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I am the soundest man in the world.

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» Blood


I had to go to hospital recently for blood tests for the first time in about ten years or so. The last time I recall I was in my late teens and horny as fuck and counting on the spurious reputation of nurses, I dressed up in my finest finery for them lest they should find my condition sympathetic and want to blow me. Condition = bleeding all over them. Sexy!

I am not a haemophiliac. I have a thing called VonWillembrandts Disease. It's like haemophilia's embarrassing little brother. It tries to stop your blood from clotting but you'd hardly notice it unless you had a massive gash.

Thing is, I'm led to believe it's rare, so haematologists drool over it. I would be gladly disavowed of the notion by any medical types out there so as I can be done with the cycle of pain and angst this thing represents to me.

Now, before you break out the Kleenex, whilst this tale has a pretty sad climax coming up, I do not require sympathy from anyone. This should otherwise, hopefully turn out a decent yarn or a vilification of the medical profession in Ireland in the 1980's. I can't comment about them now except to say that their notions of how people with jobs allocate their time are in need of some revision.

At the very least, it will allow me to excise the thing once and for all as I have never detailed it in it's entirety to anyone so what better place than the tenuous anonymity of an internet forum! :)

As a child, having a medical condition was a double-edged sword: Your family and close friends treated you kindly, swaddling you even to counteract the misery and the discomfort of being a pin cushion. For most of our childhood, my brothers and I referred to Doctors and nurses as vampires they took that much blood out of us for testing.

The conditions were generally cold and cramped portacabins. The Nuns were still running the show so sympathy was not on the menu and they worshipped the doctors like Gods as they zipped in and out, performed their nefarious tasks (after we waited hours despite having appointments) and disappeared again without ever pausing for question and never once looking you in the eye, addressing you civilly or treating you like anything other than a cadaver.

In later life we learned the Mengelesque haematology professor overseeing our suffering had been dining out on his findings for some time and so was much enthused to prolong the process.

The peak of our hospital attendances came in the mid eighties around the time when the AIDS epidemic was spiralling out of control. News stories of infected blood transfusions were rife and Rock Hudson was the first major star to be pronounced to be dying of the new "gay
" disease.

I do not have HIV. Nor do any of my brothers. This is not that kind of story.

The other side of the sword is as follows: Children are cruel. When little baz and his bros arrived home early as we had been given the day off school (YAY!) to attend hospital and were already out on the street playing football as the other kids arrived home from school, discarded their rucksacks and began to play kickabout, they noticed we were all sporting little cotton buds held by medical tape in the crooks of our arms so being kids, therefore curious, they asked "Why?".

In our innocence, we told them.

Within moments, the whispering campaign had begun.

In what seemed barely days in my fuzzy childish recollection, the other kids went from childish inquiries like,

"Why do you have cotton buds on your arms?"


"What's wrong with your blood?"


"Do you have AIDS?"


"Are you like Rock Hudson?"


"HAHA You're gay!"

"You have AIDS!"

"Rock Hudson is your Da!"

"Stay away from baz, lads or he'll try to kiss you"

I was maybe, ten years old.

My nickname was now, "Aidser".

As a kid, you try to persevere, don't you? You want to play football forever and run and bike and play kiss-chasing with girls but people look at you funny now. The news is exploding with AIDS stories and even parents start to tell their kids to play away from you. It quickly became too much to bear, standing there on your lonesome playing ball or that awful fucking name spelling it out for all to see as if you were some filthy diseased deviant child from hell.

My brothers were younger. I'm not sure how much it ever affected them. We never spoke about it. I became a recluse. I buried my head in my headphones and never looked at the kids who taunted me every day as I passed alone.

I thought I had left that shit behind me to be honest but I was back in the hospital recently as my Mother's behest to *finalise* the process once and for all. Then I was back the following week. "Results in September", they say, after twenty-some-odd years of not knowing what was really going on so I have to go back again.

I fucking fainted like a big pansy. The moment the needle hit, my mind raced back to childhood and the humiliation, the taunting and never understanding why children, FUCKING CHILDREN, could be so spectacularly cruel. I had to lie down and be brought water by a little fat lady. My Mother came over all, well, motherly and told me I never liked the needles. She then tried to support me as I walked away. I wasn't that bad but it was sweet and hilarious as she's all of about 4ft11 and I'm 5ft9 and not much shy of 14 stone. Me Ma said I didn't have to go back to work. Again, really sweet but can you imagine a thirty something year olds Ma calling in sick for him?

I went back to work.

Hoped you liked my story!

If you feel yourself coming over all hugs and fluffeh, please don't as I'll probably delete the whole thing. I hate sympathy. I've skin like a rhino but jaysus have I a lump in me throat right now.

(Thu 7th Aug 2008, 17:07, More)

» Famous people I hate

Beyonce Knowles
but specifically...'If I Were A boy'.

Up until recently, this was just another shit song on the radio by some soundalike popstrel but I found myself killing time in a bar where the radio was on too loud and I got to hear it in all its' glory and every soppy poorly-read-lyricist word.

