I have a horrible feeling that events are conspiring against me this week. Somebody up there is out to teach me a lesson. As they say on ‘Pushing Daisies’, the facts are these:
Bogsey, aged 40 years, 16 days, 7 hours and 42 minutes, is eagerly anticipating a meeting. An important meeting with a blond, name as yet unknown. No, not a 40th birthday present from his mates – rather, a guide-dog, - at long last, a potential match.
Meanwhile, a nasty little stomach bug is working its way through the Bogsey family – Mrs B and the two little Bs are already suffering the effects, and I have a horrible feeling that its inevitable journey to my bowel will coincide with a my important meeting.
This could make for an interesting day. I may have to spend the morning trying to make sure the house smells ok – I don’t want to be refused the dog because of fears about the cleanliness of the house! Assuming the dog doesn’t take a sniff and turn its nose up, I then have to take it for a little walk, mainly to check its speed. That could be interesting. My speed might be a little variable and if I’m caught short it will have to be a greyhound to keep up with me. Perhaps it would be wise to take a couple of extra poo-bags with me.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Who dear? Me dear?
As with many of my ‘good’ ideas, it turned out not to be. LG was off school – their boiler had broken down and ‘No Mr Boggie, you can’t just send him in with a hot water bottle’ – and I had already resolved to go that day to give blood. It’ll be interesting for him, even educational’ I thought to myself. I wasn’t quite prepared for just how educational.
It was many years ago that I had last delivered a pint of the red stuff and had forgotten that it involves a certain amount of screening before they let you do this. It’s weird how they spend such time and effort trying to get you to go and give blood and then seem equally determined to find a reason why you should not. Having logged me onto the computer, LG and I were then guided towards a little screened off area for interrogation.
The first step was for the nice male nurse to read through a leaflet for me – being a trained healthcare professional he had picked up on the fact that I was as blind as a bat in this dimly lit hall and he would have to go through it all for me. Now, contrary to popular belief, I am not completely stupid and I knew that some of the risk factors would be mentioned but, to be honest, I was more concerned with making sure I didn’t show myself up by crying or fainting when the old needles started to come out. It started off harmlessly enough, but I knew that this chap wasn’t going to accept ‘yeah whatever’ as informed consent as he ploughed his way through all the information. Soon he was onto the interesting stuff – things that increase the likelihood of your blood being of a blood-type they weren’t interested in, i.e. rotten, stinking infected blood. Before I saw it coming, he was telling me that oral and anal sex with another male was a risk factor. Then he asked me if it was o.k. to read this stuff out in front of LG. The horse had bolted so long ago, there was just a faint smell of manure in the air, and I calmly said ‘oh, it’s ok’ while my head was going ‘oh my God, how am I going to explain this?’
Having trudged through the leaflet, he then explained that he now needed to go through a health questionnaire with me. By this time I was catching on, and anticipating some rather intimate questions, I suggested to LG that he go and wait in the reception area. Thankfully, I think the volume of boring questions outweighed the interest of the odd juicy one, and he left us to it. Question after question after question, I answered ‘no’. I started to wonder how many more seedy but probably interesting things I could admit to never having tried. Why wasn’t there a box labelled ‘boring white middle-aged git’ that I could have ticked and saved a whole lot of time? I wanted to ask the nurse if he had ever done any of these things he was asking me about. I wanted to know what proportion of the donors were as boring and inexperienced as me. There wasn’t one thing to which I could give a positive reply. If only their stupid questionnaire had asked “Have you ever snogged a girl behind the stationery cupboard door at primary school’ or ‘Did you ever get a drunken snog from Katy Whitehouse on the stairs of the Mansion House pub whilst dressed as a doctor?’ I could have sat back in my chair with a knowing smile and replied ‘Ah, yes, actually. I bet you haven’t’
Once we had established that my blood would probably not even register on the radar of any self-respecting immune system, let alone be rejected by it, LG was called back to watch me go through the next stage of the humiliation, where they pricked my finger and tested a drop of blood to see if I was anaemic. I resisted the temptation to say that maybe I should be ruled out now for having had a male nurse put his prick in my hand, and waited to see if my drop was heavy enough to sink in the solution. This was shortly after the Christmas holidays and I began to wonder what effect alcohol would have. I imagined that the solution might form a smooth, creamy head, but it didn’t, and to my relief, it was confirmed that I could now claim, as well as being bloody heavy, to have heavy blood.
At last we escaped Guantanamo corner and made our way to the beds. I half expected my interrogator to pull a rubber glove out of his drawer, so having a big needle stuck in my arm was of little concern to me now. LG did his best to reassure me by telling me ‘it’s nearly up to a litre now’ as he watched me being drained. It was all over in five minutes.
