Well, being 50 was rubbish, 51 better be a better age than that.

June 30th

It started around March I guess, driving to work on the day of my annual exec medical.  Mrs H asking what blood tests get done and with me trying to explain but mentioning that the PSA test is something you must opt for.  From what I remember it’s because it’s can be a temperamental test that can throw up false positives that send unfortunates down a road they really don't want to go down for no real reason.   The PSA test you see is the test that can tell if the wall of the prostate is beginning to deteriorate or go through changes that may be a precursor to cancer.  But these PSA levels could also be raised for any number of reasons and well, that’s easier to cope with.  



This was all explained to me by the Dr carrying out my exam, "you sure you want this" he said, "this may be the result".  I recalled my discussion in the car that morning, "you might as well get it done" Mrs H said, "you are 50 now", "I know, I'm only 50" I said, "prostate trouble is an old man’s problem, isn’t it?"   "Just get it done, better to know you’re ok", and I agreed.    So, a week later, again on my drive to work with Mrs H beside me, the Dr called, "Good morning Calum, we have just had your PSA test results back, now, for a man your age, we would expect a reading of 3 or thereabouts, yours has come back at 3.7" , I'm thinking, optimistically, that is thereabouts, but not thereabouts enough for him, "it’s a little elevated for my liking "he continued, " my advice is to make an appointment with your GP and get it checked out."   

Well, that was not the outcome I hoped for, but Mrs H is positive, "it could be raised for all sorts of reasons, he told you that", "I know , I'm only 50 , any number of reasons" I agreed, and never thought any more about it, until sitting with my GP explaining the whole sorry mix-up.  "Anyway, he says I should come and get it checked out with you, my reading was 3.7, which isn't that high, is it?"  "No, it’s not", she cheerily confirmed, "and you never know, perhaps their machines were off, I reckon we should run the tests again and see what we get" "good idea" I said, "I'm only 50, we'll knock it on the head right here." 

About 10 days after that, a letter drops through my door telling me their machines gave the exact same result, and just to be safe and get to the bottom of why it’s up a little, it is best we ask a consultant to have a look .   "OK, again, don't worry, it'll be fine,  the Drs haven't felt anything odd up there", Mrs H says as reassuringly as she can, "I know, they've all said it feels normal, like a 50 year olds prostate should,  but I've failed two tests now,"  "listen, the consultant will know what’s what, he'll have seen a million of these, best to let the experts have a look." 



Test 3 was much the same as all the others, blood tests and a digital (digital suggests computers and technology, its not that)  exam, after which, the consultant casually mentioned the prostate is "a little enlarged", but it feels OK, not like a walnut or anything, that's good, but enlarged!!! "That’s not normal is it? For a 50-year-old?"   "Oh yes, it can be, nothing unusual in that, but to get it checked thoroughly, I'm going to get you in for an MRI scan" . Oh FFS, that’s 3 tests failed and now I'm on the acronyms,  but I'm thinking they have all essentially been the same, the MRI will have a look right inside me, see a perfectly normal, though slightly large prostate and send me on my way, I'm only 50 after all.   Now, the consultant says, the next step after the MRI, will be a biopsy. Wait, why are we talking about biopsies before I've even failed this next test, that seems a bit presumptuous, I don't need preparing for the worst. I'm only 50, surely, he meant to say, "and everything will be fine, and we'll just keep an eye on it for the very many years to come."



2 weeks later I'm lying flat in a big rotating magnet for 40 minutes, it’s a bit intimidating, I won’t lie, but not uncomfortable beyond the feeling you are having every molecule examined and judged.  This will do the trick I think, this is a test I can pass, they will see pictures of my prostate, and they'll see a beautiful one, like those rendered pictures NASA puts out of far off planets, bathed in light and colour and perfectly formed.    "How long before I hear anything" I ask as I'm leaving the room, "oh, about 2 weeks maybe", they say.  That's reasonable, what's 2 weeks, I can wait that long to be told there is nothing to worry about, I've had nothing to worry about for 50 years, what's another 2 weeks.  I do count the days though.   And when my next letter does arrive, it’s again not quite the outcome I hoped for,  apparently they didn't admire then frame pictures of my prostate, they thought there was an abnormality on it, they didn't say like Jupiter’s spot, but that’s what I pictured.   No preamble, just right to it, "we identified a small abnormality on the left-hand side of your prostate", small?, that’s good isn’t it? Wait, my left or theirs?"  "And we've made an appointment at the hospital for a biopsy, here is a letter explaining how utterly intrusive that procedure is and all the things that can go wrong when doing it, see you then."  



Each test now, Mrs H has encouraged me to believe it’s the last, "don’t worry, this will show its fine", and each time I've believed her, though a little less with each one, now there is only 1 test left, after that... Well,  I feel this is getting a little serious now,  maybe I should let some people know what's going on,  my youngest son I let in on the secret, as long as he doesn't tell his mum or sister, I thought it would be a bit of a bonding moment and show him I love and trust him, and I'll need him later perhaps to help break worse news, and my pal Craig, who fought and defeated some cancer a year or two ago, and is a precious friend who knows what's what in life.   Another friend, Sarah, knows that I've been getting some tests, but I couldn't tell her about the MRI result,   she's a lot of good stuff going on in her life at the moment, she doesn't need to worry about me just yet, there will be time for that later maybe. 



