Shiny coats and soaking bands

I visited the doctors last week, well actually it was the nurse because that was what the receptionist thought was best. The reason for this visit was some sort of dermatitis/psoriasis that has developed on my scalp, nothing major but I cant seem to shift it so thought it time to get professional advice. Having explained my ailment the nurse turned and rummaged through a collection of leaflets muttering “I’ve got something for you”.  After some sorting she found what she wanted and turned to present me a picture of a Doberman with a head full of shampoo lather “Isn’t he cute?” she enquired.  Having thanked her for the prescription I noticed that the product was called Etrivex and wondered again if it was for Dobermans or for humans, so far no signs of a shiny coat but I will keep you posted.

As you know Christmas is not a time of year that I have any particular love or affinity with it is however inevitable. In an attempt to rid my mind of the tedious soundtrack of Christmas I turned the radio on this morning and, well it just all went wrong. Firstly my digital radio did its very best impression of drowning, something it seems to be doing with annoying regularity of late. You will recall that they sold us digital radio as the solution to all of the hissing and distortion of FM radio, after all ‘digital’ translates into ‘better’ everyone knows that right?

What they failed to mention is that digital radio coverage is appalling in many areas and that its performance isn’t actually very digital i.e. on or off. When the digital radio signal is poor because of atmospherics, transmitter outage or because the day ends in a ‘y’ it appears to leap into an imaginary ocean. I will admit that there are times when hearing certain singers bubbling up for air with ever decreasing frequency is quite a delight but today was not one of those days. Forced to turn to FM I pulled up a local radio station with no trouble and listened to a couple of good songs sung by dry singers, a bonus for both of us I feel.

Then it happened, then it just spiralled into the living hell that is local radio, adverts. What is it that happens to people when they commission a local radio advertisement? is there some form of compulsory lobotomy? These are people who built reasonably successful companies yet they seem to have lost any semblance of contact with reality. Local radio adverts are not just lame, I could deal with that, they are annoying in fact so bloody irritating that they make you want to drown the radio with its digital sibling! At what point does an adult think that chanting some mindless company name repeatedly will enamour you to their product? The opposite is, of course, true and I am pretty sure that it would present a reasonable defence for arson or even murder*.

I know that budgets are limited and that the slick advertisements that we see on the television cost a small fortune to make but surely anybody would do a ‘proof listen’ and realise something was wrong as they cringed? Or is there nobody in the radio company advising these people?

Finally for today I would like to share another insight into the very strange mind of the publican. When you tell people who you want a pub you get a lot of responses, there are those who wisely tell you not to do it and the ill-informed who think that it’s a great idea, the latter can usually be found in pubs. But it takes a unique kind of mind to look at a friend who you know is determinedly seeking what can only be rationally assessed as commercial suicide and say “I brought you a sign, it will look great in your pub”. Only a publican and actually only some of them understands the compulsive element of the trade and can therefore just accept your insanity.

 

*The author does not purport to condone such actions or offer legal advice in defence of them he does however maintain a rather weighty list of targets……

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Sandy, inquisitive, sticky, those bloody fingers!

I watched some tourists in the week and they demonstrated again the uniqueness of the coast. This family had decided to visit the coast on a brisk day and were wrapped up in coats and scarves as they clambered over the timber that closes off the gaps in the sea wall during the winter. Amongst the family were a couple of young children, still at the age that would brave hurricanes for a bucket and spade moment, some adults and a young lady. The young lady was in her late teens/ early twenties and she was clearly not happy to be there as was evident by that special slouching sulky walk that all parents recognise. Whilst the family set about entertaining the shrieking youngsters the young lady flattened some sand and sat down at a distance in full on sulk.

