreshing, is that as far as I can see, the emphasis is taken from the often patronising 'learning' mission objective of other kiddies programmes, and placed on improvement of relationships between parent and child. One sequence in particular, which features every episode, depicts a child slowly drifting off to sleep whilst mummy makes circular motions in the palm of said kiddy's hand. It sounds disturbing of course, and probably is, if youre 32 years old and cant sleep until this happens to you each night. But it reinforces the idea that all parents should want to share that special developmental time with their bundles of dribbling joy, as opposed being hunched over a laptop criticising children's television... Oh.

Mind you, it's no Teletubbies.

Ok, so Ad fancies himself as a bit of a poet... Dylan Thomas, he is not.

Drugstore Cinderella

She's the prayer that was answered,
Yet fell on deaf ears.
He is a jagged lullaby,
That failed to dry tears,

Her make up is smeared,
Yet her smile never cracks,
His picture speaks a thousand words,
While his mouth utters none,

They prop up the bar,
Close, but never together,
Her glass is half-full,
His always shattered,

The old men watching,
And have seen it all before,
To them she's an angel, yet jagged, yet pure.
But this is his hell,
She falls every night,
But never for him,

Not a thing he can do,
Nor a word he can tell her
'I wish you were mine, my drugstore Cinderella.'

I don't believe in the Apocalypse,
I don't believe in Valentines,
I don't believe in the total eclipse,
My own belief's inside my head.

Leeds Zombie Film Festival 2008 Part Two

The key to this event becomes clear; social interaction through scenes of violent and horrific content. Though this isn’t a group of yobs screaming profanities at a football match as opposed to a group of like-minded people coming together to express joy at pain and suffering.
Oh wait.
But seriously, the people at this event are fans of a film genre that can be fun as well as serious. On the one hand, the element of seriousness comes from the barbs of social commentary that runs throughout certain zombie films (Dawn of the Dead for example is thought to be a criticism of consumerist culture). On the other hand despite, there is an element of fun that comes from playing around with film convention, in-jokes, and now and again a dismembered head performing unmentionable sex-act upon a reluctant young girl (Reanimator, again). The instant that is most prominent in mind, would be during Night of the Living Dead, filmed during the peak of the Civil Rights movement, in which Ben (Duane Jones), a black character who takes charge in the bleak situation, makes a point. Albeit by punching a subtly bigoted white survivor, to a disembodied cry of ‘Get in!’ in a decidedly broad northern accent that echoes around the theatre. This is greeted with a chorus of laughter by all.

Zombie films break barriers. Fact.

“If you thought that was heavy, you ain’t seen nothing yet!” chimes Dominic, paraphrasing the late great Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer. The switch between the plodding Night of the Living Dead to the hyperactive Reanimator marks the theme of ‘serious’ to ‘fun’ viewing material that is continued over the next, how many, oh 10 hours. Zombie Flesh Eaters just seems to fly by, in all its Italian-dubbed glory. Another slow burner, this is followed by the self referential Return of the Living Dead, a punk-rock 80s film which owes more than a sly nod to the original cycle of ‘living dead’ zombie films, and updates it with a highly comedic twist. There is plenty of the green stuff (zombie blood, in this particular mythology) to be had in this one.
Alas, break time, and the crowd amble in drips and drabs out into the daylight. Three or four ‘zombies’ are huddled together near the entrance, enjoying a mid-point fag break. It is almost too tempting to warn a group of corpses the perils of smoking, but self control is a blessing. There are a couple of chaps ‘rearranging their stomach wounds’, making theirs the fifth set of intestines I had seen that afternoon.

No time to dwell; on with the festival.

At this point, we are reminded why the festival is taking place, and where our the proceeds of our £18 per ticket is going to. Dominic actually went to Romania, to rescue ‘dancing bears’, a national past time in which a bear is made to stand on a hot tray or platform, rocking on the balls of its feet to avoid the heat, giving the impression of dancing. This was clearly a humbling venture for him, and it makes the mission of six films in twelve hours a worthy one.

Dawn of the Dead, the second in Romero’s flesh eating saga, begins its poignant commentary on the need to consume. The heroes in this one hole up in a shopping centre, and what might be a consumerists dream for some, soon becomes the stuff of nightmares. Though stylish in content, and clearly a budgetary improvement on Night of the Living Dead, it seems a drawn out affair, perhaps due to it being the fourth film in a long day. One or two audience members are finding it hard to keep up.

