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Given the brouhaha I raised when I found out that I probably couldn’t make it to the Cambridge 39th Beer Festival, it’s only proper that I tell you that I did in fact go last night. My budget was 1.5 hours and no more than 3 or 4 half pints.
It was great walking past the long queues and going straight in as a Camra member. Highly recommended.
For openers I wasn’t overly impressed with the “Wild Swan” (Thornbridge Brewery, Bakewell) which is a white gold beer at 3.5% with aromas of bitter lemon and a hint of herbs. Yes, it was refreshing but it was nothing special. Should have gone for their “Sequoia” instead, with its promise of citrus and pine with hints of roasted hazelnut, toffee and caramel malt flavours. But alas it has now sold out.
Very drinkable was the half-pint of “Brassed Off” (Spire, Chesterfield) which is a good solid amber ale at 3.7%. Nothing too dramatic in the tasting, just a well-balanced smooth bitter. I tried “Bruins Ruin” (Beartown, Congleton), a 5% ale. It was like the “Brassed Off” in many ways but with a bit more character – a bit more fruitiness going on.
Beer of the evening for me was “Jubilee Ale” (Bullmastiff, Cardiff), a 5% amber ale that promised a mix of biscuit sweetness (think digestives rather than custard cremes) and dark fruit. But the standout taste for me was the caramel or toffee flavour. Great aroma, excellent taste and very nice follow-through. I could see this one being a source of pleasure for maybe 2 or 3 pints before the taste overkill occurred.
The sun shone and we found some comfortable chairs outside in the sunshine. The company was genial and the conversation sparkled. There were as many untried and promising beers as there were tried ones. Might be worthwhile doing this recovery malarkey and staying on in this cruel old world after all 😉
In my last post we were riffing on the First World War poets and Edward Thomas in particular.
In this one we’ll quote a better known one – Wilfred Owen – mainly because I want to use the word “Futility” and that’s the title of one of his best and my most favourite poem ever.
Move him into the sun –
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
But I’ll tell you what’s truly futile, my young chum.
Futile is when you have a stroke of genius that this year you won’t end up queuing for an hour to get into the Cambridge Beer Festival to be held on the Jesus Green in the merry month of May. Starting on Monday 21st, to be precise. So, you decide to join CAMRA and take out a year’s membership.
Futile is when you see that James Yorkston is playing Cambridge in the same week (Weds 23) and you think “how many times am I going to want to go to the beer anyway and surely one night off will be good for me”. And so you buy a ticket for that. Well, two tickets actually.
Futile is when you then pop along to the hospital for a pre-admission clinic thinking it will be all very routine and they’ll tell you stuff you already know just so you’ll be ready for when you go in at the end of May or early June.
Futile is when they tell you that, actually, they have you down for a provisional entry date on Sunday May 13th for an operation on Monday May 14th.
That’s what yer feckin’ beer membership card and yer feckin’ gig ticket is good for now, clever boyo. You get to lie in a hospital bed lookin’ at the feckin’ futile yokes.
They say I’ll probably be in hospital for a week so technically speaking I might be out in time. But I can’t see really myself drinking pints of beer in a tent with big slits in me and maybe a tube or two hanging out. Them weird beardy fellas that you always find there would be standing behind me waiting for the great beer dispenser on two legs to replenish their tankards. They always bring their own pewter tankards, in my experience.
Futility.
In hospital I will be having a Metastatectomy which is the removal (resection) of the lumps (metastases). There is one lump on the left side which is now grown up to 1.2cm, and it’s located in the centre of the lung. The surgeon will do a Thoracotomy which is a cut from under the shoulderblade on my back, around the side and to just under the breast. They then spread apart the ribs with a retractor, also known as “rib spreaders”. This is as wonderfully manual as it sounds. If I were them I’d bring some BBQ sloppin’ sauce for the ultimate rib experience. The surgeon then apparently has an excellent view of the inside of the chest. Because of the location of the lump. I’ll lose a portion of my left lung when they cut out the tumour.
There are also two nodules on my right lung, but these are smaller and located on the outside edge of the lung. In this case they do a wedge cut which is like a V shape slice from the side of the lung. I will need a similar cut for this but on the other side naturally. Mmm, ribs and wedges. It’s like a night out at the greasy spoon diner.
The lungs (unlike the liver) won’t grow back but I’m told they are like wet sponges and so they expand to fill the space.
Originally I thought they might do the two on the same operation but there are sound reasons why that is a really dumb idea so I will it done in two operations – first the Left and six or so weeks later, the Right.
