Babies Big Day Out

About 2 days ago, I had what I would class as a brilliant day health wise. I didn’t have to go to the loo once, I went out and enjoyed myself and had no anxiety attacks at all. I can count days like that on one hand. I know that I didn’t go to the loo a lot due to a raging 2 day hangover during which I ate nothing. So it appears alcohol does have some benefits then! I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a day like that. I went down to my mate Jamie’s house in Wraysbury. Generally chilled out and relaxed, he has a pool there which is a massive bonus. We did intend to go down and work, well I was going to do some writing, but I saw that going out the window as I packed an x box and an air rifle into the back of his car.

So we got down there and off the bat decided to make ample use of his large garden and sunshine by breaking out the air rifle. We dotted some targets around the garden, zeroed the sights and cracked off some pellets. It wasn’t long before we decided to search around for some more “interesting” targets. A quick scout round the shed came up trumps with about 10 aerosols of varying sizes. It was at this point I caught Jamie’s eye and instantly recognised that childish look of mischief, you could practically hear the cogs turning in his head and to be fair I was well on his wavelength. We also then found some sections of steel tubing that some of the cans fit snugly into. Homemade mortar attempt, round 1. We built a small fire with the tube in the middle, with the can inside the tube. It took its sweet time to warm up but there was a more than satisfying bang and can went into orbit. It was probably a bad idea to do this under the Heathrow flight path, but I didn’t hear of any crashes so I guess we’re ok. The masterpiece though was 4 large cans gaffa taped together, a liberal sprinkling of petrol, stand back, light and fire. There was a very impressive fireball and a hefty bang and we narrowly avoided burning down his shed.

So now we had nothing to blow up. So again we had always talked about making a zip line from one of the tall trees. So we recovered some old rope from an attempt at a swing and started to test how much weight it could hold. I snapped it rapidly. At this point Jamie’s next door neighbour, Theo, pops his head over the fence and enquires as to what we’re doing, so we tell him and replied “Hold on a minute I’ve got loads of proper climbing gear and rope you can use.” JACKPOT

We get about anchoring the rope in the tree which Jamie climbed like a monkey on a speed then set about anchoring it to a tree near the ground, Theo pops back over to assist us in rigging up a system of about 3 or 4 pulleys so we could tighten the rope up so it wasn’t slack. Then all that was needed was the addition of a safety line to act as a brake and the knowledge of the nearest A+E. We were ready to rock and roll.

I feel at this point I should mention, I fucking HATE heights! They are one of the few things that genuinely scare the life out of me. So Jamie is back off up the tree like a monkey making it look like a decrepit old woman could do it. Puts his hand through the strap, holds onto it grabs onto it with his other hand and then falls out of the tree and flies down the line. Actually looks pretty cool me thinks.

Balls. My Turn. So I climb up the worlds ricketiest ladder and gradually manage to scramble up the tree avoiding a trip to the hospital so far. I put my hand through the loop of material, held onto it and grabbed it with the other hand. At this point my bum was making noises that only certain breeds of bats can hear. “Just fall out the tree nice and easy” something about that sentence didn’t quite fill me with confidence. Fuck it. I held on for dear life and dropped. Bugger me it was quick. I looked back and realised it was probably only about 25 foot tall at the most. We then changed the pulley we slid on to a faster one and the second time climbing the tree was worse. My legs went to jelly and my arms and hands cramped up but I soldiered on for another go. After that I was done though.

Hadn’t had such a good day in ages

Religious Ponderings

I have been pondering life lately, quite deeply and how unfair and unjust it seems to be.

I promise all of you, when I do die, if and when I meet the powers that be, I am going to knock the cunts out. There is no reason that any person, young, old, male or female should have to go through what any of us have been through, are going through or are going to go through. I have never been a particularly religious person. I went to church as a kid even though in hindsight my parents aren’t religious really, it was more just to get me into the local good church of England school. In fact I find it particularly hilarious how my dad must have begrudgingly dragged himself out of bed early on a Sunday morning probably hung over to go and listen to what must have amounted to an hour of crap in his eyes. I like to believe in the idea of some kind of higher power but I just think there are too many things that don’t make sense about the ideas of most organised religions.

For example take Christianity. God supposedly created me in his image, so in saying that, how can I be more forgiving than god? So if we go by religion, If I sin, I am going to hell FOREVER, but if I had a son for example and he does something bad I punish him until he has learnt his lesson, I don’t chain him up in the basement and torture him for the rest of his days, it makes the idea of hell redundant surely? And that fact that you look at how many times the bible has been translated through different languages across different generations there must be errors and if you look at the fact the some books of the bible were just left out because early popes didn’t like their content. The new testament was passed over orally for hundreds of years before it was written down and a lot of it was other peoples accounts. I mean come on, you must have played Chinese whispers and seen how the end turns out very different to the beginning.