Dominic and Mark provide one last introductory ‘passage’. The next film is Planet Terror, a film that was intended as one half of Grindhouse, the Robert Rodrgiuez, Quentin Tarantino double feature in tribute to the low budget exploitation movies of the seventies. According to Mark, “American audiences were too daft to realise it was a double feature, and started leaving the cinema half way through!’’. We are viewing the second and better half, it would seem. The lights go down once more.
Though this film presents us with action and gore aplenty, not to mention apparent gun as fetish (one fake leg you wouldn’t get on the NHS), the only truly atrocious spectacle here is one Quentin Tarantino’s acting performance in a sizeable cameo.
As the event draws to a close, it is time for Dominic and Mark to thank those who “took time out of a Sunday that could have been used for drinking and church-going, in no particular order”, and to judge the ‘best looking zombie’ competition. Though it would appear only around twelve people knew about this category. One lucky cadaver walks off with a 2000 AD goody bag.

Not a bad day to be a zombie in Leeds.

Leeds Zombie Film Festival 2008 Part One

It is no less than forty years since George A Romero’s Night of the Living Dead stormed the newly-born independent film scene, bringing an undercurrent of national sentiment to midnight drive-in screenings all over America. Created on a budget of US$60,000, its black and white grainy façade reflected the daily newsreel footage being viewed in workplaces, suburban homes, and schools, sending images of the atrocities that were an all too horrifying reality in Vietnam. It is this very film that initiates proceedings for the First Leeds Zombie Film Festival. Audience members are welcomed into the theatre to such colourfully titled tracks as ‘Killing Time’ by Massacre, ‘Overkill’ by Motorhead, ‘Kill ‘em All’ by Metallica and the Sex Pistols’ Pretty Vacant playing at an actually quite ear-bending level over the PA system. It would seem there is a theme here.
There is something mildly strange about a film ‘festival’ (I say festival when it’s more of a marathon) of this nature being organised and presented by Mark Charnock and Dominic Brunt. Strange, because the two likeable chaps on the stage presenting each film are two of Emmerdale’s darlings (‘Marlon’ and ‘Paddy respectively), a farm-set soap in which the most traumatic scenes revolve around being served a heady pint in the Woolpack or
receiving food poison from one of Betty Eagleton’s home made scones. Oh, and the occasional plane crash/storm/explosion (circle one).
The two men prove themselves to be jovial hosts who are clearly passionate about the event, ironically in aid of the World Society of Protection of Animals, which surely runs in direct contradiction to a scene in Reanimator in which a reanimated cat is repeatedly smashed into a wall until death takes its life once again, much to the joy of the present audience. This could perhaps serve as the equivalent of watching American History X at a National Front Rally. In the introductory speech, which is essentially a chance for the Dales duo to exhibit some ‘fanboy’ trivia, Mark wishes the audience a good time whilst he and Dominic ‘are of to Vue for a rom-com festival’. Of course, it’s a witticism and the audience laugh and move on from it, allowing images straight from ’68 to swamp the large projector screen, as Night of the Living Dead swamps the stark white projector screen with its iconic opening sequence.
As that trusty Pontiac makes its way up the gravel drive way, whilst the iconic ‘stars and stripes’ blows solemnly in the background, it becomes obvious that the Leeds City Varieties Centre is a venue with character, its faded shades of green and red décor hold no testament to the broad spectrum of acts who have performed here throughout its rich existence (Britain’s oldest theatre since 1888).
From the Royal Shakespeare Company right across the border of where art meets entertainment, to The Krankies, this venue has seen it all and reeks of history. Why not host a zombie festival here? If it’s good enough for The Krankies…. It is mentioned by Dom that Leeds’ Vue multiplex offered to host the festival, but logistically the cinema is nowhere near the town centre which ‘would make ‘going for a pint’ in the interval a problem’. Plus, looking around, there are a few audience members who might find it a problem hailing a cab in various states of decomposition....

Continued in Part Two

Adam Has A Novel Idea: Part Two (or a rare moment of clarity)

So... finally sat down today after a few non-productive months where the novel is concerned.

Outlined the general direction of the story arc, and have set about asking myself some very important questions in regards to who, what, where, when, why, and how.

As I was saying in the last novel blog I wrote, the two main characters who are essentially 'fox and hound' polar opposites fall in love after she tries to kill him.

After this 'event', she feels understandably bad, and gets in touch with him. Thus creating an 'awkward second date' type situation. Or a blind date even, as technically they haven't even met really.

And then it came to me.

The whole freaking glorious story is one big analogy for dating.

It's all there. The nerves as she 'notices' him, albeit through the scope of a high-powered sniper rifle. His inability to 'read' the situation (typical bloke, dont you know) ie, he doesnt know someone is making eyes at him. Clash of personalities (or a bullet in the shoulder/knee, in this case).