Today I’ve been telling people connected with work that I won’t be able to keep my comittments this summer. All have been very good about it.
Yesterday I planted out the tomato plants for the summer. It’s a bit early to do it as the nights are still cool but time is marching on now and soon I won’t be able to bend or lift things again, at least for a few months. I will instead have to sit in the garden with a carafe of chilled white wine or a gin and tonic. You are obliged to feel sorry for me. I’m a cancer victim after all 😉
The bittersweet of human life is always expressed by weddings and funerals. Mark one up, take one down.
The sweet part was a trip to Liverpool to attend a fantastic wedding. While there we made a visit to the Tate Liverpool which has an eclectic collection of (mainly) sculpture on show. I like the way that people famous for something else are asked to co-curate exhibitions. At the time we were there that included the poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy and the hat designer, Philip Treacy. One of my favourite artists, Richard Long, had a piece on show. Art made while walking in landscapes.
The bitter part came in news that a friend from college had died at the early age of 49 from Cancer. He had a varied academic and work life before he went back to our home town in Ireland to pursue his first interest – Theatre. He worked on through his illness to the end because he loved his work. They buried him a week ago, in the Rahoon cemetery I have mentioned before.
From around the time I was first diagnosed with Cancer we’ve made a couple of visits to friends in Devon and to Exmoor in particular. One especially good walk takes you along the bank of the Barle river.
One aspect of walking in a region that is not your home is the comprehension that your feet may never touch that particular spot ever again. On the first visit in particular it was obvious that the river, though now quiet and low, might be a torrent in the wintertime. It seemed anything put in its path might not survive for long. Even something as solid as rock would be swept aside.
So I offer you, with pretension to the max: Devon 2009 – 2011 – Installations on the River Barle
Impermance I (13th April, 2009)
Impermance II (14th April, 2009)
Impermance III (24th July, 2011)
It’s the anniversary of my dad’s death this week, 17 years ago now.
Bows – It’ll be half time in England soon
For me to get to see a live Arsenal football match when I was a kid took a lot of planets aligning. We’d have to be in London for our summer holidays. It would have to be during the football season. I’d have to get someone to take me.
My dad usually stayed at home in Ireland when we went to the UK, and I don’t know why he was there in August 1971. From the photos of the time everyone was well so it wasn’t for a funeral or something like that.
I managed to convince him to take me to Highbury for the first time to see Arsenal vs Stoke City on the 28th August 1971. There’s no need to say it was a 3pm kickoff because on a Saturday back then they all were. There was a *lot* of opposition to the idea from my mother and grandmother – in fairness this was at the height of the football boot boy era, but he stuck with it.
We ended up in the Clock End. We were a bit early (like about an hour) because we didn’t know the form. He decided that about 1/2 way down the terrace would be a good spot to see the action. Of course all these beered-up men descended on the place at 2:58pm and I was suddenly looking at the backs of people. So it was up onto one of the crowd barriers for me, hoisted up by the adult men around me like that old stereotype of football times past.
I remember the game was a frustrating one for Arsenal. The dastardly villian was the referee and it the was the first time I’d heard the chants pondering who indeed is that person dressed in black clothing and favourably inclined towards sexual self-gratification? When that line of inquiry failed them they resorted to the more direct assertion that the referee lacked parentage of the married variety.
It didn’t go well. Arsenal lost the game 0-1. It was iirc John Ritchie who broke my boyish heart, but I sort of forgive him now. It was the year Arsenal were defending their champions title and they went on to only finish 5th. I think that was the year when Brian Clough’s Derby beat Don Revie’s Leeds to the title by one point, and there was a fair bit of muttering about match-fixing.
My dad thought it would be safer if we hung back a while after the match and I remember eating a bag of the fattest, hottest, most vinegary chips that ever saw the inside of a deep fat fryer. I got a red satin Arsenal scarf and a white mug with the crest on it – I still have both to this day.
Did I ever mention the Gout?
To be sure it’s a peculiarly English class of an ailment, the sort you’d be associating with them Kings and Queens like yer fat auld fella Henry the 8th. Yes, missus, him with the wives and the big auld paunch on him.
It has me fair afflicted the past while.
‘Tis the sort of thing that would creep up on you, and you only after drinking a bottle (or two) of wine every day for a fortnight. The sort of thing you might do around Christmas time, just to be a sociable sort of social person.
