Monday, 6 March 2017

#OurNHS

#OurNHS

It’s easy to stand up and publicly support the NHS. Most people agree that it’s a crucial and valuable service, so it’s not particularly controversial to hold a placard that reads #OurNHS. No one’s really going to argue or challenge you or blame you. This doesn’t make it any less important; maybe the opposite. We all need the NHS at some point in our lives. Thankfully it’s mostly for the less dramatic stuff, like doctor’s appointments, routine check-ups or prescriptions. Occasionally we might need it for something more serious and sudden, like a challenging illness or major accident. When the time comes, whichever way we need the NHS and whenever we need it, it’s there, round the clock, accessible to all and free.

We will sometimes encounter problems using the NHS. Of course we will. The NHS is a giant of an organisation. It is a huge public institution, subject to all the same pressures which affect all our public services. We are a growing population and an ageing one. We have high expectations for our quality of life.  We want it all and we want it now. Unfortunately, even with the best intentions, things don’t always work like that. Occasionally we might have to wait longer than we expected, or queue, or have an appointment changed or perhaps we might have a procedure cancelled at short notice.  This can be stressful and not always how we’d want things to be but in my experience, it’s still rare to encounter serious failings in the NHS. There is without doubt a crisis facing the NHS but it still continues to deliver a truly remarkable service.

In recent years I’ve called upon the NHS many times, for a variety of different reasons. I was a carer for my dad until he died; following his eight year struggle with Vascular Dementia. Now I am the primary carer for my mum, who is also experiencing the numerous and varied health challenges that come with old age. I’ve had minor issues myself, requiring appointments, procedures or prescriptions and I have four children, who have inevitably required routine heath care.  I’ve also been involved occasionally when a friend or neighbour needed hospital treatment.

My most dramatic experience with the NHS happened three years ago, when my daughter had a serious accident and suffered a traumatic brain injury. This incident called upon the help of so many NHS services; from the ambulance and paramedics at the scene, to the air ambulance that flew her to London, to the Critical Care unit that nursed her while she was in a coma, to the recovery wards and the therapy she received, after being discharged from hospital. The NHS saved my daughter’s life. 

It’s easy to get carried away. Not all members of NHS staff are saints. Not all nurses are angels. Not all doctors are charming and articulate. But despite all the pressures they are under, despite all the challenges they face daily, the NHS staff I’ve encountered, carry out their work with seemingly inexhaustible skill and professional excellence. They are often personable and cheerful at the same time, which is more than can be said for many of us in our daily routines. These people constantly work in difficult circumstances, for long hours, in emotionally charged situations and still achieve unbelievable results.

The NHS is not all about heroics and lifesaving either. Much of the work is mundane and often unpleasant. It involves disposing of waste and wiping bottoms and cleaning up bodily fluids. It involves getting patients to and from places, preparing beds and equipment and making sure that everyone is kept warm and well fed. Patients can be unhappy, grumpy, demanding or just plain rude. So can the patients’ families and visitors. Frontline work in a hospital is never easy.

For good and for bad, we take the NHS for granted. We expect it to be there when we need it and we expect it to be free at the point of need. Sometimes we expect it to perform miracles. The incredible thing is, it is always there, it is free at the point of need and it often does perform miracles. Using the NHS however often involves things we don’t like to think or talk about, so we don’t think about it much at all, until we need it. When we do need it, it’s often unexpected, when we are at our most vulnerable, so really, we should be able to take the NHS for granted. Unfortunately not thinking about it in the right way has meant that changes to the NHS have happened under our noses, which threaten its very existence.

It’s time we really started thinking about the NHS and it’s time we talked about it a whole lot more. If we want to preserve and protect a free public service which is available to all, we need to act now. We need to protest about budget cuts and hospital department closures.  We need to prevent the deliberate running down of NHS services in order to replace them with private companies. And we need to stop undermining the NHS with negative news stories and constant complaining.

We must not be distracted by misleading and false headlines either. The NHS is not facing a crisis because of over spending. The NHS is facing crisis because of underfunding. Migrants are not draining the NHS. Migrants who work for the NHS are holding it together and keeping us alive. The NHS is a shining example of successful multiracial and cross cultural employment and we should be proud of that. Health tourism isn’t draining the NHS either. It accounts for a tiny percentage of NHS spending. Nor will privatisation of the NHS mean we receive a better service. Putting our health in the hands of individuals and companies which exist to make a profit is a dangerous game. Don’t let the NHS go the way of BHS.


