5,000 Ways To Die

“All those moments will be lost in time. Like tears in rain. Time to die…”


I promised brevity and levity next time around, sucking at the tailpipe of the last blahg. And after ruminating long and hard, hard and long over the topic of such a tome, I’ve not only way over-stepped the former – but settled upon the unsettling, unparalleled hilarity afforded by the shuffling off this mortal coil. ‘How’s it hangin’, Death?’

As Nerf Herder once opined; there are 5,000 ways to die. Here my friends, personally speaking, are just seven of them…

1. From Cradle to Grave.

Prior to Super Nanny, Dr. Spock and childlocks there was parenting by - ‘making this shit up’. Cue one pre-toddler (me), a first floor window and a rather inviting (apparently) face plant into the unforgiving concrete slabs below. Bar the fickle hand of fate nudging my errant mother towards my precarious predicament, I’d not be sat here writing this now. Curse all you want for subsequent crimes to literary standards, but I for one am at least thankful. To paraphrase Steven Wright: Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while my mother was a suspect…

2. Swamp Thing.

Thankfully it’s too late to call in Social Services, or I’d feel I’m doing my mother a disservice with this follow-on. However… Once again – here in Primary School years - in the care of Mommy Dearest, my younger sis and I explored the grounds of her well-to-do employer which just so happened to back onto the famed (for a hamlet of a dozen or so folk) site of ‘Clavering castle’. I think the reason I connected so resolutely with Star Wars a few years later is that when it comes to ‘action’ Clavering rather resembles Tatooine on a slow Wednesday, an hour after ‘early closing’ (totally betraying my age here – look it up).

Of course, judging by the size of the surviving mound of earth allegedly once home to said castle, it was more likely home to a Royal outhouse; sufficient distance from any such Regal dwelling as not to stink up one’s neighbourhood.

Whatever its true delineation, the Royal mound (fnaar!) had/has a moat. Said moat was somewhat disguised by a flurry of autumnal leaves, coating its hidden murky depths –and in my untiring search for the next best amazing stick/conker/oddly shaped bug, this proved near (again) fatal.

For suddenly and without warning, the moat proved its ability to suck greater than a coachload of hookers singing the entire back catalogue of the Stereophonics and before I could conquer that next unbeatable – er – conker, I was knee deep in a rather sticky situation. The more I struggled and bellowed for my wee sis to go fetch Mum, the more she was rooted to her (solid) spot, matching my death knell with a hysteria worthy of a Def Leppard album title.

I’ll skip to the end. I didn’t die that day. Happenstance led to my mother hanging out of a window to beat a rug (that rug was asking for it – the dirty swine!) and I was saved – save for my wellington boots. Phew! I was worried there for a moment…

3. Head Out On The Highway.

One night in my (just) pre-teens, my bicycle started to freewheel downhill with a tad too much exuberance and I demanded too much too soon of front & back brakes. I awoke on the main carriageway light several front teeth, a bony protrusion in my chin, with one of my two accompanying chums having fled lest he be implicated in my bloody demise. Subsequent encounters at school saw the poor guy turn white as a sheet and run vomiting to the toilets, in fear of my ghostly presence.

Of course heeding the lesson from this accident, whenever my children have received a new bike, I’ve always disabled the front brakes to be sure they don’t suffer a similar fate. Sometimes I disable the back brakes also. You can never be too careful.

4. Still Waters Run Deep.

In my teens I won a competition which exiled me to the heaving bosom of Mother Nature (Ross-on-Wye, location fans) for an outward-bounds course. I won through my rather nerdish and solitary proclivity for ‘writing’ – something wholly unsuited to team sports and outdoorsy shenanigans – which the week was entirely focused around. Upon hearing of my competitive luck, one of our Instructors chided: “and what was second place – two weeks on the course?” The guy was a churlish ass, but he had a point.