So, the day after returning from week in Fuerteventura with Mrs H, I present myself to the hospital for my biopsy test, the final test of a series that I have all failed against my most wildly optimistic hopes.  The test itself takes no more than 10 minutes, but you must be there all afternoon.  You get checked in, blood pressure taken, anti-biotics given, questionnaires completed, then a lot of waiting about until you get changed into your hospital robes and led through.  There are 4 others in my cohort of failed prostate examinees. Two old guys like in their 80s or something, I don't know the life expectancy of a prostate, but 80 odd years seems like they had a good one, me, and another guy perhaps in his 50s, cursed with a possibly defective part.   I got chatting to one of the older boys, he was on his own, lived alone I think, he had to catch two buses to get to the hospital from the east end.  We were given sample dishes to pee in before our test, they were like Pukka Pie cases and this old fella filled his right to the top and had to carry it through to the nurse with both hands trying not to spill it.  The other old fella was there with his daughter because he had a bit of dementia, while we were all sitting waiting, I tried to make eye contact to hopefully strike up a bit of conversation, but her eyes were fixed firmly on the corner of the ceiling above my head, and they stayed like that for 10 minutes.  I thought, she must be struggling with this whole experience and trying to keep calm, it turns out, what she was struggling with was me inadvertently exposing myself in my hospital gown.  



The exam itself, is uncomfortable certainly, the letter from the hospital explained as much. An ultrasound probe, apparently 4 inches long and around the same girth as a gentleman's thumb (maybe if they said, a stout ladies thumb, it would be a little more comfortable) goes up your bum, from which special spring-loaded needles are shot out of it which first numb the area, then takes samples of the offending tissue.  Obviously it felt more like the nurse had discovered a freshly  fallen bough from a storm damaged tree and dragged it into work with her, proceeded to adorn the end of it with an antique harpoon and jammed that up my arse, but that was all I my head.  The next 10 minutes were painless, just, I don't know, jarring in a way that's hard to describe.   So, procedure over, I'm allowed to, go on my way after having a pee, that happens quickly, if truth be told I nearly pissed all over the examination bed, and off I go.  My nights not over yet though, because 20 minutes later, waiting for Mrs H to pick me up, outside casualty fortunately enough, I pass out and collapse, cracking my head on the pavement and get rushed to A&E, where I spend the next 3 hours trying to get my balance and bearings back.  I put it down to the shock of it all but a bad omen, nonetheless. 



Now its Sunday, and tomorrow I have an appointment to go for the last results I'll get in this series of examinations.  I'm prepared for the worst, I think.  I only hear him saying, "I'm afraid Mr H, we have detected cancer in your prostate".  I'm hopeful of course, that when he does say that, he follows it up with, "it is perfectly treatable and there is no need to write a will just yet", but it’s hard not to think of the alternatives, "its worse than I feared Mr H, we are going to have to cut you in two and you will spend the rest of your days being carried around on a velvet cushion",  or even worse than that. 



This last week I've been unable to think of anything else, I've prepped my boss and explained all that's going on,  Mrs H has told her pal, and her parents know, as do my sisters,  I wish they didn't, I feel they are too worried already.  I dread telling my children, Andrew, Racheal and Craig, I don't know how too, it should be me, and it should be me in front of them explaining what's gone wrong and what's going to happen next, as best as I can anyway, and I hope I can do that without getting upset.  Its twenty to 12 at night, in about 16 hours I'll know what's what,  if I have cancer, if I need to be worried about it right away, if it’s unlikely I'll ever draw my pension if I've wasted time, or I still have time to waste.   The die is cast, tomorrow will tell.  







July 1st

I have cancer.  The consultant explained a lot, some positive words were used, like mild, slow, contained, level 6, apparently the prostate cancer scary scale starts at 6 and goes up to 10.  But then he said a lot of horrible things when explaining the treatment options and the probable side effects, like incontinence, impotence, bowel damage, but then tried again to brighten the mood  by saying that my cancer is just young and aspiring, so maybe the best thing to do is just keep an eye on it and its growing malevolence for the next while, and when it looks like it’s getting troublesome, then we can take away your erections and bladder control. 



It was all in all, a real shitty shit sandwich.  I took Mrs H along for support, I thought she would be able to ask the intelligent questions when I was dumbfounded with shock, but actually, I took the news OK, I think I was expecting it, but bless , it came as a shock to her, even driving up to the hospital she continued to say everything will be fine, you'll get the all clear, she even gave me a row for organising a medical insurance claim, should I need it, tempting fate she said.  



The upside I guess is, it’s not going to kill me soon, but I'm being asked to make decisions about how I want to tackle it, decisions that will have a real effect on my quality of life.  The consultant’s opinion, given all he knows, is that if it was him, he would opt for active observation, which is regular periodic blood tests and MRI scans to check for changes, then treatment if it looks wise. 

Downside of that is, well, I'll have cancer, the upside is I get to function as I am for a still to be determined amount of time, it could be 20 years, it could be 10, it could be 1.  The clinical team are going to convene on Thursday, this week or next to discuss my case, so I may get different advice in the end, but at the moment, I think I'm going to opt for observation, and hope for the best.    I've just googled prostate cancer survival rates, and it says 92% of men my age will survive diagnosis for 5 years, that's favourable odds, I guess.  

I will tell my boss the news tomorrow, and ask her to keep it to herself, then I'll make plans to go and visit the kids, I owe them that at least , an explanation and some words of comfort, and I'd just like to see them.  I should also ask the old Mrs H for a divorce, just in case I ever get a 6-week warning and want to marry new Mrs H in a hurry.  The things I have to think about.  So be it.   