When I walked past the window five minutes later I noticed that whilst her right hand played with a phone, doubtless transmitting her sulk across the ether, her left was busy scoping and shaping sand. You see no matter how old you are, or how miserable, when you are sat in sand in you have to play you just can’t help yourself! I am not even sure if she realised what her left hand was doing but when I checked back a few minutes later she was up and playing with the youngsters. I suspect that there is a reason why all playgroups have sand pits and it is to install this deep hidden psychological switch so that we will always revert to ‘happy child’ when sat in sand, and given our climate that has to have helped generations of parents.

I also want to share with you some exciting news, well it is for me. I rarely complete those silly on line quiz things but couldn’t resist the one that would tell me what type of Isle of Wight stereotype I was and set about it with honest vigour. The result was “pure Caulkhead” and I brought about a genuine smile. For those that don’t know a ‘caulkhead’ is the traditional term for native islanders and, whilst I would normally ignore such silliness, in this instance I feel compelled to take this a divine confirmation of my future plans.

I have mentioned before that there are several distinct generations of internet users and this is seen in the way we interact with it, last night brought me another example. Whilst chopping some vegetables I reached that wonderful moment when the rhythm of chopping makes you appear like a skilled chef. This level of perfection is rare but can be encouraged by the consumption of alcohol, as indeed it was on this occasion. As my brain marvelled at my knife handling skills and I congratulated myself on keeping my knives razor sharp my thumb became to inquisitive and met said razor sharp knife on the down stroke. Since small hand fractures are called ‘boxer’s fractures’ I can only presume that thumb and finger tip slicing is known as ‘chef cuts’ and I had a great example.

Now we are all familiar with this type of injury but key is how you handle it. Firstly the brain will always somehow manage to arrest the progress of the knife before the end of the stroke, this is a latent and useless reaction that results in the frustration of a ‘flap’. Task one is to remove this irritating piece of skin, no matter what people tell you it will die, keep it dry, moist, rubbed in antiseptic or dipped in a bloody grow bag it will die so man up and remove the dead wood. Now that the wound is clear we move to the next stage, staunching the gushing blood using liberal application of any dry material that you have not already soaked by accident, don’t forget to rinse the veg during this stage! After changing several dressings I opted for gauze, kitchen roll and, most critically, tightly wound tape.

Overnight I didn’t bleed through the dressing which was a success that I may have to attribute to the numb thumb but hey any win is a win right? Now what does any of this have to do with the internet you ask? stick with me its coming. This morning I stripped the dressing and all looked pretty good, then came the pins and needles as blood returned whilst I watched like an expectant plumber. It was no good I had a leak, a steady flow of claret leaving the wound site would make the day awkward to say the least so, in true plumber style, we needed a plan B. Obviously I turned to the trusty superglue and, after restricting the flow to the thumb I capped the ‘well’ with a decent blob of the miracle Cyanoacrylate, let it dry and  restarted the flow…… it held and a small dressing completed the repair.

Having effected the repair I took to the internet to research the idea and confirmed that whilst not ideal the superglue trick has been fairly well utilised with equal success . This is the generation difference, the one below mine instantly turn to the web to tell them what they should do but my generation relies on knowledge using the web only latterly to realise how bad a decision we have potentially made.

 

 

DIY, balls and long lost tummies

There are a couple of things that I would like to share with you from the world of recuperation, remember I do this so you don’t have to. The first is the experience of a DVLA medical, which was not at all what I expected. They had warned me that the medical would involve some nakedness but they hadn’t warned me that it would take place in a modern doctor’s surgery which is clearly something that I have not experienced before. The first thing that struck me was that there was nobody there, well not actually nobody but only two or three people in the waiting room. If you are lucky enough to win the telephone lotto and get an appointment at my local surgery then you will find the waiting room packed with various sickly people. Next up on the list was the ubiquitous electronic displays for calling patients, it displayed your name and your date of birth which I imagine makes for some very upset women.

