Thursday, February 16, 2006

Tucker, School and Dazza

Friday 18th May 1984

I’ve still got these stitches in. Apparently I have to wait until next Monday to get them out – TVs gotten no better incidentally. Though Tucker’s Luck was on the other night – I honestly don’t know why they call it Tucker’s Luck – a more accurate title would be Tucker’s Got No Fucking Luck At All – he left school too early with a shite education, he’s on the dole and so are his mates, his girlfriend is pissed off with him and the future’s looking pretty fucking grim for old Tucker. I guess the title’s ironic, or sarcastic, not sure which. Either way, it’s depressing stuff.

Mum says I’ve got to go back to school next Tuesday once the stitches come out which hasn’t exactly filled me with glee. Honestly, I’ll never imagine disliking anything as much as I dislike going to school – I hate it, everything about it. I guess you have to hate something don’t you? Better hating school than hating people, though a lot of people can really piss me off – Darren Robinson for one – he’s in my class, considers himself king of everything. I don’t think he’s able to utter a sentence that doesn’t refer to his own greatness in some way. He thinks he’s so cool – everyone following him around. Seems to me he’s just Dazza the dickhead, although he does tick the two boxes required for god-like status among school pupils - apparently he’s good at football - thinks he’s the next Kenny Dalgleish or something and good at fighting – though I doubt he’s ever been in a fight, I certainly haven’t seen him in a fight, nor has anyone I know yet he has still managed to create this reputation. Interesting. I don’t know how he’s does it, or why anyone buys it.

Anyway, should any of you future people know a Darren Robinson (he’s probably a single, balding, overweight porn addict) tell him he’s a real fucking arsehole from me - I’d do it myself but he’d probably kick the shit out of me.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

First Blog From 1984

Thursday 17th May 1984

Hi, I’m Adam and this is my blog.

I’m writing from 1984, the year 1984. Ignore it if it says otherwise anywhere on this page, it just says your date automatically, not mine. Trust me it’s 1984, Thursday 17th May 1984 to be exact, well to me it is, not to you, you’re in the future. I’ve just figured out how to do this. I’m not going to say how so don’t bother asking, sufficed to say I’m possibly slightly smarter than the average 13-year-old (though you wouldn’t know it from my report cards, they’re always shit) and I’ve just found out a way to do it – it’s pretty cool this internet malarkey isn’t it?

So I guess I should say what I’ve been up to recently, that’s the point of these things I suppose. I’ve just been looking at my stitches. Well, idly fiddling with them would be more precise. Apparently, I’ve to leave them alone, for hygienic reasons, but a combination of curiosity and boredom made me lift the corner of the bandage for a peek and, finally, to remove it almost entirely and examine my wound in greater detail. It’s a bit gruesome. Some crusty bits had formed around the stitches and I’ve been thoroughly enjoying picking them clean – pleasant eh? Much delight has also been deemed from the discovery that when free of all crustiness I am able to move the knots from side to side, the plastic thread just slides through the holes in my skin, it’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation.

My stitches, five of them in all, are lined up diagonally on the left side of my lower abdomen. If I’m to get all metaphorical, I’d say they look a bit like a bunch of wiry spiders, on-route to my chest intent on avoiding my belly button. Not that they should avoid my belly button for any particular reason – I’m rather fond of it actually, and regularly take great pleasure in removing fluff from it - always blue fluff, have you notice that no matter what colour of top you wear, red, green, yellow or white, belly button fluff is always blue? It’s weird.

I’ve been out of the hospital for three days now and have been laid out on the sofa for most of the time until I sussed out this blogging business. Pretty cool.

I wish I knew the name of the operation, but I don’t. I don’t mind talking about it though, it’s not as if I’m likely to run into any of you on the way to school. Anyway, it’s fairly minor and involves, basically, the relocation of a testicle from where it shouldn’t be, to where it should. That is to say, the scrotum! Unfortunately for me, it’s not the first time I’ve had to undergo this procedure (I wish I knew the name for it). I’ve a scar on the right side of my abdomen from an operation I had two years ago. It’s not a big deal, and thankfully, save for the doctors discovering that I’m was overly blessed in the testicle department, a third op is highly unlikely! I’ve also got stitches elsewhere, they are a little harder to access as there on the underside of… anyway they’re trickier to investigate and I fear that, while I am curious to check out the crustiness and all, to view them would take a degree of manipulation that might cause some broken stitches and my balls on the living room floor. However unlikely this outcome is, and in all reality it is, I suspect, very unlikely, the thought of it makes me light-headed and more than a little nauseous.

While we are on the subject of my nether regions, I’m as well pointing out I’ve been circumcised too – I don’t know why I’m pointing this out, it just seems as I’ve gone into the details of my other two ops I may as well make the trilogy complete. There is little of it I can recall though, I think I was only three, or four, at the time, but one image lingers. I have a very vivid recollection of the nurse in the operating room, if indeed if it was an operating room. I’m unsure if doctors go to the bother of wheeling infants into the operating theatre for such a straightforward procedure, after all, some cotton wool, a sharp instrument and a deft flick of the wrist is probably all that’s required. The nurse, though, stuck her tongue out at me. It was most probably in a bid to keep me entertained and to take my mind of what was about to happen but, even at the age of three, or four, I think I must have been a little perturbed. Although I was young, I’m no fool and, given the seriousness of what was about to unfold, it was a little flippant. I don’t think she treated the event with the solemnity it warranted.

So, here I am, 9 odd years on, and yet another scalpel has invaded my private quarters. I don’t mind all that much, I mean it’s no picnic, but like I said, a repeat operation is far from likely, I’m off school and I’m not in pain or anything. More than anything I’ve just been bored, just bored. Just mind-numbingly, nothing to do, bored, Bored, BORED.

I’ve spent days flicking through the TV channels with the remote… BBC1 nothing on, BBC2 nothing on, ITV nothing on, Channel 4 nothing on… and so the cycle continued. There was always something on of course, but not of particular interest. Just the news on each channel, constantly! I don’t hate the news like a lot of people I know but it’s really repetitive - always the same stories, the same people, Arthur Scargill, and Margaret Thatcher, or ‘that bitch’ Thatcher, as my mum likes to call her. It seems to me ‘that bitch’ Thatcher has a lot to answer for. Mum’s a member of an organisation called the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament or CND for short, and she’s convinced that everyone will be nuked because of ‘that bitch’ Thatcher, She recently showed me a film of people being nuked, not a real film, but a re-enactment. It was, I have to confess, really fucking scary, I didn’t sleep for days. Considering my mum doesn’t let me watch 15 certificate films, showing me graphic images of people having their skin blown off seems a bit on the extreme side, and somewhat hypocritical. But I feel better now, if this blogging stuffs going on I guess the apocalypse mum is so convinced is going to happen, doesn’t. Even if she knew that there would still be a thousand other reasons she’d hate ‘that bitch’ Thatcher. The miners for one. I’m pretty sure ‘that bitch’ Thatcher hates Arthur Scargill as much as mum hates ‘that bitch’ Thatcher, if not more, and Mr Scargill, I’m sure, hates TBT as much as mum does.

Anyway, I’ve gotten to be bored of the lot of them. So up until now, until my discovery, I’ve been really quite fed up. But this could be cool.