An insomiac writes...

4:42, Tuesday morning and I am wide awake.

Morning is starting to break; the birds have already begun their morning chorus; the day grows steadily brighter, it’s pale light shining through the window, not to mention the really fucking annoying mosquito that has been buzzing about my naked, exposed body all night long.

In the darkness, I take flailing swipes at the wee bastard and every time I think I’ve got it, almost immediately my eyes flash open as I hear the incessant drone of its wings as it circles around me, planning its next attack.

It’s warm - very warm. Has been for the past couple of days and will continue to be so for another few.

But none of this is reason for the sudden bout of insomnia that finds me in front of my laptop - chasing the blinking cursor across the screen whilst sharing these thoughts with you.

Lord knows my body would be much better served in The Land of Nod, dreaming of impossible foursomes with Britney, Christina and Madonna, or scoring Champions League winning goals (this dream having replaced the dream of watching them winning it just a few short weeks ago).

For you see – I am in pain.

And I don’t mean the pain of inner turmoil; the pain of unrequited love; or even the pain of abdominal cramps after a late night curry – I am suffering physical pain.

To explain it all better to you I have to go back in time; a time before all The Millennium Hype, a time when Brit Pop ruled the world, a time when getting rid of my mullet hair and beard actually became a reality, finally realising that it didn’t make me look like George Best – pre-liver failure of course.

It was my final year at university – a strange period in anyone’s life. A time where the pressure of studies peaking at its frenetic climax clashes with the sudden realisation that This Is It - The End of an Era.

The end of arsing about, the end of parties, the end of Sensible Soccer competitions on the computer, the end of Wednesday night sessions on the poor mans snakebite – Thunderbird fortified wine mixed with LCL extra strength lager. We later found out that the LCL stood for “Low Calorie Lager” which, come to think of it, meant that we were getting our alcoholic kicks on a beer called Low Calorie Lager Lager. That would explain why it was so cheap.

As our final exams approached, our need to Succeed in Order to Make It was at loggerheads with our need to ensure that We Enjoyed Ourselves.

This was more difficult than it sounds.

During final year, the house I lived in was called Whitehaven. Legendary throughout the university, this place was the party house. A huge sprawling place, it looked like fuck all squared from the outside – from the faded gold lettering above the double front doors announcing its name to the passing world to the faded paintwork, only it’s size had any ability to impress.

Inside was a different matter all together.

Seven bedrooms and equipped with dance floor, fireman’s pole, sauna, huge stained glass window, perspex dome complete with spiralling coloured lights and a hallway big enough to drive a small family car through or play three-a-side football (the latter we did on a regular basis) this house provided no end of distractions.

Not that we needed much encouragement.

But I’m not going to bore you with tales of drunken debauchery, excess and wild parties – perhaps that’s something for the future – instead I want to tell you about the rather impressive staircase that Whitehaven boasted.

Or more specifically, the impact it had on me.

Going through the front door of the house the staircase was instantly visible at the far end of the house. A grand affair, the wide, varnished, wooden staircase swept up to a small landing where the stained glass window presided over proceedings, before branching off into two sets of stairs that doubled back on themselves to a balcony on the upstairs floor.

Stood on this balcony and looking over, you looked down at the bottom of the staircase a good 20 feet (6.5 metres) below.

This alone should have been thrill enough for me but for some reason that I am still trying to fathom after all these years it wasn’t.

Obviously possessed with the spirit of a long dead acrobat (no doubt one who died during a performance) or at the very least the indestructibility of youth but more likely a need to show off and do something that little bit crazier than the rest of my housemates, I would regularly take a run up to the banister, where I would place both my hands and then leap up into a handstand position, balancing precariously before deftly flicking back onto the solidity of the floor behind.

Typing these words now, I’m filled with a mixture of utter disbelief and dismay not to mention incredible embarrassment, at just how incredibly stupid I was to even consider doing such a thing.

Needless to say this story does not have a happy ending.