Now I’m not knocking peoples decisions to be religious or not. That’s the path they’ve chosen, I’ve just gone down a different one. Another factor is I just cannot fathom how so many good people have to go through so much shit, and scum get all the breaks. I’m a bit of a believer in karma though so really I am due a big euro millions win soon, either that or I was a total cunt and secret mass murderer as a child. I’ve seen good, hard working people go through a lot of shit and I can’t think of a good reason for it other than life is just ballbag then you die. Ah well, it’s all about playing the hand your dealt and making the best of it while you have it because you never know when you are going to have the rug pulled clean from under your feet and suddenly wish you could live your life over again.

“So live your life so the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their views, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and of service to your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or sign of salute when meeting or passing a stranger if in a lonely place. Show respect to all people, but grovel to none. When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies in yourself. Touch not the poisonous firewater that makes wise ones turn to fools and robs them of their visions. When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.”

If only people could live their lives by the above quote, then we would all be fine. We’ll we may have to scrap the no alcohol bit though 😛

Always remembering the gramps, RIP

A trip to St. Bart’s

Even though the title of my blog is quite pessimistic and negative I assure you I am not that bad, actually I just like the word “ballbag”. Yes sports fans, I am that immature sometimes. In fact any euphemism for a man or woman’s nether regions and I will usually be found stifling a giggle somewhere. The cruder the better as far as I’m concerned. To be honest in many respects I am very lucky, for example having such a good network of support behind me in the forms of friends, family and even near enough strangers who have been through the same shite I am due to go through. To top it off, I also have a fantastic gastroenterologist and his team that I trust with my life and they have worked wonders for me.

I have had an interesting day today, some aspects good, some crap. I had to be at St Bart’s hospital at 11am today for an appointment with my consultant. I arrived fashionably late as it was and went direct from the car park to the public toilets next to it, leaving my poor mate Jamie, a fucking diamond after putting up with me today, who had come with me for giggles to fend for himself outside. So twenty minutes later, I emerge what felt like a stone lighter. Still I feel the need to apologise to friends and family, even though they know the score, for delaying things, getting stuck in the loo, dropping arrangements at the last minute. I still feel like a twat though even though I can help it.

So onward to outpatients! WAIT wait wait, no I’m going to the nearest toilet instead. It was around now I realised I was going to have a hefty job ahead of me so once I hunkered down in my chosen grotty cubicle I text Jamie and told him to make himself comfortable and pointed him in the direction of the cafe and shop. Ok, so by this point I’m now half an hour late, there I now way of ringing as I’ve tried that before and I don’t think the message gets through to the intended parties, as they give you half an hour’s grace as it is. So now cracking on for an hour late, I had a brainwave, using my newfangled smart phone I emailed my consultant and apologised profusely and informed him I was stuck about 40m from him in a toilet because of my misbehaving insides. He said “Not to worry, I’m still here so come up if you want.” I cracked open a can of man up, clenched tightly and waddled up a floor to outpatients.

Jamie by now must have been on the 803,434th level of angry birds the amount of time I had spent in the shitter, and now he had to wait more bless him (note to self: I owe Jamie a few beers). So first I got weighed, can’t quite remember the exact number but around the 68kg mark. Result, the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and means I’ve put on nearly under 2 stone since being told I had to put weight on for the op. I then went in to see my consultant, who remarked how good I was looking now I had put a bit of weight on and he was happy with how prepared I seemed to be for the impending op. I did bring up the fact I have a resting heart rate of around 110 and I never used to have a problem in getting it to reach 210 in a gym a few years back. So off for an ECG and some bloods to check for an overactive thyroid. Somehow during all this time I managed to fight the urge to run to the nearest toilet even though walking usually speeds up my digestive system. ECG done, and of course slightly tachycardic with a heart rate of around 111. Now of for the bloods.

Now for the graphic detail, due to earlier events I was feeling pretty shit as it was, well I say shit. I felt like I had been raped with a cactus. I had also lost what looked like enough blood to perform a small batch of transfusions in 3rd world countries or actually if I had been raped with a cactus, possibly laced with razors. So now for removal of more blood, good times, at least this method was a little more clinical. So I’m necking a bottle of lucozade when the nurse comments “ooh you’re thirsty!” no I’m actually just chugging this so I don’t black out in your chair. Her face immediately changes to “oh fucks sake not one of you” however I fill up 3 vials of treacly blood with nothing more eventful than a fuzzy head.

