Humour


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Thank you for seeing me, your holiness, I know what a busy person you are after more than 1400 years of trying to clear your name, but  I hope you don’t mind me asking you a few questions.  The thing is, there’s a few things I just don’t quite get, and I wonder if you can help me. 

Sure t’ing. Oi’ll do what Oi can for you. And who knows, it might even help me a tad or two. 

Aw, thanks, your saintliness.  Now wait a minute, let me just find my note book.  And I’ve got a pen in here somewhere.  OK, here were are.  Now, what I don’t understand is, with you being such an important saint and all that and doing all those great things, is how you got away with it.  

Oi’m nod at all sure what you mean boi dat.   

No, no, I’m sorry, your sanctimoniousness. I didn’t mean to offend. I can be a bit clumsy at times.  So let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  I’ll start at the beginning.  You left your home in Ireland or was it called Scotland at that time?  It’s all very confusing.  Anyway, you left your home under a bit of a cloud if you don’t mind me saying so.  And I’m not just talking about the weather – though it can be a bit rough in The North Channel especially when your boat is just a basket covered in skin. Could you not fly, you being an angel and all that?  Or have I misrepresented your saintly powers?  Sorry, your beatitude, I’m going off track.  But it was awesome how you and twelve others crossed over the North Channel in what was little more than a bathtub covered in skin. it sounds like Bonnie Prince Charlie without a sail or a prayer, but I dare say you had lots of prayers. No, what I wanted to know is how you caused so much hell back in the home country that you had to get out.  After all, you were a Bishop and a grandson of Kings.  

Oi know, Oi know. But you do go on something chronic. De fact is d’ basterds had it in for me.  Oi guess dey were jealous.  But you know, I never really left.  Back den, it was the same country on eider side.  De islands to the west o’ Pictland were a kind of colony.  Dere were loads of us up dere.  Besides, Oi didn’t stay on Kintyre. Oi just planted me footsteps – for de tourists, don’t y’know.  Then Oi had a drink at de holy well and sailed off up de coast to Iona – where I couldn’t see de old country an’ get homesick   

But the indictment was you infringed copyright law.  Now why would you want to do that?.  And why was it such a serious offence they threatened to excommunicate you. 

Well, you need to understand; we never had xeroxes back den.  De bastards asked me to copy dis enormous document, covered in letters in all different colours, wid pictures all down de soide.   It took me de best part of haf a year in doese freezin’ cloisters.  Dey’d promised me a great fat fee, but when it was all done, dey didn’t give me a bean. Well, Oi was so pissed off, Oi pinched it – so Oi did.  Serves dem roit.  But how was Oi to know it would start a war.  It was moi uncle; he’s a gran’ fierce man.  An de O’Neills look after der own.  But den dat bastard King Diamairt, no more than a jumped up swoine herd, so he is, moirdered de Prince moi cousin, who was recovering from a sports injury.  An’ in moi own church, moind you. Anyway dey framed me; so Oi had to get out pretty damn quick.  But Oi was innocent, so Oi was.  Oi never did it, so help me God.  An’ didn’t yer man make me a saint just loik St Paddy before me, who, by de way, was also no angel eider?  Well, no one was.  It was a case of dog eat dog back den .  

But, you’re a holy man, your honour.  What are you doing meddling in wars and politics?  Not even Rowan Williams did that.  Shouldn’t you leave it to the military. 

Oi feel bad about all de people dat got killed. Dat’s why oi thought oi should go.  But de truth is de kings were hopeless, not quoit as bad as de British government is now, but hopeless, none the less.  Oi had to do something.  Besoides, God sent me a message.   

A message. 

Yes, dis whale came up to me in de boat an’ told me Oi would rescue a man from de fiersome Loch Ness Monster.  So Oi went up there, made the sign of the cross and your timorous beastie ran away. I reckoned Oi’d squared things up wid God.  

Ok, let’s put all that to one side, your graciousness. There’s something else that happened on Iona that bothers me,  

Oi know, it’s about all dose women and de cows on moi holy island of Iona, but God told me to banish dem. 

No, it wasn’t that.

Well, de frogs and the snakes, den.   

No, it wasn’t them either, though I don’t know how you managed to round them all up and get them off the island.    

God works in such mysterious ways; his wonders to behold! (holds up two fingers and makes the sign of the cross, him being such a holy man) 

That’s as maybe. But I was thinking about your best friend.