It is easy to stand up and support the NHS and we will all have our personal reasons to be thankful for it but it shouldn’t be just a simple case of cheering on the nurses, doctors and supporting staff, for all the great work they do. We also need to protect them, their jobs and the safety of their patients. To do this, we need to properly stand up to this government and confront the wider issues that are threatening not only the NHS but also many of our fundamental choices and basic freedoms. 

Monday, 23 April 2012

Me the Swimming Pool and the Man in the Shower



I went with my family to visit the grandparents during the Easter holidays. The weather was pretty poor so indoor activities like scoffing chocolate, watching TV and sleeping were the main pastimes. Suited me fine. One morning though, in a rare fit of energetic enthusiasm, we went swimming, at a nearby leisure centre.
Inside the changing rooms we had a slight problem with a locker that wouldn't lock. We're a family of six; we were using two large lockers but one of them had jammed and the coin was stuck inside. I didn't have another coin. It was no big deal but I had to ask a member of staff for help- a lifeguard in a yellow polo shirt and red swim shorts, like the star of Baywatch, if it was filmed in Gloucestershire. But David Gloucesterhoff couldn't help. He had to call someone else on a walkie-talkie to come and fix it. So it turned into one of those, you know - one of those things. My wife and the kids headed into the pool while I sorted it out.
Eventually the locker was locked and I prepared to join them in the pool. Having been left responsible for all locker-related business, I was now sporting two locker key wrist bands, one on each wrist. You know the ones - like cheap, plastic watch straps, designed to conceal the sharp, metal locker key and prevent it from scratching and causing injury. The straps are made from sharp, abrasive plastic which ironically scratch and cause injury. If you pull them too tight they pinch the skin rather painfully as well. Once in place however, they make you feel like you're wearing some kind of Batman wrist gadget - especially if you wear two at once, as I was.
So now I was Locker Man, the middle-aged, balding, pale skinned, out of shape, semi-naked super hero whose special power is unlocking lockers.
Just before I entered the pool there was a shower area where signs instructed me to shower before entering the pool. Why? I didn't need a shower. I'd showered only an hour or two before. I wasn't covered in mud or filth of any kind. I wasn't radioactive either, as far as I knew. What's more I was about to get into a swimming pool containing enough chemicals to justify an investigation by a United Nations special envoy. And I was Locker Man. I could do what I want.
But I showered again anyway. I didn't want to appear unhygienic. Didn't want people to point at me and run out of the pool screaming because the dirty man was about to get in.
I didn't mind actually. I knew the pool would be cold and the shower was hot, so I was happy to linger for a bit longer - but that's when I was approached by one of the pool managers - fully dressed. He'd already smiled and said hello from a distance but now he was heading straight for me.
"Did you used to be on TV?" he asked.
I was a bit taken aback - not by the question, that's fairly common and doesn't bother me - it was more the situation. I felt slightly vulnerable. I wasn't completely naked. I was wearing swim shorts but I was still under a shower - having a shower. He was wearing a suit and tie, leather shoes and a coat. It didn't seem to bother him and he moved closer. He was within close range now. Close enough to get wet - but that didn't seem to bother him either.
"What programme was it?" he persisted.
I answered, trying to remain polite, thinking he'd quickly move on but he didn't. He wanted to shake my hand now. So he moved even closer. Water was splashing all over his clothes and shoes and he was shaking my wet hand. He was practically in the shower with me.
I don't want to sound ungrateful. I'm pleased he was interested in me enough that he wanted to shake my hand - but he kept on shaking my hand and wouldn't let go and now I really wanted him to leave me alone. It was just too awkward. I wanted to join my wife and kids in the pool but instead I was holding hands with a fully dressed man in a shower, talking about Saturday morning TV from 20 years ago.
In the end I had to make a run for it. I yanked my hand from his vice-like grip, leapt out of the shower and headed for the pool shouting, "Nice to meet you!"
But he wasn't giving up. He wasn't going to let me get away that easily. He was hot on my heels, telling me about his own family and how they used to watch the show. Standing pool side while he described fond recollections was all very well but he was wearing clothes and I wasn't; the effects of the hot shower had worn off and I was cold and starting to shiver. There was only one means of escape; an uncharacteristic and sudden dive into the pool. Splash! I was in. His muffled voice was barely audible above the bubbling in my ears as I swam as far as I could under the water.
Safe at last. But no. He dived in after me. Swimming behind me, fully clothed; still going on about Andi Peters and Ed the Duck. I'm not a fast swimmer. Ed the Duck who's not even a real duck is a better swimmer. It's the breathing thing. I've never really mastered the breathing thing, so I still do breast stroke with my head out of the water, like some elderly folk and young children do. The sodden manager caught up with me easily, even swimming in a suit and coat. And now he wanted an autograph. Not for him. For a relative. He was waving a pen and a soggy bit of paper.
I was left with no choice. I looked around. No one was watching. Thankfully my kids were at the other end of the pool with my wife, happily playing, so they didn't see. They didn't see me push his head under the water. They didn't see me holding it there, while he kicked and struggled, still gurgling about Peter Simon's Double Dare, Phillip Schofield's hair colour and Swing Your Pants. It took all the strength I could muster to keep him under the water. My face showed no emotion. No sign of what was happening. I even smiled at my kids across the pool in the distance.
I felt a bit bad. It was Easter after all but it was his fault. He'd brought it on himself. He'd crossed the line.
In a hygienically protected area, where you are forced to shower before entering a heavily chlorinated swimming pool, he wore outdoor shoes.
The dirty bastard.
Don't mess with Locker Man.

