Achy Breaky Head
Posted on | March 14, 2010 | 11 Comments
That’s my skull, that is.
Not really, of course. If it were my skull, it’d have a frickin’ crack in it. If it were my skull, it’d have a fracture in the left occipital bone to the occipital condyle. In non-medical terms, this means it would hurt. A lot.
Somehow, I managed to crack my head. The ‘how’ part is a mystery. Quite literally. A chunk of time, about five hours long, seems to have been knocked out of my head from the jolt. Either that or it seeped out through the crack.
While the cynical among my readers are probably thinking, “yeah, yeah, more likely a beer-bomb-blackout,” I can state that, while I was out with some friends for some drinks before the incident, I was last seen being boring and leaving for an early taxi home (eschewing the chance of more drink in another pub). Somewhere soon after this sensible act, something occurred to see me brought to Accident & Emergency by ambulance, in full spinal-support, with a broken head and suspected broken neck.
Just what this incident was is not accessible in my poor damaged noggin though. I don’t even remember leaving my friends. I have a very clear demarcation line in the evening’s memories that doesn’t go that far (and in fact is quite a while before it). I’m told this isn’t uncommon with injuries of my sort.
So then. Three days in hospital. What fun. In a ward with five other blokes. Of them, one seemed to have had his lungs filled with a mixture of milk-shakes, butter and old motor-oil; one had three-quarters of his scalp covered with skin grafted from his legs, attached with huge, Frankenstein stitches and one woke only infrequently to shout and swear at the nurses.
Speaking of nurses, the nursing staff were absolutely brilliant. Give ‘em all a raise I say because they’re not paid enough. To get the money to do so, take it from the doctors (or, to be fair, at least the ones in the hospital I visited). Conspicuous by their absence is the phrase that leaps to mind. Maybe it was just me they were avoiding but I went two of my three days without seeing a doctor. Even my discharge was through a nurse who wasn’t able to fully answer the questions I had. Nurses: great. A&E Staff: great. Ward-type doctors: dunno – never saw ‘em.
I blagged my way out of the hospital yesterday and have to rest up in bed, for the next few days. I actually really, really dislike lying about in bed but I’m inclined to acquiesce on this occasion. The constant headache and tiredness, and the occasional dizzy spells, are in bed-rest’s corner on this one. Word is that I’m likely to have a headache for the next fortnight or so. That’s something to look forward to, eh? Nothing strenuous for the next four weeks too so, if anyone wants to build a wall and a raised bed in my back garden, please apply below.
So that’s been my last few days. To be honest, I’d advise against it.
A Nice Cup Of Tea And A Book: Risk
Posted on | February 23, 2010 | 6 Comments
I haven’t done one of these for a couple of weeks so I thought I’d make it extra special. This is not just A Nice Cup Of Tea And A Book, this is A Nice Cup Of Tea And A Lovely Scone With Some Jam And a Book
The scone: Fruit. The jam: Strawberry.
The book: Risk: The Science and Politics Of Fear by Dan Gardner.
I spotted Dan Gardner on Charlie Brooker’s Newswipe a few weeks ago. He said sensible things and then his book was mentioned. Impressionable type that I am, I rushed to the internet to order up a copy.
Risk’s raison d’être is that, as a species, Homo sapiens has much, much less to worry about now than at any stage in its past but most of us go around anxious and stressed about stuff that has a minuscule chance of occurring.
Our brains couldn’t keep pace with our species’ development and, although we’re flying about in jets and curing disease, our brains are still somewhere around the early, hunter-gatherer stages of our evolution. However, instead of a useful ‘there’s a lion in that bush’ brainwave, now that we have very few lions to dodge, we’re getting ‘there’s a paedophile in that bush’ brainwave.
I’m oversimplifying massively of course but the jist is the same. Although the clever ‘head’ part of our brains can work out the statistics of there actually being a paedophile in the bush, more often that not, the ‘gut’ part of our brains goes on what it ‘knows’ – and it reads the Daily Mail. Risk looks at how and why this behaviour happens and – maybe more interestingly – looks at how that behaviour can be, and is, exploited.
Risk is well written and entertaining throughout. At times it strays towards feeling a tiny-bit academic but it really is only a little and it’s worth it for the wealth of information you’re getting. I really recommend everyone read it. I’d go so far as to say it’s required reading.
And, if you don’t read it, a paedophile will move into your bushes. Go and make it so, gullible ones.
Short Story: Original Sin
Posted on | February 10, 2010 | 2 Comments
My short story, Original Sin has been published on Metazen and is currently available to read.
I’d like it if you could take a look.
You can read it here.
If you like short/flash stories, you should definitely subscribe to Metazen as there’s always lots of consistently good stuff there.
I’m off to find a corner in which to curl up.
Gandhi Goes To The Naughty Corner
Posted on | February 4, 2010 | 3 Comments
My daughter, who is now five and a half (definitely not five), has discovered non-violent protest.
