Everything ends.

Once again my time away from home draws near. I'm as skint as a struggling actor with only Hollyoaks bit parts on their CV. While the call of the mountains, the fresh air and the adventure is strong, I simply have no funds with which to stay out here. So in about a week I'm heading home to get the bank account stocked up again. Not all is lost though as I've managed to secure myself a job over here for next season. This means I've got half a year to try and get good at jumps on my board so I can come back here and . . ahem . . ?rip it up!?

Bi Eck!

Havnt had a joke backfire like that since I took the piss out of someone for having a Jewish nose.

Anatomy of a crash.

My confidence was high. My turns were getting better and I was getting faster.

Sooner or later something had to go wrong.

Ok, nice one wardy. Going well now. Cracked this sucker. Right then, lets get up a bit of speed just for kicks.
Thats it, getting faster now. Turn right. Sweet. Turn left. Awesome. Just a touch of straight lining to get the blood pumping. Ace.

Go for the nice long right hander. . . oh . .oh thats good. Feel the edge grip. Now keep the speed up into a nice long left. Going straight now. Start the turn.

Start the turn.

Turn.

Turn?

Lean Wardy, get your weight moving. Twist the shoulders, point the hips.

Oh crap.

Going quite fast now, still not turning. Bend the knees. Weight on the front foot. Wait for the turn to happen.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Oh crap.

Right then, don't panic. You're in control you just need to try harder to tu . . ROCKS!! Big frickin rocks down the hill. I'm gonna hit the rocks. I'm gonna hit the rocks.

Lean damnit. Lean. Twist the hips. Don't panic. Everythings cool. Lean forward, lean forward . . . . stop leaning backwards . . stop leaning backwards . . .stop it. . . STOP.

Oh man, I'm soooo out of control. Don't panic, lean forwards and you'll get control back.

!! I'm going to hit the rocks. I'm going to hit the rocks. !!

Ok, battle stations . . lean, twist, panic, move weight, get on an edge, stop panicking, lean forward . . do it do it do it.

Rocks! I'm leaning back, oh man the front of the board is off the ground, I'm a sliding wreck waiting to happen . . ok, one more try to get this under control.

Lean, twist . . CRAP! I've hit the deck. . . . I'm sliding.

I'm sliding.

I'm sliding.

I'm slidi . . . Ouch! That was a bump. Still sliding

Man I'm sliding a long way. My elbow hurts.

Whoa!! ok, now I'm sliding sideways . . nope . . face first. I'm sliding down the hill face first.

Still sliding. . . . . . ok. I've stopped.

Awesome, I missed the rocks.

Balls, I'm right next to the T-bar.

Try and look cool, like nothing happened.

Nope, not working.

Ok then, grin like a lunatic and laugh out loud.

Much better!

I'm not a regular guy.

I've got something on my chest that I really feel I need to say to everybody. It's a bit of a revelation for me, and while I'm excited about it, I'm also slightly nervous.

I know this is going to come as a shock to some of you, and I know those of you that I've emailed will have been expecting this, but I want to get it out in the open so that I can move on with my life and become more comfortable with it.

I'm Bi.

I started getting curious about this sort of thing when I split up with my girlfriend. I don't know if it was *because* we split up or *why* we split up. All I know is that after we were no longer together, I started to feel these urges.

Then I landed in New Zealand and the urges wouldn't go away. I met a couple of people here that were already living this type of life and we just clicked. We went out to a bar one night, I had a couple of drinks and everything snowballed.

I've always been curious I guess. I've a friend back home that has been this way for years. He's open about it. Will tell anyone that asks. Never shied away from it. You can kind of tell just by looking at him, the way he dresses, the way he acts . . . his movie collection.

I suppose I simply had to act on my curiosity. For months now I could do nothing but think about it. How does it feel, does it give you a rush . . . does it hurt?

The first time it did hurt. A lot. I could barely walk the next day. What made it worse was that I was so excited to get started I didn't use any protection. I always thought I was smarter than that but I guess I just got caught up in the moment.

I thought about giving up, it didn't feel right. There was something in my head saying this just isn't natural. But then I started to read magazines and websites for people like me. The men all looked so relaxed. They looked happy. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. If they could do it and still smile, so could I.

I was worried about doing it again. I mean, this was all new to me, was I taking it too fast?

Even though I had my hesitations, I couldn't help myself. A whole new world had opened up to me and I wanted to explore it all. It felt so right, how could it be wrong.

I've been practicing for a few weeks now and I cant try to hide it any longer.

I'm Bi.

Bi-rotational.

I can turn both ways on my snowboard.

Have It!

Horseplay.

On the way back from the mountain one day I mentioned in the car that I would like to learn how to ride a horse. I was immediately set upon by a girl that told me that this dream was 'totally gay'.

Now I know Brokeback Mountain may have influenced some people but to brandish all horse riders as 'totally gay' seemed a bit harsh to me.

This then led on to a discussion of types of people that we didn't like. By the time we had got home, our list looked something like this.

Horsey people. ( Gawfaww, bwoke her in myself you know )
People who act 'student'. ( smelly, dirty, drunk, get over yourself types )
People who describe themselves as crazy.
Angry Northern girls.
Girls that act like sassy black women when they actually come from Romford.
People that wear band tshirts when they have never heard the bands music. ( The Ramones, The Smiths )
People that move to London and become all 'city'.
Anyone you can look at and instantly recognise them as coming from Art School.
Mimes.

So if I do learn how to ride a horse, I'm not allowed to become a tight trouser wearing, laugh through the nose, serry drinking pompus scab on the landscape.

Or wear a Smith tshirt.

Things that hurt less than learning to snowboard.

Childbirth.
Hollyoaks Omnibus.
Rectal Prolapse.


I think it was when I hit the deck and heard my lower back pop like Rice Crispies that I realised I would be in some pain in the morning.

I think it was in the morning when my lower back ached more than Cliff Richards testicles that I realised I would be in some pain for the rest of the week.

Worlds greatest car.