Aw, you’re meaning Oran the moron.  He was no friend of’ moine; he just did what I told him.  But he had a lovely wife – such a waste!   Anyway, what happened to Oran was’na moi fault.  Yer man had a hand in dat, too. God told me that he would not consecrate moi chapel until Oi’d buried a man aloive in de foundations.  And Oran volunteered, so he did.   

And so you used your grace to console his wife. 

Well (stroked his beard wistfully) you could put it loik dat, but wasn’t it the least Oi could do for a friend who had made the ultimate sacrifice?  

 But he was still alive when they dug him up. 

Yes, but he’d lost his moind, God rest his soul – blaspheming against me, the church and his God.  

So you killed him.

Oi had to.  Oi put a stake through his chest to drive out de devil.  But you know dat wasn’t truly me.  As a saint of the holy catholic church, Oi’m only the instrument of the Almighty.  But surely Oi’ve paid moi price by now.  Although I departed this mortal coil way back in 593, Oi’ve never entered dose holy gates to heaven. Oi coudn’t even foind them. An’ Oi’m still lookin’  

So you admit you committed homicide, but if it was God’s will,  why, being a saint and all,  are you not up on a cloud singing with the angels? Sounds like God’s still got it in for you.  

But Oi was innocent, Oi tell you.  All Oi did was do His will.  Oi’ve got letters to prove it, and dey’ve taken me ages to wroite. 

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 ‘How very kind of you to come.’  Molly beamed at me, her face creased into a page of tighly packed script, from which words  and phrases seemed to escape  to join the grey whorls and coils that formed a nimbus around her head.  I told her it was nice to see her and  the sentences at the corners of her eyes and the paragraph across her forehead, etched themselves more deeply into her skin as, putting her face just inches from mine, she replied with theatrical emphasis,  ‘And NICE to SEE YOU TOO!’.  

‘I’ve only come in for a few days rest’,  Betty announced quietly, her countenance vacant with worry.  ‘I came from Dore.’  Then after a pause she added,   ‘And where do you live?’   

‘Bakewell’, I said.

‘Oh Derbyshire.  Nice there’.

Mrs Tang stared,  her eyes red rimmed and her mouth  just a shrunken hole towards the bottom of a face in which the skin seemed pulled too tight.  She held out her hand.  I took it and held it from a few seconds as with a sigh, she withdrew it.  Harry, sporting a depression the size of a h’penny where  they trephined his skull,  completed another lap,  ‘Can you tell me?  Are they going to call me up? They’re still fighting over there, you know.’       

And Doris, her once so delicately curled hair pulled back off her face and held by a clip, glared at the women, who sat hunched in their emaciated bodies, picking at their skirts.  ‘Look at those sexy old ladies, they’re pulling their skirts right up above their knees  again.  It’s disgusting.  Tell them to stop.’  Then she swivelled her searchlights and  announced with disdain, ‘Old saggy arse is off again,’ as Gilbert, his trousers hanging loose, hands straining on his frame, limped to the toilet.  Finally she focussed through the mist at me;  ‘Colston!  I haven’t seen you for years.’

‘And where do you live?’  Betty asked pleasantly.

‘I live near Bakewell.’  

‘Oh Derbyshire!  Nice there.’

They sat around the room, dressed in an odd assortment of might-have-beens and cast me downs,  each with a coloured paper hat on their head.  Some rocked backward and forwards.  A few were asleep.  Most just stared.   Marjorie, her face a tragic mask, reached out to anybody who passed, and kept up a constant cry of ‘Nobody loves me’.  It was true.  Few relatives had bothered.  Those that were there looked round in panic, trapped, desperately seeking rescue but having to endure the tragic chaos of second childhood, the hopeless stench of stale urine and cold gravy.          

Bright plastic musical instruments, tambourines, castanets, drums, bits of a xylophone, lay abandoned next to the oranges and sweets, the arrangements of plastic holly and poinsettia.  A large Christmas tree had been erected in the corner,  its dark green plastic bottle brushes hung with angels and stars and flashing desolation.  The bus stop in the hallway was decorated with imitation holly and fake snow.   More plastic holly was wedged above framed photographs of Vera Lynn, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Flanagan and Allen,  Winston Churchill, the Queen’s Coronation and the posters advertising Guinness, Fry’s Five Boys, Ah Bisto and Ovaltine.   There was a large card pinned to the notice board. ‘Merry Christmas to all our residents from the staff at Silverdales’.   A big bunch of imitation mistletoe was suspended from a hook on the ceiling, but nobody kissed.  There were no paper chains or loops of folded crepe paper.   ‘Health and Safety Regulations!, the carer declared with an upward tilt of her head.  Then she announced, ‘Shall we play some carols?’  There was a little response.  Most just continued to stare, rock, pick at their noses and shout out.  Only George repeated ‘Carols’, with any enthusiasm,  mimicking  the carer’s jolly tones.