July 2nd

I wish I had put a communications strategy together for this kind of thing instead of making it up on the hoof.  I decided to go with, I have the good news and bad news ploy.  I can’t give them the option of what they want first, because the good news won’t make any sense without first hearing the bad news.  Generally, it went something along the lines of, "I have cancer, but its not going to kill me anytime soon and is manageable and treatable and things will be ok."  I suspect they get stuck at "I HAVE CANCER" and are probably thinking what's the good news.  My boss was supportive, as expected, and actually gave me some advice that was maybe useful about doing my own research.  It was harder to keep it together for my kids, I almost lost it on a couple of occasions but got my words out without any sobbing, just.  I felt it was important to tell them face to face and try and explain what's happening in an honest and upfront way. Just an attempt to manage their emotions I suppose, I guess that never stops for a parent, we must be programmed to try and make our children happy.   I've not been the best at that I suspect but hope I managed to take the edge off "Dad has cancer” today.  I  still have my eldest to go, I'm dreading this the most I think,  he has given me the most beautiful granddaughter and it will remind me again, like I need it, that its much to soon for me to be leaving this planet, I've still things to see and do.



I do hope I'm not over playing the good news, I'm conscious that until the clinical meeting has reviewed my case, I don't actually know what my options are yet.  But as the day has gone on, and I've heard myself explaining over and over again how early I think I've caught this, and how treatable it might be, I'm thinking perhaps a course of treatment now is my best chance of eradicating it while its still young and immature, the Herod Approach I'll call it.  I feel this is a big decision and I'm not quite ready to make it yet.   This needs a Pros and Cons list, maybe tomorrow.





July 3rd

I got the bottle to tell my two best friends, they are miles away in the south-east, so this was on the phone. Craig was great, I knew he would be, he's been through something similar and was wise sensible and supportive.  I mentioned that it’s a worry to think that the time you have left might not be as long as you thought and planned for, Craig recognised the feelings and says it probably takes a couple of weeks to get your head fully around it and start to work it out.   Sarah was a bit shaken I think,  she has the biggest heart of anyone I've known and I knew the news would affect her, I was positive and continue to peddle my theory that  it’s not that serious and can be dealt with, but I was on the verge of losing it near the end of our chat.   Only my eldest boy and one of my big sisters to tell now, I should have the script well sorted by then.   

The medical team might meet tomorrow and discuss my case, if the option for brachytherapy is still on the table, I think I'm going to ask for a referral to The Beatson for a consultation, its one of the best hospitals in Europe for it apparently so I might as well investigate seeing as its on my doorstep.  In other news, Mrs H threw a mini-paddy because I loaded the tumble dryer with the entire contents of the washing machine and there was some specifically not tumble-dryable garments in there, I know she has a bee in her bonnet when she says "HONESTLAYYY" at the end of her rant.





July 7th

Everyone has been told that needs to be told. Just Jane W left, and I can’t tell her, I've kept myself together so far, I fear I would get emotional telling Jane,  I might have to leave my storyboard and once that happens I could lose it.   I've asked Susan to tell her, but I hope she keeps it positive too, Jane has enough going on in her life, she is strong and the most switched on person I've met, but she doesn't need to get concerned about me.   My sister was fine, I know she will be worried, and I'm concerned how that will manifest itself, but I've been as positive as I can with her, the trouble is that she cares for elderly people and knows fine well what the implications might be. 



I was really anxious about telling my eldest son Andrew, we have a good relationship, but I still worry about just inserting myself into his life.  Mrs H couldn't understand why I wouldn't turn up at his door unannounced to say hello.  I would love to, but I don't think I have the right when I've been a more distant father than he deserved.  I'm immensely proud of him though, he's a good looking boy, he's learned a trade so will always have work if he wants it, has a beautiful partner and they have given me the most gorgeous granddaughter you can imagine, full of personality and good humour, she will be surrounded with love all her life.  He has just stopped work for a two week holiday, I felt guilty about putting even the slightest of dampers on that with my news but its best I told him and he didn't hear from someone else, and that was a real threat as now my sister knows, she could mention it to his mum in the street.  I'd feel 100 times worse if that happened.  I was positive and went through the script in my head, hitting all the key points, early diagnosis, localised, manageable, no immediate danger, etc,etc.  I've went over it a few times now, all on the basis of a 10-minute chat with the Urologist at the hospital, I do hope I'm right about those things.  I still haven't heard anything about next steps and realised today that I have no idea what they might be and found myself asking Susan what must seem like the simplest questions when out for lunch.  I should speak to an Oncologist next to speak about what's been found and what is the best thing to do about it. 



In truth, I don't think its sunk in yet, it feels surreal giving this news to people, like I'm talking about someone else. Rhegan, my youngest son Craigs girlfriend, sent me a lovely little message this morning, just saying she was sorry about my news and to stay positive and things, she's a truly lovely girl and it really lifted me up, not that I've been down or depressed or anything, but I have been searching out my own company,  I'll need to be vigilant for my mood changing, I can’t afford to get down about it.  





July 9th

My boss's advice was to do some of my own research and get knowledgeable about this whole thing, and I did today. I'm not sure I'm happy about what I discovered.  I read this great piece, which was basically a transcript of a panel discussion at some Oncology conference in The States about treating Gleason Level 6 prostate cancer, which is what I apparently have.   Some, in those circles are even reluctant to call it cancer, instead hoping to relegate the condition to lesions or something, but not these three, they are quite happy that it’s called cancer and think it would be a mistake to change it, they went on to discuss treatment options, active surveillance is a favoured approach because its normally so slow to develop over time, but, it all depends, there is a difference between low risk cancer, and very low risk cancer.  I think from the explanations given, I fall into the low risk category based on cancer being detected on two sides of the prostate and my relatively young age, you see, if I was 65 or 70, with this kind of cancer being so moribund, its likely something else would kill me before it did, so why bother going through the trauma of damaging treatment, but with me only being 50, there is a chance it could develop to a more serious and possibly deadly stage before I'm that old.  I've not heard from an Oncologist yet, but I'm now thinking I may not be given the option of observation and I'll have to choose in what way I would like to be butchered.  