Having taken my seat I was called back to the window with the request “could you please take your blood pressure and write it down” I must have looked suitably lost because they directed me to a machine. Am I crazy in assuming that the medical staff are supposed to carry out this task? What’s more this is a driving medical so should they not make some effort to secure the information? I wrote the numbers down but and was hit with an overwhelming desire to make them better, luckily I didn’t know which way was better so gave in the original numbers. Max kindly told me later that I should have knocked them all down which makes sense as I apparently have clinician syndrome which means when you measure my BP it acts up and looks high. The next stage was the nurse for blood tests, normally a very sensible arrangement. The nurse commented “when you got all those tattoos did you think about blood tests” to which the only reasonable response is “surely that many tattoos is an indication that I don’t think”. She kindly informed that it was OK it was good experience to ‘do it blind’ which went some way to not putting me at ease. Blood taken the nurse then took the odd step of squirting the blood into the test tube, normally they snap the ends off the syringe which leaves the cartridge. The problem with the squirting technique is that the blood tries to escape at every opportunity hence I left her cleaning the mouse mat, her pen and keyboard. I record this here in case there is a break in at the surgery over the weekend, it wasn’t me DNA or no DNA.

I was dispatched to the waiting room with the paperwork and my blood, again I am no security expert but this seems weak to say the least. Finally to the doctor for what was mostly a series of questions, the obvious drink and drug ones were followed by “do you have tattoos and if so how many?” I suggested that once they all join up they should count as one but this was not met with humour. After a quick inspection the doc hit on “multiple”, when we got to piercings he was very glad of that word and wrote it before I had finished telling him. I didn’t think that one had to notify the DVLA when you got a tattoo or a piercing, does it affect your driving ability? The question that I really struggled with was “has alcohol affected your relationships?” How does one answer that, is it appropriate to say that it was the cause of most of them? as I ran through a series of scary drunken memories the doctor reread the question “sorry I mean has an alcohol problem affected your relationships” oh that’s easy, no problem so answer is no. Next was T-shirt off and on the couch, obviously a standard driving position, for reflex, heart and lung checks. Interestingly the doc told me that if you have no reflexes on both sides then that is OK, go figure. Then there was belly pressing along with the question “any tummy pain” why do doctors insist on using the word ‘tummy’ I haven’ had a tummy since I was 5 it is my stomach, as a doctor surely you know that! We finished the nudity with a testicle question “any lumps” oh no I assured him, no lumps and certainly not big enough to get in the way of a steering wheel. When you’re semi-naked on a couch and a doctor asks “do you check regularly” then I challenge any man to answer anything other than “oh yes, why just this morning”.

Medical all done I was given the blood sample to take back to reception with the comment “don’t forget and it take it home”. I would have thought a more appropriate comment would have been “don’t swap that sample with a clean living friend” but hey what do I know?

For the second story I turn to the wonderful Debs my physioterrorist. Today we discovered some new and interesting issues and I have been given another set of hideous exercises to stretch long tendons that have shrunk when I wasn’t looking. It was the first time that I have seen Ben in ages and he was astounded by the scars, that is another convert to the power of the seemingly unexplainable properties of Dermatix. I remain astounded that you can sell a product at such an insane price when you can’t explain how it works but any parent of teenagers should keep it in the house for that messed up piercing. Apparently I can now be trusted with a powerball, although they were a bit of a fad they are apparently excellent for recuperation because they don’t stress the articulating surfaces in the wrist unlike my grip training. The grip training was frowned upon mostly because I don’t tend to be gentle and I do tend to lie about pain when challenged, we agreed that I would do both. Now if Debs suggests it then it is a good idea, simple as that there is no question about it.

On the way back to the station I stopped at a large outdoors type store that Debs informed me stocked the object in question. I looked up at the hanging boards telling me the sections, camping, shoes, climbing and accessories to name but a few but there wasn’t a toys or exercise section. Due to shortness of time I found a lady to ask and she told me that they had moved to somewhere else and led me there, still no sign “Pete” she called and a fella looked over “powerballs?” laughing he directed her to another fella. By the time that we had located the product there were three men laughing every time that the word powerballs was uttered and a completely clueless woman. In the end she asked why we were laughing and I offered the answer “it’s a boy thing” which almost satisfied her until I added “we get it from our mums”. Just goes to show that we never really grow up. I am now resplendent with a power ball and can see that it really will be an irritatingly addictive addition and a constant soundtrack.