One “Thursday morning after the Wednesday Student Night before” and my hangover was worse than usual as, ironically enough, considering the title of this part of cyberspace, I had spent the previous evening celebrating the fact that I had already gained employment in the big, bad world, working in Belgium for a Belgian software company.

To say my head was a little bit fuzzy would be an understatement.

Awaking from my slumber and possessed with the invincibility of the fully employed, I walked out onto the landing from my bedroom and made a run for the banister as I had done on several prior occasions, before flipping onto my hands and placing my body into the upright handstand position.

I knew immediately that things were not right.

Having given myself a more-than-enthusiastic run-up I hit the banister with a little more speed than was required for the task in hand.

There was nothing I could do.

My legs, carried by the unnecessary momentum that my run-up had provided, moved beyond the normal vertical position that my stunt required and the next thing I knew I was falling headfirst to the bottom of the exposed stairs below.

Frantically, I grabbed at one of the balustrades on the balcony, which succeeded in changing my fall from a reckless head first affair into a much more acceptable perpendicular-to-the-ground affair.

Just at that point, Mark, one of my housemates came out of his bedroom brushing his teeth (did I mention that all the bedrooms had sinks? Apart from mine – which was the only en suite in the place – it was only fair – I had been the one fortunate enough to get us the house).

For the briefest of moments, our eyes locked together – Mark’s wild with something resembling shock and horror, mine something entirely more ‘emotional’.

Mark stopped in his tracks, the toothbrush suspended from his mouth like a colourful thermometer that some forgetful nurse had misplaced.

I continued to fall to my (by now) certain death.

After what seemed like an eternity, I hit the bottom stair, the impact knocking the air out of me. I doubled up in pain fighting to find the breath that my lungs craved.

In another world, I heard Mark scream “Holy fuck lads!! Jonny’s fallen down the stairs!!”

Even then I remember thinking – “that’s not what happened – I didn’t touch any of the stairs! The only one I hit was this bottom one!!” Falling, after all, implied something completely different. A rather unnerving detail to be so adamant about considering my situation, but one that seemed strangely important at the time.

Choosing the more tried and tested method, but the oh so much boring technique, Mark came running down the stairs to my crumpled heap of a body at the bottom.

“Jesus Jonny – are you ok??!”

Fighting for breath, I brought out a reassuring hand from my abdomen and proceeded to tell him that everything was ok and that I just needed to catch my breath.

Everything was pretty fucking far from all right.

“Shit Jonny – look at your hand!!”

I turned to look at the right hand that I had raised to calm Mark down.

The sight that greeted me will live long in the memory and is not something for the squeamish amongst you to read, but I’m sure you will anyway…

My middle finger, like that of any normal person, was usually the longest in my hand.

On this particular occasion it was the shortest, reduced to an abnormal, crumpled, awkward mess. The reason for the deformed appendage I saw before me was blatantly obvious, one of the finger’s bones having decided that it had spent far too long cooped up inside my body and had pierced through my skin for all to see, glistening in the light coming through the stained glass window.

I freaked out.

I ran up one staircase, along the balcony and down the other and repeated the circuit several times whilst screaming “Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit – I’M DEFORMED!!!” I was followed by Mark, who was trying his best to placate me.

It wasn’t working.

Awoken by the commotion, two of my housemates came to see what was happening and within a few minutes, 4 hairy arsed hung-over students were rushing to a nearby hospital in one of the guy’s modest Citroen car, with me apologising as I bled all over the upholstery.

I was a mess.

We all arrived at the reception of the Accident and Emergency ward where we were asked who the patient was.

I raised my hand up in the air, the damaged appendage in full view with blood continuing to drip down my arm.

The receptionist gulped, eyes transfixed on my hand. “We’ll get somebody to have a look at that right away”.

Four hours, a lot of pulling, pushing and a helluva lot of drugs later and my hand, described by the doctor as “the worst dislocation I have ever seen”, was repaired. I returned to full health, never to repeat the handstand stunt ever again.

But that’s not the end of the story.

