Pies and Pee

Have you ever had to force out a urine sample into one of those little jars at the doctors? Not easy at the best of times. So when the Neurologist asked me for a sample and produced a 2 litre bottle I was a touch unnerved. Did I have to fill it? He let me take it away and told me to do a day’s worth of wee and bring it back.

This is the test for Wilson’s Disease – a copper retention problem. He also took more blood for some DNA profiling and genetic mutation. I want a genetic mutation that makes me wolverine or aquaman. Sadly, I’ve got one that turns me into quiverine. My superpowers include helping you salt your chips or watering your plants. In the process though I’ve discovered that I’ve got hypofibrogenaemia.  This means that my blood doesn’t clot. Apparently, it’s officially listed as a rare disease and as it seems to be having no real effect on me I’m delighted. A diagnosis of something is a result!

Anyway, the reason I was back in hospital stemmed from a bit of overexertion on the Irish walk. Bryn suspected T-bone steak poisoning (I had one every night for a week) although walking the hundred odd miles didn’t help.

Still, my walking feats pale into insignificance when I compare them to my new hero’s endeavours, a lunatic Aussie known as the pie man.

William Francis King once walked 250 miles in 250 hours and had himself horsewhipped on day nine to get over the line. Why would you do this? William once walked 2 miles in 12 minutes carrying an eighty pound goat. He liked to carry things when he walked. Dogs, poles, fat women, anything in fact that he could lift. Personally, I don’t even like carrying mars bars on a walk. In fact, I don’t really like walking. I’d much rather have been borne along the West Highland Way in a sedan chair, high atop the shoulders’ of Eunuchs. Sadly, William died in a mental asylum and is buried in a paupers grave in Liverpool, NSW.

Next year, the Wobbly team are doing Hadrian’s wall. I had a chat with my neighbour Adrian and he said that I could do his wall instead. It’s only 18 foot long. Maybe I’ll carry a goat.

Bear Faced Cheek

I remembered recently an incident from childhood where 2 elderly Jehovah’s witnesses approached our front door. Their mission was to bring the word of the Messiah into our very unchristian lives. They left £200 lighter of pocket but as proud owners of a 1972 Austin 1100 and four wheels for a 1974 Morris Marina*. My Father you see (an uncharitable gentleman) saw an opportunity to relieve Jehovah and his gullible witnesses of some cash. About 40 seconds after the transaction was complete, a noise akin to the twelve o’ clock gun being discharged echoed up the street. We emerged from the front door to find that the crippled Austin had made it about 50 yards down the road before every bone in it’s badly constructed British Leyland body disintegrated. The last time I saw a car in so sorry a state, Michael Caine had just uttered the immortal “You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off” line. They asked for their £200 back. They were promptly told to “Feck off”.

Charity most definitely began at home if you were my dad but thankfully this never rubbed off on me. I’ve always considered myself a giver. Any street urchin who can play “Bridge over troubled water” on the penny whistle gets a pound from me (£2 if they have a 3 legged dog) and as most of my mates will testify, I’m happy to sponsor their offspring for all sorts of walks, runs swims etc. So why is it, that come the cold chill of autumn, an uncharitable streak manifests itself in my otherwise pleasant demeanour? The answer? The most irritating thing with one eye outside of New Labour.

It’s not that I take offence at giving to needy children but why in God’s name do I have to spend an entire month feeling obligated to buy crispy cakes from wee Johnny? “But I baked them for Pudsy and the children mister” Boo bloody hoo.

It’s not just one night in November either. We’ve already had a month of office workers, giddy at the prospect of raising pounds, pounds and more pounds by having their pubic hair shaved into the shape of a yellow bear, gabbling about Wogan et al and how wonderful the BBC are. Is this the only charity in Britain? I’d love to have an “in need” day every year but can’t we alternate the charities? Are Alzheimer’s or Parkinson's not equally worthy? I think a “Fuckers in Need” day for Tourette’s sufferers would be marvellous.

I know I’m sounding a bit Meldrew-esque here and it will all be over soon but as one door closes, the spectre of Comic Relief looms on the horizon. Still, as someone once so wisely said – “Where would we be without laughter?” I’ll tell you where mate – Lenny Henry’s house. A place completely devoid of mirth I imagine.

*What two elderly Jehovah’s Witnesses were going to do with four Morris Marina wheels is anyone’s guess. Maybe an early attempt at pimping their ride?

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