I went to look at a car the other day. I'd been told that this car was the 'executive edition'. Sure it was old, 20 years old, but it's not like I've won the lottery recently so you've got to make cutbacks. I got into the drivers seat and the first thing that struck me was the leg room.

Absolutely none.

I pushed the seat back as far as I could, didn't make any difference. I basically had to chew my knees to fit in the drivers seat.

So yes, the first thing that struck me was the leg room, but the second thing that struck me were the buttons.

Everywhere. Buttons . . . everywhere.

I love things with buttons. Buttons do things. Each one something different. This means the more buttons something has, the better it is, because it does more stuff. Logic.

This car has stacks of buttons. And then I noticed the mother lode. Right next to the stereo, which had plenty of buttons let me tell you . . . right next to the stereo was . . .

oh my . . I'm going to need a moment here

. . there was a graphic equalizer.

Whoa there.

Built right into the car. Right there next to the stereo. With lights above it that moved with the music. This was my dream car stereo, sat infront of me in a car I could buy. Joy, I tell you, was upon me.

Then there was the dashboard. There was not a dial on it. Nothing mechanical at all to impart information to me. If I needed to know anything about the car, the speed, the fuel, the temperature, it was all displayed to me with lovely digital displays. A car full of buttons, with digital displays everywhere you looked. Have it.

Then there was the engine.

Utter crap. Seriously. It was rubbish. The cambelt was shot and the clutch needed changing a good 15 years ago.

I'm back to car hunting. Only I've been told I run the risk of being taken off car hunting duty. Apparently I look for 'gimmicks' and 'stupid stuff' in cars instead of what's important.

Important? What? Do these people even know what a graphic equalizer is?!

Quiche.

Never been a fan of quiche. Until now.

What changed? Well apart from the fact that is was double the thickness of any quiche I've seen in England, and forgetting that is was crammed full of roasted vegetable goodness, the thing that sold me on this quiche was the crust.

Was it the flakiest most golden crust ever? No.

Was it the moistest, most delicious pastry ever? No.

Was it made out of sausage meat?

Ohhhhhh yeah.

A sausage meat crust. Now that my friends is how you make a quiche.

The day the Earth stood still.

I've been in my first earthquake.

Didn't feel a thing. Gutted.

I've been assured there was an earthquake, and I've been assured that things did shake, there was movement, small children were frightened. Me, I went the whole day completely unaware that a child worrying incident had just taken place. My personal items remained unshook, and the only erratic movement I can recall was when I burnt my mouth with hot coffee.

I've been in my first earthquake.

I survived. Awesome.

Adaptation.

I've finally got myself a universal adapter so I can use my laptop again. Like an old friend returning from war, with chocolate and a bottle of Talisker, we are reunited.

Zoolander Of The Slopes.

I cant turn left. Simply wont happen. I've been trying to get to grips with this snowboarding lark but my body just wont let me go left. Going right is fine. Not a problem. Could do it all day, and actually have to due to the lack of left turns. I'm thinking that booking an actual lesson with an actual snowboard instructor might be the best way to sort this out. For while it's been fun so far, I just know there is more fun to be had by being able to do this thing properly.

The annoying thing is, I could turn left in England. I was still rubbish, don't get me wrong, but at least I could do it. But out here that seems to have been robbed from me.

I ride goofy so leave any handy hints in the comments box, or simply ridicule me for me mono turning ways. Up to you, you cursed two-turners!

Open Fires Make You Sleepy.

The house I'm staying in has a wood burning heater in the lounge. It is almost impossible to sit in there at night infront of the telly without getting all warm and drowsy. By half nine I'm a wreck. Falling asleep where I sit and spilling hot Ribena down myself. So I get up and go to bed where I have an electric blanket, a thermal sheet, a wool sheet, a duvet and a throw, and I snuggle down to the cosyist nights sleep you could imagine.

But this brings a new problem. For while it's nice to get all wrapped up in a warm bed, cosy and tight in the duvet, come morning when you can see your breath, getting out of bed is an absolute mission.

Hot Wheels.

Hopefully I'm going to buying my first car in the next couple of days. Having little money means I get little choice over what kind of run into the ground rust bucket I get to pick from. However, if it gets me to the top of the mountains then it will do me fine. If it has a working heater, I'll be even more grateful.

Seeing as I know less about cars then I do modern dance I'm going to be taking someone along with me to kick tires and lift the bonnet and do other car-checking things. Then a test drive, a haggle, an exchange of cash for keys and then the inevitable uncontrollable spending that follows buying an old car to keep it on the road.

First car . . . I'm so excited!

Done and Dusted.

It was so scarily easy to sort the visa thing out I'm worried I've still done something wrong. I went to immigration, handed my medical forms in, waited three days and got my visa papers through.

I have the papers in my hand and yet there is the nagging voice, the one that demands hassle and long waits, the one that wants me to get my visa card out, fill in more paper work, talk to more people and then wait again.

This went so smoothly. Here is my paper work. Thank you for the visa.

Mint.

The big visa fuck-up.

I created a Skype account simply to call NZ immigration from Thailand. I called them and I was assured that I could apply for my working holiday scheme visa online, and then land in the country and finish my application there by handing in my medical certificates in person. I was assured that I did not need a ticket out of the country if I showed proof that I had enough money in my bank account to purchase such a ticket.

It should have been so easy.

For a start, my taxi driver didn't turn up to take me to the airport. I called him to see where he was and in doing so woke him up. It was 5 in the morning. I had a plane to catch. Right there and then I realised that this was going to be a loooong journey.

I got to Singapore without too much difficulty and then went to the Early Check in counter to get my boarding pass for the leg to Melbourne. ?Oh? said the man at the desk, ?there has been a change to your itinerary.?

I now was no longer getting a flight straight from Singapore to Melbourne. Oh no, now I had to stop at Bali inbetween.

Bali. I frickin hate Bali.