Thursday, 19 April 2012

Me, the Truth and the Checkout Girl


Recently I had a weird encounter with a supermarket checkout assistant.
I say weird. Actually, she was doing the normal checkout thing and I was doing the normal customer thing. That is, she swiped goods across a barcode scanner while I put them in plastic carrier bags (I know! I forgot the 'bags for life'... again - but I do use the carrier bags as pedal bin liners, so saving on the unnecessary use of proper pedal bin liners - if that makes it any better? At least when the bags are stuffed full of household rubbish they are less likely to get stuck in a dolphin's blow hole - unless we're talking about a dolphin with an abnormally large blow hole).
Anyway you're familiar with the supermarket routine, I'm sure. All fairly normal and not particularly weird. Although, to an alien race that do their shopping by inhaling consumables through their bottom nostrils, that situation would of course be weird. (Sorry to go back to blowholes again) But to me at that moment everything was fairly normal. Until she started to ask questions.
"How are you today?" she asked, smiling.
I was tired. I'd had a late night, the night before and I was probably a bit hung-over. I was grumpy about being in a supermarket on a Saturday afternoon. I was hungry and thirsty. I was slightly anxious about still having to buy a birthday present for someone before I could go home and I was in need of the toilet. I was slightly anxious about the economic climate and how it might affect my own financial situation. I was fed up with the recent spate of cold and wet weather and I was slightly depressed at the daily news of death and disaster in the numerous unjustified and unnecessary violent conflicts around the world. A friend of mine was having domestic problems. Several pending jobs at home were playing on my mind. My wife was under pressure at work and my teenage daughters were in the middle of mock exams. The general mood in the house was tense.
So I replied, as you might expect.
"Fine thanks", smiling back.
I assumed that would be the end of it. That's the normal deal with complete strangers. Polite question. Polite answer. Polite smile. Thank you and goodbye. But she persisted.
"Done anything nice today?" still smiling.
I wasn't sure. Had I? It had been a lazy morning - which is kind of nice after a late night but for me that comes with the flipside of being slightly frustrated that I've missed out on a chance to do something else and wasted valuable weekend time. Having said that, I shared some fun time with my two boys, beaten and humiliated on a Wii game and I'd enjoyed my breakfast and a refreshing shower. In a world where millions of people don't have access to fresh water and others risk death from starvation, those two things in themselves were definitely "nice" but at that moment, having spent the last hour or two wandering round a dull and uninspiring retail park with an overcrowded car park and stressed drivers, I was placing household goods and packaged food items into unpleasant guilt inducing orange bags.
So I replied, as you might expect.
"Er... not really. Just shopping" smiling weakly.
Surely that was the end of it? I don't want to sound like an unfriendly git, too busy to share a few pleasantries with a bored supermarket employee but she'd crossed a line here. This was getting personal. And it didn't stop there.
"Going out tonight or having a quiet one?" more smiling.
What!? Why did she need to know that? Why did she want to know that? What did she mean by "a quiet one" anyway? How quiet is "a quiet one"? Is it sitting naked in furry slippers in a padded room on a sheepskin pouffe wearing ear defenders? Is that quiet enough? It certainly sounds appealing but that wasn't my plan that evening. (Although one evening soon now it will be). What if I say that I'm going out? Will it lead to more questions about where I'm going, what I'll do and who with? I had no plans to go out anyway. I'm an honest person. I find lying impossible. Even to total strangers. So I had to tell her the truth.
"Oh... just a quiet one" no longer smiling.
My mind started racing. "Damn! Why did I have to tell the truth? Now she thinks I'm really boring. Now she thinks I'm going home to watch Dancing on Ice and stuff my face with two-for-one Twirl Bites". I don't know why I should care whether she thought I was boring or not. I didn't fancy her. I wasn't trying to impress her. I didn't even start the conversation. I was just trying to pack my shopping as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there. Now I found myself having to justify my answer.
"I had a bit of a late one last night actually" pathetic smile.
Now I was talking like her. "Bit of a late one"? Instead of a few drinks and nibbles with fellow middle-aged friends at their place, which is what it had been, suddenly I was making out that I'd been necking absinthe and snorting cocaine off a pole dancers tits until the early hours. What the hell was I doing!?
That was it. That's when I snapped. Something went "Ping!" and I pulled out the gun. I told everyone in the shop to get down on the floor. The shop went silent apart from the incessant hum of electronic equipment and everyone lay down on the ground with their hands behind their heads as instructed.
"Nobody move and nobody gets hurt".
My tone was forceful. They knew I didn't want to use the gun but it was clear that if pushed I would kill them all. I'd had enough of the questions and I needed to get out quick. This was my only means of escape. I pointed it at the checkout girl.
"This is your fault!" I shouted.
"If I'm caught and arrested and sent to prison and my wife becomes a prossie to make ends meet (if you'll pardon the phrase) and my kids are forced onto the streets as pickpockets and drug dealers, you're to blame!"
She smiled sweetly.
"Are you collecting the school vouchers?"