‘Oh so you’d like that, George.’  And with that, she turned the music up loud and Crosby’s honeyed voice thickened  with mock sincerity, entuned a familiar commercial sequence, ‘Jingle Bells, White Christmas,  Winter Wonderland’ – all the old favourites.   Some banged, rattled or tinkled an accompaniment.   Others just beat time with their hands on the arms of their chairs.  Most just sat and stared.  A few joined in with an occasional phrase and word.    And then the chords started up for Silent Night and Deborah lifted her head, took a deep breath  and sang, her voice high and clear, a note of hope that swelled and filled the room, perfectly pitched above the desolation and chaos.    The rattling, banging, shouting all ceased;   even Harry halted his patrol and listened.  John leant forward and stroked Beryl’s face with the back of his hand.  I looked across at Marjorie, her worried frown had softened and at the corner of one eye a tear glistened , filled and slowly ran down her cheek.

0645 GMT  07/12/10

Successful expedition.  Grytviken basking in balmy zero.   Back on shelf at minus 14, well stocked with lamp oil, whalemeat, blubber, pickled cabbage and two bottles of aquavit!!  Freezing fog.  When we speak, the words stay in the air and hang around outside the tent.  Voice message from Oates there last night.  Unrepeatable, poor chap! 

Scott

0755 GMT 2.12.10.

Snow flurries overnight but pressure rising.  Blizzard yesterday made transport impossible; even sledges didn’t run.  By 6pm, snow tractor got through.  Now stuck in drift. Troops digging out.  Mount Sheffield completely cut off.  No radio contact. 

Supplies will last another week.  Plenty of logs for oven.  Bags of flour, so can make bread.  Half a cauliflower and a few potatoes, two cans of chick peas, pasta and rice and lots of spice.  Oates gone, but lots of muesli.  Huskies hungry – don’t like the way they stare at me and salivate.  Must let them go.    

Please arrange air drop of skis, brandy, tomatoes and onions.    

Predicted minus ten tonight, breaking out winter duvet.

Chin up, as always. 

Scott

PS. Who needs the Gulf Stream anyway?

It wasn’t that she was meant to set fire to the hospital.  It just happened.  Well, it had been a long day and he had been on at her again!    ‘Have you recruited more volunteers?  Where’s the revisions on the protocol?  And have I seen the data from your last set of experiments yet?  Karen, how do you expect to get your PhD unless you work until you drop and then get up and work again.’  I mean, what was this guy on?    

So she cancelled her dinner engagement with Rob and stayed late again, agreeing to meet him for a drink when she’d finished.  But she was hungry.   Was there anything in this Godforsaken hole that she could eat.  Ah, the baked beans!  She fed them to her volunteers and measured the hydrogen they exhaled.  There were cans of them stacked all around the room, enough to launch a Zeppelin.  OK, she’d fart all night but what the hell.  She was hungry. 

So she opened a can and stuck it on a tripod and lit the Bunsen burner.  Then the phone rang in the office.   ‘Could we talk about this last set of experiments.’  ‘Could you open up the database and just check…..’   By the time she’d finished, she’d forgotten all about her beans.    Bloody smoke alarm was blaring somewhere.  But, it was always going off.   Fuck it, she was late and needed a glass of wine.  And now the bastard lift wasn’t working and something had happened to the lights.  Nothing for it but the stairs, but she was on the eleventh floor.   

It still didn’t register when she saw the fire engines.  There were five of them lined up in the road, sirens still blaring,  blue lights sweeping the buildings on either side.  Firemen in helmets and bright yellow overalls with axes and torches were tumbling from the cabs and rushing past her to the stairs.  Funny time for a fire drill, she thought, as she rushed out into the cool night air. 

Rob was none too pleased about being kept waiting, but he could see she was flustered,  ‘Did you get anything to eat, love?’ he asked.

She stared  at him, with focussing, unfocussed,  then  her eyes grew wide and her mouth opened    ‘Oh fuck! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!      

They’d started evacuating the patients by the time she got back.  Some were standing there in little groups, shivering in their light green hospital dressing gowns, more were coming out in chairs or on stretchers.  She tried to get in but a policeman stopped her. ‘You can’t go in there miss; there’s a bomb.’