When she’s aggrieved about something – or possibly just stropy – she now walks really, really slowly. And, clever girl that she is, she tends to engage in this disruptive behaviour when we need to actually go somewhere – generally when we’re late.
I say, “Come on, we’ll be late…”
And she starts walking in tiny steps, an inch at a time. She’s like a protesting taxi-driver or French trucker.
It’s both annoying and amusing at the same time.
When I threaten her, she says, “There are many causes that I am prepared to go to the naughty corner for but no causes for which I am prepared to put someone in the naughty corner.”
She may have been reading-up on this.
I have sent a strongly-worded letter to Ben Kingsley.
A Nice Cup Of Tea And A Book: 1980
Posted on | February 2, 2010 | Comments Off
OK, so I lied. I said I’d need a break between 1977 and this, David Peace’s 1980.
It seems I didn’t.
I tried to take a break. I started two other books and gave up a dozen pages in. They were too light. My brain had grown accustomed to the distressing world of Peace’s Yorkshire and was unable to turn itself to something less somber and grim.
That was slightly worrying.
As it turns out, 1980 is slightly (very slightly) less bleak than either of the previous books in the series. Less bleak than 1977 – I think – because its protagonist is not so tainted as either Bob Fraser or Jack Whitehead (77’s ‘heroes’); his point of view a little less grimy and sordid. Less bleak than 1974, possibly, because even the grisliness of the Ripper murders holds less emotional resonance than the tortures and murders of the children in the earlier book.
Don’t think it’s a walk in the park however.
Peace brings more of the prose we’re used to; expressive, personal, and beautifully burrowing. We’re with our new protagonist, Peter Hunter but he’s slightly more removed from what’s come before. For all the pain and lies and secrets that are in Hunter’s head, we’re just glad that it’s not so awful in there as in previous books.
Peace makes some progress towards winding up this tetralogy (quadrilogy isn’t a real word) in 1980 and I’m looking forward to finally getting to 1983.
This time, however, there will be something between this and the next Peace book.
Gerry 1, Weather 1
Posted on | January 31, 2010 | Comments Off
1-all. That’s the score in the last two weeks as far as my having a ramble in the hills is concerned.
Last week, I took a walk up Derrybawn. I’d been there before but figured that it might be a good route to get into the hills before all the snow had gone. And it was a good route… more or less.
The route to the summit of Derrybawn – or, at least, some of the way – is a narrow, rocky track through deep heather. Last week, with all of the melt-water, this was a narrow, rocky stream. That is, the parts that weren’t covered in snow.
If you’ve ever walked over uneven ground, deep heather and sometimes-streams that have been covered in a thick blanket of snow, you’ll know that the going is slow and difficult. Although much of the snow had melted, there were still large drifts – some of which were hip-deep. Not knowing what’s under the snow makes walking on it a bit nerve-wracking.
Still though, good fun. I took a few photos along the way (mostly with no snow, oddly enough). They’re on my Picasa page if you’re interested. Like the day, the photos were mostly grey and dismal and I’ve played with them a little before uploading – mainly out of boredom.
Chalk up one for Gerry. Gerry:1
Then, a couple of days ago, I attempted another trip to the mountains.
This wasn’t so successful.
Thick fog. Thick snow. The route I’d planned required crossing a large, de-forested patch and it was utterly treacherous while covered in snow. No idea where I was stepping. Broken branches, tree-stumps, streams, mossy rocks, and many other delights made things very difficult – and a little dangerous.
In addition, the fog had reduced visibility to not much more than 50 yards. With a lot of open mountain to cross, I called it. It was a back-out. I’m relatively confident in my compass-work but I figured it wasn’t worth the twin risks of broken ankles and getting lost in the fog.
Weather: 1
Rematch next week. Hopefully.
A Nice Cup Of Tea And A Book: 1977
Posted on | January 21, 2010 | Comments Off
It’s grim up north*
At least it is in David Peace’s 1977. Bleak, gloomy and darker than closing your eyes at the bottom of an ocean where even those weird, ugly fish are scared to go.
Awful, terrible, beautiful darkness. Peace just won’t leave you alone. His words gnaw and eat at you and his story remains in your, now fetid, brain for a long, long time.
I read 1974 a few months ago and needed a bit of time before moving on. I’ll need more time before moving to 1980. These are not easy-reads but they are remarkable reads.
Much has been made of Peace’s ’stream of consciousness’ prose and it is beautifully lyrical and engaging. The story focuses on the Yorkshire Ripper murders and is told from the first-person perspective of two different characters (two characters from 1974). This throws you for a few seconds as you process the first character switch but it’s easy to accommodate. Oddly – and adding to the disorientation – while both characters narrate their 1st-person story in alternating chapters, one does so in the present-tense and one in the past-tense.