Upon arriving at Bali we were subjected to 45 minutes of searching. I went through 4 scanners, got frisked twice and had somebody go through the entire contents of my hand baggage before I was turned around and told to get on the very same plane I had just been told to get off.

I was tired by this point. I'd managed to get aisle seats on the two flights before and so was in some desperate need of sleep. I got back on the plane, back into yet another aisle seat and looked forward to the next 5 hours of insomnia.

I finally landed at Melbourne after almost 24 hours of being on the move and catching no winks. I went to the next check in desk to get my boarding pass for New Zealand.

And now it gets a bit tricky.

Now they tell me that I do need a return ticket or I'm not allowed to travel to the country. I explain the bank account thing. They say it doesnt matter. They call NZ Immigration for me. I explain to the guy on the phone my predicament and he says don't worry about it. He says that my Working Holiday Visa has been accepted so all I have to do is buy a ticket leaving NZ at any point and then just never use it as I'll have a years visa.

It's a drag I think to myself, and it's more money I'm having to spend, but hey, these things happen. So I buy a ticket leaving NZ at some point in the future and get on the plane.

I'm a bit gutted that I spent loads of money on a medical in Bangkok but I'm happy to finally be on my way to NZ so I don't let it bother me too much.

I land in NZ, tell the lady at immigration the story, she checks on the system and my visa has not been approved. But I talked to a guy not 3 hours ago I tell her, and he said it had been. Please step this way sir she tells me. Yes, I'm taken to the side at immigration.
I've watched Airport.

I'm screwed.


I explain once again to a lady what has happened. By this point I'm pretty aware of the fact that I'm completely at the mercy of somebody behind a desk. I'm on thin ice. They take all my paperwork, go into an office and chat for a bit. They come back and say they'll give me a one month visitors visa to sort myself out.

One month. If I'd have simply landed and said nothing I could have gotten a 6 month visa simply for being British. This one month visa is quite simply immigration taking the piss out of me. But it's your fault this has happened I tell them, I did everything I was told to, I went and got a medical, I bought a ticket, I have all my paper work on me. You have to apply for the Working Holiday Scheme from outside the country they tell me. I did I tell them, I applied from Thailand. I was told to bring the paper work here and I would be able to hand it in myself. I tell them that when I phoned from Melbourne I was told I'd been approved which is why I asked. I tell them that if I'd have said nothing I could have gotten a 6 month visa. You have a one month visa they tell me, take it or leave it, and by leave it they mean leave the country.

I take it.

This means I'm now in the country with only a one month visitors visa. I'm going to the office tomorrow to try and sort this whole mess out. I've spent a fucking fortune trying to get this visa sorted. What with the whole mess Thailand managed to make out of it, to get to civilisation and still get dicked around is what can only be described as slightly annoying.

This could end up being a very short trip for me.

I've put so much money into this visa now, I literally cant afford to not get it. If I don't then it's home time for me. If I cant earn over here then I've got to leave basically straight away. I don't have the resources to holiday here as I've got to buy a ticket to the other side of the world to get home.

I'm so pissed off right now it's just not funny. How hard can it be for something to go right.


Ps ? the mountains are beautiful, the snow is ace, I've already been boarding, the people are superb, my accommodation is lovely and my landlady is cool as school.

A catch up.

I hate having to write catch up posts but seeing as I seem to be more slack than not, I'm simply going to have to make do.

A number of things have been happening to me recently.

There was the case of the stool sample. Was it needed? Would I have to travel to Bangkok to shit in a pot? Did anybody at the hospital have the faintest idea what was going on?

There was the long distance, heavily delayed telephone call with Immigration. What documents did I need? Are they sure? Are they really sure?

There was a whole night of pretending to be from Eastern Europe so I could put on a silly voice and talk absolute nonsense to a hooker.

There was the Australian girl who lost my phone. I'm assuming she threw it in the lake because the ?I put it on the table next to you? story doesn't add up.

There was the Australian guy who became shockingly rude when I pointed out that his whole country was built on the waste product of English society.

There was an Australian girl who wanted to sell me 3kg of cocaine. Sure love, I'll buy 3kg of cocaine off your 'friend' . . . . . idiot.

Infact, there's been quite a lot of activity on the Ozzie front.

And there was the most amazing fight I've even witnessed as Richie ' the Rino' Prior took a beating for 3 rounds before kneeing the absolute hell out of some Thai guy. What a night. He now has 5 stitches in his forehead. Classic.

And finally, but for me most importantly, there was my decision to leave Thailand.

Sure, it's been fun, and it's been an experience, but I'm off.

This is why I've not been updating for the past fortnight. I've been very very busy sorting myself out and getting ready to move on.

So, if any of you good people are going to be in New Zealand this year, come visit me.

Yes, I'm off to the land of mountains to try again at this whole 'life' business.

My nomadic ways are still going strong and I'm going to move even further away from England. Once again I've got a one way ticket to some far flung corner of the earth that I've never been to. Once again I'm going to try and make a go of it. Once again I'm not coming home and I'm not getting a 'real' job and I'm not getting a mortgage and I'm not getting married and I'm not being sensible and I'm not thinking about my future and I'm not taking the easy road and I'm not worrying what my CV looks like and I'm just not giving a shit.

I'm going snowboarding instead.

Bite me.

I blink too much.

I've been told I blink too much when I'm in the ring. Every time someone throws a punch at my face, I blink. This is not good. So to train this out of me, drastic measures had to be adopted.

This found me with my back to a punch bag, my head resting onto it, while someone punched me repeatedly in the face. I tell you, it's just not that easy to keep you eyes open while this is happening.

The situation was not made any easier because I was killing myself laughing. Stood there with my eyes wide open while someone rains punches down on you just isn't my normal Wednesday morning routine.

Well, not since I left Coventry anyways.

25 to go.

The letter inbetween "H" and "K" on my computer is broken.

Good ob that's not annoying while hunting for employment.

Red Shoe Diaries.

