» Blood

Lumpy
Blood

I had to go to hospital recently for blood tests for the first time in about ten years or so. The last time I recall I was in my late teens and horny as fuck and counting on the spurious reputation of nurses, I dressed up in my finest finery for them lest they should find my condition sympathetic and want to blow me. Condition = bleeding all over them. Sexy!

I am not a haemophiliac. I have a thing called VonWillembrandts Disease. It's like haemophilia's embarrassing little brother. It tries to stop your blood from clotting but you'd hardly notice it unless you had a massive gash.

Thing is, I'm led to believe it's rare, so haematologists drool over it. I would be gladly disavowed of the notion by any medical types out there so as I can be done with the cycle of pain and angst this thing represents to me.

Now, before you break out the Kleenex, whilst this tale has a pretty sad climax coming up, I do not require sympathy from anyone. This should otherwise, hopefully turn out a decent yarn or a vilification of the medical profession in Ireland in the 1980's. I can't comment about them now except to say that their notions of how people with jobs allocate their time are in need of some revision.

At the very least, it will allow me to excise the thing once and for all as I have never detailed it in it's entirety to anyone so what better place than the tenuous anonymity of an internet forum! :)

As a child, having a medical condition was a double-edged sword: Your family and close friends treated you kindly, swaddling you even to counteract the misery and the discomfort of being a pin cushion. For most of our childhood, my brothers and I referred to Doctors and nurses as vampires they took that much blood out of us for testing.

The conditions were generally cold and cramped portacabins. The Nuns were still running the show so sympathy was not on the menu and they worshipped the doctors like Gods as they zipped in and out, performed their nefarious tasks (after we waited hours despite having appointments) and disappeared again without ever pausing for question and never once looking you in the eye, addressing you civilly or treating you like anything other than a cadaver.

In later life we learned the Mengelesque haematology professor overseeing our suffering had been dining out on his findings for some time and so was much enthused to prolong the process.

The peak of our hospital attendances came in the mid eighties around the time when the AIDS epidemic was spiralling out of control. News stories of infected blood transfusions were rife and Rock Hudson was the first major star to be pronounced to be dying of the new "gay
" disease.

I do not have HIV. Nor do any of my brothers. This is not that kind of story.

The other side of the sword is as follows: Children are cruel. When little baz and his bros arrived home early as we had been given the day off school (YAY!) to attend hospital and were already out on the street playing football as the other kids arrived home from school, discarded their rucksacks and began to play kickabout, they noticed we were all sporting little cotton buds held by medical tape in the crooks of our arms so being kids, therefore curious, they asked "Why?".

In our innocence, we told them.

Within moments, the whispering campaign had begun.

In what seemed barely days in my fuzzy childish recollection, the other kids went from childish inquiries like,

"Why do you have cotton buds on your arms?"

to

"What's wrong with your blood?"

to

"Do you have AIDS?"

to

"Are you like Rock Hudson?"

to

"HAHA You're gay!"

"You have AIDS!"

"Rock Hudson is your Da!"

"Stay away from baz, lads or he'll try to kiss you"

I was maybe, ten years old.

My nickname was now, "Aidser".

As a kid, you try to persevere, don't you? You want to play football forever and run and bike and play kiss-chasing with girls but people look at you funny now. The news is exploding with AIDS stories and even parents start to tell their kids to play away from you. It quickly became too much to bear, standing there on your lonesome playing ball or that awful fucking name spelling it out for all to see as if you were some filthy diseased deviant child from hell.

My brothers were younger. I'm not sure how much it ever affected them. We never spoke about it. I became a recluse. I buried my head in my headphones and never looked at the kids who taunted me every day as I passed alone.

I thought I had left that shit behind me to be honest but I was back in the hospital recently as my Mother's behest to *finalise* the process once and for all. Then I was back the following week. "Results in September", they say, after twenty-some-odd years of not knowing what was really going on so I have to go back again.

I fucking fainted like a big pansy. The moment the needle hit, my mind raced back to childhood and the humiliation, the taunting and never understanding why children, FUCKING CHILDREN, could be so spectacularly cruel. I had to lie down and be brought water by a little fat lady. My Mother came over all, well, motherly and told me I never liked the needles. She then tried to support me as I walked away. I wasn't that bad but it was sweet and hilarious as she's all of about 4ft11 and I'm 5ft9 and not much shy of 14 stone. Me Ma said I didn't have to go back to work. Again, really sweet but can you imagine a thirty something year olds Ma calling in sick for him?