It's Beyonce Knowles - you know the self-obsessed one with teeth like placards and huge, goggly, thoughtless eyes (could be any of them, I know) but this one appears to have been dipped in cappucino ice cream and had a perpetual motion spring fitted at the bottom of her spine so she bounces back and forth whenever you set it off? Yeah, her.

So she starts off talking about how it would be cool to be a dude for a day and I think to

"Yes, it would be cool, Beyonce. I can assure you of this cos I am a dude every day and it is cool".

She makes it through two verses talking about drinking beer and hanging out and not taking forever to get dressed and you're thinking,

"Yeah, it is cool to be a dude - nice one! Shame you're only a stupid, rubbish, silly girl!"

But then it all goes wrong - she starts banging on about women and her feelings and listening to the missus problems and how she would try to be a better man. Her voice goes all shouty and whiny and she seems to be in pain. (I suspect the discomfort of having two consecutive sex changes might be the cause).

She bangs on a bit more getting progressively more shouty and I'm thinking,

"You wanna go back to being a boy, love. You can throw on some comfortable clobber. I'll get the beers in and we can have a bit of a chinwag - maybe watch the match or something. All this shouting is getting us nowhere and you're just getting yourself upset".

In short, you're not going to become a better man if you keep carrying on like a woman!

It's a shame really - a terrible waste of what could have been an interesting song about being a lad penned from the POV of a lady but she blew it! She made the fatal flaw of thinking like a lady and bringing lady feelings into it. Next thing you know she's off on a tirade about lads carrying on and not caring about womens’ feelings.

Well, this is the thing, Beyonce love! If you were a boy, you wouldn't waste your time
thinking about peoples feelings, would you? You'd just get on with things and try to make the best of it.

Then you would be able to stay focused and on-topic and write coherent songs about cool stuff like girls and beer.

To be fair, you came close when you mentioned 'beer' but instead of talking about girls, you talked LIKE a girl which is really the beginning of the end, pet.

See, girls are awesome in some ways and if you were a boy, you would know those ways but (BIG BUTT) you're not a boy, are you? Thus you ruined a potentially cool thing by carrying on and shouting and getting stupid feelings involved.

So do you see the difference, Beyonce?

Am I being clear enough for you?

If you were a boy, you would be awesome and cool and fun and not a banshee-shouty whinging twat obsessed with your own stupid feelings.

(Wed 10th Feb 2010, 13:09, More)

» Spoilt Brats

Children in restaurants
I went for a bite to eat one sunday in the Marriott near where the clan live with some of the aforementioned clan. Top scran for a Sunday lunch. Wine list was taking the piss though.

Upon arriving we were greeted by a packed restaurant. It was, expectedly, a little noisy, but one sound stood out above all - an infant banging the top of a knife repeatedly on the table – as in, half-machine gun speed BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!!!

We endeavoured to persevere.

Eventually its parent took the knife away but only after some lunatic the other side of the restaurant started banging his knife on the table too in what could have been an exchange of Morse code.

Most effective, I must say.

Other children were running about and screaming at each other so the same mad genius of the aforementioned Morse code incident spoke quite loudly that it was the duty of all adults when confronted with unruly, unsupervised children in public places to ensure that said orphaned scallywags should not escape the day without having been introduced to the word. ‘Fuck’.

Again, so efficacious was our hero’s means that not another sugar-propelled snot machine passed the table for the duration of the

I am a spoilt brat.

(Fri 10th Oct 2008, 15:18, More)

» Famous people I hate

Piers Morgan, you say?
Ode To Piers Morgan

Whilst I agree celebrities that compromise their privacy
by selling sordid stories to the news
in profiting from written words they live and die both by the sword
and ought to pay the piper for their ruse

But sending out your henchmen to exact your petty vengeance
on people who do not deserve your ire
when you harass and terrorise and rifle through their private lives
you stoke in me a righteous type of fire

When you profit from the misery of others, I think you'll agree
that makes you a malignant parasite
and your hiccough with Hislop and your arsekicking from Clarkson
proves your ill-equipped to win in a fair fight

So Mr Morgan (ne: O'Meara), take your venal bid for stardom
and hawk it to your rich and famous friends
There is a special place in hell for those who deal in kiss-and-tell
They'll hold the front page when you meet your grisly end.

(Thu 4th Feb 2010, 12:45, More)

» Family Feuds

Mate of my brothers' Da
doesnt speak to his brother because he once sucked the head off his pint of Guinness.

They once had a brief rapprochement after something like 15 years.

They went down the pub to try to sort out their differences, clear the air and such.

So my brothers' mates' Da buys two pints of Guinness, lays them down on the table and says,

"I'm going to the jacks - that should have settled buy the time I get back"

And as quick as his back is turned, his brother picks up yer mans pint and sucks the head clean off it again then breaks his bollix laughing.

When yer man gets back from the jacks, all hell breaks loose and they havent spoken since.

(Thu 12th Nov 2009, 15:21, More)
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