On the way home I did my best to explain to LG why they need to talk about drugs and sex and foreign travel before you give blood and he seemed ok with it all. ‘If you’ve got any questions,’ I reassured him, ‘you can always ask your mum’.
It was many years ago that I had last delivered a pint of the red stuff and had forgotten that it involves a certain amount of screening before they let you do this. It’s weird how they spend such time and effort trying to get you to go and give blood and then seem equally determined to find a reason why you should not. Having logged me onto the computer, LG and I were then guided towards a little screened off area for interrogation.
The first step was for the nice male nurse to read through a leaflet for me – being a trained healthcare professional he had picked up on the fact that I was as blind as a bat in this dimly lit hall and he would have to go through it all for me. Now, contrary to popular belief, I am not completely stupid and I knew that some of the risk factors would be mentioned but, to be honest, I was more concerned with making sure I didn’t show myself up by crying or fainting when the old needles started to come out. It started off harmlessly enough, but I knew that this chap wasn’t going to accept ‘yeah whatever’ as informed consent as he ploughed his way through all the information. Soon he was onto the interesting stuff – things that increase the likelihood of your blood being of a blood-type they weren’t interested in, i.e. rotten, stinking infected blood. Before I saw it coming, he was telling me that oral and anal sex with another male was a risk factor. Then he asked me if it was o.k. to read this stuff out in front of LG. The horse had bolted so long ago, there was just a faint smell of manure in the air, and I calmly said ‘oh, it’s ok’ while my head was going ‘oh my God, how am I going to explain this?’
Having trudged through the leaflet, he then explained that he now needed to go through a health questionnaire with me. By this time I was catching on, and anticipating some rather intimate questions, I suggested to LG that he go and wait in the reception area. Thankfully, I think the volume of boring questions outweighed the interest of the odd juicy one, and he left us to it. Question after question after question, I answered ‘no’. I started to wonder how many more seedy but probably interesting things I could admit to never having tried. Why wasn’t there a box labelled ‘boring white middle-aged git’ that I could have ticked and saved a whole lot of time? I wanted to ask the nurse if he had ever done any of these things he was asking me about. I wanted to know what proportion of the donors were as boring and inexperienced as me. There wasn’t one thing to which I could give a positive reply. If only their stupid questionnaire had asked “Have you ever snogged a girl behind the stationery cupboard door at primary school’ or ‘Did you ever get a drunken snog from Katy Whitehouse on the stairs of the Mansion House pub whilst dressed as a doctor?’ I could have sat back in my chair with a knowing smile and replied ‘Ah, yes, actually. I bet you haven’t’
Once we had established that my blood would probably not even register on the radar of any self-respecting immune system, let alone be rejected by it, LG was called back to watch me go through the next stage of the humiliation, where they pricked my finger and tested a drop of blood to see if I was anaemic. I resisted the temptation to say that maybe I should be ruled out now for having had a male nurse put his prick in my hand, and waited to see if my drop was heavy enough to sink in the solution. This was shortly after the Christmas holidays and I began to wonder what effect alcohol would have. I imagined that the solution might form a smooth, creamy head, but it didn’t, and to my relief, it was confirmed that I could now claim, as well as being bloody heavy, to have heavy blood.
At last we escaped Guantanamo corner and made our way to the beds. I half expected my interrogator to pull a rubber glove out of his drawer, so having a big needle stuck in my arm was of little concern to me now. LG did his best to reassure me by telling me ‘it’s nearly up to a litre now’ as he watched me being drained. It was all over in five minutes.
On the way home I did my best to explain to LG why they need to talk about drugs and sex and foreign travel before you give blood and he seemed ok with it all. ‘If you’ve got any questions,’ I reassured him, ‘you can always ask your mum’.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Yuletide Blog
This festive season has been just like Santa’s sack – bursting with goodies. I’ll leave the socks, chocolate and pj’s to one side and tell you a little about the real surprises that made this Christmas memorable.
It all started with an egg. Yes, I know that’s more Easter than Christmas, but go with it for now. Returning from a pre-Christmas trip to the local shops, I happened upon a street sign lurking menacingly near the top of my road. Showing no sign of festive goodwill, said sign made no attempt to get out of my way, so it was left to my skill and judgement with my trusty long cane to avoid it. It’s amazing how hard an immovable object is when you walk into one, even at low speeds. And so, just like the virgin Mary, my bump formed without any human intervention and I staggered back home, with help from my boy LG (Little Guy) who did a good job of looking after the old man.