Despite the fact that I am lucky to be in a position to recount this tale and not in a wheelchair, or worse; fate has managed to deal me just a little bit of a bum deal.

Over the intervening years, I’ve noticed a problem developing on my hand, the index finger becoming more and more contracted, gradually getting closer to my palm, with the other fingers following suit, until my hand was becoming quite claw-like.

Awkward, rather than painful, the situation was manageable but taking advantage of the wonderful health service that we have here in Belgium and looking for some recompense for the incredible amount of money I have been paying through the years in Belgian taxes and social security, I thought I’d get it looked at, taking myself off to Middelheim hospital one afternoon a couple of years ago.

“This is the worst was of Dupuytren’s contracture that I have ever seen in one so young” came the rather unsettling observation from the doctor.

This did not sound good.

“Dupuytren’s contracture?” I enquired.

“Are you Scottish?” was the Monty Python-esque response to my question. Things were getting a bit surreal.

“Err, well no – but I’m Scotch-Irish”, I offered hopefully, not wanting to disappoint.

“It’s a genetic disease, present only in Northern Europeans. Members of your family will no doubt have suffered from the same ailment.”

“Not that I am aware of”

Ignoring me, he continued:
“But it normally only occurs in a person’s 50’s or 60’s. I’ve never seen it in somebody so young.”

I explained my handstand ‘incident’ to him. He didn’t look too impressed.

“That might explain it – the disease has been accelerated by that trauma – still I wouldn’t want to operate on it, unless it becomes worse, say to a position of 45°”

So a couple of years passed and the situation became somewhat unbearable for me and now in a situation where I am in between projects, and with a contracture of more than 45° I now find myself recovering from an operation which took place Friday afternoon.

Hence the pain that has me up in the small hours even contemplating sharing this tale with you.

The time is now 07:19 and it is broad daylight. In the outside world people are getting up to go about their daily business – indeed some of you might already be up and about at the start of another Tuesday in Belgium.

As I already mentioned, the past few days have been hot, I believe yesterday was a scorching, 34°C, with today expected to be a slightly cooler 30°C. With more of the same to follow over the next few days, I have to admit I am not totally adverse to the idea of two weeks enforced absence from work but I’d certainly appreciate a better night’s sleep.

Time to get more drugs into me and to take myself off to bed, although not for too long – I’ve a sun tan to work on.

Except, of course, where the bandage covers.

June 2005

For those of you interested or just plain nosey, you can check out the disease and the operation I went through (with lots of gory photos included) at:
http://www.pncl.co.uk/~belcher/dupuytrn.htm

"A difference in culture"

(Names and identities have been changed or omitted to protect the guilty)

A few days ago, I was in Brussels for what was one of THE best concerts in my life but still I am left a little hollow inside and I feel the need to share it with you.

A warm, summer, Saturday evening in Brussels and those ‘mad ferrets’, the Gallacher brothers were in town with their British super-group Oasis. The first gig of their world tour and in the small intimate venue of ‘Ancienne Belgique’, the scene was set for the night to be a cracker.

And it really, really was, but a few events transpired leaving a bit of a sour taste in the mouth and one that I would like to get off my chest (although quite what my sour tasting mouth was doing on my chest, I’m not so sure).

In order to set the scene a little bit better, I have to take you back in time a few hours to explain how the events of the day unfolded. 12:57, Saturday afternoon and after a night out in Antwerp which saw me start a ten-hour shift on the booze at 17:30 before dragging my arse to bed at 05:00, I woke up.

The night before had involved copious amounts of ‘Cigarettes and Alcohol’, including some pretty potent absinthe along the way - and boy did my battered and abused body know it. To say I was not on top form, would be a bit of an understatement. But the thing was, on this particular Saturday lunchtime, I had to be. Indeed – not only that - I should have been on top form an hour earlier, the reason being that I was due to play in a football tournament in a small town near Turnhout, 40 minutes east of Antwerp.

