The Gamble Of Life

Now it cannot be denied that as a responsible member of society and all round good guy I have until now managed to avoid any major mishaps when encountering the various pitfalls that life has thrown up on a regular basis. I'll admit that much of this has been down to good old lady luck but I must also contend that there is also 'evidence' of excellent decision making and a healthy aversion to risk, leading me to coin the phrase "You wouldn't catch me doing that" on a regular basis.

However there is a group of people who never miss the opportunity to bleat on about how positive they are, how they are 'self made' and if they can do it, so can you, Why you should not be, 'sheltering from the storm', but you should learn to 'dance in the rain'.

 After vomiting the entire contents of your stomach at their feet you may be minded to remind them of the severe Health & Safety risk this attitude presents. After all when prancing about in a storm you run the very real risk of getting thoroughly drenched, not to mention colder than a penguins chuff which of course means almost certain death from bronchial pneumonia if you should reside anywhere in the northern hemisphere.

If all else fails to kill you there is always that old favourite of being struck by lightning. Now if you fancy a little flutter you may want to bear in mind that you are far more likely to suffer this unfortunate event than actually winning a lottery jackpot. In the UK 'being struck' equates to roughly a 3 million to one chance which means it is over 4 times more likely than winning the UK main lottery!

 In the U.S it stacks up even more with the chances of being struck at around 700,000 to one. Move to Florida and you should get your affairs in order as a matter of urgency as your 3 iron will almost certainly become a fully functioning lightning conductor before reaching the seventh tee! I tell you all this to provide some perspective to a tale from my earlier years when I suffered the trauma of having electricity use my body as a super highway to the ground.

At age 8  I was challenged by my older brother to see who could keep their wee directed onto the electric fence wire surrounding a fine piece of pasture which was making the herd of Guernsey cattle literally drool as they chomped away at it!

It will not surprise you that I duly won the challenge, thereby disproving my brothers assertion that I was a bit of a div. However the jolt of current that flowed up my juvenile jolly roger was sufficient to throw me back and upwards in a sort of Fosbury flop fully two years before the great Dick Fosbury premiered a similar manoeuvre and became a sporting legend at the Mexico Olympics. Landing with a hard jolt on my still forming vertebrae was bad enough, but this in itself would not have been a great problem were it not for the fact that I was now suffering a todger spasm of epic proportions and had nowhere near an empty bladder. This led me to the realisation that what goes up as a spurt, returns to earth as a rather more widespread shower. One thing that I am convinced of from this experience is that urine shampoo will never catch on, it stings the eyes way too much and frankly makes the hair smell and indeed look like a five year old toilet brush!
This would be considered a bad enough day in most peoples eyes but unfortunately for me I then chose an ill advised course of action which resulted in far worse ignominy. I ran off crying, intending to report this event to my mother which would inevitably bring down on my brother the severest of sanctions but running almost blindly from a combination of tears and salt from my own urine I stumbled on a rut made by one of the aforementioned residents of the field. I cannot quite remember now what I thought as I flew parallel to the ground for four feet before my face burrowed deep into a cow pat the size of a satellite dish.

 Perhaps I wondered idly, "What were the odds on that"  mmm probably not, I think it rhymed with "clucking bell".  

Flushed With Success....... And Copious Amounts Of Loo Roll

Despite being markedly closer to death than birth, I have until recently managed to avoid any of life's more debilitating and embarrassing ailments that invariably see you regarded as 'over the hill and under the doctor' as my gran would say.

That all changed the other day when I developed a variety of symptoms more commonly associated with grazing herds of cattle and flatulent hippopotamus.

 This in itself would once have been highly amusing but my stomach also seemed to forget when and how often potty time was. You could say that it was 'driving me round the bend' if you really wanted to tell a CRAP joke,..................

................Anyway I thought it prudent to visit my local physician.

To say I was not overly looking forward to this experience would be a major under-statement as I feared a thorough cross examination of the intimate details of my malady coupled with some kind of poking and prodding. 