I haven’t had too many accidents this winter and this one did nothing to engender festive spirit. Even a good works night out didn’t much improve my demeanour and I started the holidays in distinctly humbugular fettle. By Christmas Eve I was finally getting into the mood and looking forward to Santa’s visit.
They do say that Christmas is all about the giving rather than receiving. Well some of the gifts have been giving me problems since they were unwrapped. First, as I sit writing this post I still have a nagging pain in my left shoulder thanks to Wii boxing and have had to retire undefeated with a record of 2 fights, 2 wins, both by knockout. It’s much better to bow out when you’re at your peak. Mrs B is nursing a similar injury – I think it’s proved a useful reminder to us that wii are not wii kids any more. I’ve also seen a different side to my loved ones which has reassured me that they can look after themselves when push comes to smack in the face.
Another grief-giving gift was Mrs B’s MP3 player, which I had stupidly thought would be just the Jewson – nothing too complicated I thought. Two days and several grey hairs later, I had been issued an ultimatum – get it working otherwise it was heading somewhere where the reception ain’t too good. I was minutes from giving up and taking it back to the smug git in Curry’s who told me it was ‘really easy’ when I finally found the answer and saved my marriage.
Christmas Day itself involved a splendid slap-up family dinner. Just as the grown-ups were enjoying the relative peace and good behaviour of the children, we made the fatal mistake of taking our eyes off Mrs B’s father. He was busy turning used party-poppers into pea-shooters. Showing his gratitude for his daughter-in-law’s hospitality and generosity, he managed to catch her in the eye with one of his saliva-moulded paper missiles. It’s nice that the senior citizens in the family set such a good example to the young ones.
Happy New Year!
It all started with an egg. Yes, I know that’s more Easter than Christmas, but go with it for now. Returning from a pre-Christmas trip to the local shops, I happened upon a street sign lurking menacingly near the top of my road. Showing no sign of festive goodwill, said sign made no attempt to get out of my way, so it was left to my skill and judgement with my trusty long cane to avoid it. It’s amazing how hard an immovable object is when you walk into one, even at low speeds. And so, just like the virgin Mary, my bump formed without any human intervention and I staggered back home, with help from my boy LG (Little Guy) who did a good job of looking after the old man.
I haven’t had too many accidents this winter and this one did nothing to engender festive spirit. Even a good works night out didn’t much improve my demeanour and I started the holidays in distinctly humbugular fettle. By Christmas Eve I was finally getting into the mood and looking forward to Santa’s visit.
They do say that Christmas is all about the giving rather than receiving. Well some of the gifts have been giving me problems since they were unwrapped. First, as I sit writing this post I still have a nagging pain in my left shoulder thanks to Wii boxing and have had to retire undefeated with a record of 2 fights, 2 wins, both by knockout. It’s much better to bow out when you’re at your peak. Mrs B is nursing a similar injury – I think it’s proved a useful reminder to us that wii are not wii kids any more. I’ve also seen a different side to my loved ones which has reassured me that they can look after themselves when push comes to smack in the face.
Another grief-giving gift was Mrs B’s MP3 player, which I had stupidly thought would be just the Jewson – nothing too complicated I thought. Two days and several grey hairs later, I had been issued an ultimatum – get it working otherwise it was heading somewhere where the reception ain’t too good. I was minutes from giving up and taking it back to the smug git in Curry’s who told me it was ‘really easy’ when I finally found the answer and saved my marriage.
Christmas Day itself involved a splendid slap-up family dinner. Just as the grown-ups were enjoying the relative peace and good behaviour of the children, we made the fatal mistake of taking our eyes off Mrs B’s father. He was busy turning used party-poppers into pea-shooters. Showing his gratitude for his daughter-in-law’s hospitality and generosity, he managed to catch her in the eye with one of his saliva-moulded paper missiles. It’s nice that the senior citizens in the family set such a good example to the young ones.
Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Aah, the little cherubs.
While standing in the playground at my son’s school this afternoon, I overheard a delightful conversation between two of the smaller children as they scampered past me, like a couple of terrier puppies, all energy and mischief.
“Be careful,” said the first boy thoughtfully, “he’s blind!” he continued, in that matter-of-fact way that we adults find so difficult to cope with.
“You what?” shouted back his friend, obviously keen for his pal to have another go at embarrassing his mother.
“Watch out, he’s blind!” the young lad shouted again.
“No he isn’t” retorted the second boy indignantly. “He’s just old!”