Saturday, 10 March 2012

Me, Camp, the Coach and Children's BBC



Camp as a row of tents. Camp as Christmas. Camp as me - apparently.


I've never been what you might call a sporty person but my two sons enjoy their football. Last week I turned up as usual to collect them from their after school training session. As I waited for them to gather up clothes and bags, their coach told me he was impressed by their increasing ability and enthusiasm. Naturally I enjoyed a moment of fatherly pride. But then he asked loudly in front of the other assembled mums and dads...
"Were you ever sporty?"
I hesitated for a second but decided to be honest.
"Not really..." I said.
That was all he needed and before I could say any more he launched into...
"No. Thought not. From what I've seen on TV, you were a bit camp!"
Just to make the point he repeated the words "a bit camp" several times, while doing a funny voice and flapping his hands about like Larry Grayson, much to the amusement of the other parents. Too camp to be sporty!? I was thrown for a second. My Daft Bloke Who Used to Be on TV guard was down and standing there on the school field I could have been 48 or 14, the embarrassment was pretty much the same.
It was just friendly banter. He didn't mean any harm. Besides he had a point. I had turned up dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, listening to Cher on my MP3 player, eating a cup cake. So I just laughed it off and wandered back to the car with my two muddy sons. But all the time I was thinking...
"Hang on a minute... I was in the Cub Scout football team... I had an all-white Leeds United kit with numbered sock tabs and white football boots... I once cycled from London to Southampton on the hottest day of the year in a vest and Lycra shorts... I can be camp and sporty!"
Surely sport is one of the campest things going anyway. Bright, stripy outfits. Men in shorts. Gary Lineker. Synthetic fabrics. Team bonding. Cheerleaders. Body building. Leotards. The Olympics. Kevin Keegan. Jock straps for goal posts. Isn't it?
I wasn't going to win that one. Sport might have its camp corner but Children's BBC is way out there with tinsel, shopping and Elton John. On Saturday morning television I was part of a comedy double-act who portrayed exaggerated characters in ostentatious and over the top theatrical costumes that made jokes, often laced with sexual innuendo. That's fairly camp I suppose. Out of character I wasn't particularly 'manly' or 'macho' either. The football coach wasn't the first person to have made this observation. I am generally regarded as "a bit camp". Friends and relatives think so too; even my own children.
Check out any online dictionary and you will see the word camp has many definitions, from 'theatrical' to 'kitsch' to 'effeminate' to 'the behaviour of homosexual men'. Although not exclusively so, the word is most commonly associated with the behaviour of gay men. People who know me as a family man, like the football coach, clearly find it so confusing that describing me as 'camp' is the only solution. Without making judgements or wanting to sound defensive though, I am actually straight.
There was a time, obviously before the arrival of Loaded magazine, when I deliberately avoided behaving in a laddish or blokey way because it was trendier to be camp. I was a drama student in the early 1980s. Enough said. But it wasn't just me. This was the era of New Romantics, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and The Smiths. Even working class hero Paul Weller was suggestively posing topless and stroking his bare chest in his Style Council videos. Everyone was camp in those days.
As a young student, adopting camp turned out very useful after I caused the leader of the militant Women's Group to issue the feminist equivalent of a fatwa against me, for crimes against women.
It wasn't entirely fair. It was stupid of me but my reasons were sincere. It was a favour for a fellow male drama student. He was making a documentary about attitudes towards women and sexism and needed some provocative opinions on camera to spice up his film and spark debate. As a budding actor I offered my services and naively starting spouting sexist rubbish about how housewives should be chained to the kitchen sink.
In Manchester University in 1981, faced with the wrath of an angry Women's Group I was lucky to escape with my life let alone both testicles but thankfully the grovelling apologies and subsequent camping around campus saved me. Pathetic wimps like me were no threat to the future of feminism. So I was allowed to live.
My camp tendencies probably go back even further. In the '70s my childhood attempts to emulate pop stars like Marc Bolan, David Bowie and yes *cough* even Gary Glitter, clearly influenced my theatrical bent. As a very young boy my mum even stuck me on the catwalk, modelling children's clothes in the church hall. Vicars and young boys on catwalks. That's more camp than a Shih Tzu in a snow globe. It's no wonder I'm camp. I'm surprised I'm not the full wigwam; the total tepee.
These days I'm definitely not very sporty but I still enjoy the occasional bike ride or a paddle in my kayak (and that's not a euphemism). But in my opinion being a bit camp should not exclude anyone from taking part in or enjoying sport; so here's my Top Ten tips for fellow male campers who want to have a go at sporting activity:
1. Always wear the daftest, tightest or brightest outfit you can find
2. When emerging from the changing room - do a silly walk
3. While doing the silly walk, whistle or hum a retro TV sports show theme tune
4. Carry a handy man bag containing an energy drink and a packet of Mini Cheddars
5. Hop, skip and leap about enthusiastically without demonstrating any skill whatsoever
6. Try to not to get muddy by avoiding puddles even if it means avoiding the sport itself
7. If you are forced to stretch, strain or exert yourself in any way - always make a stupid noise
8. In the pub afterwards ask to see the wine list
9. Go home and watch The Big Bang Theory on TV
10. Write a blog about it
Good luck and have fun!

