Bucket list update
Beat Rehab

Bucket list update

Editor: every month, we update our playlist with a new set of songs for the month, before starting again the following month. We also regretfully ask Andy to tell us about it.

I’m describing songs again this week. Under duress I might add. The Editor will have you believe he’s all ‘super cool and relaxed’ with his velvet trousers, paisley headscarf and voluminous blouse but the reality of dealing with him, if he feels you’re not towing the party line, is quite different. He’s a shitbag, a sadist and a square………and his favourite band is The Fratellis.



Trading in chiming, chamber pop, the Fashion Brigade see sex as a joyous, physical celebration, a simple and happy unification that lifts moods and brighten minds. Not the weaponised and chilly commodity that’s been stuffed into a condom and used to beat insecurity and suffering into our hearts and souls by the media and the omnipresent porn industry. I’d like to live in this song. Probably won’t be having the sex though, I’m already living with the perma-furious, waist high results.



Do you remember the last time you pooh’ed yourself? Probably not. A few of you may have copped tummy bugs at home or on holiday and staged a brown firework display before you made it to the loo, but I’d imagine most of you are recalling justifiable childhood accidents. I remember with a bright and terrible clarity the last time it happened to me, it was 13 years ago and I was in hospital. Some friends and I were going to see the Texan Psych-rockers, And You will Know Us by the Trail of Dead at a venue in Brighton. That morning I phoned my place of work, put on a funny voice and told them I would not be at my desk that day because I was feeling terribly, terribly unwell. By mid-day I was in a pub ten minutes from my house and drinking like an angry river.



Seems odd now looking back, the rest of my friends hadn’t taken time off. I was by myself drinking strong, continental lager for six hours. Anyone unfortunate enough to spend regular time with me around this period won’t be twitching any eyebrows though. Needless to say, by the time we arrived at the venue I was cross dimensionally pissed. I’d liken a Trail of Dead gig to the experience that unfortunate cats must have when they fall asleep in a Hotpoint and wake up on spin cycle. But with a bit more dry ice and Red Stripe. When it inevitably went south for the wildly inebriated man in a room full of chemically impaired people crashing about the place like fucking idiots, I was quickly packed off into an ambulance and whisked off to Brighton Hospital with a broken ankle. En route I took a drag on the gas and air so mighty that the lights in the vehicle flickered and the Paramedic’s ears popped. This was not a pain management measure, I was already hammered, but I’d never had a go on ambulance drugs before and doubted I ever would again. I was making the most of it.



I’d been on the Orthopaedic Ward for three days awaiting surgery and was in the clammy grip of a hangover fuelled appetite that showed no signs of abating. I gamely hoovered up every dodgy meal that was plonked on my lap.
I’m not having a go at the quality as such, they’re feeding a generous portion of sick people on a slither of budget. It’s more the effect this standard of food has on your internal processes when you overindulge over a relatively short period of time.

Powdered egg and potato laying, soft as snow drifts, over piles of protein, the origins of which I’m still unsure of. Warm, damp white bread buttressed up against sponge on sponge ON SPONGE ON SPONGE!! It was the stodgiest of stodges with densities that would’ve confounded Brian Cox.

Whatever they brought me I ate……… I WAS HANGOVER HUNGRY GODDAMIT!! NOTHING COULD SATE ME!! I WOULD CONSUME THE NURSES!! MY FELLOW PATIENTS!……I WOULD RAID THE MORGUE AND TEAR THE STRINGY LEG OFF OF A RECENTLY DECEASED PENSIONER AND STRIP IT LIKE HENRY THE EIGHTH!!!!…unless they brought me another portion of that delicious shepherd’s pie! I consumed with scant regard for the consequences, or my vastly reduced mobility.



I realised my mistake far, far too late. By lunchtime on the fourth day I was horribly uncomfortable, and my insides were making sounds like a brass band being beaten with a baseball bat. I hit my red button, explained the issue and the nurse brought me………a festival style porta-loo on castors? Not quite. A customised wheelchair fitted with a marble commode? Strike two I’m afraid.

The nurse brought me a small, blue dustpan lined with tissue.
I slid it into what I hoped was a relevant position and it began. The force and volume took me by surprise. I knew immediately that the tools I’d been supplied with where woefully inadequate for the monstrous task at hand. I tried to lever myself off the bed but with one leg in traction, I could only make so much room between the rapidly filling dustpan and my terrified buttocks. I felt it touch me and as soon as contact was made it was free. It was on my hand, the sheets, my panic button and cast. Independence suited this pooh, it sprang into my eyebrows, capered across the front of my hospital gown and described a halo across my pillow.

It showed no sign of stopping.



Imagine yourself in a quaint little ice cream van dealing out Mr Whippys to an excited crowd of wide-eyed children. Now imagine the handle has snapped off the machine and the ice cream is flowing out fast and unchecked into a tiny cone that is struggling to contain the volume. Of course, there is no pastel-coloured van daubed with images of brightly coloured lollies - just a humid, etiolated hospital ward. The ice cream machine is not broken, the broken things are your ankle and your back-firing botty-hole, and the children are your fellow patients and they are ABSOLUTELY NOT excited, they are complaining loudly and, in some cases, gagging.

I imagined myself ascending to the heavens on a squidgy brown throne of my own construct. Slowly appearing with an apologetic shrug over the tops of the curtains that had been dragged round for my privacy, but which now seemed to be keeping something terrifying in, rather than prying gazes out. When the nurses shimmied through said curtains to see what all the fuss was I resembled Arnold Schwarzenegger trying to hide his heat signature in Predator.

So, a cautionary tale - the parents among you may want to toss in some gingerbread houses and add it to your bedtime story roster. Children, if you bin off your job and drink heavily for eleven hours you’ll break a leg and get covered in your own shit.

And that’s the truth, Ruth.

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