It would be weird if you didn't feel a certain amount of dread as you wait for your 10 minute slot in the medics consulting room but this, I should stress is not something that should be allowed to get in the way of getting the expert help and advice you need.
Men in particular seem reluctant to admit they may need to 'have it looked at' when it comes to anything amiss between the waist and the knees.

To be frank, I think the average man would rather spend a morning ironing at the mother in laws than have someone gazing up their hairy harris, or worse, fiddling with the odd assortment of gentleman's unmentionables housed securely inside their sturdy pair of Calvin Klein's. 

This is especially true if they're past 50 as this will normally mean the insertion of a gloved digit in a northerly direction up the old Khyber pass to check the prostate is behaving itself. That's usually thrown in on the house!

I digress though, as being someone who promotes himself as an International man of mystery, incredibly sexy and ready to deploy to any corner of the globe at a moments notice, it was completely against my nature to sit, with some trepidation in the waiting room watching Homes under the Hammer thinking, Hmm, A bidet, that looks just the job, I must get one. 

As it turned out I needn't have worried as the doctor who had the somewhat dubious honour of providing the consultation was;

A)   A man. This made the recounting of my story less difficult though I have no idea why? As if a female doctor would have anything more than a passing professional interest in my bowel's dodgy performance.

B)  The aforementioned male doctor was a very affable chap who quickly passed me on to my local hospital "because even if I did an examination today I would still want you to have this looked at by having a colonoscopy"

This brief moment of relief was cut cruelly short as I was handed a small booklet outlining what a colonoscopy entails. It would not be a surprise if my squeals of terror where heard somewhere in Northern France! 

A pole up my arse?? Are you serious???

I left immediately and on the way home called in to the DIY store where another helpful young man asked:
"Can I help you sir?"
"Yes I'm interested in buying a bidet" I replied, "oh and I'll need some industrial strength sani-cloths.......scented please, Floral valley if you've got it"

"I'm on it" he said, enthusiastically.

Yeah, me too shortly, I thought despondently.

The Lycra Fashionista On Two Wheels

Norman Tebbit could not have known what he would be starting when, after the Brixton riots of 1981, he made his infamous (often mis-quoted) remark that his father, when he found himself out of work, rather than rioting, 'got on his bike' to look for a job!

 It was suggested that he implored people in similar situations and tempted therefore to throw bricks through Curry's window and walk off with the latest tv to do the same thing !

This though was just a tabloid myth designed to provoke outrage and portray the good lord as completely out of touch, and insensitive to the hardships faced by ordinary working class folk.

Be that as it may it cannot be argued that whether meant or not his intervention coupled with the promise of being incinerated by global warming if we use anything with a combustion engine bigger than a lawn mower has resulted in more and more people getting out and about on their bikes.

 All very comforting given that millions of pounds of public money has been spent on providing bespoke cycle ways and tracks while it seems acceptable for the road network to be left crater strewn and untended for months making travelling on them in anything other than a lunar rover a bone jarring nightmare!

 Of course the 'commute' often means that the bulk of cycling is done on those very same lethal roads into major towns and cities while the cycle network is left for Sundays and bank holidays.

This is mildly irritating but would on its own be fairly palatable, were it not for the hideous 'uniform' that the intrepid cyclist feels is the appropriate garb to wear when 'pumpin the pedals'.  

In times gone by we would tuck our trouser leg into our socks, (this being vital to ensure the trousers didn't catch in the chain mechanism resulting in a lower limb amputation)

We'd turn our cap the wrong way around and mount the trusty steed handed down by our dad which despite having Sturmey Archer 3 speed and dynamo lighting also weighed as much as a washing machine and had a hideously buckled front wheel which invariably rubbed against the brake rubbers making forward progress almost impossible!

 Nevertheless pops used it every day for work before he succumbed to an arthritic knee which swelled to the size of a football with any exertion. This meant therefore that a car had to be invested in, consigning my siblings and I to the ravages of the planet heating up exponentially and it seemed, the almost daily use of jump leads.

These days things are very different! It appears that the only way to be seen on a bike is to don garments making yourself look like you have come straight from a Lycra fetish party and complete the outfit by wearing a natty helmet fitted with a camera. 

This presumably is so they can film themselves breaking the law every day while riding a carbon fibre wafer costing roughly the same as a Brighton Semi.