It was Olive, my granddaughter’s birthday today, she is 2, I drove over to Stirling to hand in some little birthday presents, I'm so glad I did, she was on top form, all smiles and laughs and full of fun.  My thing is hardly even cancer in some people’s opinions, and to be honest, I don't even think I'm considering it that way either,  it’s got the same status as a verruca at the moment in my mind,  but if it ever does get serious and I'm looking for something to give me spirit and a desire to defeat it, it will be to see Olive grow up into a kind, good humoured, bright and beautiful young adult, taking her place in the world and making it better. 





July 11th

I got word that my case had been reviewed this morning and Laura from the Urology Dept phoned to let me know, which was nice of her. She explained that appointments would be made with specialists and they would take me through the options available, basically, terrible surgery, terrible radiotherapy or, kicking the terrible can down the road and doing nothing, for a while at least.  I asked about Brachytherapy, which I'll be honest , I was beginning to think might be my best  option at this stage, seeing as its relatively less intrusive and side effects seem less likely to be lasting, plus I'd feel I was actually doing something about it.  But I got the impression she was ruling it out as a viable option, and that freaked me out a bit, to lose an option this early in the game can’t be good.  Of course, I don't know what's best, I decided not to commit to 10 years of medical training and specialisation when I was a spotty teen and instead just arsed about until I was 30.  My first appointment, I think with the Oncologists, is next Friday, which is sooner than I had expected, again freaking me out, as if someone has put my case in the priority pile.  My second, with a urologist, is in a month.  





July 14th

I got a bit pissed last night, I need to avoid that when I'm a bit down, it just exacerbates a mood.  On the positive side though, there is a forecast your life expectancy tool that's been developed in America for Gleason Level 6 prostate cancer patients.  I learned of it and thought, bugger that, but like a moth to a lamp, curiosity got the better of me.  It asks about a dozen questions, the most important ones I guess around the diagnosis then produces a graphic that represents 100 men with the same dynamic and the forecast of how many would have died of untreated prostate cancer in 10 and 15 years.  The good news is that only half a man is likely to have died of it in 10 years, I'm guessing the bottom half, and only 3 in 15 years.   If I can get the Oncologists to give me similar odds on Friday, then I'll be a lot happier. 





July 17th

I got a tad emotional driving to work this morning, its obvious Mrs H and I are on different pages when it comes to how I should tackle this.  She just wants it gone, "whatever the consequences, it must be better than having cancer".  I'm a little more measured I think, and willing to consider, at this stage at least, observation,  she's finding that frustrating.  "Typical you she says, taking the easy way".  The thing is, I don't think it is, but the way I've been feeling the last few days, I'm not so sure any longer that I can carry on normally knowing what's ahead of me at some point in the future.    Its almost 10 years to the day that we buried my Mum after Pancreatic cancer took her, she was 73, that age seems a long way off for me at the moment.  Still, I have the Oncologist on Friday, who knows what they will say, maybe we will be comforted, or maybe it'll go the other way, I cant think of much else just now and its hard to concentrate on anything for a length of time, I feel exhausted, but I seem to be sleeping, maybe its just anxiety. 



November 17th

So, It was as good a meeting as I could of hoped for I think,  the Oncologist came very firmly down  in favour of active observation,  " listen" he said " this might never develop into anything ever to worry about,   There is no way I would want to operate or even begin a course of treatment at this stage, we would do more harm than good".  He explained the testing regime and what they would be looking for, we'd get plenty of warning of what was going on and all the remedies would be available when that time came.  I needed to hear that of course, but I think Mrs H needed to hear it more and she was a bit happier at what was ahead of us.   Now, 3 months down the line, I've had my first round of observation tests and while it’s not gone away, why would it?, it’s not got any worse. 





So that's it, its been a bit of a story this,  I originally kept a little diary of my feelings as all this was going on in the summer just to help me make sense of them myself and didn't expect I'd ever want to publish them, so apologies if it’s a confusing or unwieldy read, but its my birthday today, I’m only 51,  a time to reflect and be thankful for all I have, the family and friends around me and the opportunities to come,  writing and sharing this this has been like releasing an injured bird you found in the road and nursed back to health and I feel happy doing it.  







Lang may yer ( and mine) Lum Reek.

Conspicuous indifference

Come join me in wisdom corner, 

These days its almost impossible to avoid celebrities,  just so many of them are getting churned out in ropey reality shows. 

Gone are the butter mountains and wine lakes of EU overproduction, now we have a celebrity glut, so numerous that to make room for all the new ones a few of the old heads need to get exposed in retrospective sex scandals or complex off-shore tax shaming just to free up the pantomime parts, like a Logans Run for the mildly famous.   

When you see a vaguely familiar face in the street you are as likely to think " what were they in"  rather than " did I go to school with them?" or " do they owe me money?  Look at X-Factor,  15 years that's been going, it must be about 300 people getting to the final stages and achieving their green card to self-importance.  That's just one example of the mill at work. It all adds up to thousands on top of the already celebs and the the ones that no-one really knows about, vloggers and Instagrammers who can claim a million followers and 100 million views of the froth on their coffee.  A towns worth of them, the worst town in the world right enough.  

So I feel its important to develop a strategy for dealing with the inevitable celebrity sighting, and I'm going to share my technique with you, this will make you happy,  the kind of smug happy that these end of days times so rarely allows, fleeting admittedly, but its the small things that count.  

The method I've mastered is Conspicuous Indifference.  No high horse is too high or ivory tower too...er towery, not to be withered by indifference, but conspicuous indifference, well, that's some Jedi shit right there. 