This first 'meet' is almost atypical of a 'Blind Date' scenario, and all the second-guessing that comes with it.
And of course, it ends in the all too familiar way. The guy gets shot down, and the woman scarpers, probably to eat Ben and Jerry's or dismantle her gun tripod. You know, what ever it is ladies are into these days.

So the story is on track.

And it got me thinking of some excellent chat-up techniques and 'lines' I have heard (and maybe even tried) whilst out and about.

• Firstly, and with a surprisingly high success rate, is the shouty chat up. You find someone you like the look of, approach the back of her head, and yell at her. If she doesnt punch you or attract the attention of a nearby bouncer, then she will probably be interested in buying you a kebab. And maybe breakfast.
• 'Can I buy you a drink, or would you rather have something else of equivalent monetary value?'
• 'Can I stand here?'
• 'From over there you looked like Anne Widdecombe so I thought I'd come and say hey.'
• 'You, me, staring contest, NOW!'
• 'Do you wanna have sex and get married?' (say this one real fast. The speed of delivery throws them completely).
• 'Oh, you have red hair. Do the curtains match your pubes?'
• 'I'm slipping into a diabetic coma. Do you wanna come back to mine and administer an adrenaline shot to the heart. Maybe call an ambulance?' (low low low success rate...apparently).
• 'I just got the all clear from the clinic, so, what are you doing later?'
• 'Mother says its cool, so if you wanna come over...'

And I'm sure I will think up some more in due course. Some of them havent had the most concise bench test as of yet (bruises , both physical and egotistical to prove it).
So feel free.

Adz

A Deathly Dose of Doubly Dirty Diabetes (or how I learned that alliteration just doesnt sell quite as well as vagrant nudity) PART ONE

For a decade now, or as the French say, decade, I have been living with a silent killer.


No, not a psychopathic mime artist who has cracked due to audience members claiming they can actually see the sides of his 'box'. Nor carbon monoxide.

In the golden Summer of 1998, a glorious pinhole in history that gave us the Furby and Lethal Weapon 4 (thus proving while your'e never 'too old for this shit', you can always be a little too anti-semetic), I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Which was annoying. I was due to compete in the up and coming school sports day.
Shot Put- for those who are too fat to run and too uncoordinated to toss a javelin.

It struck me at night, rousing me from any hope of peaceful slumber through the double threat of severe dehydration and regular (hourly or less) passing of water.
This went on for maybe ten days. I was shattered, losing weight rapidly (so maybe I could run the 100 in 9 flat after all...), weak, and barely able to even lift a mars bar to my young pink mouth.
People noticed. My parents thought I was on smack, and before I knew it the worldwide media got involved. It was no good.



I needed to see a doctor. Who told me I needed to go to hospital. Which is where I finally learned that diabetes didnt mean I possessed the power to move things with my mind.

Now the science bit...

Within the pancreas the insulin-producing langheran glands have ceased to work, are bereft of hormones. done and dusted, over the hills and far away. Insulin just doesnt live here anymore.

What of this fabled insulin? Well. everytime you eat, the pancreas produces insulin to help control the amount of sugar that enters your bloodstream as a result. No insulin, no blood sugar control. Which is always bad and rarely good.

Which in short means I get sad outside bakeries and funfairs.

So after a week in hospital, and intense diabetes training, I was released.

But what does it all mean?

• If you have a complimentary bowl of candy beans on your coffee table, you had better damn well hide them when I visit. It's like inviting Dracula over for a garlic baguette whilst enjoying the sunrise. In a Church.


• The expression 'kid in a candy store' is a coma waiting to happen.


• Death By Chocolate is a suicide method and not, repeat NOT a dessert option.


• You are treated like a more interesting and less controversial kind of vegetarian when it comes to 'dinner-talk'.


• Woolworths closing down can be attributed to me coming off pick 'n' mix.


• No global expedition can be safely undertaken with out prior and extensive knowledge of all known pharmacies, chemists, hospitals and witch doctors. You dont wanna get 'the shakes' in Papua, New Guinea. Fo Sho.

• You had better call up everyone you've ever slept with ever, 'cos they, um, might wanna get themselves checked out.
  

• You finally realise how retarded some of your friends are when they A) ask you what would happen if they injected some of your insulin and B) recoil in horror when you approach the, syringe in hand and maniacal grin on your face.
  

Shortly I will be posting a list of symptoms and ways to cope if youre at that delicate age, and find you have the condition. I dont want to get too seriousl just yet.
Peace and love.

Adz