‘No there isn’t, it’s only a can of beans.’

‘Aye, you might say that, but move along now.’

When she got back to Rob’s, the news was on.  ‘We break into the programme to report a possible terrorist attack on Sheffield’s Royal Hallamshire Hospital.’  She listened in shocked silence.  She could see it all, the beans charring, catching fire, setting the papers and the boxes alight, the cans exploding, the sprinklers going off, the lights shorting, panic, evacuation.  Oh fuck!  It was the only thing she could say. 

It was all over the newspapers the next morning.  Terrorist attack in Sheffield!  There were even  questions in the house.  ‘Why had the right honourable gentleman ignored our warnings?’  ‘Why hadn’t this government improved security in our public institutions?  Why had they cut funds to the fire service and the police?    There was no way the government, already in trouble, could survive a vote of no confidence.  They held  a snap election and lost.  ‘Fired’, the headlines screamed.  The Conservatives got in on a ticket of Health and Safety.  And six months later, Britain joined the Americans and declared war on Iran.

It’s all chaos. A butterfly flaps its wings in West Africa and there’s a typhoon in the South China Sea.   Karen cooks beans on toast ……. and well, anything could happen.

The carers leave notes for each other on the wall above the work surface in her kitchen.  The one this morning read,  ‘If the district nurse or any member of the family ask you to help them move Doris, you must say NO!’ 

I went through to the bedroom.  Mum was half lying, half sitting on pillows, wild eyed, without teeth, without hearing aids or glasses.  I was shocked.  I put her teeth and hearing aids in, put her glasses on and asked Rosina to help me get her up.  She looked scared and refused.  ‘I’m not allowed.’  So I manoeuvred mum out of bed onto the wheelchair and wheeled her into the sitting room and danced with her onto the sofa,  where we settled down and thumbed through old photos of Bristol.  When the next carer arrived, I asked if they would change her pad.  Rosina looked doubtful but Joanne said ‘of course.’    Afterwards, as she was going, Rosina told me there was faeces in it and they weren’t allowed to deal with solids. 

Later,  Cheryl rang from the office and told me she had talked to the rapid response dementia team, the district nurse, the physiotherapist and they were all of the opinion that mum had to go into hospital.  ‘It takes two carers to help Doris onto the commode or to change a pad.  And they cannot deal with solid matter’. 

I sighed, ‘Health and safety.’ 

‘Nick you would not believe how many regulations there are these days.’ 

‘I would, Cheryl, I would.  But the bottom line is that if mum goes into hospital, she will die, and I don’t want her to go like that.’ 

I had visions of her waiting around behind a curtain in Casualty for hours and then being going  to a crowded and noisy admissions ward.  So I announced: ‘Why don’t I be on call, Cheryl.  I can call in twice a day to lift her.’  

‘But, Nick, you will need to be in all the time –  even through the night.  You will not get any sleep.  And how are you going to deal with her if she is incontinent of faeces?’

‘Well, I will just have to be less squeamish.  Can’t we at least try it?’ 

Mum had rallied with me there that afternoon and I didn’t want to abandon her now.

‘No Nick, I really think we have come to the end of the line.’

It had all started after the fall.  The carer had left her alone in the bathroom and gone into the kitchen to make breakfast when she heard a crash.  The doctor decided she hadn’t broken anything, but thought she had a chest infection.  He prescribed oral morphine, which I withheld because I felt it would hasten a slide into hospital. 

But now there seemed no alternative, so I telephoned the GP and arranged for mum to be admitted to a private hospital over the weekend.  Four hours later and the ambulance still hadn’t arrived.  ‘Oh, it’s Friday night and they will be out on 999 calls.’  Mum was exhausted and sinking, so I dialled  999. 

‘Oh no, squire’, said the paramedic, who was built like a rugby player.  ‘Our rules are we have to take her to casualty at the Northern General and then they can take her to St Benedict’s after that.’ 

‘But she’s already got a bed in St Benedict’s.’ 

Eventually he agreed as a favour, but explained how much trouble he would get into if his supervisors knew.  ‘It’s not me squire.  It’s the regulations. You’ve just got to be so careful these days. But she’ll like it here.  They’ve got shower gel!    

St Benedict’s was quiet and peaceful.  Mum settled into a comfortable bed and went to sleep. 