I went back to work.

Hoped you liked my story!

If you feel yourself coming over all hugs and fluffeh, please don't as I'll probably delete the whole thing. I hate sympathy. I've skin like a rhino but jaysus have I a lump in me throat right now.

rafter!
baz
(Thu 7th Aug 2008, 17:07, More)

» Spoilt Brats

Children in restaurants
I went for a bite to eat one sunday in the Marriott near where the clan live with some of the aforementioned clan. Top scran for a Sunday lunch. Wine list was taking the piss though.

Upon arriving we were greeted by a packed restaurant. It was, expectedly, a little noisy, but one sound stood out above all - an infant banging the top of a knife repeatedly on the table – as in, half-machine gun speed BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!!!

We endeavoured to persevere.

Eventually its parent took the knife away but only after some lunatic the other side of the restaurant started banging his knife on the table too in what could have been an exchange of Morse code.

Most effective, I must say.

Other children were running about and screaming at each other so the same mad genius of the aforementioned Morse code incident spoke quite loudly that it was the duty of all adults when confronted with unruly, unsupervised children in public places to ensure that said orphaned scallywags should not escape the day without having been introduced to the word. ‘Fuck’.

Again, so efficacious was our hero’s means that not another sugar-propelled snot machine passed the table for the duration of the
sojourn.

I am a spoilt brat.

rafter
baz
(Fri 10th Oct 2008, 15:18, More)

» Family Feuds

Mate of my brothers' Da
doesnt speak to his brother because he once sucked the head off his pint of Guinness.

They once had a brief rapprochement after something like 15 years.

They went down the pub to try to sort out their differences, clear the air and such.

So my brothers' mates' Da buys two pints of Guinness, lays them down on the table and says,

"I'm going to the jacks - that should have settled buy the time I get back"

And as quick as his back is turned, his brother picks up yer mans pint and sucks the head clean off it again then breaks his bollix laughing.

When yer man gets back from the jacks, all hell breaks loose and they havent spoken since.

rafter
baz
(Thu 12th Nov 2009, 15:21, More)

» Call Centres

How to call call centres:
Howaya,

1 - Greeting

I have to greet you - you simply should greet me as this is how adults communicate. Please do

not begin the conversation with account numbers, serial numbers, a tirade of issues, your ire

at the last clown you spoke to or the amount of telephone numbers you have already called to

no avail. All of this can be discussed in due course.


2 - The issue/the problem/the matter at hand

Spare me the details of the preceding events leading up to this moment. They can also be

discussed in due course. Please get to the point quickly, have the relevant information to

hand such as account numbers, serial numbers etc and put some thought into exactly why you are

calling me.


3 - Procedure

I am bound by procedure. If I am asking you to send me a fax, email, call another number, wait

24 hours, call me back the details of your account, device, product etc, it is because I have

to. The people who pay me at the end of every month assure me this is for your own

security/protection.

If you wish to escalate, please do. Generally, there are armies of middle-management zealots around all too keen to spin you a line, promise you the world, lie through their teeth, kiss your arse and get a sum total of NOTHING done. Enjoy!


4 - Questions

Listen to the questions I am asking you and answer them only. I know what I am doing and will

ask you for the rest when I need it. I am a desk jockey tied to a phone and a computer which

dictates when it needs to be fed each course. Don't blame me. Blame Bill Gates.


5 - Patience

There are Byzantine levels of bureaucracy put in place to make this as difficult for you as

possible. I didn't put them there. I'm just trying to earn a crust here. If I had any ambition

or desire for autonomy, surely I wouldn't be working here?


However, I do have the tools to solve your problem.

All I require from you is a modicum of courtesy and competence.

thanks
rafter
baz


*awaits tirade of contradiction or total ambivalence*
(Wed 9th Sep 2009, 11:05, More)

» Nightclubs

Just follow the beams, man! (pt 2)
Just follow the beams, man! (pt 2)

Bernie and I cruised nonchalantly into the mega-club, conscious our heightened state of awareness might look suspicious if we continued to celebrate quite so joyously.