Those that have felt the icy blast of indifference and struggled on with an ever so slightly diminished sense of themselves read like the invite list to one of Frank Boughs BYOB parties. Brendan Cole, he got it in Regent Street, Robert Carlyle, Noel Fielding, despite wearing heels, Chantelle Houghton, The President of Ghana, Arsene Wenger in his duvet coat, Sir Ian McKellen, he certainly did not pass without me paying no attention to him, Barry Cryer,  Peregrine Took, he wasn't with Gandalf at the time disappointingly,  Ian Wright, on an Easy Jet Flight, Lil Wayne,  Manu Dibango, this only half counts, as I didn't know who he was to begin with and had to Google him before I could not be interested, Barry Manilow, Nigel Havers, Dara O'Briain, Lily Allen and that wee skinny junkie that used to knock about with Kate Moss. This week Sandy Toksveg got a healthy dose of not bothered, completing a bake off double for me. 

The secret is to make sure the celeb notices you noticing them, then, once you're confident that has happened, the next stage is important because that connection will most likely be fleeting,  their instinctive belief is that you don't matter after all or at best, you are a potential pest.  Your eyes have to be ready to portray a message that says " Yes, I know who you are Gandalf the Grey, but I couldn't give a monkeys toss". Next, simply don't give a monkeys toss, just go on doing whatever you were doing, all blase like, no second glances, no discrete or disguised selfies, I know the pitfalls,  " Here's a picture of me in the Diesel shop in Buchananan Street for no apparent reason, hold on? Is that Barry Manilow behind me buying jeans?"  Not even if they start flamboyantly begging for help and trying to grab your attention like Robert Carlyle,  pretending he couldn't reach his bag in the overhead locker, should you acknowledge them.  Now, saying that, if they collapse to the ground blue lipped,  clutching their chest with a look of impending doom on their face, its ok to help, remember, they may be acting, but if not and you save a celebrities life, there is a fair chance you could end up a one yourself, if that happens, discard all of the above and get wired in. 

This has been a public service announcement on behalf of the Reeking Lum  

Lang May Yer Lum Reek

FFS 50!

FFS I'm 50

Growing up I remember seeing men that I thought must be about 50, they were old and tired looking.  They had the look of miserable commuters, waiting in a long queue for a taxi at the end of a cold rainy day.  They could have been waiting in that queue all their lives, inching forward, one half step at a time, gradually being worn down by the elements, I imagine at some point they would see the front of the queue ahead and realise it wasn't taxis pulling up for fares, but hearses and their sooty shrivelled irrelevant hearts would  stir with happiness at the prospect of soon being at the end.

I don't feel like that at all.  Being 50 is actually OK.  I know I'm only 7.5 hours into middle age, nevertheless, its still a number denied to many and I'm determined to see the bright side.  So here it is, my top ten best things about being 50 that I better capture in case I lose my faculties anytime soon.

1. Perspective, all those years of living provides a back catalogue of experiences you can call on to place every drama and crisis in its proper place, the proper place being the drawer marked MEH!
2. Confidence, coming from the fact that, hey, I've survived this long, I must be doing something right, I'll just keep doing it
3. Wardrobes, by now, I know the clothes I like and feel most comfortable in, and as a bonus, at 50 I can afford them. 
4. Work,  imposter syndrome has faded, and it becomes more apparent that the job I'm doing, I'm doing well, and it's easy because no problem is a new problem.   When I worked in the whisky industry, every year among the new graduate intake, at least one bright new thing would come up with the idea of square whisky barrels, "just think how easy they would be to stack in a warehouse and how many more we would get in if they were like boxes", followed by, "I'm a genius, why has no-one ever thought of this before."
5. Attractiveness, Billy Connolly once said that the best thing about getting older was how many more people in the world become good looking, and he's right.
6. Friends, by this time, you know that friends are not fleeting, the ones you have now, you've probably had for a long time, they know you very well and are still your friend, some you won't see for a while but it doesn't matter because when you do its like you saw them yesterday. 
7. Alcohol, apart from the odd aberration, I know how to drink, I know what I can drink to avoid crippling hangovers, I know the signs that I might be teetering on the edge of true pishheadedness, sometimes I just crash through those signs right enough, but at least that's a semi-conscious decision.
8. Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention.
9. Pride, I think this grows as the years go by,  knowing that I've done OK with my 4 O'levels, knowing that in a professional sense at least, I started at the very bottom, being handed a broom and being asked to sweep but didn't stay there doing it for 30 years. That there would be limits to what I could do, but that wasn't it and I tried to find what they were.  Pride also that I think I've kept some of my mothers' values intact, egalitarianism, generosity, kindness and a belief that I'm not better than anyone else, nor are they better than me.
10. Family, my children are all grown up, some with kids of their own,  none have committed major crimes, that I know of, and they all are genuinely nice, well balanced, responsible and likeable young people.  They all probably feel exactly the same as I did at that age because the world keeps turning.

Bad things, I have to shave my ears from time to time, sometimes I get aches If I lie in bed too long and erections are just like a 50 year old car, it starts ok in the morning with a bit of choke, but your never entirely confident your going to reach your destination when you set off.  

And finally, the wisdom I would most like to share,  

“Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.”
― George Carlin   

Lang may yer lum reek.

Don't worry, be Happy.

Lights, Camera,Reeking Action


Do you ever lie awake at night worrying? About money, relationships, work, an upcoming journey, its your worry so it could be anything, you're only limited by your own lack of imagination, literally.

In my time,  sleep has temporarily abandoned me for worry about nuclear Armageddon,  dieing a virgin, things said at work meetings "Wait a minute, was he saying I was slow?"  But just now, I'm worried about Guy Ritchie and the the films he's making. Its a long time since Lock, Stock and Snatch, almost 20 years. Sherlock Holmes was good, but recently, honestly, King Arthur and the something of whatever and the Man From U.N.C.L.E? Seriously?  So, and I'm sure he, and his by now near bankrupt backers, will appreciate it, I've been thinking about his next project, just the thing to get him back on track and making those zingy, gangstaramas.