:-(
Talking of little s**ts, this weekend we in the bogsey household were watching one of those cheap ‘n’ nasty music video programmes when we discovered a little festive gem that had hitherto slipped under our radar – Mr Hankey, the Christmas Poo, featured in an episode of South Park – if you haven’t seen it you must check it out on Youtube. I can see that the little fella is going to be much talked about in our house this Christmas.
“Be careful,” said the first boy thoughtfully, “he’s blind!” he continued, in that matter-of-fact way that we adults find so difficult to cope with.
“You what?” shouted back his friend, obviously keen for his pal to have another go at embarrassing his mother.
“Watch out, he’s blind!” the young lad shouted again.
“No he isn’t” retorted the second boy indignantly. “He’s just old!”
:-(
Talking of little s**ts, this weekend we in the bogsey household were watching one of those cheap ‘n’ nasty music video programmes when we discovered a little festive gem that had hitherto slipped under our radar – Mr Hankey, the Christmas Poo, featured in an episode of South Park – if you haven’t seen it you must check it out on Youtube. I can see that the little fella is going to be much talked about in our house this Christmas.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Oh, what a night!
Wow! In the words of the song, "Oh, what a night!" I'm still coming down from the buzz of it all. Over 180 people gathered at the second Dogs Dinner. And this time, apart from the organisers to greet them, there were also four of our four-legged friends; Laddie, a retired guide dog, a working dog called Fraser, and two youngsters still in training called Briar and Wallis. They must have wondered what on earth was going on.As soon as everyone was seated, a finely tuned plan was put into action. First, it was up to me to set the tone for the evening with a few perceptive, cultured and rather philosophical words, which I had cunningly disguised as filthy, sexist abuse. I think I got away with it, although I'm not sure my mother-in-law would agree.
Before long the guests were tucking into their meals and starting to work in earnest on reducing the European wine lake. A tough job, but someone had to do it.
Filled with jive-juice and chocolate pud, some of the dresses, and no doubt trousers, were holding back rather more than they were designed to and there must have been a serious risk of a button popping and putting someone's eye out, but thankfully we didn’t add to the waiting list for guide dogs.
This, of course, explains my appearance in what could be construed as an incriminating photograph of me with my hands all over the chest of a rather well-endowed guest. For the record, I was merely trying to prevent an unseemly spillage, which might have embarrassed some of the other guests. Again, a tough job, but hey, no thanks required.
By now we were well-oiled and nothing was going to stop us strutting our stuff in front of the jazz band who filled the room with classy toe-tappers.
Having filled the guests’ stomachs, we quickly emptied their pockets and as the music died and people made their weary way home, we got down to the serious business of counting up the proceeds, which totalled an amazing £4'700.
As I said, wow! What a night!
Filled with jive-juice and chocolate pud, some of the dresses, and no doubt trousers, were holding back rather more than they were designed to and there must have been a serious risk of a button popping and putting someone's eye out, but thankfully we didn’t add to the waiting list for guide dogs.
This, of course, explains my appearance in what could be construed as an incriminating photograph of me with my hands all over the chest of a rather well-endowed guest. For the record, I was merely trying to prevent an unseemly spillage, which might have embarrassed some of the other guests. Again, a tough job, but hey, no thanks required.
By now we were well-oiled and nothing was going to stop us strutting our stuff in front of the jazz band who filled the room with classy toe-tappers.
Having filled the guests’ stomachs, we quickly emptied their pockets and as the music died and people made their weary way home, we got down to the serious business of counting up the proceeds, which totalled an amazing £4'700.
As I said, wow! What a night!
Friday, November 14, 2008
Friday Night Fever
Yikes. Only a few hours to go before the big event - Dogs Dinner 2. The last few days and weeks have been manic. Having spent months planning how to do it, the last few days have been spent wondering why.
Nerves are clearly getting the better of me. The other day I was emailing the hotel to confirm the wine order. I was about to click on 'send' when I heard my screen reader read what I had written - "One bottle of red and one bottle of shite per table'. Fortunately I managed to change this request and hopefully it's not a bad omen. That's what I call a close whave.
In som ways it seems strange asking people to donate money, even to a good cause like Guide Dogs, when there is so much financial doom and gloom around. However, I think we are probably doing our bit to prop up the local economy, judging by the number of people buying new dresses, handbags, shoes, jewellry, manicures, spray-tans and the like. And that's just the men.
There's not much more that I can do now, except finalise my speech. With such a diverse audience I'm not sure how cautious I have to be. On the one hand I have to be careful not to offend anyone, on the other hand, who doesn't like a good knob joke?