As usual over here when I go to training regularly, my feet get all soft on me and start shedding skin as if a new, bigger foot, is trying to get out. This means I'm left with all sorts of raw parts on the soles of my feet from the running and bouncing around in the ring. Not one to let this stand in my way I went out and bought a bright red washing up bowl so that I could soak my feet at night in salt water to dry everything out.

I went to the chemist to buy some Epsom Salts but, to my avail, could find none. There was however, something that looked like it might do the same. I took it up to the counter, showed them the scars on my knuckles, explained that I was going to soak them in water with whatever it was that I was holding, and asked if it would help. They assured me it would, so I bought three packs and headed home.

I put a film on my laptop, put my feet in the bowl, poured some water in, added a packet of the powder, splashed it around and settled back to watch some second rate thriller with Vince Vaughn and John Travolta.

After the first half it became painfully apparent that the film was complete toss, so I turned my attention away from that, and towards my feet.

Now the bowl I had was bright red, so it passed my attention that when I added the powder to it, it turned the water bright red, it also passed my attention that it was slowly turning my feet red. It passed my attention so much that after an hour of thrill-less thriller, my feet had turned quite the shade of rouge.

I jumped in the shower hoping that a firm scrub and warm water would fix this problem.

Nope.

Luckily it wasn't a bright bright red, it was more a strong burgundy. But whatever colour you want to call it, it isn't a colour that you want your feet to be. After scrubbing away with very little success I conceived that I might just have to wait until it wore itself off naturally. Up until that point though, I would have to wear shoes instead of sandals, which would soften my feet up again, which would cause more blisters and loss of skin, which would mean having to go through all this again. Not a route I particularly wanted to take.

I needed to do some shopping anyways so I put some shoes on and headed out to the supermarket. As I was buying vests, shorts and rubbing alcohol I saw something and immediately hatched a plan.

A kitchen scourer.

Now I know what some of you might be thinking. You might be thinking. Wardy, did you not try this in your second year of University when you dyed you forehead, ears and neck blue? And did you not end up with horrendous burns on your forehead, ears and neck from the experience? And did you not learn from that?

Well it would seem that I did learn, because this time I was a LOT more careful.

More effective than a speed limit.

Seeing a bike shaped dint in the side of a truck, along with a pool of blood on the floor, is possibly the most efficient way of making me slow down on my bike.
Just glad it wasn't me.

An old friend returns.

I ache.

A lot.

I finally got the all clear from my doc. My face is now only has the regulation number of holes in it. I'm waterproof again. This means I can now wash my face, swim, and get back into training.

It's been a while since I've been that physical though. My first training session was more a lesson in humility as I gassed out almost straight away and had to suffer dragging my sorry ass through the rest of the session. Luckily for me though, I've been here before, and I know that it's just a matter of time before my body sorts itself out and starts getting fit. Up until that point though, and I'll be the guy who's breathing sounds like a donkey and who has a look of sadistic amusement on his face.

My scar is also not half as bad as I expected. The bandages are off and now there's no swelling the scar has quite nicely gone and hidden itself under my chin. So while it's still there, it's not nearly close to being the overriding physical feature I thought it would be.

Looks like my nose is still in a job then!

Past week or so.

People have been dropping like flies around me. There is a bug on the rampage. The local pharmacy has been doing a roaring trade in tablets of every variety. I know of at least 6 people that have been taken ill. One of them went into hospital this morning and is yet to return.

However, happy old me, full of wondrous drugs anyway, has been walking around as if the air were as fresh as a summer meadow, with ne'er an upset stomach, sore throat or fever to hinder me.

I've been traveling to the hospital everyday to get my face checked out. It's healing nicely. Tomorrow I'm going to get the stitches taken out, and hopefully this time all will go according to plan. I've been wearing bandages on my face for what seems life forever now with the very strictest instructions not to get them wet. I'm looking forward to the time when washing my face and having a shave are not taxing procedures, but simply routine.

I managed to push the bandages off my face last night while sleeping. Boy, was I ever in trouble when I went in for my appointment. The sentence ?Why you take off?? managed to question and berate in one fell swoop.

In other non face related news: I'm moving house again tomorrow. I'm going to be living near the pier and I keep having visions of me running up and down it at sunrise. I see myself getting up early and embracing the day with a hearty jog and some good old fashioned exercise. I'd even thought about throwing in some pushups or some sort at the far end to really get the blood pumping.

Hmmmm, I now rebuke the whole second paragraph. With visions like this maybe that fever really is coming back after all.

Gotta love the drugs.

I love general anesthetic

I've only had it twice, but both times I've thought it was awesome.

I like the way your arm goes numb before you go under. I enjoy the challenge of trying to think ?I'm going to go under . . .NOW . . . no . . what about NOW . . . no . . what abou?

Before they knocked me out they said I'd be kept downstairs for an hour after I woke up just to keep an eye on me. Can I remember any of that. No. Can I remember the journey back up to my room. No. Can I remember getting back into my bed. No. Can I remember getting changed. No.

I can't remember getting changed, but I'm almost certain that I did do that myself. I have a vague image of me getting dressed, but I can't pinpoint when it happened. The first thing I remember is trying to make myself a coffee and managing to get most of the coffee, creamer and sugar on the table rather than in the cup. How I didn't burn myself with the hot water I'll never know. After that I remember a nurse coming into take my blood pressure and looking at the mess I'd made. I pointed at my head and made swirling motions with my hands, international sign language for 'crazyness'. She seemed to get the message, and after doing her stuff, made me another coffee.

Ahhh, bless.

A matter of decency.

It's time for me to go down to theater. I go to the loo, put my slippers on and sit on the bed to wait for the nurse. She comes in and asks me how tall I am. Six foot I say. She looks me up and down and comes back later with a gown for me to put on. ?Get changed? she tells me, ?no underwear.?

So I go into the bathroom, strip off and go about putting my gown on. Another nurse comes in and asks if I want help with the gown. I'll be alright I say, I'm nearly done. You'll do it wrong she says. I think I've got it I say. I bet you haven't she replies.

And she was right.