And the violence… While there was plenty of violence in my last read, No Country For Old Men, it was more distant; slightly more stylised. Peace’s violence is in your face (and your hair and under your fingernails). It’s visceral and savage and affects you more deeply. Like I say, it’s difficult to forget.
I’m two thirds through and I’m now going to sneak off somewhere quiet and finish it. If I don’t post again, it’s because I’m huddled in a foetal position, weeping quietly and despairing.
The keen-eyed among you will have noticed my new Penguin Classics mug. I recently treated myself to two of them. Keep ‘em peeled to see the other make an appearance soon.
*I’m certain I’m not the first to have made this, rather weak, joke. Apologies.
Never Say Monday Again
Posted on | January 18, 2010 | 9 Comments
INT. HAYES MEGALOMANIACAL GLOBAL DOMINATION HQ – MORNING
GERRY, a ruggedly handsome, goatee-sporting rake in his 30’s (just), strides purposefully into the dispatching chamber. He stands at the bottom of the murder platform and crosses his manly arms.
GERRY
So, Monday... We meet again.
MONDAY, strapped to the murder platform and whimpering like a girl, looks up with tears in his annoying eyes.
MONDAY
What? Do you expect me to be fun? Is that what you expect?
GERRY
No, Monday. I expect you to die.
Gerry nods hunkily to a technician who turns to a console and twiddles knobs. A laser COUGHS and SPLUTTERS, emitting a weak, stuttering beam of light before extinguishing completely.
GERRY
Oh for fuck’s sake-
The laser suddenly leaps back into life. Radiation gets all stimulated and emitted, amplifying light and heading straight for Monday’s crotch. Monday looks worried – like some little bitch or something.
Gerry smiles an evil, yet charmingly attractive, smile. His muscular legs walk his buff torso up the exit ramp. He laughs as he goes.
MONDAY
If I fail to report, Tuesday will just take my place.
Gerry stops short. His attractive face scrunches (strikingly) with awful realisation.
GERRY
Shite!
A Nice Cup Of Tea And A Book: No Country For Old Men
Posted on | January 18, 2010 | 3 Comments
OK, so I’m the suggestible type. I read The Road last week and was taken by McCarthy’s slightly unusual prose style. I decided I’d like to read some more McCarthy and No Country For Old Men seemed like an easy next step.
Oddly enough, I’ve actually failed to catch the film yet so I went into the book with no preconceptions. I’m told that the film is a pretty faithful adaptation though. It’s on the DVD list. Will get to it soon.
As for the book, the prose is not quite so stark as The Road but it’s certainly been honed to within an inch of its life. It’s tight, yet rich, and it’s always gripping. McCarthy’s sparse punctuation quickly seeps into your brain and it’s only when you see an occasional contraction complete with its apostrophe that you remember their absence. It all makes for a quick read.
It also makes for a splendidly engaging, often disturbing read. You’ll have heard about the violence, I’m sure, and there is plenty of that. Mostly cold and considered violence and always chillingly rendered. Brilliant. It’s probably fair to say that I’m a McCarthy convert.
Incidentally, because I’m a book-snob I normally hate to read a book that has the movie-poster as its cover. The fact is, this one was almost two quid less than the non-film-cover version and there’s a recession.
A Nice Cup Of Tea And A Book: The Road
Posted on | January 8, 2010 | 6 Comments
This one arrived today. Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
I’m hoping to get to see the film next week – weather permitting – and I really wanted to read the book before I did.
The postie brought this at lunchtime and, bad father that I am, I bundled my daughter into the next room to rot her brain watching TV while I sat in the kitchen and made a start on The Road. It was either that or read aloud to her and I think TV is probably the lesser to those two particular evils.
I’ve hit the halfway mark (despite my child selfishly interrupting me a number of times for things like food) and can report that it’s an extraordinary read.
At the risk of sounding a bit wanky, the prose is unembellished to the point of being stark – and all but the most essential punctuation is absent – but it’s certainly no less beautiful or disturbing for it. This is my first McCarthy, but I believe he writes like this in some (all?) of his other novels.
Anyway, wankiness aside, The Road has been distressing, haunting, riveting so far and I’m certain the second half will continue to ratchet things up.
Looking forward to it immensely. It may need another cup of tea though.
Oh, I’m also impressed by how many synonyms for ‘grey’ he has found.
For those interested in such things, Joe Penhall – who adapted it for the screen – writes about it here. Someone I follow tweeted this link but I’m afraid I can’t remember who. Sorry I can’t credit you. Rest assured you are in my thoughts though – vaguely, anyway.
OLDER Entries »Gerry Hayes
I mostly sit around all day and drink tea. Occassionally, I write stuff and send it to strangers so they can humiliate me and debase my efforts. Other than the self-harm to dull the shame of failure, it's not a bad life. Like I say, there's tea.
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