Obnoxious teenagers and Manjita

I apologise to those that read this from out of town, this is an English centric post. There are two advertisements running at the moment that are more irritating than the standard drivel. Number one is the advert that involves teenagers droning their parents title in order to demand some clothing purchase. I won’t mention the company that the advertisement is for out of principle but I’m sure that you have seen it. I don’t understand why the advertisers think that this advertisement will tease me into using their service. Of course it is a clever advert and it calls to my inner conscious but all those kids make me want to do is punch them in the face.

If you deconstruct this advert what it says is that this is the company for you if you have horrible and demanding children and are a rubbish parent. “Demanding children? No backbone? Weak parent? Give in to everything with one simple call to us and you can be back to your Lambrini in no time”

The other one is not so so irritating as it is illogical. In this advertisement a young man is too stupid to work out that the ‘TV’ button on his new kindle will display the screen on the TV. To cope with his complete and utter incomprehension of basic device management he calls upon the magical new help function. Selecting this option puts him in touch with a young lady with a charming Irish accent who helps him without criticising his abject stupidity.

This is England, we don’t have English call centres, any help service will be outsourced. The reality is that when you press this button you will make contact with Manjita, a 16 year old Indian girl who can barely understand English. There will have to be seventeen steps of security, all completed with a person who can’t understand English. When you deal with Manjita by phone she will call herself Jane and pretend that she is in the same time zone. She will follow scripted small talk and do her very best to pretend that she is simply an incompetent English person, how will this work with a visual system? Will they have to build rooms that look English, will there have to be real time airbrushing? Let’s be honest here, if you can’t sort simple telephone support then why show us who we are talking to?

You made me misunderstand

I take pride in my stubborn resistance to advertising, I resist the influence of brand awareness in my purchasing decisions and have never purchased insurance from a meerkat. I am intelligent enough to know that major marketing campaigns and subtle brand escalation are not bespoke, they do nothing to help me and are all about swelling corporate bottom lines. The one inadvertent area where advertising does affect me, despite my awareness, is negative advertising.

I will use a UK example to explain this phenomenon, forgive me if you don’t recognise the specifics but I am sure that you can draw parallels. For some years a bank here ran an advertising campaign based around an irritating, jolly, round faced buffoon by the name of Howard. Now the ‘genius’ of Howard was that he showed us that bank managers were not just stuffy suits in offices, oh no they could be moronic half wits that danced there way into our living rooms. This advert did nothing positive for my relationship with the bank, I will never use that brand on principle and should I ever win the Lotto I would seriously consider appointing a hitman to rid the world of this apparent idiot.

The storyline was that this bouncing fool was a branch manager ‘found’ through internal advertising, I suspect he was actually smuggled out of an asylum or a special care unit by a drug fuelled advertising executive drunk on his own power. The thing with negative advertising is that it creeps deeper into life than we first see, sure there are several brands that I would never interact with because their advertising has had a negative affect on my view of them, but sometimes its more than that.

Most mornings I watch the early morning news to see what despot is threatening to absorb our military budget that day and on some days I struggle with the presenter. The BBC you see have a newsreader who looks like an oversize Howard, I only just made the connection, and he irritates me as much. Now you could argue that I have some inherent dislike of round faced men wearing round glasses, perhaps born of a childhood experience, but it wouldn’t be true. The sad truth is that advertising has done its thing but the message is not what was intended, for me the message is that round faced people with large round glasses are idiots and when I see them I am at serious risk of them bursting into song and having to throttle them.

So when a jolly, round faced and bespectacled person collapses down the escalator or is hit by a car you will have to forgive me for not coming to their aid, it is not my fault its the advertising executives.