I come out the bathroom and she gives me her best ?I told you so look.? then tells me to take it off and let her do. ?I'll not look? she tells me in her best 'sincerity for beginners' voice. I figure what the hell, shes a nurse, it's not like she hasn't seen hundreds of naked guys and luckily for me my only disfiguring feature is on my face ( wow, there's a sentence I never imagined myself typing and being proud of! ) So I turn the gown around, she ties me up and I take a look in the mirror.

Whoa there.

So when I said ?six foot? and she went to get me a gown, she must have become confused and thought what I actually said was ?the tiniest gown possible please.? This was the most minuscule hospital gown I have ever seen. If you have watched Anchorman, it was like Ron Burgundy's dressing gown. Only just long enough to cover your butt. I stood there looking at myself in the mirror and started to blush. I mean, I can't remember the last time I blushed at my own embarrassment, but here I was. It was such a ridiculous sight. And it gets worse.

The porter came to my room with a clever bed that collapsed down into a wheel chair. I walked out my room to him, turned around, sat down . . .and jumped back up like I'd received an electric shock in my ass. There was just no conceivable way that the little material I had below my waist was going to keep me modest. It didn't even pretend to cover me. It didn't even try. I was out there for the world to see, a rolling peep show. Now, one nurse, in the privacy of my room I can deal with. But being wheeled through a hospital, and knowing later that I'm going to have to lie flat, and my limits were reached. I turned to the nurse who has just witnessed me leap out of the chair and somehow managed to blush even more as I said ?Nurse. . . I'm really going to need a blanket.? She laughed her ass of at me and then handed me one. I sat down again, somehow finding it in me to go even redder as other nurses joined in the laughing. I couldn't help but think that this had been orchestrated for their amusement.

Whether this had been preplanned or not, the laughter was contagious and I couldn't stop myself joining in. As the lift doors closed on me to the sound of the nurses station in hysterics, I couldn't help but be glad that soon, somebody was going to put me under, and I might finally stop blushing.

More questions.

I was intrigued by this whole general anesthetic thing so while on the table getting cleaned up today I asked my doc a few more questions.

Why do you need to use a general, last time I got stitched they just used a local.
There will be a lot of pain because of the tension.
Tension?
In the wound.
Eh?
I had to cut the dead tissue away so there will be tension when I close it.
I thought the dead tissue was the lump.
No, that was full of puss. The dead tissue was around the edges of the wound.
So you cut the edges away.
Yes.
And when you close it, there will be tension.
Yes.
And you need to use a general because of the pain.
Yes.
Ok. I'll see you tomorrow then.
Yes, don't eat anything after midnight.
Deal.

I haven't looked at my chin since I came in here more than a week ago. I tried once but there was just a lot of gauze that I didn't want to mess with. I now have no idea at all what it looks like, or what he has done to it. He cut the edges away? How much? Did he make it bigger? Tension???

Guess I'll find out tomorrow. I signed the forms today to say I don't mind going under. The price for the operation is about 600 pounds. Here's hoping it's worth it.

Because of the pain.

Conversation I had with my doctor yesterday

On Monday I will close the wound. I will use a general anesthetic and then on Tuesday you may go home.
Ace! Do you mean a local anesthetic, like when I came in, with needles.
No.
A general. You're going to put me to sleep.
Yes, I will have to.
Why?
Because of the pain.


Aaaaallllright then.

Honestly don't know where to start with this one. This is the doctor that on my second day in here did away with anesthetic when cleaning the crap out of my wound. He pushed plastic tubes into my face, digging them deep into my jaw, with little or no regard for this previously mentioned 'pain'.

Now, when it comes to closing it up again after 8 days of prodding and probing, he wants to knock me out completely. He doesn't want to numb my face and get to work, he wants me out cold. Like a slab of meat.

If I've learnt something in my time over here, it's that Thais are hard as nails. I mean, these people don't complain, they don't moan and they sure as hell don't make a big deal of a little thing like pain.

So when he goes straight from no anesthetic ( this may hurt a bit but get over yourself ) to knocking me out (this is gonna hurt like hell and I don't wanna listen to your white ass crying for half an hour) I feel I'm quite within my rights to be ever so slightly concerned. Although not that much, 'cause lets face it, I'm gonna be sleeping like a baby through the whole horrid process.

When menus lie.

The food here is good. Really good. The scrambled egg has the perfect slop to cheese ratio. That ratio being no slop, and a lot of cheese. I have eaten salmon and duck since being admitted. The mashed potato had spring onion in it ----

I feel I should take a moment here to give a special mention to the woman I was once serving in a bar that repeatedly asked me for Champ. You know what lady, it's called mashed potato, put all the spring onion in it you want, it's mashed potato, and when it's painfully obvious I don't have a clue what you're talking about, saying Champ again doesn't help in the slightest. It's the word I don't understand, not your pronunciation.

---- it's called Champ when you do that by the way. The noodles are tasty and the food is always hot. My one and only qualm, and it is not a big one, is the labeling of the desert they call 'mixed fruit'.

The caramel sundae was delicious. The coconut cake sublime. The jelly wobbly and did I mention just how good the caramel sundae was.

However, they should replace the entry 'Mixed Fruit' and instead it should read:

'Another Fucking Orange.'

If anybody wants an orange cling filmed to a plate, mail me. I've got four of them here just taking up space.

Beard dreams.

While lying down today for my regular cleaning session a nurse informed me that my 'beard was getting in the way'. I'm still unsure which pleased me most. Someone calling the wistful fluff I collect on my chin a beard, or the nurse shaving me with a single razor blade.

Chocolate Heaven since quarter to eleven.

I went out and bought loads of chocolate tonight. I found out I'm gonna be stuck in here till Tuesday so I thought the least I could do was gorge myself. I asked the nurse who has been teaching me Thai if she wanted anything and set off downstairs to the mini-mart. I bought quite the quantity of chocolate, a phone card, had a look around the foyer of the hospital with various bodies strung out in the chairs, and made my way back upstairs.