Our first match was to be at 14:00, and I had arranged to meet the rest of the team out in Turnhout at 13:00. Which was exactly the time that was displayed on my phone when I switched it on as I got out of bed. Like most people, my phone doubles up as my alarm clock and as far as I was concerned, I had set it to waken me up at 11am.

Apparently not.

Not only that – I had switched the phone off as I always do when I go to sleep – a throwback to a time when my considerate friends who worked in the horeca trade would phone me up pissed out of their heads and think that there was nothing more that I’d like to do on a wet Tuesday at 03:00am than to get out of my nice, warm bed and go and join them in some den of eniquity, or at the very least engage in some ridiculous drunken conversation with them.

This meant that my team mates were unable to get in touch with me which presented a bit of a problem for the team. I’d like to say that this was because of my wonderful football skills and the detrimental affect my absence would have on the team but this was not the case.

You see, I was supposed to be coach driver for some of the team, as well as the kit man – our snazzy EDS-sponsored kit, sitting in the boot of my car.

Needless to say, we arrived at the tournament late, missing our first game and as a result we lost our first game 5-0 by default.

You’ll have to believe me when I say that it wouldn’t be much of an exaggeration to say that this was our best performance of the tournament. With the other games finishing 7-0, 8-0 and 3-0, it probably goes without saying that we were diabolical.

So much for showing the Belgians how to play The Beautiful Game.

We might as well have spent the afternoon ‘Fucking in the Bushes’ In our defence, the pitch was really muddy and most of us were running about in our running shoes, sliding all over the place in the mud.

Actually – come to think of it – in our defence there was nothing but a huge gaping hole that a herd of elephants could have stampeded through without too much difficulty. That was part the reason for our humiliating show.

‘Some Might Say’ we embarrassed ourselves – in normal circumstances I might have ‘Aquiesce’d but in fact, we really didn’t care - it was all good craic and we had plenty of beer during the day, which helped numb our embarrassment, whilst no doubt contributing to it at the same time.

Well, I say we didn’t care but I have to admit that was perhaps a little use of the Royal "we".

One guy did.

At the end of the tournament, obviously a little bit disappointed with how things had turned out, he stormed off in a huff to shouts of ‘Stop Crying Your Heart Out’ from his ex-team mates. Our last game had finished at 16:45 and instead of joining the rest of the team for some beers, we went to get showered and changed. After all, we knew we were on a tight schedule, if we were going to arrive in Brussels at the ridiculously pre-arranged time of 19:00.

I say ridiculous, because support band “The Stands” weren’t on until 20:00 with Oasis appearing on stage sometime after 21:00 but the guy who had organised the tickets wanted to get to the venue “as soon as possible to get good spots and to see the support band”

Our predicament was further compounded because one of our players (who owns a car) hadn’t shown up, citing bad weather and shopping duties as his excuses (and you know who you are), meaning that I had to go into Antwerp to drop off a team mate before taking the rest of us onto the Oasis show. The road-works in and around the beautiful city of Antwerp ensured that our journey was increased by the best part of an hour.

At least we were able to use the opportunity to swap cars with a bigger one, to accommodate all of those that would be travelling back from the gig. The point that I’m making here, is that never was there any lingering around, drinking or arseing about – the normal ingredients that constitute “Irish time” - referring to the rather insulting theory that arrangements with people from Ireland need to include a one hour buffer zone for lateness (although, in fact, there may be some truth in that theory).

In fact – barring a slight detour when ‘we’ got lost in Brussels, we went from football tournament to concert as quick as was physically possible, ‘Supersonic’ in fact, meaning that we arrived at the venue at 20:00.

More than enough time to see Oasis.

We knew that our friend already in Brussels – the only Belgian in the group and the hero of the day who had procured the tickets would not be impressed with our time keeping, blaming ‘Irish Time’ on any lateness for appointments that he is subjected to. We had, however kept him up to date with our situation and didn’t think our enforced lateness was any great deal.