And the pain that does be in it! T’would have you reaching for the statue of St Martin and hurling it like a mad fella at the wall opposite. It would put you sideways, that pain. And don’t you be thinking that you could be slipping on the brogues either. Sure them fellas would be like some sort of mediaeval torture device, and you with the broken toe on ye!
“Willya stay away from the Port, ya auld eejit ya” said the darling wife, and she only after encouraging me with yet another artistically-guested set of dinner party invites. Practically drove me to that auld vintage.
Well there was no joy in the old drop after that, and I was as dry as the Kalahari for the best part of December. I know you do like a bit of Science, and the gist of it now is that you’d be eating them things called Purines which do be in fats, and in the grand effort to break them down the body would be after making loads of Uric acid. When you’re on the old sauce the liver has enough to be getting on with, and can’t be getting on at all with the urics, and off to the toe it makes its way for a grandsulk. Did you know that when you’re on the lash and you piss clear, it’s because the body isn’t taking any of the impurities out? Did ya know that now!
Anyways, I tried drinking Cherry juice. I tried drinking Organic Apple Cider Vinegar. I tried drinks with bicarbonate of soda. I even tried one with them all in at the same time. And it eventually went away.
And then I started drinking again on Dec 2oth. Each day went by, it was like a game of Russian Roulette. Would this be the bottle tonight? Would I be waking up in the morning with the old achy-breaky toe?
But it didn’t return.
Then everyone left to go back to the good homes that they came from and it was time to cut back on the drinking. One last bottle, says I, and it’s a new leaf on the morrow.
And on that morrow came the Gout.
Now the surprising thing for me was how did I get away with it for so long? There was no shortage of rich food. Tons of meat. Loads of red wine. How did I manage it? There was only one answer. On that fateful last day I had a sneaky packet of pork scratchings. Not them cheap ones, but the hardcore ones that come from the butcher’s shop. I think they make them from pigs slaughtered in the Black Country some time in the 19th Century. Think back now will you? Yes, back before the last attack (a gout bout?) there was a bit of a pork scratching escapade too.
What’s the evidence? Pork is high in uric acidity. It’s pure fat. It’s deep-fried in more fat. It’s covered in salt (which also dehydrates you).
I better stay away from Eastern Europe and the Ukraine. There, they like a bit of pork fat covered in chocolate.
Thanks to Wikipedia for the image. Looking at one is as close as I dare get now.
Just back from York having dropped off B at Uni there. It’s not my first time to set foot on the campus since I left there in 1987 or whatever but it was definitely the first time I did that walk again across the bridge over the lake from where Comp Sci used to be towards where Psych used to be. Yes, all the locations are different. Only the geese remain the same.
Today A and I walked the city walls and streets, basically recreating a walking route that we must have inflicted on a hundred people who came to see us when we lived there. It was silly and funny and sweet the way that the trivia comes back to you. Like finding the smallest window in York again. Like thinking that the hospice ruin in the museum gardens where the roman coffins are might have been called St Leonards and then finding that it was. Like remembering that the best bit of the wall is between Bootham and Monk Bar with the Minster in the background.
Before she left, B liked this remix I’d shoved on a CD without knowing who it was by. As it turned out, it was a remix of My Brightest Diamond. B and I saw her live when she was supporting The Decemberists a while back, and that was a great evening. I haven’t listened much since to Shara Worden (for it is she that is MBD) but this song comes from a 2009 remix EP by Son Lux of four songs from her “A Thousand Shark’s Teeth” album. What’s also intriguing is that she lists “the star exploration themes of Anslem Kiefer’s paintings” as one of her influences for the album. I’d never heard of him before B told me about his artwork. He liked to build up his canvases with materials such as straw and glue, then paint abstract expressionisms over the 3D structure. Sounds familiar :-p
My Brightest Diamond – The Diamond (Son Lux Remix)
Having achieved your goal and as you start your next stage, these words do you justice I think:
you are the brightest diamond hidden in my pocket
oh how glorious you must feel splendid
you must feel splendid
Enjoy it for all it can give.
Today I started to follow @Its_Death on twitter. Very funny. Says he lives with three other guys and they like horses.
He’s been interested recently in Pi and the problem of calculating it’s two quadrillionth bit, so for example :-
Yahoo employee calculates Pi to 2 quadrillion decimal places. He still can’t talk to girls, though.
Pi isn’t infinite. There is a last digit. Hint: It’s a 4. You’re welcome, mathematicians.
or
Newton’s finally invented his perpetual motion machine. He won’t stop going on about it.