I found my nurse measuring up some syringes and gave her two large bags of chocolate with the instructions that she was to share them with the rest of the gang. The nurse next to her took no time in pointing out that although I had bought 2 bags of chocolate, there were 5 nurses. This is a person who's responsibility's involve sticking sharp objects into me and making sure I'm not too horrendously disfigured after all this is over.

I smiled sweetly and said I would buy more next time.

However, like every silver lining has a cloud, and every Bruce Dickinson album has filler tracks, there is a moment of woe in this story of chocolate exuberance.

It is now half past one in the morning and I'm wide awake.

I decided to do some more writing to pass the time and sat down on my leather sofa bed, perched my laptop on my knees and began. But wait I thought, after mere moments. Am I not paying over a hundred pounds a night for this room. And does this room not come with an adjustable bed. And do I not have a table that I can wheel over the bed.

Thrice yes was the answer, and so I am now sat in a slightly supine position, legs raised, laptop held in place inches above my legs and feeling utterly relaxed . . . and . . if I close my eyes . . rather suave.

Hey folks.

Sorry for the long time it took me to get this thing going. I'm in hospital at the moment and only today did I find a computer that I can use for free. I tried connecting with my laptop but they wanted to charge me 20 pounds for 3 days use.

Scroll down to read all this in order, bottom to top.

Chicks Dig Scars.

I've been hearing this a lot recently. And I too used to think it was true. And it is. But there are guidelines.

Saying ?Chicks dig scars? is excatly like saying ?Chick dig musicians?. Both are true. But in the same manner girls like guys that can play the piano, girls like scars that are 'bedded in'.

Example.

If I was living with a girl and learning how to play the piano, I would annoy the hell out of her. Playing 'Summer Fayre' over and over again while practicing will surely make you better. However it will make the girl want to stab you in the fingers and/or eye with a particularly pointy metronome.

I currently have a scar on my chin. It is brand new, not vastly attractive, and the shade of pink that I came here to dispel from my body. Rather than attracting girls, it will only act as more of a deterrent.

Fast forward a year.

I can play Wonderwall on the piano, I have learnt the John Mayer version and hearts literally melt when I perform. I can also throw out the Gummi Bears theme tune on demand. It is surprisingly effective at raising a laugh.

My scar is nicely settled down. It is no longer raw and pink, but a story laden gash in my tan that tells stories of my past. It is a very personal tattoo of where I've been and what I've done. When people ask me how I got it, I lie and tell them it was from boxing.


Sure it might end up helping me. But like growing your hair to look cool, it's going to take time.

(any comments about my once long hair not being cool will be met with the shaking of my head and me imagining you with the word 'infidel' in four foot high neon letters above your head)

Day 5.

One of the nurses has taken it upon herself to set me a strict regime to teach me Thai. She now calls me Student and writes down words and phrases for me to learn. I then get tested on these the next time she comes in to inject me. Suffice to say I learnt numbers in about half an hour and I now have to read out my blood pressure each time it is taken. If this keeps up I'll probably triple my vocabulary by the time I leave.

One of the nurses asked me why I never leave my room. I asked her if there was anywhere for me to go in the Hospital. She said no. Kinda stands to reason then.

I've got a television in my room, I've got my computer. I get a daily paper, I get my meals delivered. If a press a button a get a hot nurse come into my room. I have unlimited coffee. I can pick up the phone and get Oreo cake delivered. I can adjust my bed to raise my head and feet as I see fit. I have a nice view and air con. Why, I ask you, why would I want to leave.

Day 4

My fugative moment.

All I wanted to do was go home and get my laptop. I explained to the doctor that I wasn't expecting to be in hospital for so long and I didn't bring anything with me to keep my occupied for such a long time. He said I would have to talk to the nurses on my floor and they would organise a taxi for me.

The next time one of the nurses was injecting me I asked her if I could pop home to pick some things up.

No.

Eh? Just for an hour I explained. I'm going to be in here for a long time and didn't bring anything with me.

Can not go.

Only for an hour. I just need to go, pick some things up and I'll come back.

Can not.

The Doc said it would be ok. I'll come back. I need books.

I finally managed to get across to them that I simply wanted to go home *temporarily* to collect some things, and that I would be coming straight back to hospital. They finally see what I've been trying to say and book me a cab. Moments later my hospital phone rings. It was the International Desk downstairs. They wanted me to pay my bill. I'm not discharging I explain. I will come back. I just need to collect some things from my home. But what about the bill they ask? I can't leave until it is paid. I'll be back in an hour I imply. All I want to do is go home, quickly pack a bag, and come straight back. I'm going to be here for a week, I need some personal items. My treatment is not complete they tell me, why do I want to leave? Aaarrgghh. I *dont* want to leave. I *do* want to go home, momentarily, and then I *do* want to come back. I will keep my hospital blues on if they want, I have a canular in my arm, I have a drain in my face, they can keep my passport if they want, they can keep my Visa, just please *please* let me go home, only for a moment, and I promise I'll be back.

Ever so slowly I manage to communicate that I'm not discharging myself. They seem very relieved about this and my taxi, like a golden chariot, finally arrives.

On the journey back to my hotel I feel like I'm escaping from prison. I just know that the taxi driver has instructions not to let me out of his sight. He probably has a gun in the glove compartment and a radio built into his shirt collar. My 'wardy has an exciting life' fantasy is squashed faster than a blackberry in a Ribena factory when my friends back at the hotel die laughing upon hearing what I have in my face. Still, it was nice to dream.

Day 3

I found out today that two of the nurses that are looking after me are sisters. Yup, the blood pressure was a bit high today.