Kudos to poor Jamie who has done nothing but sit in waiting rooms for an hour and 45 minutes. He has probably completed every game on his iPhone, possibly the whole app store? I’m so fucking lucky to have such a good circle of supportive mates. Luckily the 45 minute drive home was uneventful other than every dickhead driving slowly when you’re dying to get home quickly.

Anyway, head down and crack on!

Better a bag than a box

So I’ve just been to St Bart’s Hospital to see the surgical team for what should be the last time before I actually go in for surgery. To be honest it actually went a lot better than expected other than the fact I was categorically told I am having a catheter whether I like it or not. So much for not adamantly demanding not having one. However, other than the fact they’re going to ram a tube up my cock the prognosis isn’t actually as bad as I thought it was going to be. Looking at the last full colonoscopy, active disease is limited only to the last part of my descending colon near my ever temperamental arsehole. So initially they are going to remove the affected section of colon and leave me with a colostomy preserving as much health large intestine as possible. However this may change should they open me up and find that more of my intestines were affected than first thought. So I have to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Generally though the outlook is much better than I first thought, they didn’t want to get my hopes up, but depending on if there is healthy tissue near the rectum they may be able to construct and internal pouch later on, however that’s a big “if” and I am to work on the assumption that that isn’t happening and I am going to end up with a permanent colostomy.

So hopefully I won’t be losing all of my large intestine which would be a right result. But I’m not going to know what has happened till I come round for the surgery. The surgery itself should only take 3 or so hours and they are going to attempt to do it laparoscopically which should be fine as I am relatively young and fit so I’m told. This also means the recovery process should be quicker than if they have to cut me open properly. Basically, there are a lot of ifs and buts and I am just going to have to wait and see what happens.

I’m still metaphorically shitting myself at the whole prospect of this and I had to stifle a giggle when the registrar today remarked on how calm, and accepting I seemed of everything. Well, I don’t really have a choice but to be calm and accepting. “It is foolish to fear what you cannot avoid.” (Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes) Publius Syrus. I’ve done the whole getting angry and then getting upset and no good comes of it, although I believe it is a process I had to go through to get to where I am now. I know that pending I don’t die on the table, I should come out the other side of this just fine and my whole quality of life should sky rocket. So now I have to wait 6-8 weeks before I even get called in for my pre-op assessment so more time to ponder exactly how much I don’t want and angry nurse ramming a plastic tube up my cock hole. I mean I’m quite happy for them to slice me open from sternum to groin but come near my bell end with a pointy bit of plastic while I’m awake and I won’t be the only one who will be needing surgery that day! Fucks sake. It’s got to be done though. At least I’m not on the Jeremy Kyle show.

YES insanity wolf!

I HATE the dentist

How very strange, a good day for once (bodily function wise). Although I’m pretty sure it’s because I was hung-over all day the day before and ate jack all alas there is nothing that needs to leave my body today. Hence a good day be default. I actually don’t even remember going to the loo once today, very rare for a day like this. I struggle to remember when everyday was like this, normality. It seems so long ago and I suppose at the time I took it for granted. I seem to be spiralling into deep and morbid thought this evening after watching part of a documentary about a man who had and died from motor neurone disease. You can find his story here http://oftenawesome.org/

Stuff like that always makes me think about my own mortality and how you really can’t sit on your arse and let life pass you by. You could wake up tomorrow with a terminal illness or who knows. There is no guarantee that you are going to live to be an old man. Saying that, at the moment I am still quite happy to lie in my bed till ridiculous hours of the day and sleep like some kind of long term coma patient, only because even if I do get up or plan to do something my arse dictates what I can and can’t do so I rarely ever bother to plan anything and when I do, I have to starve myself for at least a day and a half before and live off of lucozade and redbull. Saying that I went to the dentist today for the first time in two and a half years, because honestly, my teeth have not been high on my list of priorities the last few years. I had my check up expecting to be told I need all sorts of horrendous treatments but all I need is one filling and have to stop drinking fizzy drinks. Hrmmmm I’m not going to make unrealistic goals so I’ll try and cut down instead of outright give up.

Did I mention that as a child I feared the dentist more than the blood sucking, animal murdering, hell spawn paedophile demon that I thought lived under my bed? I mean the most embarrassing time was when I must have been about 11 and I decided I am not going to my next dentist appointment with the dentist from hell whose sole purpose in life was, I thought, to inflict pain and suffering on me like some kind of Nazi POW camp guard. I worked out when our next appointment was and came up with a plan. I would hide in my garden until well after the set appointment time, that way there was no way we could go even if we were late. Now problem number one, my garden is not that large, maybe 15-20 meters long and about 3m wide at its widest. Problem number two was that I didn’t have the balls to actually “run away”. So instead I would put on every single piece of camouflage clothing I owned, face paint, scarves and all (remember, I loved the army) and hide in the small number of bushes we had in our garden at the time.