A reboot, Guy Ritchies......The Mr Men. What about that? I've been working on the characters for him, just to get him started.

Mr. Happy is the criminal kingpin. At his peak in the 80s, famous in Glasgow for his smiles better campaign, of course, most of the smiles Mr. Happy induced were with his Stanley knife, the standard late payment charge for his style of money lender. 

Get me this much ketamine,
I've got a date with Little Miss Stubborn tonight

Had to lay low in the Costas for a few years while the Teletubbies Gang grew in prominence, dealing their trippy shit, but now he's back with no time to waste, its time to show there is only so much Happy one town can take.

Mr. Grumpy, the consigliere, the trusted No2. Always ready with crabby advice, the keys to the safe houses and Little Miss's on call. Made a fortune when the Gingerbread Housing market blew up and invested the proceeds in trafficking trolls from Hong Kong. He knows where the bodies are buried, he didn't dig the holes, but he supplied the shovels

Mr. Fussy looks after the books, a master money launderer, shoveling money through countless fake businesses like Rent-a-Ghost or sending it off-shore to an anonymous Fraggle Rock bank account. 

Mr. Strong is Happys personal bodyguard and driver, ex-pugilist and a bit punchy these days, but you wouldn't want anyone else in a corner with you, he just fits perfectly for a start.

Lucky Mr Bump had his famous murderers thumbs insured

Mr. Bump is Strongs sometimes partner in crime, collector of dues, breaker of bones, its Bump that visits in the night

Mr. Tickle is the safe-man and a handy pick-pocket. An ex-Radio Misterland DJ, he did a stretch inside after 

Rosie and Jim made accusations against him, unfounded of course, 

at least according to him, 

Mr. Tickle thought CCTV was a
terrible invasion of privacy

Mr. Bounce, is Happys psycho nephew. Down from Misterland while his old man takes a turn at her

What do you mean funny? Like a clown?
Do I amuse you? Huhh?

majesties. Totally unstable and when he gets together with Mr. Mischief, its mayhem. 

Mr Jelly is a compromised pharmacist, Happy knows he's into the Jelly Tots so he

has him writing fake Tramadol prescriptions to feed Misterlands opioid crisis, the only crisis will be if Jelly gets fingered by the old bill and locked up in Jelly Jail.

Mr Chatterbox, a once trusted lieutenant in charge of distribution, but suffering a moral crisis and Grumpy suspects he is ready to grass.

Fucksake,I told you coppers not to come to the house!!

And the distribution, the foot soldiers, out in the grimy streets, delivering merch and running the chemtrail. 

Mr Busy: Goof balls

Mr Cool: Woo Woos

Mr Rush: H Bombs

Skinny and Dizzy: Mexican Horse

                                                        

Whoa, this is good shit,

Scene 1: Mid-Morning
Dive bar on North side of town

It was a long, narrow counter, a regular barfly propping it up like an architectural necessity a left hand could have drawn, taking in the looped news and reading beer mats. Skilled at not noticing, important in this bar, but Mr. Grumpy noticed everything, the back door, the hardcover and improvised weapons, fire extinguishers, tables, anything that would cause pain and confusion and vital seconds.  He had a choice of seats, of course, even the few that were occupied, but took one on the back wall, facing the door and looking the length of the counter.  From here the row of whisky bottles on the gantry appeared as a thin copper line, soldiers, armored breasts presented to a sober foe.  Mr. Small, the barkeeps' little hands sometimes appearing into view as he tried to reach and persuade an optic to comply with the weights and measures act.

Mr. Strong strode in through the saloon doors purposefully, took a second to survey the scene but was followed by the boss before he had a chance to give the all clear.  Mr. Happy looked less than happy, he looked like Mr. Anxious as he planted himself heavily in a seat across the table from Grumpy   And so he should, Mr. Grumpy hadn't looked forward to giving him this news.  

Well?  Mr. Happy chortled nervously.  Grumpy sighed, there is a team in town for you. Happy grinned that grin that he couldn't stop grinning, even when he tried really hard, it was a curse really.   Who is it, and who facking sent them, he giggled.  It's The Moomins, Grumpy replied with a tone of resignation, they're finally coming for you.  Mr. Happy burst into a gleeful snicker, The Facking Moomins, those roly-poly gimpy fackers, what the fack are they fackers going to do, sit on me, stare me to death with their dopey faces, with their poncy hats on their simply drawn heads,  he guffawed. Grumpy thought that the last epithet was a bit rich coming from a Mr. Man,   That's not all Mr. Grumpy snapped, his nerves getting the better of him and shortening his patience, even with the boss, Noggin the Nog sent them, and he's come to town too. Mr. Happy stopped his guffawing, Fack, he chuckled. We're Facked.  

Over to you Guy Ritchie, this is more than enough to be getting on with.  See you at the BAFTAs


Lang may yer lum reek.

Beez Cheez Pleaz.

The Bleating Lum ,

Goats have no business making cheese,  cows should just say " Its OK goats, we've got this".  Cows already contribute about 96% of the worlds dairy produce, I'm sure they can squeeze out a little more if it saves us from goat curds.

For a start, have you seen what they eat?  Tin cans, cardigans, old bicycles, anything....and they say their cheese tastes tart!  Tart! It should be like licking a battery after eating all that junk.

A bumper crop of goats

But, there are about 1 billion goats in the world and they've been around for ages as small livestock. Incidentally, there is a class of livestock smaller than small livestock, microlivestock.  Do you want to hazard a guess at what might be microlivestock?   Well, I'll tell you, guinea pigs, rabbits and, get this, bees.  None of them, as far as I know, are in the cheese business, bees make honey of course, but they're not squirting bee milk out their teeny bee teats for cheese, though if they did, their ad would probably have the tag line, Bees Cheese Please, a shameless rip off of the classic Beanz Meanz Heinz, also having a farm with fields full of grazing guinea pigs sounds fun doesnt it?