I also discovered ?ting tong? means ?crazy? in Thai. I found this out after trying to watch American news programs for an hour, non-stop. It's just not possible. Maybe I was spoiled being brought up on the BBC but channels like CNN and even more so Fox News are just unbearable. Fox News is by far the worst 'news' program I think it is possible to make. They take a mole-hill, dramatise it, turn it into a mountain and then present it as 'fact' with all the flashy graphics and painful overacting they can muster. It's horrible. Although, it has brought something to my attention. We are always having a go at the Americans for being uneducated about the rest of the world. Sure, it's a cheap shot, but for the most part it's true. We like nothing better than to mock them for their complete lack of knowledge about anything further afield than the contents of the fridge and the next celebrity wedding. But now I know why. It is because the sources that they turn to when they want to broaden their horizons do nothing more than make you more stupid. It is the televisual equivalent of hiding Viz inside a Broadsheet. It really isn't Americas fault they have a hard time grasping complicated political issues when by the time they are presented on the news they have been sanitized into glorious three minute dramas with single-faceted characters and situations. Oh, and one other thing for the Americans. Sitcom means ?Situation Comedy?. A black family is a situation. People working in an office is a situation. A Family with a) annoying children b) weight problems c) annoying children with weight problems, is a situation. Comedy is something that makes people laugh. What you have managed to produce in mass quantity are 'sits'. Aptly named because you just sit there through the whole painful show.

Not a lot happened today. I watched a lot of cable television. Really wish I hadn't.

Day 2

I'm woken at 6 in the morning by a nurse who wants to take my blood pressure. She asks me how many times I ?pee pee and poo poo?. Gotta love this country.

After breakfast the Doc came back in and told me that in around 30 minutes he wants to clean the wound again. This time without anesthetic. Sans anesthetic. Anesthetic = 0. I'm not over the moon about this decision. There is something about the phrases ?clean deep open infected horrendous wound?and ?without anesthetic? that just don't go that well together in my mind. I have 30 minutes to wait. If an Amateur Dramatic Society was to put on a production entitled Waiting On Death Row, I'm pretty sure I'd have got the lead.

I find myself downstairs getting cleaned up and halfway through the procedure, the Docs phone rings. Like a true pro he stops what he was doing to answer it. When he was done he told me that he has installed a 'Drain' into the wound. A drain for the infected puss to run down, out of my deep infected wound. Ladies, you may start forming an orderly queue now.

Day 1

I woke up late, not really wanting to go back to hospital. I ate a slow breakfast as if by taking my time I could make the whole situation go away, and after finishing my omlette I would be healed. I got a slow hot shower. Poking and picking at the wound, pressing around it where it hurt to make sure it was still painful. Testing to see if it was still worth a trip into hospital. It was, it still hurt, it was still open, it still looked gross . . . I was still going.

Upon arrival I asked to see a Doctor and one A4 sheet of paper work and 10 minutes later I was laying on a bed telling the Doc what had happened. Without missing a beat he told me he was going to open the wound again, in the next breath he told me I would be in hospital for about a week.

Balls.

The thing I like about Thai hospitals is the complete lack of pomp and ceremony. If you need to be cut open, they do it right there and then. No making an appointment, no getting changed, no long discussion. I need to cut you, lay down, shut up, here I come. This refreshing attitude found me in my shorts and t-shirt being set upon by a doctor with a knife not 15 minutes after walking in the hospital. I was again injected with anesthetic and he got to work . . . and worked . . . and worked . . . and worked. I could hear snipping. A lot of it. A constant snip snippety snip, the type you would hear if you were making a snowflake out of folded paper. I could feel tugging on my jaw, snipping, pushing, pulling, yanking, probing and snipping. A lot more snipping.

At some far far point in the future he had finished. I got a nice big plaster stuck on my face and I sat up to talk to the Doc. He told me that the lump that had been getting harder and more painful was actually dead tissue. He had removed it all but wanted to keep on checking to make sure no more would develop. He also told me that the infection was very deep, and he would want to go in everyday to clean it. Nice. This meant I was once again left with a large open wound on my face. Freshly cut open, packed with gauze, and no chance of it being stitched closed again for at least a week.

Joy.

The Week After.

It's funny how having a large facial wound makes people react. I mean sure, you can see it. It's hard not to see. It sits there on my chin, on a throne of swollen tissue, and almost begs to be noticed. There is no getting away from it. Thai people just plain obviously look. Westerners do the 'flicking eye' routine where they get a sneaky peak in every now and again, sometimes unconsciously, sometimes just when they think you aren't looking. But the main difference I have noticed is that when you have a wound people can see, they want to give you advice on it.

Before I left the hospital they told me to clean the wound daily, and keep it dry. I bought myself some alcohol and iodine so I could accomplish this. Yet when the wound was getting no better, the advice started. All the advice was given with good meaning, and I mean no disrespect to the people that were giving it, I simply want to highlight the vast range of advice that I received.

If I was seen cleaning the wound I was told I was cleaning it too much and should let it scab. If there was slight scabbing on the wound I was told I wasn't cleaning it enough. I should only use alcohol, only use iodine, only use this other thing, not use any of them. Yet by far my favourite advice, to avoid eating chicken and eggs, was brought to my by a lovely Thai lady that saw me struggling with a little mirror to clean the wound, and so sat down and did it for me.

So you would think that with all this advice it would have been getting better. However, there was a definite lump just below the cut and it did look quite angry. I went back to the hospital to get my stitches out, they gave it another clean and sent me on my way. Nobody at the hospital seemed that concerned so I figured why should I be. I bought myself some more antibiotics and got on with my daily cleaning ritual.

Unfortunately for me, it wasn't getting any better at all. In fact, you could even say that it was getting worse. The day after my stitches came out the wound seemed to have opened up again. It was ugly enough looking when it was held together, now it was more a gaping maw, mocking me.

Days passed, the lump got harder, the wound redder, and the pain of the swelling getting further and further towards my throat. I drank a lot of beer, verbally vented my anger at the previous hospital for the lackluster job they did and decided in the morning I would go to a different hospital and see if they could fix the mess.

Perspective.

I'd been feeling a little off colour. You know, the appetite goes first, then you start getting drowsy; before you know it. You're lying in bed happily hallucinating your ass off.

Doesn't that happen to everyone?