Part of the character building of the week involved being hurled into the river Wye attached to a length of rope – and eventually yanked free by a disinterested extreme sports type, possibly enduring our endurance on some dubious Community Service rap. Being painfully aware of being painfully shy, I had neglected to inform the entirely ambivalent crew of my inability to swim. Being of the tried and tested British heritage of ‘not wanting to make a fuss’, I favoured a good old-fashioned drowning over the painful humiliation of fessing up to my aquatic ineptitude. And thus I was plunged like a prospective witch into the icy squall of the Wye, thinking ‘why, why, why?!!’ did my innocent short-story writing place me in such pointless peril.

Hope floats. So do humans, or so I’d been led to believe. However, weighed down by my own stupidity and a hefty burden of pride, I sank like a rock. Tied to a witch. Wrapped around another rock.

Eventually bobbing to the surface like a turd expelled from such an expired witch (wrapped around a rock) – I spent the next 48 hours throwing up the vast quantity of the Wye I’d ingested like some Krakatoan fratboy. Tired, humiliated and dehydrated to the point of becoming Jerky, I vowed to whatever deity would have me that I’d never do something as foolhardy as write prose again.

5. Like A (Drink Driving) Bat Out of Hell.

Driving home one Christmas, I got hit by a drink driver when my eldest was but a wee nipper. So incensed was I that my darling child could have been hurt (regardless of my own mortal tenuousness) I stood resolute against their reasoning & pleading and got the fecker banned from driving for a year. The scumbag.

6. And 7. All in one night. Yay me! Karmageddon.

Driving home one night about 14 years ago, I tentatively approached a hill I knew in all likelihood contained stationary traffic beyond the brow. Local knowledge is great currency and paid me back in full – a regrettable rear-ending averted. Sadly, as I sat teetering on the crest, the haring motorist bearing down on me from behind like Meatloaf’s aforementioned winged friend of Satan either had no such blackspot frame of reference, or was so away with the fairies that he most likely had Tinkerbell’s private cell number.

I pumped my brakes to provide a visual hint to my assailant of the impending metal-on-metal action. I punched the hazard lights to add to the auto-rave aesthetic. I rolled my eyes to the heavens and prepared to kiss my sweet white ass goodnight.

Thoughts flooded my head as I surmised my demise. I recalled the fabulous women I had dated, the countless awards and accolades heaped upon me – and the sterling work I’d done for charity. Then I realised that was actually Brad Pitt’s life flashing before me – and that I was probably wasting valuable moments of my own dwindling existence upon such fancy…

Shit. This time I really was going to die.

The moment of impact came and went as the oblivious harbinger of automotive carnage finally snapped to at the point of impact, swerved around me – and momentum stifled, piled non-fatally into three cars stacked in front of me.

Close call. But it was early yet…

Traffic shuffled up and I parked up over the hill by the side of the road. The Rozzers were called, names were taken and tyre marks pouted for their close-up. With the crash-site clearly demarcated by the beacon of a stationary Police car, my incredulous yet thankful Statement was taken. Somewhat not accounting for the ‘rubberneck factor’ ie. the proclivity for motorists to stare unwittingly in morbid fascination at anything resembling a bloodfest at the side of the road, I figured the evening’s drama was at an end.

However, one such silly sausage (read as – stupid f*cking c*w) traveling as she was at possibly only 10MPH, had a good hard look at the scene and promptly wanged into my parked car. Positioned as I was on the grass verge on the downhill just in front of my vehicle, I was then treated to the sight of my car nudged into forward motion, bearing down on me like some poor cousin of Stephen King’s Christine.

Luckily I outran the beast. The car was written off. I was not. Sorry for keeping you in suspense.

So, seven of my nine lives down. In the scheme of things I feel really lucky and try to make the most of every day. After all, apparently – there are 5,000 ways to die.


Stay lucky.

x

Hanging With The Homeless - aka WWJD (What Would John Do?)

I didn’t really plan that hiatus...

In the words of John Winston Lennon; “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”. What can I say? Life happens.

Hello, by the way.

So, a lot of water under the bridge and even more alcohol down my gullet in the 18 or so months since the last ‘blahg’ (as my hero Hank Moody might say). How the devil are you? You’ve changed your hair. And you’re looking in the rudest of health by the way. Nicely done.