Also,  boy goats act a bit strange when they get their horn on, to entice the ladies they think its a good idea to piss on their fore legs and face. Their face...... how even.....?

Why hello, is that....is that goats pee I smell on your face?

Now, back in the day I remember being on holiday with a young lady, and an unfortunate series of circumstances culminated in me taking a wizz on her open, but not yet unpacked suitcase in the middle of the night, now, let me tell you, if anything sets us apart from the goats,  it's how we react to that kind of thing, I cant say she wasn't exciteable afterwards, but I don't remember her being particularly enticed for the following 10 days.

The 3rd most popular search result on Google when you type "Do goats.....is "Do goats float?  That's a strange question, but I'm guessing its just a lame fishing expedition so someone can say " Well, whatever floats your goat" much as I've done just there, to shoehorn in that terrible joke.

I'm not saying goats should be made redundant, they have their uses after all, angora jumpers then you can eat them, scarcely believable but there is more goat meat eaten in the world by us lot than any other kind of meat,  no wonder the cows are keen to corner the dairy market, but I'm just saying stop with the cheese already.

 

Lang may yer lum bleat. 

A Time Travellers Tale (I might have just dozed off for a minute)

Faithful  Lums, remember me?  No?   A blight  on you I tells you, I'm after the Brexit crowd anyway, you can tell them any old shite and they'll believe it.  Read on, for  tales  of such in-consequence that even I feel I'm plumbing new depths.

The cossetting shoogle of the carriage, the rhythmic clickety-clacks of the rolling stock, 8 pints of Stella

or maybe the gypsy curse, all ingredients for a great sleep.  But the drowsy awakening, the horror and panic brought on by the yawning realisation that your destination of choice is disappearing out the window at a gentle but accelerating pace.  This depth of despair can only be matched if you happen to wake up as an unexpected towns name slowly fills your view and growing consciousness. 

Wake up you bastard, we cant both be asleep! 

I've fallen asleep on public transport.  In an ideal world, it would be a bit like those sci-movies where the crew of the ship all retire to sleepy pods to enter blissful suspended hibernation for 18 years while they scoot through outer space, woken up by a friendly robot, with a cup of tea as they approach Mars orbit,  its not though is it?  Its me lurching for the last train home, sprawling across the nearest seat like a collapsing clothes horse, then travelling, unconscious, through time and space to a generally random place.

Harrow, Hainault, Perth, Tunbridge, Greenwich, Larbert, Orpington, that sounds like the stops on my triumphant and inevitable book tour, but its actually some of the places I've woken up after falling asleep somewhere else.

I was woken by a cleaner on the DLR  one night,  "Where am I" I inquired, Bank Station was the reply, a surprise for me, as I'd gotten on at Bank Station an hour and a half before,  " I got on at Fucking Bank" I exclaimed, to no real audience, the cleaner had already swept himself away.  Unless I'd discovered a time hole, I had trundled all the way to Lewisham, and all the way back, maybe more than once for all I know.  One aside from this sad story, was it was the night someone stole my hat, off my head, while I slept.  Imagine that! A more wretched hive of scum and villainy you will never find.

That's right, you've all got your hats, rub it in. . 

This scenario also played out while returning from visiting pals in Tunbridge Wells.  Catching the 2230 to Victoria, plenty time to jump on the last tube back to Stratford.  A fine plan, well considered and easily achievable, not well executed however. 4 hours later, shaken awake at Tonbridge, 5 minutes up the road from Tunbridge Wells.  I'd slept all the way to London, the hour and half to get the train emptied, cleaned and turned around, and all the way back.  It was half 2 in the morning, about minus 6 degrees with another 4 hours to wait for the first train to London, what do you do?.  I'll tell you what I thought I'd do, I'll just walk about for 4 hours, its not hard, one foot in front of the other for a half a shift.  Thing is, Tonbridge is about a quarter of a mile long, so once I'd done that 4 times, I felt a bit of a fanny, as well as  being convinced I was going to sit down somewhere and drift off into a hypothermic doze that I wouldn't wake up from.  They used to show adverts about that when I was wee, some fella, lost in the snowy woods telling himself not to fall asleep. 

Don't worry,  a Travelodge is up the road, £60 a night. 

I don't know if he did or not, but that bit stayed with me.  As did the ad about climbing inside old fridges in rubbish dumps and walking on icy ponds, The 70s were full of hazards, odd how they never mentioned the pervy DJs and the Molesters of Parliament though.   So, that made my mind up, with my remaining 3% phone battery I located a Premier Inn and parted with £60 for 3 hours shelter and a worry that I'd miss the first train home.  

£60 incidentally seems to be the rate applied to me for either a late night room booking, or a taxi home.  This suggests two things to me, either hotels and taxis are part of some great price fixing cartel, or my Truman Show producers are lazy bastards and need to get some creativity. 

This result was repeated some months later on the last train from Glasgow Queen St  to home camp at Lenzie Station.  That journey takes approximately 12 minutes, with a stop in between, so really, you would think there would be enough going on to keep me occupied for 12 minutes.  No, half past two I yawn and stretch and blink open my eyes, in Perth, the end of the line.  That's an impressive 55 miles, my most wayward snooze yet.   There are not many options at this point, fair city as it is,  so it was emergency accommodation again, I had to knock on a few doors but finally found an Inn with some room, I remember thinking if they offer me the stable out the back I'm ordering new business cards on Monday.