Mostly he talks about his work, as in “Hang on. Is Keith Richards still alive? Bloody hell. Who did I collect in 1972?!” and the way things are in the Underworld. For example “All the swanky demons use Apple products. Except Mammon. He got stuck in a deal with Microsoft.”
But I was finally ROTFLMAO! when I read:
On the phone to my bank. “Can you confirm your mothers maiden name?” “I WAS BORN OF CHAOS & PANDEMONIUM !” “That’s not what I’ve got here.”
ps
Sorry if the post title gave you a bit of a shock 🙂
Silence on the blog due to busy, busy couple of weeks. I had a business trip to USA that accounted for some of that. Wasn’t really looking forward to it, saw it as a bit of a test to see how recovered I am. Added stress getting my passport renewed from a strike-hit Embassy didn’t help. Happy to say that, when it came, the trip went off without incident.
Have blogged before about Henry David Thoreau so it was interesting that we stayed in Concord, MA, his home town. In fact the inn where we stayed is about 500 yards from he’s buried at Sleepy Hollow cemetery. Ralph Waldo Emerson is also buried there.Together, they were the Concord Transcendentalists.
Followed this by a flight from East to West coast and spent a day and a night in Silicon Valley. Such a contrast, but not in a bad way. Had a great dinner in that classic Californian fusion style – in this case Italian/Pacific.
Then the long long flight from San Francisco to London. “Twelve Hours on a Broken Arse”, as it might be described in the title of a novel yet to be written 🙂
So it has been work work work for me. Shocking to see that I am already in month four of my six month contract. Need to put in some thought on what to do next.
Health wise, I will have nothing to say until May, when I have a scan and later a session with the Oncologists. I’m not expecting any surprises. The excitement is over and now it’s back to the grind of making a living.
Black Box Recorder – Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide
Only a few posts ago (Dec 19) I wrote about my trip down to Kent to see a friend diagnosed with Lung cancer and secondary metastasis in her neck. She died this week. She had started radiotherapy and it wasn’t going well – her body reacted against the damage by swelling. She got as far as session #2 and that was that. Huge and sudden shock.
Inevitably, you compare it to your (my) own situation. I’m not stronger, or braver. Just luckier.
When you visualise Death, is it the Grim Reaper you see? I don’t. Not any more. That image is too rational. I see Death now more like a feral teenager from the local sink estate – the stuff of a Daily Mail reader’s nightmare. Death prowls the edge of our property, sees our stuff; and he will steal from us. He doesn’t even know why, he just does.
So you go back to just remembering the person. Three or four memories maybe at most. That’s what we become. Maybe of a garden we planted. Or a meal cooked for friends. Or a glass of wine too many taken in guilty pleasure too late into the night.
She was a smoker, so Bowie’s “time takes a cigarette” came to mind. They say it’s based on the poem “Chants Andalous” by the Spanish poet Manuel Machado (1874–1947) in which he compares life to a cigarette (“La vida es un cigarillo”):
Life is a cigarette
Cinder, ash and fire
Some smoke it in a hurry
Others savour it
In Bowie’s lyrics it becomes:
Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget
I took a version from Black Box Recorder rather than David himself. Alternatively, watch Camille O’Sullivan cover it live on YouTube. Camille’s channelling of Jacques Brel, Berthold Brecht, Tom Waits and the entire absurdity of it all captures my mood today.
Camille O’Sullivan – Misery Is The River
My next chemo day is Monday next. It all depend on the bloods of course. Don’t mind either way. I’ll get through it sooner or later.
And so it’s done. First week in a new job. The contract is 3 days/week but did Mon-Thur this week as things settle in. Strange to be in an office again. Getting up early and scraping frost off car windows. Other people. Meetings. Their interruptions. Not knowing exactly how your day will unfold. Strange.
Now I have two jobs and can work six days a week. Bliss 🙂
Survived it all however. Wish it wasn’t so freakin’ cold so that my extremities didn’t tingle so much but that too shall pass in time. As I write this, snow is falling again.
So, who will be the next big thing music-wise in 2010?
For dub/dubstep, go for Joy Orbision. Dumb name, but better than Burial.
For mainstream, Ellie Goulding will be everywhere. Her cover of Bon Iver’s “The Wolves” worth a listen.
For indie, go out on a limb for the Scanners. They have their first album out in February. Check out this YouTube video. I also like the remixes.
Scanners – Salvation (Don Diablo Remix)
For old-school, I’m waiting for the new Tindersticks album, due out any day now…
Together Is The New Alone 
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