But, despite the fact that there was nothing we could have physically done any quicker to ensure that we would have arrived much earlier – apart, of course from the getting lost part which added 15 minutes onto our drive – we still felt the wrath of a disappointed Belgian.

“The support band has already started” he said when we arrived in the bar of the Ancienne Belgique. He was, unsurprisingly, a little agitated.

Still – this wasn’t a problem, as we were there to see Oasis. Missing The Stands, as far as we were concerned, was no great loss. We explained this to him.

"Perhaps next time I’ll give my tickets to people who’ll arrive on time and appreciate the support act!” came the response.

Well!

That was it as far as I was concerned and I’m embarrassed to say that I lost the plot.

“Look mate, we’re really grateful that you got us tickets but we couldn’t have got here any quicker!!”
“I’m not looking for gratitude, I’m just looking for people to be on time”

“But we are on time!!”

“Perhaps it’s just a difference of culture”

Is it Dear discerning Reader, I ask you - is it?

"All Boys Smell" - Discuss

It recently occurred to me that – strange as it may seem – perhaps not all of you out there are as madly interested in the trials and tribulations of being a Liverpool FC supporter as I may be.

If this applies to you, then this blog has been written with you in mind, but more specifically – this one has been targeted for the female readers out there amongst you, of which I hope there are many and with many more to follow.

You see, it is certainly not my intention to turn women off of my little corner of cyberspace with chat and banter of a football nature. Let’s face it - I don’t want to be accused of turning females off. After all, I have a reputation to live down to. Period.

(and that was just in the ‘period’ = ‘full stop’ sense, not in the other ‘womanly sense’ – just because I’m making my blog more female friendly, doesn’t mean I have to start banging on about that sort of thing)

So, in the hope of welcoming the fairer sex into the warm bosom of my blog, I’ve decided on the subject matter “All boys smell” for this particular blog entry. I’m not sure whether or not what I have to say will add credence to the argument or indeed will dispel it forever.

Naturally, being of the boyish persuasion myself I would hope it were the latter but the truth is I don’t know what I’m going to write, so just bear with me, while we see where this one goes. Isn’t this exciting?!!

Before I go any further - I’d like to put in a little disclaimer notice at the start of this blog entry:

Basically, if you ever have been or indeed perhaps currently romantically involved with me, perhaps it’s a good idea not to read on any further.

I mean – I am sure there are some nice alternative websites out there that you could go visit instead? (I’m thinking amazon.com to buy me some nice presents perhaps?).

[And there is yet another plug of a commercial website for which I get absolutely no financial reimbursement for whatsoever. This blog just really is a labour of love. *sigh*]

Anyway – on with the show!

“All boys smell” is a theory that a female friend has voiced on many a moment, usually in response to some unfortunate story where a female acquaintance has been given the proverbial elbow by some undesirable lothario with lust in his loins and a lump of coal for a heart.

So it’s not – as you may think – a reference to a general deficiency in male personal hygiene; although I would have to agree that are plenty of men who do indeed smell.

Badly.

But as I’ve said, it’s not man’s ability to smell like Ghandi’s flip flops on a particularly hot, humid day in Calcutta, but rather their ability to treat their women like, errr, shit that brings about the observation that “All Boys Smell”.

All this begs the question – is the fact that some girls have bad experiences with their men proof therefore that ALL boys smell? Indeed can the flip side of the argument – that “All girls DON’T smell” hold up to scrutiny?

I suppose that discussion should be left for another day.

Getting back to the topic in hand, I would have to beg to differ.

Quite strongly, in fact. (how does one strongly beg to differ? “Mug to Differ”?)

I can of course only speak for myself and in doing so, I therefore cannot claim to be speaking for the entire male race, but can I categorically state for the record that I, FOR ONE, DO NOT SMELL!!

Glad we got that straightened out.

I like women – I really do. I think they’re a great invention. In fact, I think that they’re right up there with HP Brown sauce, TV remote controls and those little cup holders you find in cars.

