WE LOVE THE ENN AITCH ESS

My father found himself atop the donor waiting list, the only difficult decision being which of his failing organs they’d replace first should  suitable substitutes become available. Highly experimental application of harsh combination therapy offered us the incredible  present of being informed on Christmas morning that he’d die, and then later discovering that he’d live to see sixty because it turns out that sometimes, the drugs do work.

Wantonly heeding Touch Yourself Up In The Shower public service announcements charged me into the endlessly entertaining battle of Cutting Out Lumps In Case They’re Going To Kill You. A fast-track month or so of bureaucratic ineptitude and scalpels before I discovered that I didn’t have a highly aggressive form of cancer. Nor any other kind, as it happens, though I do now have a fetching scar in the shape of a cutlass.

You’ve Got A Virus, Go Home And Sleep It Off should’ve read You’ve Got Brain Damage Because You Had A Stroke And Our Emergency Procedures Are Woeful, Sometimes, But We’ll Put You In A Really Nice Private Hospital When We Try To Sort Out The Almighty Fuckup So That You Don’t Sue Us. No, my brother didn’t die, and he didn’t sue. He could’ve done either, or both, but thank fuck for luck [and when I write 'luck' I mean 'chance', or 'probability', or something] and thank double fuck for him not being a cunt and recognising that draining further resources from an already overstretched organisation would be destructive, mercenary and ultimately futile.

Seven hours of I’m in quite a lot of pain, actually before an x-ray revealed the catastrophic extent of the damage. Sometimes they don’t take you too seriously if you’re old, it seems. They stopped talking to my grandmother like a retard when she explained that she’d served as a nurse in the second war.

In and out in two days. Wow! They sure can get people healed up and ready to go pretty damn fast these days! My mother was really happy to be back at home so soon with two shattered vertebrae and a GP who wouldn’t prescribe painkillers unless she came down to the surgery in person. Clue: She couldn’t fucking walk. Or move at all, for that matter. Velcro and plastic were holding shards of bone in awful, stable place by virtue of agonising constriction. SHE WASN’T GOING TO BE ABLE TO SIT IN A FUCKING WAITING ROOM.

It’s both wonderful and terrible; incompetent and inspired. Above all, the NHS is necessary. So fuck these Emperor’s New Clothes campaigns. Why do we LOVE THE NHS? Why the fuck should we? It exists. We pay for it. Other things exist. Other people pay for other things, sometimes in other ways. I’m glad of it, but I recognise that it’s an organisation like any other: flawed. Calling it shit doesn’t make privately funded healthcare any better, in much the way that calling someone else dull or ugly doesn’t make you any more fascinating or aesthetically pleasing. Think it’s shit? Well, let’s have your egalitarian alternative. Think it’s great? GREAT. I’m not certain that means you love it though, unless you’re one of those cunts who LOVES Cheese Strings and puppies and The Saturdays and Fern Britton and tea towels and anal suppositories and disposable barbecues.

By the way, you’re naked.

MICHAEL FUCKING JACKSON

Along with many thousands of others, I was at Glastonbury festival when I heard that Michael Jackson had died. I seem to recall someone saying to me have you heard? Michael Jackson is dead to which I replied oh, really? Okay. It was *that* dramatic.

Later that night, I lay snuggled in my sleeping bag, asleep. And then awake, to the sound of a group of well spoken girls discussing Michael Jackson’s demise, which they did by screaming such things as OHHHHH, NO-ONE’S TOLD A RAAAACIST JOKE YET! ahahahahaHAH LET’S TELL A RACIST JOKE! oh hahahah COME ON TILLY, say something racist! SAY SOMETHING RACIST! Well. There was only one thing to do. I did not get up. I did not leave the tent. I turned my head slightly and shouted you make me want to fucking kill myself in the general direction from whence the hooting came. The cuntbubbles did not respond, but I heard one of my friends say I thought Cam went to bed…

I suppose a pop star dying is ‘news’. When it happens. You know, report it, and move on. Right?

What’s that? You think 23 hours of ‘BREAKING’ Sky News coverage of the death of a pop star is a contradiction in terms? You don’t like endless commentary about a dead pop star? You find the media wholly saturated with shit about a dead pop star? You weren’t one of the 6 million people in the UK to watch portions of the epic televised memorial service for a dead pop star? [Think I'm being a little hypocritical right now? You're correct. And what of it?]

Oh well, but he was a GENIUS, right? Surely we should celebrate THAT?