As if a six-foot-six inch man with dyed blonde hair, red plastic blackout sunglasses, a smile so beaming it gave the strobes a run for their money and to all intents and purposes, an outfit cobbled together from a thrift store catering to golf enthusiasts and performers in the Mardi Gras parade accompanied by a highly amused Irishman endeavouring to affect earnestness wasn’t enough to arouse suspicion.

A cornucopia of earthly delights was revealed to us.

Had Hieronymous Bosch bore witness to such extravagance and debauchery, he would have cast down his paint brush, sold his soul to the devil and got his freak on (to the break o’ dawn).

We bee-lined to the nearest bar to take stock of things:

All about was eclecticism…beauties from nations far and wide.

Men devoted entirely to a look, an image, an idea.

Not a dilettante was there to be found.

It was decided, that in the absolutism of our respective choice of attire, we would fit right in and having lowered something gloriously bright and strewn with mini-garden furniture, we decided it would be best to dance.

But where?

Shall we rave it up with the gurn-jawed day-glo-ers?

Or wave our hands in the air til we just don’t care with the hipitty-hoppers in huge baggy pants and gleaming white vests?

Should we take ourselves through to the 80’s disco where men in too-short drainpipe pants, cardigans and shoes with tassles leaned on the bar gesturing to the Siouxsie Sioux-style clad covens in the respective corners?

In the distance I can hear The Cures’ ‘Close To You’. I look through the crowds to see legions of black-clad miserablists stepping back and forth with their heads hung low.

I could join them.
I’d fit right in.

I motioned to Bernie.
He hung his head like a shaggy dog.

They would eat him alive in his polyester xmas wrapping paper ensemble.

We looked further on.

Then there it was:

An Indy club!

The final strains of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ spirited away the revellers as The Smiths,

‘This Charming Man’ tuned up.

The floor was empty.

But THIS is my tune!

I leapt forward and bounded onto the dancefloor.

“PUNCTURED BICYCLE –
ON A HILLSIDE DESOLATE –
WILL NATURE MAKE A MAN OF ME?”

I am punching the breadbasket, my lips pouting coquettishly as my hips and feet twist like Chubby Checker on VHS fast-forward.

The floor remains empty.
People stare.

I am unperturbed.
I taunt them.

Bernie approaches.

Two hulking meters of quality street wrappers with a halogen lamp for a head he appears grinning.

He mimics my movement then shuttles off into his own groove - a toned down rave-up in a field in an English summer.

Then the pretty girls gravitate towards the dancefloor.

Bernie and I have become centrifugal.

The sulking men give chase.

I sing to Bernie.

“…AND IN THIS CHARMING PAST –
THIS CHA-HA-ARM – MING MAN!! –
WHY COMPROMISE COMPLEXITY –
WHEN THE LEATHER RUNS SMOOTH ON THE PASSENGER SEA-EA-EA-EAT –“

Bernie joins in.

“I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear”

I am in stitches at this.

I raise my eyebrows to the roof as he realises what a spectacle he is and the irony of the words to him.

He is in stitches.

We are beaming.

Pretty girls are beaming at us.

As the song fades out, they try to speak but words are beyond us.

We are eyeball deep in the throes of acid euphoria.

We hug and kiss them all then make our way to the bar for another pitcher of something so shiny, it is enthralling and we have to drag our drug-addled eyes away from it.

We do the tour.

We hang our heads and oscillate with the miserablists.
We nod in time to the obscured thumping of hip-hop anthems.
We ‘Danser Le Mia’ trying not to grin at the over-exposed pastel –coloured towelling socks but they are so very colourful as they shoot tracers across the floor.

Not a thought of danger even knocked at the door of our minds as the evening drew to its’ conclusion around 5am and Bernie, perma-grinned, drove us home where he would sleep on the tiled floor of my tiny dorm room.

In the morning, he was deflated.

He put his sunglasses on and bade me farewell until the next time.
I had no idea when that would be.

Once he showed up around 1am begging me to accompany him to the mega-club but it was porno night on Canal+ and he didn’t have any drugs so I refused and he didn’t show up for a while.

We had several nights like the one described at length above though.

Sometimes I wonder where he is now.

I hope he’s alright but I imagine he is quite mad somewhere or still trying to rave it up on an island in the east.

I can’t do that shit anymore.

It hurts too much.

Rafter
baz
(Thu 16th Apr 2009, 10:06, More)