So the day of the appointment came. The appointment was arranged for around 9.30 let’s say. So I was up at 5am, the crack of dawn because I knew my dad got up early for work and I had to beat him out the door. So I got up, camouflage gear on, face paint on, ready to roll. I could have put a royal marines sniper to shame. I crept downstairs, which in my house is no mean feat due to the lack of carpets and ancient floorboards. I used a spare key to open and lock the back door behind me so as not to raise suspicion through missing back door keys. Now where to hide? I picked the bush that was actually closest to the house as it had the best and thickest cover. It was only about a meter tall, wide and deep. The bush was only about 4 meters from the back door. So I got as deep into the bush as I could, got comfortable and settled in for a long wait evading “the enemy”. About 2 hours passed before the first inkling of enemy activity appeared, my dad opened the back door, looked outside and went back in. I then knew then enemy were on alert and I had raised their suspicions. Half an hour or so later, reinforcements arrive, my mum comes out the back door and actively searches around the garden. I held my breath as she rustled the bush I was in but she missed me and returned to the enemy barracks. During the next hour both brothers came out to look for me and they also didn’t see me despite actually looking in the bush I was in. I was a fucking shit hot commando in my eyes, they had been less than a meter from me and none of them had seen me.

The ultimate test was when my dad, the camp komandant, came out to have one last proper root around the garden. I started to shit myself because he was being fucking thorough. Getting properly into bushes and shouting my name. I thought this was it, I’m fucked and going to be in soooo much trouble. He arrived at my hiding spot and leaned into the bush moved the branches about. My bum hole was now making noises that only dogs and certain varieties of bats could hear. and he looked me dead in my face. That’s it. I’m fucked. But he stood up and walked off, apparently not seeing me. SAS? they didn’t have shit on me! I should have been training THEM for escape and evasion. I exhaled after I realised I was still holding my breath for what was a ridiculous amount of time. I left it another 45 minutes as then it would be midday and well past the appointment and we couldn’t go.

I finally emerged from my hide and now in true commando style walked hysterically crying to the back door realising I was in the shit and this tactic would lull the enemy into a false sense of security and gain their sympathy. I entered the kitchen and into my mum’s arms who was moments away from calling the police apparently. She demanded to know why the fuck I had been hiding in the garden. Through my blubbering tears I told her I didn’t want to go to the dentist because I hated it that much.

“Hold on Hastie, what dentists appointment?”

“The one today at 9.30 that we’ve missed”

“No?! That’s Tomorrow…………”

“FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!”

My arse can’t behave even for the jubilee

So the other day was the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee pageant. A fantastic spectacle. I’ll admit it, I am a royalist like it or not, I know people sit there and say they don’t do anything and they cost us loads of money as taxpayers but you know what, I’m not even going to get into it. I could sit here and argue about it all day but you know what, if you don’t like it, fuck off! I love the royal family and happen to think they are a fantastic bit of cultural heritage and tradition. So I like many, the other day sat at home with my mother and a few of her friends, and sipped bubbly and watched the festivities on TV. My mother loves an excuse to put up decorations. Christmas, Halloween, Jubilees. I’m sure she’d put up bunting everyday of the week if it wasn’t socially frowned upon. When it gets round to Christmas my house looks like a fucking grotto, I am slightly surprised we don’t have kids knocking on the door asking if they can see Mr Claus.

So the queen has managed to hold down her job for the last 60 years cracking effort on her part! My god do her and Phillip look good for their ages, I reckon they’ve got a good few years left. I was having a lovely say today, enjoying the jubilee and eating nibbles and having a glass of two or champagne, at which point my dad rings and I arrange to meet him in the local round the corner for a quick pint. So I think I’ll just quickly nip to the loo before I leave, more out of habit than necessity. It was at this point the world decided to fall out of my arse. Now my big problem is I have a very long and narrow stricture (narrowing). So imagine if you will trying to squeeze a large lump of cold hard blue tack through the eye of a needle. This is what I attempt to do every time I go to the loo. It is horrendous, I’m either going to black out or go blind soon from straining so hard. YAY for graphic cringe inducing details. Bad days like that and I am positively looking forward to the surgery.

 

 

Hrmmmm beer

So I have to see my surgeon for what should be my final appointment before surgery. What’s that surgery? More beer .what an excellent coping mechanism.

image

I wish I could trade my colon for another liver, that way I could drink more and give less of a shit!

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