Some songs, some dancing. Most of which one could watch and listen to again, if one felt so inclined. He hadn’t done anything particularly successful for a good few years, unless you consider cultivating a thoroughly insane reputation and making your face look hideous via plastic surgery a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. Or selling tickets for a concert. Actually, that one worked out Quite Well. mmm.

What about the KIDS? You haven’t mentioned CHILDREN YET. Why not?

I was getting to that. He sure did like children, didn’t he? As the troubled product of an abusive childhood it doesn’t seem particularly shocking that he might have some inappropriate ideas and inclinations. As to whether he liked to play with little boys or play with little boys, I don’t know. Either would be unacceptable from the unmarried middle-aged man living down the road, because he’s not a pop star. He may speak in a high-pitched voice, but he’s not a rich pop star. STONE THE PAEDO and leave our Michael and his Jesus Juice to Rest In Peace.

Anyway. I’m clearly not doing an exhaustive round-up of the Michael Jackson revisionist reporting debacle. My original point was about racism. Glastonbury was aflood with shit, hippies, and bad jokes on a theme of dead pop star. Fine. People  seem compelled to joke about such matters, and joke with varying degrees of skill and taste. FINE. I like jokes. Joke away. Joke about paedohilia, plastic and death. It’s crass and it may not turn out to be at all amusing, but go ahead.

Do not, however, think that shouting SAY SOMETHING RACIST at 3am and hooting with mirth will win you any friends. You will sound like a cunt. Yes, the man quite possibly had some issues with the colour of his skin, but that’s not a call for A RACIST JOKE, Tilly! Mock his actions, celebrate his life, write about him in every newspaper every day until the End Of Time for all I fucking care, but it’s probably not a good idea to broadcast your discriminatory tendencies. They’re not funny anyway.

BOMBS

On this date four years ago, bombs were detonated on London’s mass transit systems. Three underground trains and a bus. Fifty-two people were killed. I give no particular credence to conspiracy theories, so let’s run with the assumption that they were indeed terrorist, suicide affairs.

I live and work  in London and always have, barring those four years spent studying in another place. On the day in question I was at home, woken by worried phone calls from family. Of course I’d neglected to tell anyone if I was working or not, so they may have been justified in their concern. As it happens, no conceivable route to my place of employ could have placed me in any particular danger, and the same is true for the majority of the people I knew at the time. But it’s quite natural to worry for one’s immediate contacts, and it’s understandable to imagine the worst. Is it, however, acceptable to behave like this bitch?

Shocked and tearful, she related the details of how she’d lost someone at work. It was terrible. Horrendous. They’d been killed in the bus blast. Everyone was shattered. Oh, the grief. The grief. She basked in our concern until further questioning revealed that the victim had been a cleaner at the building in which she worked, and they’d never met. Fucking vulture, hovering around, tearing off satisfyingly fleshy strips of grief. Yes, it’s quite natural to feel involved. It was so close. It could’ve been anyone. It still could be anyone because such plots are ongoing, or so I’m led to believe.

But you can feel appalled and saddened without attempting to stake your claim on someone else’s life and death. You don’t have to link yourself via a tenuous series of connections in order to care. You can be scared, sickened and furious without a physical fastening to an atrocity. And you can remember the victims without trying to somehow own them.

FREEDOM OF INFORMATION

My source in the Cabinet Office won’t tell me anything that isn’t already in the public domain. I tried writing FREEDOM OF INFORMATION ACT on my foot with lipstick and kicking him in the balls, but he wouldn’t budge. Fucking Official Secrets Act. Ruining all my fun.

You might be aware that a vast number of queries are hurled at the government on all manner of matters, and the lovely government allocates each of these requests for information to the relevant department in order that a response be given. Twenty-one days are allowed for this process, and though they aim to deal with each matter in fourteen an extension may be allowed. I’ve also been told the first week and a half is generally spent passing the parcel until it ends up back with the initial recipient, who then deals with it. Exciting stuff.

On the whole, I’m in favour of freedom of information legislation. There, I’ve said it. I want to hear about budgets and duck houses. I want to be able to request details of properties owned by the MOD in North Somerset, or the Royal Mail postbox location list for 2009 [as people indeed have]. And do you know what else I’m in favour of? This:

I like the idea of asking a question, any question, and being almost certain of not just receiving a response, but receiving a response rich in fact. I’d like it to be applied more widely, to everyone really. I’d like to propose that we all carry a FREEDOM OF INFORMATION card we can withdraw from wallet or pocket and brandish at someone. And then they have to tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to whatever we damned well ask them. We can ask them anything. Any fucking thing.