Soft to the touch, pleasing on the eye, all curves and fluttering eyelids – the female form is a joy to behold. And the thing is – women know this. They know that man cannot live on bread alone. If there’s a chance that he can get a ‘bit of loving’ thrown in with his daily slice then man will dine as heartily as a Belgian who has just found out that the bedpan full of mussels that he’s dining on are a volenté.

But does all this mean that we, as a race, smell?

In my experience, women can be just as bad as us guys when it comes to the “dating game” for want of a better description.

I think I can safely say that we are all, in general, looking for the same thing from life. We all want to treat people nicely and be treated nicely in return and I really do try and do that. In the past I know I have been guilty of hurting people but I never, ever did it on purpose. Indeed I spend too much of my life trying to do the right thing and I have to admit that it gets me into all sorts of bother.

Of course you only have my word for it that what I say is true, but I feel the special bond of trust is forming between us and am sure that you’re all with me on this one.

I can almost feel the love - a cacophony of amorous affections as it were. Heart-felt emotions stirring within us as I, “The Writer”, write and you, “The Reader”, read. Like two star struck lovers dancing slowly and closely together, aware only of each other’s presence and the magnetic attraction that holds them together, the focal point of the attraction being deep within their souls….

Fuck it – I’m horny – anybody wanna shag?!

You see – ALL BOYS DON’T SMELL!

*ahem*

When the heart rules the head

After the flurry of activity on this wee corner of cyberspace that was initiated as a result of the fortunes of the marvelous, nay heroic actions of Liverpool FC, I have had to put myself into a darkened corner and revive myself and refresh my totally and utterly spent reservoir of adrenaline.

OK – perhaps not but it’s not that far from the truth.

A combination of work and being on the lash a bit over recent days – never a good combination - ensured that I didn’t have much time for sharing my thoughts with you.

I’m sure you survived (no really, I’m sure you did) but I now feel the need to feed the flames of our formative relationships with a few more thoughts and observations – after all - I gotta keep you guys interested and with the number of people registering with the site increasing on a – oh I dunno – one per week basis, the pressure most definitely is on.

Over a week after THAT football match and the rollercoaster ride is finally coming to a stop.

Except – like all good rollercoaster rides, this one had a twist right at the end that I didn’t see coming which I feel the need to share with you all.

At the start of the season, like most football supporting people, I followed my heart instead of my head and placed a few bets on my team to win a few things. I have an online account with www.bluseq.com (I should be on commission really, for mentioning them) and I placed 2 bets – one that our new signing Djibril Cisse would be the leading goal scorer and that we would win the Premier League.

Cisse broke his leg after scoring three goals for us and was out for over half of the season. Liverpool finished 5th and 37 points behind the champions Chelski.

So much for betting with your heart.

Indeed, the only bet that I didn’t throw money on was the impossibility of winning club football’s greatest prize.

Except – that’s not true.

I just logged onto my account today and discovered the following:

SELECTION(S)
Event info:Champions League 2004-2005Champions League 19:48 25/05/2005
Market:Outright - Win or Each-Way 1/2 1,2 Selection:Liverpool @ 25/1
Win To Win


RECEIPT(S)
Receipt No:O/0412385/0000065
Placed At:07:05 27/08/2004
Bet Type:Single
Stake per line:EUR 5.00
Number of lines:1
Stake:EUR 5.00
Number of win lines:1
Number of void lines:0
Returns:EUR 130.00
Refund:EUR 0.00
Settle info:

It seems that as well as betting on Cisse to be leading goal scorer in the Premiership and Liverpool to win the Premier league, I did also have the faith on the 27th August 2004 to put my money where my mouth is. Only 5 euros, but it changed into a much healthier 130 Euros thanks to my foresight.

Now – I’m gonna place it place it all on Motivator for tomorrow's Derby on a double with Stevie Gerrard to stay at Liverpool.

Now – with the weekend almost upon us, I say go forth and talk codshit to strangers.

I know I will…

This blog entry was brought to you whilst listening to the Late, Great Johnny Cash doing his covering version of Nine Inch Nail’s song “Hurt”