So why blahg again? Why now? Who flicked the switch to the Blahg Signal? Will any of this ever fall into a coherent narrative arc?…

Seeing as I’ve sat staring at the patiently blinking cursor on a taunting blank page for some time now - valid questions all. But first, a word from our sponsor:

“So this is Christmas, and what have you done?…” Mr Lennon started demanding of me every time I entered a store from the end of September onwards. Hark! Time to heed the seasonal clarion call for amassing untold shiny things for ambivalent family members by means of a credit card more fit to burst than a chocolate fisted fat lass on Boxing Day. Fa la la la freakin’ la.
But no. No! Whilst Santa showed (and received) his true colours by being a Lap-land-dog of Coca Cola, surely what we’ve learnt most from the true origins of Christmas is - always book ahead if you require a Manger during the holidays? Because without a healthy dollop of human kindness, Jesus would have started life as a homeless person. And last time I looked, there’s no Big Issue seller in the Nativity.

*Brace yourselves! Here comes the narrative arc*

For a couple of years now I’ve mulled and whined about helping out in a homeless shelter at Christmas. Given my domestic situation, Christmas is always a moveable feast and starts the moment my kids arrive regardless of the date. This year fo shizzle I was going to be Home Alone for the lead-in to Mr Of Nazareth’s big day, thus time to put my time where my mouth is.

And so, for two days prior to Chrimbo, I joined a delightful throng of volunteers at homeless charity Crisis’ North London Day Centre. Crisis do amazing work, not just in lobbying and raising awareness/addressing public ignorance, but in playing host to around 3,000 homeless guests during the season of goodwill to all. The volunteers I met and chatted with over my two 7 hour shifts were a delightful microcosm of society and some of the most inspiring and wonderfully entertaining people I’ve met. There was a smattering of full-on do-gooders that clearly wanted to make the situation about them and their life-changing capabilities, but on the whole we were a large, motivated team that at times felt guilty about how much fun we were having. No chore seemed menial, no request went unheeded. And most importantly, it was all about the guests.

I had the privilege in spending time with quite a few of the guests, on the whole jokers and characters with charisma bigger than most folks overdrafts. There was no ‘woe is me’. No expectation of hand-outs. Just decent human beings and victims of circumstance that on most days of the week struggle to get eye contact from their fellow human - enjoying the company of others.

Rather symbolically, one gentleman guest known by his initials - JC, has a birthday on Christmas Day. So grateful is he for the work that Crisis do, each year he concocts some creative event to raise money for the charity. He sees none of the money himself and goes about raising it with a pride and industry that I find lacking in some of my colleagues.

Whilst on point greeting guests to the centre I met another older gentleman who had me in peels of laughter. He was a walking encyclopaedia of spirited bad jokes and puns. Currently selling the Big Issue to try and better his situation, we were able to offer him a variety of services during his visit.

Later that day, there was to be a karaoke session at the Centre and I asked the gentleman if he could carry a tune. For the next few minutes, without breaking eye contact, he serenaded me word & pitch perfect with the song ‘Nobody’s Child’ (popularised by artists as varied as Hank Williams Jnr, Billy Connolly & the Traveling Wilburys). There were goosebumps. There was a fighting back of (my) tears. He wasn’t singing for pity but the poignancy of the lyrics was the ultimate sucker punch for me. I’ll think of that song and that moment every time I start whinging about not being able to afford this & that, just to remind me of what a blessed life I lead. Angels often come in the unlikeliest of forms.

So in the true spirit of altruism I failed, as I’m sure I got far more from that encounter than our guest did. And not just to make up for that, but because in my privileged position it’s the very least I can do, I’ll definitely be returning to help out in whatever way I can next year.

"So this is Christmas, and what have you done?..." Me? I've had a blast!

If you get the chance, I recommend the experience. And if you need any help in busting the myths about homelessness, Crisis have some great info here: http://crisis.org.uk/

Oh, as to those ‘blahg’ related questions posed earlier, well - I’ll answer them another time in a blahg with more levity and brevity, I promise. Well, levity certainly…

So in parting, in the words of Tiny Tim from the greatest Christmas story of all - the Muppets Christmas Carol; “Blahg bless us, everyone!”

Stay Positive.
x