Nerves are clearly getting the better of me. The other day I was emailing the hotel to confirm the wine order. I was about to click on 'send' when I heard my screen reader read what I had written - "One bottle of red and one bottle of shite per table'. Fortunately I managed to change this request and hopefully it's not a bad omen. That's what I call a close whave.
In som ways it seems strange asking people to donate money, even to a good cause like Guide Dogs, when there is so much financial doom and gloom around. However, I think we are probably doing our bit to prop up the local economy, judging by the number of people buying new dresses, handbags, shoes, jewellry, manicures, spray-tans and the like. And that's just the men.
There's not much more that I can do now, except finalise my speech. With such a diverse audience I'm not sure how cautious I have to be. On the one hand I have to be careful not to offend anyone, on the other hand, who doesn't like a good knob joke?
Monday, November 3, 2008
Regeneration Application
Open letter to Director General of the BBC
Dear (in more ways than one) DG,
Re: Time Travelling Vacancy
Following the recent news of David Tennants planned departure after the next series of ‘Doctor Who’, I wish to apply for the post.
Apart from the fact that I would be considerably cheaper to employ than Mr Tennant (my referees can confirm just how cheap I am), as a partially-sighted licence-fee payer I think it’s about time the BBC started to fulfil its duty under the Disability Equality Duty by including more disabled people in leading roles. Did I also mention how cheap I am?
Rather than seeing a non-seeing Doctor as problematic, why not use the vastly creative skills available within the BBC (you know, the ones who give us the flair, innovation and originality of programmes like ‘Strictly’ and ‘Weakest Link’) to use the VIP as a USP. For example, I could fight off the evil monsters with my sonic symbol cane and surely K-9 would make a fantastic guide-dog. Together, the metallic mutt and I would be an unstoppable pair.
Talking of which, I should point out that I would need to be intimately involved in the casting of any young Doctor’s assistant. I like to take a ‘hands-on’ approach to assessing the attributes of my co-stars and, before you get carried away with this liberal diversity nonsense, no, I don’t think it would be a good idea to introduce a male assistant at this time.
Perhaps my introduction could mark a new direction for the show. How about a new name, such as ‘Doctor Who-said-that?’ or ‘Doctor Where?’
My qualities for taking on such a role should not be over-estimated. I am accustomed to wearing slightly geaky clothes and appearing somewhat barking at times. I am also a seasoned time-traveller. Only a couple of weeks ago I travelled back a whole hour without anyone noticing. I also have experience of working in a higher education institution, so travelling back 20 or 30 years should present no problems to me.
I understand you may have reservations about taking such a big gamble. Perhaps you could use a day’s interest earned on Jonathan Ross’s unpaid salary to give me a trial run?
Yours hopefully
Bogsey.
Dear (in more ways than one) DG,
Re: Time Travelling Vacancy
Following the recent news of David Tennants planned departure after the next series of ‘Doctor Who’, I wish to apply for the post.
Apart from the fact that I would be considerably cheaper to employ than Mr Tennant (my referees can confirm just how cheap I am), as a partially-sighted licence-fee payer I think it’s about time the BBC started to fulfil its duty under the Disability Equality Duty by including more disabled people in leading roles. Did I also mention how cheap I am?
Rather than seeing a non-seeing Doctor as problematic, why not use the vastly creative skills available within the BBC (you know, the ones who give us the flair, innovation and originality of programmes like ‘Strictly’ and ‘Weakest Link’) to use the VIP as a USP. For example, I could fight off the evil monsters with my sonic symbol cane and surely K-9 would make a fantastic guide-dog. Together, the metallic mutt and I would be an unstoppable pair.
Talking of which, I should point out that I would need to be intimately involved in the casting of any young Doctor’s assistant. I like to take a ‘hands-on’ approach to assessing the attributes of my co-stars and, before you get carried away with this liberal diversity nonsense, no, I don’t think it would be a good idea to introduce a male assistant at this time.
Perhaps my introduction could mark a new direction for the show. How about a new name, such as ‘Doctor Who-said-that?’ or ‘Doctor Where?’
My qualities for taking on such a role should not be over-estimated. I am accustomed to wearing slightly geaky clothes and appearing somewhat barking at times. I am also a seasoned time-traveller. Only a couple of weeks ago I travelled back a whole hour without anyone noticing. I also have experience of working in a higher education institution, so travelling back 20 or 30 years should present no problems to me.
I understand you may have reservations about taking such a big gamble. Perhaps you could use a day’s interest earned on Jonathan Ross’s unpaid salary to give me a trial run?
Yours hopefully
Bogsey.
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