The Orpington episode is worth a mention.  This was the evening I had to try my luck at night bus roulette, often the last chance saloon if you want a dignified return home, at least without having to phone the World Bank for an emergency relief loan that would get a taxi driver interested.  Night buses aren't like day buses,  the routes seem random with unfamiliar terminus's.   Still I jumped on one I thought was going in the rough direction of Lewisham.  You have to treat night bus routes like driving a golf ball down a fairway, you have an idea of the direction you should be pointing, you might zig-zag a bit, but you'll end up nearer home than you are at the moment, so its all good.  

Next thing that dawns on me, is actually the dawn, dawning on me.  Looking out the window of the bus, now empty of punters, are trees, and fields with animals in them, cows and farms that look like the one in The Darling Buds of May.  Now I hadn't lived in London very long but my keen eye, even with my naivety, I realised  I'm not in London anymore.  I guessed correctly as it happens, I was in Kent.   The driver was helpful, just get off here he said, cross the road and you'll get a bus going back into town.  Great advice, thanks very much, very helpful,  I wasn't to bothered, an old hand now at these impromptu city tours.  An hour I waited as the sun came up, then the bus arrived , it was the same one, I could have just stayed on it, in the warm, I might even had gotten another 40 winks. 

I could go on, but you might be reading this on public transport and be nodding off with the sheer banality of it all, if so, well done for getting this far and my tip, just stand up, I've only fallen asleep standing up once, and generally speaking the bang on the face you get is quite effective at bringing you round.

Lang may yer lum reek.

My remarkable prophecy

Reeking Lums,  save yourselves, 

The end of the world is nigh,

They've been predicting that for quite a while of course, the Mayans were so sure they developed a countdown calendar and a tourist attraction, but all through the ages, people have proclaimed the ending is pending.   

Remarkably inaccurate and shit prophecies

Even Old Mother Shipton,  one of the stars of the Yorkshire tourist board , who like to tell you her hermit cave is worth a visit,  had a go.  She apparently said  "The world to an end shall come, In eighteen hundred and eighty one".  It makes me a bit suspicious that she had to make it rhyme, nevertheless, she had a go but  was ultimately a better mad old woman than she was a predictor of Armageddon's.  

Then consider, Camille Flammarion.  He predicted that the appearance of Halleys comet "would impregnate the atmosphere and possibly snuff out all life on the planet", but not the planet itself.  He came up with the effective medication of "Comet pills"  to protect against toxic gases, like deja bird-flu, all over again. 

And isn't it strange how end of the world prophecies tend to ignore real threats to the planet, like the Cuban missile crisis and the defrosting ice caps, its always angry Jesus coming back to kick our ungrateful asses.   

You don't need to be Nostra-F-Ing-Damus to see this coming. 

You would think with all that's going on in humanity the enders would be blasting out their grim predictions with confetti guns, the likelihood of one of them actually getting it right for once must be higher than usual. 

So how can I be so sure that things are close to the end when so many before me have been so obviously wrong and deluded?  Well, I'm so convinced that we are getting near the end of the road  because we have, in case you haven't noticed,  just about reached the zenith of swearyness.  

C*nt, a word so heinous and evil that I've even had to disguise it just then to prevent me vomiting all over my keyboard,  has become utilitarian, just a common expletive to add urgency, stress a point, get a little attention or make sure people know your seriously hard, or just serious...and hard.  We are using them as if they were an inexhaustible resource like trees and Elephants .    Once the ultimate swear word has become accepted as a viable option to describe someone who is a right prick, " What a C*nt" or or a state of extreme  tiredness or drunkenness " tell you what, that c*nts had 6 Malibu and pineapples and he looks c*nted to me"  or a task so difficult its almost impossible to comprehend " listen to this, after lunch they want us to  solve the faster than light neutrino anomaly, that's going to be c*unting tricky". 

So what happens when the ultimate shock value 4 letter curse become so ubiquitous and commonplace it loses its C-Bomb status?  Well, Its fucking obvious to me, civilisation as we know it ends and we all get to start again in the pre-swear stone age, like those c*nts the Taliban. 

When I was a lad, you might hear "Bloody" on the TV, that was heavy duty swearing,  but as Fuck became more common, probably around the time Thatcher was at full enveloping darkness,  Bloody became an almost polite sweary alternative to an explosive snarling fuck, I see the same thing happening now, folk slip a "fuckin"  in, not even when they are angry or upset, just as a little value add to whatever they are describing at the time.   How long before all the shocking fucks in the world run out and all we are left with is conversational fucks, we become so desensitised that for impact  we have to turn to c*nt, c*unting, c*unted...., c*unty doesnt really work, and then my friends, we are circling the sweary drain. 

We could be one rant away from the apocolypse

So how close are we to armac*nton?  Well,  Donald Trump wisely opted for " pussy" when describing how he likes to grab his women, he could just as easily said " c*unt", that would have been a serious escalation of the jeopardy we face, still, thankfully,  he's c*nting unelectable, so that would only leave us with a sitting

President, the Pope or The Queen of England to utter it then we are all fucked.  Prince Philip doesn't count, thank heavens.  

Oi, CUNT! 

So how do we save ourselves, how do we push back the event horizon of our own demise.   Rocket ships to Mars wont help, after the year long journey the first person off the spaceship will exclaim " if they  think I'm colonising a planet with they useless c*nts in there, they can go get fucked"  then they're right back where they started, er, before they've even begun. 

Its easier coming up with new anti-biotics than it is swear words, so we cant rely on that.   What we could try and do is recycle some old ones that have gone out of fashion though.  Try these for size, Zooterkins, Gadzooks,  Potsblitz.    I know, its hard to be satisfied with those, but in a sentence they might do the trick, " Gadzooks,  I've not shared that viral post on Facebook, now every Zooterkin will think I have nothing against cancer...Potsblitz!"  Fuck! we're all c*nting going to die.

This has been Reeking Lum reporting from the End of the World.