Court cases might be suddenly concluded. Relationships terminated. Secrets revealed, and a whole lot of people fired.

Practically speaking, there’d have to be an individual limit of one question per person per day, or we’d all use them all the time and things would get a bit fucking ridiculous. Can you  imagine? No-one would get anything done without the social facilitator of moderate dishonesty and selective revelation. Dammit, we need this façade to function. So there’d be the daily personal allowance of one query given and one received. That’s as much to protect the poor folk in the public eye from receiving constant harrassment from all the dirty little plebs as to save us all from feeling relentlessly hounded.

I think people might generally start being a little more decent and honest with this threat-card burning a hole in our collective wallet. I think people might find themselves thinking and questioning a little more frequently. I think people might realise that they already have such a card, in some certain figurative sense, and we’re not limited to one request a day. The Government awaits your curiosity.

On a personal note, what would be your first question?

UNEMPLOYMENT

We’re all fucking unemployed these days. The country’s in a sorry, shitting state, and there’s nothing good on TV. The weather doesn’t know whether to burn us or piss on us. Here’s how to get through these difficult times:

How To Appear Retarded At Your Local Job Centre PLUS

Look at the idiot lady dispensing such wonderful advice as have you considered broadening your horizons? Now’s the time to really think about a new direction. Look at her, straight-faced. Look into her dead eyes as she asks if you’ve considered customer services, or being a teacher. Look at her without a hint of a smile and slowly ask what’s an NVQ?

She’ll explain, her Local Government face showing a delicate blend of pity and disgust. Blart out a little laugh and say well, I’ve got a degree. She won’t believe you. But fuck her. You’ve got a [completely redundant] BA (Hons) in Philosophy from a redbrick university, and you’re fucking fluffing documentation to jump through Government hoops and win a gold star and twenty-seven pence a week. Who’s the loser here, eh?

You’re welcome.

CANCER

In cheery Monday news, men are apparently at greater risk from cancer than women. That’s risk of both developing the disease, and dying from it.

Lifestyle blah not visiting the doctor blah no known biological reason for this blah. Research plus statistics equals results that somehow translate into SCAREMONGERING HEADLINES. Yes, they’re only being warned now, but tomorrow it’ll be a RED LEVEL THREAT.

I’m not surprised men don’t always visit the doctor. They’re encouraged to ignore symptoms of colds, sprains and DEATH alike, else they’re a pussy. I myself don’t always visit my GP when I feel like shit, because I don’t want to waste their time. [See where I'm going with this? Ooh, the flow. Seamless as ever]. Sometimes, though, you know you have to.

Once, I was in the shower, and I discovered a lump. On me. You’re always told to check for such developments, but don’t honestly expect to find one. And when you do, fuck, there’s a sudden tangle of disbelief, fear and adrenaline which may result in you standing under running water for an hour staring blankly at tiles, forgotten shower gel in hand.

So I made an appointment with my GP. Except he wasn’t available, so his practice partner stepped in. She is significantly lacking in bedside manner, and regularly receives complaints from patients. Or to put it another way, my way, she’s a monstrous fucking failure and shouldn’t be allowed near the general public. Having been reduced to tears after two minutes in her presence, I told her I wasn’t comfortable with continuing the appointment and left. Still in tears. I did remember to book myself back in to see someone else because, well, you don’t fuck around with lumps.

I can see why there may be reluctance to see a doctor. They might be shit. They might give you shit news. They might think you’re timewasting. You might be embarrassed. You might have to go to hospital and see more doctors. They might send you to see more doctors still. You might find yourself scheduled for surgery in a couple of weeks. You might find those weeks excruciating, as every day you feel the lump grow. You might not receive answers from doctors, so you might want to look up possibilities on the internet and scare yourself witless and shitless. You might find yourself crying at odd moments, but wondering why you are, because it’s not like you’ve done much with your life in any case.

And then it’s done and you’ve got a scar under your arm but no results, and that wait’s as bad as the previous.

Someone from the hospital called me during my morning commute on the last working day before Christmas. In a really quite  odd coincidence that hadn’t happened before and hasn’t since, I’d bumped into my younger brother on the journey, so he was sitting opposite. The carriage listened in as I finished the call, stretched between disapproval and curiousity [sorry, I know I was on a train, but I did have to take that one] and my brother remarked What an odd conversation. What’s all that about? and I replied I don’t have cancer and burst into tears.