 Men in particular, most of whom appear old enough to know better, seem to feel it is vital to be seen in the latest body hugging, streamlined apparel, so much so, some it would seem even insist on keeping their bicycle pump tucked in the front of their shorts, presumably to reduce drag. What is that all about? It is a frankly terrifying sight!

Of course riders say that they get an enormous amount of pleasure from getting 'out and about' and have become seduced into thinking that a daily dice with death is in someway a healthy and relaxing thing to do and good for the planet.

 Nothing of course could be further from the truth as the life expectancy of the average pedal pusher using main roads is something around 3 weeks.

 This is not because they will be hit by Tyler the tearaway, 'Sexting' his girlfriend while caning his Corsa, No, cyclists are far more likely to disappear into a pot hole abyss the size of Derby, while trying to adjust the position of their pump, furiously chafing their gentlemen's essentials on the saddle!

So would I ever fancy getting back into cycling?......On Yer Bike!

When Punching Yourself In The Face Is The Best Option!

no

Throughout my life I seem to have prompted people to roll their eyes at me on a fairly frequent basis. I am not sure why I seem to attract this reaction as often as I do, I would like to think that people are surprised at my knowledge and insight and are kind of awe struck into this facial gesture as they admire once again my wisdom and humour.

 However I am becoming increasingly concerned that it means nothing of the kind and I now suspect it to be an accompanying mannerism to a 'What a complete tool you are' kind of thought.

 One of my earliest memories of this eye rolling phenomenon is as a four year old when a very old man introduced himself to me as my Great Grandfather". I was immediately on my guard with this old codger as anyone who puts 'Great' in their job title is to be treated with the utmost suspicion!

 Talk about biggin yourself up I thought, if anyone should be grading his Grand-Dadding abilities it should surely be me!. So my response was predictable, "What's great about you?"  I mumbled.The room fell silent for a few seconds before my mother laughed nervously giving the eye roll a full flourish.

 My reward for my incredulity was to receive one of those 'you young pup' cheek pinches which were frequently administered in days gone by when you could touch a child without infringing their human rights and usually given just hard enough to ensure a nosebleed but no tears or bruising and accompanied by the phrase 'You little rascal!' 

Fast forward fifty years and this morning I have yet again been on the end of the exasperated eye roll. I met with two female friends, who I'll call Susan and Angela,  who work in the same building as myself and after some good humoured banter the conversation took a dark and morbid turn when Susan reported that her 'man' had upped and left her and she was feeling a little fragile and found herself uncontrollably bursting into tears at random times during the day.

 This information would have been unsettling in isolation but the recounting of it had a severe effect on her emotional state and the aforementioned sobbing began in earnest. Angela, predictably was compassionate and soothing, placing her arm around her and providing the kind of support that only true friends can. Whilst doing this she looked over her shoulder at me and gave me a screwed up face look which I interpreted as 'say something moron!'

Now, in retrospect, I am not sure whether it was panic or mental illness which made me say what I did but suffice to say it did little to help the situation, rather it was akin to pouring petrol on a fire in an attempt to put it out. 

"At least you won't be kept awake by his snoring anymore" I blurted complete with a matey wink at Angela signalling that I had interpreted her message and reacted with the cool assurance expected of me.

What followed was nothing short of mayhem and I will not bore you with all the details other than it began with the most icy eye roll I have ever witnessed, such was its venom I began to have serious concerns for the collection of odds and sods housed in their cotton enclosure between my legs,
"How did that counselling job interview go" Angela spat at me, clutching her friend ever tighter.
I gave a little nervous smile "Oh you know, just couldn't relate to it"

For what seemed a long while there was complete silence. I imagined tumbleweed drifting past on the breeze and wished I could somehow just walk off. Then Susan turned around and simply said "Dick!"

What a time to forget my name I thought rolling my eyes for effect.

Clive Wins His First Foxtrot Oscar!

Actors it would seem are very intelligent people. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised as anyone who can make a full time job out of basically doing what they did as a kid, namely dressing up and pretending to be someone else is very bright indeed and deserving of the utmost respect.