Saturday, 3 March 2012

Me, Greggs and Dead Man's Shoes



I've always found shoes a bit stressful. Buying them. Wearing them.  Cleaning them. Finding a perfectly comfortable, hard wearing, stylish pair of shoes is a rare and wonderful thing. It's probably a hangover from my childhood.
Growing up in the 1970s, the only option for me as far as my mum was concerned was sensible school shoes, measured to fit and all leather. No plastic. No argument. At the time I hated them - until they started to bring out ones with daft gimmicks; like those with a compass in the heel just in case you got lost crossing a mountain range on the way to school.
Not something that really concerned me, living in Southampton, but I appreciated the thought and felt safer for it. I hadn't a clue how it worked but in the event that I did get lost I knew at least I could always take one shoe off, look at the compass and hop in a vague northerly direction.
Another brand which made boring black school shoes more bearable were Clarks 'Commandos' - given this name by the way because they were like British Army Commando shoes, not because you wore them without underpants. Other gimmicks included shoes with animal tracks of woodland creatures on the soles. Maybe the British Army wore them too. That would certainly confuse the enemy...
WW2 German Soldier 1: "Achtung! Foot prints!"
WW2 German Soldier 2: "Britisher?"
WW2 German Soldier 1: "Nein - just a deer wearing sensible size three black leather lace-ups."
Arriving home from school these shoes offered the additional bonus of leaving animal prints across the living room carpet after I'd stepped in dog poo.
By the time I reached the age of about 12 the rules were starting to relax. Outside of school I was allowed to wear 'fashion' shoes. This was the age of glam rock. At weekends my footwear of choice was a pair of green and red, square toe shoes with chunky platform soles and stack heels. These went with my extra wide, flared trousers, knitted tank top and pink paisley shirt, with matching kipper tie. From Clarks Commando to circus clown.
Later, Clarks brought out a very different type of fashion shoe. A 'sensible' fashion shoe which we called Nature Treks. These were made from soft, natural leather with a bouncy crepe or rubber sole which famously featured a leather upper folded asymmetrically across the front.
The general opinion was that they looked like Cornish pasties. Clearly years of Clarks conditioning had messed with my mind because I actually chose to have a pair. Replacing multi-coloured clown shoes with Cornish pasties was another strange style choice, but as comfort goes they were great. I think subconsciously they've been my benchmark for shoe comfort ever since. This causes confusion in Greggs the Bakers when I still can't decide whether to eat my lunch or stick my feet into it.
My search for decent, comfortable shoes still continues, but being a family man with four kids I can neither afford nor justify spending huge amounts of cash on expensive footwear for myself.
Buying good shoes on a budget is almost impossible unless you are prepared to camp out in the shoe department of TK Maxx like a wayward member of Occupy who's been tempted to the dark side by the lure of cut price Loakes.