Go to the doctor. Even if they’re a cunt.

SEX EDUCATION

Oh, where would we be without Jeremy Kyle, Britain’s shouty moral compass? I, for one, would not know the thrill of watching a teenage relationship fall apart as DNA test results shatter a father’s dreams of evading the CSA.

A little earlier this year it was nigh on impossible to avoid news coverage of a charming story in which a foetus-faced lad of thirteen had apparently impregnated a girl just two years older than him. Turns out, he wasn’t the father, as a veritable playgroup of lotharios all put their hands up and admitted to having had a go on the hussy.

Just why are all these useless squits so keen to have unprotected sex with multiple partners? Because STD and Pregnancy Roulette is of course a brilliant game to play, and you really get to savour the outcome if it lives with you and calls you a bitch until it’s eighteen, or makes your cock fall off. Win win.

Sex education in the British education system is just too hit-and-miss, I’m afraid. In Junior School I was taught by an alcoholic who used to swig vodka and orange from a Lucozade bottle all day. He gave the class an impromptu lesson in love on a drunken Wednesday whim. Highlights included graphic descriptions of fucking, a factually incorrect account of male pubertal development [no, apparently you don't turn eighteen and walk down the road and suddenly your BALLS DROP and make a really loud *CLACK* sound just like THAT], and tales of fondling girls in the back row of a cinema.

Having already been told a slightly more appropriate account of such matters by my disgustingly nice middle-class parents, I don’t think I was too scarred by that day. Yes, I was mildly horrified when he directed searching sexual questions at me in front of the whole class, but he wasn’t pissing his filth on a tabula rasa. I can’t speak for the other children. They’re probably pretty fucked up.

Parents can usually opt their child out of the more legitimate equivalent of this kind of lesson. They’re given written notice and an opportunity to do so. Unfortunately for my class, the first we knew of our morning’s enlightenment was when we gathered around the northern halfwit and he began to bleat about his penis. I’m not suggesting anyone should opt out of standard, non-alcoholic lessons because I firmly believe in compulsory sex education from a much earlier age. And by all means, inform the parents. Perhaps they could also talk to their little baby-and-disease-farms-in-waiting about getting hairy, waiting for the right person, and always using a condom. Someone needs to fucking tell them.

That teacher? I got him fired.

DNA
For a chance to make the father of your baby face his responsibilities by appearing on the show call Klare on 0161 95 20786 or email klare.gaulton@itv.com

EXPENSES

I’ve noticed a degree of news coverage regarding the matter of expenses, specifically those associated with politicians. Yes, I’m very astute.

And we’re all so fucking horrified. So very appalled. Shocked, surprised, and disappointed. It’s DISGUSTING, isn’t it? We don’t pay our taxes so that politicians can SPUNK money on FANCY WALLPAPER. We pay for our hospital, our binman, our school, and we resent every penny that goes to Scotland or the swelling horde of dolescum appearing on the horizon.

I’m probably not the only girl to have been bought drinks for matters somewhat distinct from work on a gentleman’s expense account, and though I remember at the time thinking that this was somewhat dishonest and wrong, my moral objections somehow translated into why yes, I’d love another caipirinha, thank you very much as they left my mouth. And then his company account paid for my cab home. Sorry, Konami. That wasn’t a ‘client meeting’, and you’re not getting any new business.

I’m certainly not the only person to have known friends, colleagues and acquaintances who rinse their company credit card for all manner of faff, most of it not even vaguely work-related. Plenty of people are taking liberties. Of course that doesn’t make it acceptable, but we do accept it, so why feign surprise at those greedy, greedy politicians? I’m shocked that anyone’s even pretending to be shocked. I seem to recall being quite aware of the John Lewis List quite some time ago.

Of course the full and horrific details [DUCK HOUSES! FUCKING GASP!] weren’t previously public and not too many people knew of the mortgage ‘accidents’, house-swapping and epic tax avoidance, so I’d really like to thank the media for revealing and revelling in both trivial gore and significant detail. Oh, mustn’t forget a special congratulatory mention of The Daily Telegraph for desperately stretching a story over forty days and forty nights, and facilitating this beautiful foot-shooting episode from Anthony “I’ve got a vewy, vewy large house” Steen. Yes, we’re jealous. But you’re still a cunt.