 All the more so if they reach super luvvie status and spend their time alternating between a mansion in Hollywood Hills, a yacht the size of an oil tanker in Monte Carlo, and a private island in the Caribbean. Not to mention of course attending numerous red carpet events where hoards of hysterical 'fans' hyper-ventilate as their idols pose for 'just one more' before nipping in for the latest thespian love in!

 As you can tell from my petulance and somewhat unwarranted sarcasm I do not consider acting a proper job, that is Actors invoke the same degree of jealousy in me as premiership footballers, Rock stars and Psychics, of course the latter group knew that already! 

All it seems are capable of Oscar winning performances for money and in a lot of cases copious amounts of it. This got me thinking, If actors are held in such high esteem and seemingly universally loved whether the movies they star in are any good or not, (just ask the Dirty Grandad) perhaps I should take the 'can't beat em join em' approach.

 I have therefore resolved to get myself an equity card at the soonest opportunity and 'Ham it up' a bit and see if I can get myself onto the red carpet with a gaggle of beautiful women shouting "We love you clivey" while I pose in my Marks and Spencer's two piece in an awkward, yet manly way, smiling insanely for the hordes of paparazzi. People will marvel at my golden globes.........., well marvel is perhaps putting an undeserved positive spin on it but you get the idea.

So Leonardo better watch out, there's a new kid on the block. I'll soon be wrestling with my debut screen role in  'The Irrelevant', a tale of epic survival in the wilds of West Devon, facing constant attacks by savage Dartmoor Hill Farmers, battling incessant wind and rain and only a local spar and patchy 4g signal to help me survive!

 Anyway I can't work like this, I'll be in my trailer!

Growing Old Painfully!

I have always regarded death as something to be avoided at all costs!

This is mostly because I have been told it makes you feel quite rotten and is apparently very difficult to recover from! Worse still, death invariably these days gets you 'cremated' due in no small part to plots of ground in which to be laid to rest costing nearly as much as a Chelsea townhouse!

Cremation of course essentially means you're chucked in a wooden box and thrown unceremoniously on the barbecue while friends and family, desperate to get down the pub, sing 'abide with me' somewhat half-heartedly and wonder if they can get away without putting anything in the collection tin!

Now I freely admit that this is a very cynical view of how life's passing will be marked but this is not the real source of my angst. Being incinerated and having my ashes bunged in an urn to sit on the mantelpiece is bad, but my friends, what is far, far worse is the gradual decline that most of us will go through before we actually clash swords with the grim reaper.

Losing physical ability starts early, hitting forty brings a pile of life revelations, most of them sadly far from pleasant. For instance a mans hair will suddenly start withdrawing from his scalp and pop out through his nose and ears, at the same time putting on an impressive growth spurt, the like of which is only normally seen in a juvenile Giraffes neck muscles!

By the time you hit fifty something, getting out of bed will be something akin to enduring some medieval torture. Joints become unworthy of the name, acquiring it seems, a sort of biological rust, causing a complete seizing up of the various sockets and hinges, impenetrable by the entire stock of Glucosimine supplements held by the drug store.

Muscles knot tighter than Popeye's biceps but provide only pain and no strength. So each day starts with a sort of unfolding manoeuvre in an attempt to rise up out of bed. Newton's laws are fully employed as legs are thrust out into the void to act as a sort of pendulum in an attempt to 'rock' upright. Three attempts usually suffices and you will manage to sit on the edge of the bed with head bowed and wait for the pain to abate and blood to seep down into the feet in enough quantity to give some feeling other than pins and needles. 

After a short while we feel emboldened enough to stagger to the shower, though even this 'exercise' does little to straighten our crumpled gait.The hot water though provides sufficient easing of the symptoms that we can wash,dress and gingerly go downstairs for breakfast before placing ourselves into the car seat to make it into work in time to moan, along with the rest of our colleagues about our worsening physical function while consuming several gallons of tea.

That's when someone enters the room claiming to feel like 'Death warmed up'

WHAT?! I muse, you escaped from the barbecue?....Ah well it's probably just as well, I've got no change and don't know the words to Abide with me. Pass the Omega-3 will you?