The next day, they phoned me at 8.30am and requested a deposit of £2500.  I gave my credit card details and then asked to be put through to the ward. I was connected to the consultant, who explained with great grace that they had taken an Xray and would begin to mobilise her if there was not a fracture. 

But when I arrived, she was fast asleep and unresponsive.   They had not got her out of bed.  She had been incontinent overnight and she was not swallowing water.  

I talked to the sister. ‘We’re a busy ward.  There are surgical patients and children.  Your mum needs a lot of attention and it’s the weekend. I don’t have the staff.’ 

Can nobody help care for mum?  I have encouraged them to put up a drip and give IV fluids, they have catheterised her.  I know when meal times are and will go and try to get some of that delicious cottage pie down her. 

I suspect their attitude is to let her die with dignity.  That’s fine, but although she is 94,  mum’s heart is healthy and she is physically quite strong.  She needs the kind of 24 hour one on one attention the carers were giving her at home, but she will never get that in hospital.    In the meantime, they give her lovely food but she can’t feed herself,  they provide drink but she won’t drink it,  they prescribe mobilisation but the physio looks after the whole ward and doesn’t have the time to get her up on her feet and mum is too frightened. 

She’s now been in St Benedict’s for three days and there’s a change.  It’s like she has lost hold of her life.  When I arrived yesterday, she was slumped in a chair, desperate, pleading, ‘Oh please, oh, please Nick, pulling at the sheets on the bed, plucking at her drip, trying to sit up.  I put her hearing aid in and tried to communicate but when she responded, it was with half a sentence.  ‘I want to go …. Get me out ….. Nurses…… Toilet’ .   She recognised me, stared at me desperately before her eyes seemed to cloud and look away. 

I phoned the consultant.  ‘It will be a long haul to get her back to where she was before she came in, if she ever gets back.  Over the next few days, we will get her over the infection and try to encourage her to feed herself and walk, but I suspect this will take more time than we have got.   You will need to get her in to a nursing home.  

I guess mum had been on the brink for some time,  kept going by the constant round the clock attention of her carers.  It would only take a moment’s neglect; a fall plus the rigid application of  regulations and she was suddenly in a place where they couldn’t help.   I sense her terror.  I hold her and she quietens a little but as soon as I let go, she’s back in her own version of hell.   And what now?  She certainly can’t go back.  She will go to a nursing home.  They will keep her body alive , they will feed her, give her drinks, turn her, manage pressure sores.  I can only pray that her mind has  long gone by then,  she has released her fierce grip on life and resigned to oblivion.  

People say that the British have the best care system in the world.  It’s not true.  The boost in NHS funds may have enhanced the efficiency of health provision, but it has not improved care.  Care requires flexibility and compassion.  It takes human understanding to know how to work within the rules to provide what a patient needs.  All too often regulations lead to restriction and a withholding of care.    

He’s one of those awkward people,  too tall and not quite coordinated.  He doesn’t so much walk   and bounce along on the balls of his feet, his body held forward as if nearly falling over.  it’s like he is not of this world. He seems out of place, confused as if he can’t make out what he is meant to do.  He’s not rude.  In fact there is something endearing about him.  We want to laugh, but we would not wish to hurt his feelings.  But you get the impression he wouldn’t notice.   

He is one of those slightly odd  anti-heroes who confound and irritate the hell out of those who take themselves too seriously.   Playing tennis, he  has his own idiosyncratic method of serving, a back and forth movement of the racquet as if he was putting a pizza in the oven and then a smack, leaving his more professional opponents muttering darkly.  But don’t we love him just because he has a go?  His  car breaks down at the funeral gates but when he opens the boot to get his tools, the inner tube rolls into the wet leaves where it is mistaken by the funeral director as a wreath and hung on the tomb.  The wreath deflates but the mourners pretend not to notice and come up to shake M. Hulot’s hand for his courtesy.   And of course, it‘s Monsieur Hulot who gets to dance with the pretty girl, but there is no hint of guile or seductiveness is his behaviour.  He is just enjoying the innocent fun of being  Monsieur ‘Ulot on ‘oliday.   

If it wasn’t French, we would say that Monsieur Hulot’s holidays is a charming example of British humour,  the precursor of Mr Bean and Monty Python’s Flying Circus, but it’s more subtle than either of those.  M. Hulot is not so much a belly laugh as a whimsical set of observations of people doing the sort of things that people do on holiday.  We are laughing at ourselves.  Jacques  Tati has a wonderful knock of holding up a mirror saying with just a hint of a smile,   ‘aren’t we all a bit absurd when we think about it?’

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