Thankfully until recently, the need for quality shoes didn't seem to bother my teenage daughters who actually relished buying cheap rubbishy ones. I say shoes but really they were nothing more than cardboard slippers. They only cost something like two pounds but then again they only lasted about two days. Fashions have changed and recently they have discovered the joys of Doc Martens (probably the second most comfortable footwear I have ever owned). The era of them being satisfied with cheap shoes is at an end.
To satisfy my own needs I have turned to second hand shoes or 'vintage' as I prefer to call them. Either title is better than dead man's shoes, which is another name for them and a reason why some choose not to tread the path of vintage clothing at all.
And if you knew an old student mate of mine - it's a very good reason. He once bought a second hand suit from a charity shop only to find some unpleasant remainder of the previous owner still encrusted in the bottom area of the trousers. Undeterred, legend has it that he merely proceeded to clean the trousers with a tooth brush and then wore the suit. And then continued to use the toothbrush.
Fortunately my own experiences with charity shops and vintage clothing have been less disturbing but it's still not easy finding the ideal pair of shoes, with or without shit on them.
Not so long ago, I thought I'd found a good pair on eBay. Definitely no shit. Good quality, clean, vintage tan brogues. Size nine. I don't know if a size nine shoe was smaller 40 years ago.
Apparently clothing sizes have increased in recent years, so maybe shoe sizes have too. Anyway when mine arrived in the post they felt like they were a size too small and particularly narrow as well. I really liked them. I'd been after a pair of decent old brogues for some time and these looked good, so I wore them anyway. They hurt my feet but I was determined not to give up on them.
One day wearing them about town in the rain, I suddenly noticed how comfortable my feet were feeling. I was very pleased. My persistence had paid off. I had finally worn them in and stretched them to fit; a tribute to the craftsmanship and quality of good, old fashioned, leather shoes.
Except I hadn't and it wasn't. The minute I stepped in a puddle, I realised my mistake. My wrong sized feet had in fact forced the shoes to stretch sideways and outwards, finally exploding the stitching between the leather uppers and the soles. Gaping holes appeared along the sides and cold puddle water was soaking into my socks.
As the knackered, old brogues continued to deteriorate, I spent the rest of the day with cold wet feet flapping about like a cartoon tramp. They needed binding with gaffer tape just to stay on. I could feel the eyes of others staring at me. I could sense children pointing and giggling. "Look at that man's stupid shoes!" I half expected someone to give me the price of a cup of coffee.
It was then I spied a branch of Greggs. A lightning bolt of realisation told me that the answer to all my problems was waiting for me inside, between the pizza baguettes and the steak bakes.
Minutes later, I'd binned the old brogues and emerged from the bakers shop with my feet inside two large Cornish pasties, grinning like a circus clown. To top it all, I had also removed my underpants, commando style.
And so, with my head held high and warm toes wiggling in a hot stew of meat and vegetables, clutching a tiny compass in my hand, I headed north along the street with a degree of comfort like never before.