I'd managed to get the shits again. Lucky me. If I'm not careful I'm going to get a reputation for such things. Although this time it wasnt a long drawn out bout of water loss. It was one night of pure H2O evacuation. If I was wearing rose coloured glasses I wouldn't so much say that I was losing huge amounts of water, so much that my internal water supple was being 'liberated' by the Thai sewage system. Every hour, on the hour . . . . Probably. My body clock was thrown out of alignment due to my brain making up fascinating and colourful visions for me to feast on while I lay in my own sweat desperately trying to make sense of it all.

This time the hallucination was a complicated one. My room was full of amazing contraptions connected by bridges, string and light. My room was one large Mouse Trap puzzle. One move in the wrong direction, knock one of the shaky structures, and a whole series of events would have been triggered. What the outcome of these events would be I do not know. But what I did know was that I didn't want to find out. I couldn't knock the string, don't break the light beams, don't let anything fall over . . why . . dunno . . but it'd be bad!

So I lay there trying to keep my limbs steady so as to not invite calamity upon myself. While periodically getting up to go toilet side in my moments of clarity. It was during one of these moments, sometime close to morning, that my very own ?Series of Unfortunate Events? began.

I was sat on the loo, my temperature began to rise. Now I know full well that when I get a fever, as well as going merrily delirious, I faint. I get a heads up before I faint, my temperature goes through the roof. So as I sat there on the toilet, and my temperature did start going through the roof, I knew this was a bad sign. I controlled my breathing, lowered my head, and just waited till it passed.

Did I mention how uncomfortable my bed was. I hadnt noticed it before but man, it was hard. And cold. I kept on trying to get comfortable but it just wasnt happening. I moved my legs around to feel for my sheets but couldn't find them. Begrudgingly I opened my eyes to look for them.

What the hell is that in my bed? Is my pillow stood on end? Why is my bed made out of terracotta tiles? Where is my sheet? Why on earth am I so cold?

My eyes slowly got used to the light and started to focus.

A toilet? Why is there a toilet in my bed? A toilet . . . in my bed . . . eh?

I lift my head and look around. OK then I think. I'm in the bathroom. Hmmm, strange, but I'm definitely in the bathroom. I don't know why, but I know I'm here. I turn to push myself up off the floor. Oh crap. Thats a lot of blood. My arms are covered in blood, and it has congealed on them like red treacle. I look at the toilet again, then down at my arms, and somewhere in the battleground of confusion vs reality in my brain a carrier pigeon gets through: Eureka! Oh man, I think to myself, I fell of the toilet then.

I feel my arms to see where the blood is coming from. They are both ok, nothing broken, no cuts. I get up and sit back down on the loo. I taste blood in my mouth and when I spit I almost recoil that I could produce such a grotesque concoction of bodily fluids. I sit there on the toilet while the fluff is cleaned away from my brain and normal operating procedures are put back in place. I have no idea what time it is, although it is no longer dawn, the sun is fully out now. I look around the bathroom at the mess and decide I should get a shower, and then get myself off to hospital. I turn the shower on and as I stand to look in the mirror I discover where all the blood has come from. The entire right side of my face is red and I have danging spit/blood streamers hanging off my chin before sticking to my chest. I turn the shower to warm and go about cleaning myself up.



When I arrive at hospital I am immediately set upon by a doctor who numbs my face and then starts cleaning the wound. I cant feel anything but I can hear scraping. I can hear the sound of steel scraping against bone. I can hear the sound of steel scraping against my jaw bone. This was . . unsettling.

By the time the doc is finished I have 8 stitches on my chin and one just under my eye. He wants to keep me in over night to rehydrate me. Seeing as while I was laying on the bed I managed to pass out again, I feel it's best not to question this decision and I get myself ready for a night in Thai hospital.


As I'm laying in my hospital bed, tonging my chipped tooth, a drip in my arm and a huge plaster on my face, I cant help but laugh. Sure, I may have split up with my girl, and my business ideas may not be working out, and to be honest I'm not having that great a time over here . . . . but there is something about waking up on a bathroom floor, deliriously wallowing in your own blood and shit . . . that really helps to put things in perspective.

Everything just gets bigger

When I was 12 years old I really wanted a remote control car.

I mean, I really wanted a remote control car. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than a remote control car. Life without a remote control car seemed pointless, how could I possibly have fun without a remote control car. What was the point of doing Anything, especially keeping my bedroom tidy, if I didn't even have a remote control car.

Christmas was aaaaaages away. I went on and on and on about wanting a remote control car. I would go through the pages of the Argos catalog again and again reading the descriptions of what they could do, what scale they were, how fast they went.

Each day as Christmas drew near was more unbearable than the last. I got louder and louder in my expressions of quite how badly I wanted a remote control car. There was no way that anybody in the house couldn't know, just what it was that I wanted . . . . a remote control car.

The few remaining days before Christmas were unbearable. Would my parents have got the hint, would this just be the best Christmas in the whole wide world ever-for-anybody-for-all-time?!

On Christmas day I unwrapped a remote control car. It was a monster truck. It has massive rubber wheels, fake spot lights on the roof and two speeds; Normal and Turbo!!

I didn't know how it could be possible to be any happier. I was joy incarnate. Nothing in the world seemed important compared to this awesome gift I had just been given. My other presents could wait, they were insignificant.

20 minutes later the batteries had died.

Nothing changes when you grow up.

Everything just gets bigger.

A new word.

Lameosity.

The act of being a Lame-o.

Example - Wardys updating is showing a high level of lameosity.

Tis true. I'm not going to try and deny it. Updates are coming I assure you. I just need to sit down and write them. Infact, I could be writing them now, instead of this, but you know how these things work.

I'm sorry for the delay. I just need a nice quite day where I'm feeling rather creative to sit down and get it all out of me. That's not to say that I need to feel creative because I make this stuff up, oh no, it's just that otherwise it would read more like an early draught of a script for Hollyoaks, rather than the inner monologue of an easily distracted displaced job hunter.