Thursday, 23 February 2012

Me, The Moon and Helium 3




The Moon is back! And it's bigger than ever. Not literally of course. It actually never went away and it's still exactly the same size (although I can't scientifically prove that). I'm talking in fashion terms of course and let me tell you, the Moon is going to be SO this millennium!
Back in the old days we all loved the moon. The Blue Moon, the Paper Moon and the cheesy one. We danced and snogged under The Moon of Love. We loved the Moon so much we even gave it a personality - and a face. Sometimes he wore a night cap and winked at us. He snoozed and snored by day and then woke up at night and smiled. A kind old, wise old, Moon.
Back in the very old days - the dark days - we relied on the Moon for its light; to work and fish and hunt and ride and sail and walk at night. Some of us worshipped the Moon (weirdos) but we all acknowledged its immense importance to our lives and our world; its effect on the seas and all the living creatures on Earth.
In recent history we strove to walk on the Moon. There was even a race to get there. Billions of dollars and rubles were spent on rockets and modules and all manner of space craft. Some were flown by dogs or monkeys; tortoises, fish and frogs. Even guinea pigs were used as guinea pigs. And then finally on 20 July 1969 we got there. A man landed on the Moon. Walking on the Moon. A man with a funny name. A man called Sting. Or was it Buzz? Or...maybe it was Neil actually. Anyway we got there. And then we got there again...and again...and again...and then...we all got a bit bored of it.
The Moon had lost its charm. We had all seen it close up on TV in black and white. Dry, dusty and not a Clanger in sight. Nothing to fear but nothing to get excited about either. On Earth, we started to put all this space technology to better use and created new satellites of our own. The new ones were much smaller - but they twinkled like stars - and they gave us so much. Like German porn channels; the ability to target our neighbours with nuclear weapons; and to drive to the nearest KFC without a map.
Who needs the light of the silvery Moon when we've got 42" LED backlit TVs bedazzling and beguiling us in our own living rooms? Who wants to freak out to a Moonage Daydream when we've got Grand Theft Auto? And who bothers to look at the Moon when we've got The Sun? Life on Earth was good and we didn't care about the Moon anymore. But all that is about to change.
As good as it is for some, the life we have on Earth has been officially branded as unsustainable. The global population is out of control; everyone wants three cars, five laptops and a walk-in fridge freezer and it's starting to get really hot in here. How can we keep it all going? How does an economy grow when it runs out of stuff to buy and sell?
Suddenly our eyes are looking to the skies again. Eyes bigger than our stomachs. Staring hungrily at the Moon. China, Russia, India all want in. A new kind of Space Race perhaps? A race of people who actually live in space? Maybe one day. But for now we just need to get back on the Moon.
The Moon has minerals. Very useful when ours run out. It's even got water - only about a cupful for every 300 tonnes of moon rock - but someone's guaranteed to make a fortune bottling it. But more significantly the Moon has much larger quantities of something called Helium 3. Novelty balloons and silly squeaky voices are here to stay. And so is Nuclear Energy.
Apparently Helium 3 mined from the Moon means highly efficient, waste free, nuclear power without radiation. With energy and minerals we can all carry on happily doing all the stuff we like doing. Eating and watching stuff. Probably not walking in the countryside or swimming in the sea but we'll have holograms for that. And it's all thanks to the Moon. So relax everyone. Keep calm and keep on keeping on. The future is bright. The future is pale moonlight coloured.
The Moon is back.