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Tag Archives: Pennywise

Ailments – imaginary or otherwise

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Had an appointment at Bradford Royal Infirmary the other week. Back in January, I went to my GP about feeling some discomfort in my chest at night and getting a bit out of breath more than I usually would.  GP didn’t think there was much to worry about other than general wear, tear and the slow decline into decrepitude that comes with being in my late forties. But, in the name of caution, arranged for an appointment at the cardiology department.  So fast forward to mid-May and the appointment came through. (Good job I wasn’t dying really).

Cue crystal maze type experience of trying to find out where I was meant to go.  I found a reception desk. Helpful lady there pointed me in the right direction to another reception desk where I checked in. Was told I was on the computer but not on the daily list of appointments.  My name was added by way of a hastily scribbled post-it note.  A 16-year-old sad looking assistant came to get me and told me to strip off from the waist up.

“Pardon me. Do what now?”

Was told to put my clothes in a basket and don the old hospital gown leaving it open at the front.

Was then sent down a corridor clutching my gown shut and led into a room where I was given an ECG.
If anyone has never had one of these, it’s essentially 5 minutes of someone sticking plasters to your tits and torso then plugging you into the mains for 2 seconds, then peeling the plasters back off.  It’s about as dignified as it sounds.  No wonder the poor lass looked glum
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  “What do you do for living my love?”  / “I stick band aids on saggy old bodies every day” / “Awesome!”

😦

I was then advised to get dressed and head to the blue waiting area.  Did I know where that was?  No.  So she gave me directions along the lines of, “Through the double doors at the end of this corridor then take a right, then a left, then straight on to the other double doors, across the narrow sea to the island of Dragonstone; then through the seven levels of the Candy Cane forest, through the sea of swirly-twirly gum drops, and then walk through the Lincoln Tunnel”

FFS!

I eventually found it, then was told I needed to sign in at reception.  I said I had already signed in at two separate reception areas.  An exasperated-looking nurse told me that neither of those was the blue reception area so I needed to, “go back down the corridor, through the double doors, take a left past Mount Mordor, through the revolving doors and past the realms of men; climb the Faraway Tree and then toss my name into the Goblet of Fire, then make my way back via the river Styx so she could take my blood pressure” (which would no doubt at this stage, be through the fucking roof).  Obviously, I got lost, because as we all know, my map reading skills are sadly lacking. I also detoured en route back to go for a wee and got completely disorientated coming out of the loo. I ended up back in the waiting room but then realized it was the orange waiting area.  Back through the shadow of the valley of death, I ventured. Passing Shergar, Madeliene McCann and Lord Lucan along the way!

FML!

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Arrived back in the blue waiting room to find two exasperated nurses who were wondering where I’d got to.  As they took me in a room to do my blood pressure, one of them declared that I wasn’t on the system and had I been to check in at reception?  Refusing to go through all that again, they sent another nurse down to the blue reception to ask what the delay was.  Are these computers not linked?  It would have been quicker to use two yogurt pots on a string.  Come on UK. Get our NHS back on track. Stop wasting money on shit and give them some funding FFS.

Anyway, I digress.

The short version (because there is one believe it or not) is that I’m not dying just yet.  Doctor Klopek seemed quite happy with my health, but erring on the side of caution again, is arranging for me to attend some other test or other but that’s not until June.  At least I should (?) know the way next time.  I’ll leave a trail of breadcrumbs next time just to be sure.

You’d think that this minor health concern might worry someone like me who has a propensity for overthinking situations. But no.  What kept me awake the other night was a throwaway comment from my daughter. She was telling me that the scrape on her buttock (from her cider rider injury at Swingamjig) was healing nicely and, “Not to worry Mum, I haven’t got sepsis.”

I then lay awake pondering my recent injury where I had scraped the back of my hand on the poolside and was quite sore.  What if I had developed sepsis?  Would my hand have to be amputated like Kevin Webster’s son’s leg in Coronation Street?  Could I still teach swimming with one hand?  Yes, I thought, that would be no problem.  But how long would I be out of action workwise while the stump healed over?  Should I get a golden hand like Jamie Lannister in Thrones?  What if they had to amputate at the elbow?  Could I still support the children in the pool with a shorter arm?  Yes, I decided.  That would also be fine.  Trickier than just having a stump for a hand, but not impossible. 

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What though, if the entire arm had to come off?  What a waste a lovely tattoo on my upper arm? That would be £160 I could have saved.  Typical me. Not bothered about losing an arm. More fussed at wasting money unnecessarily like the stereotypical tight northern fucker I am.
Would I still be able to teach successfully then, with no arm?  I expect so, with time. And I could always dress as post-Pennywise-arm-torn-off-in-a-drain Georgie from ‘It’ at Halloween. I already have a yellow raincoat so that would be a money saver.

🙂

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And this is me at quite a mentally stable stage in my life.  You can imagine what my head was like a couple of years ago when the demons got in.

And don’t try and deny that many of you aren’t just as overthinking, nuts and weird.  I’m just not that bothered about admitting it.

🙂

Watch this space MoFos Xx

 

 

 

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That time I smelled a hand that touch Ricky Butler/Edgar Frog & brushed against Paddy off Emmerdale in the line for tea

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Some weeks ago my friend asked me if I was up for attending a horror film convention in a disused steel mill in Sheffield so we could bother Corey Feldman.

Sold!

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We then discovered, having bought our tickets, that it was an extra £35 for a photo opportunity with the man himself.

Fuck that!

After getting the hump about it briefly, we decided to go anyway and just try and get some photos when he did the Q&A session and just get Allie to photoshop us into it with him.

A last minute idea that we ought to put more effort into our wardrobe than my Frog Brothers hoodie resulted in this…  apologies to any of the neighbours who saw this parked outside this morning.

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Bman did warn me that given the potential demographic of this type of event, we might attract the unwanted attentions of geeks.  I assured him that these guys would be too busy creaming their pants over horror movie props and the various other film franchise celebrities in attendance to be bothered about us.  I was only partly right…
…the coconut shy (shrunken head shy) man just let us go to town with the balls to throw to try and win a creepy toy.  No shrunken heads were knocked from their perches but he let us take a toy anyway.

Hostage child dolly… nice.

 

 

We wandered about a bit and had people jump out on us a lot. One of whom only didn’t get their mask punched off their face because they were clearly a young child.  After a further wander, we found the main hall which contained a plethora of horror related collectors tat to buy.
After some deliberation, I opted for a mini Audrey plant, although I was sorely tempted to get a hand-stitched voodoo doll with pins, or a replica mummified Rasputin’s penis.  One of those I can easily cobble together at home with some old material and my trusty sewing box. I’ll let you decide which one you think I mean.

Snaps to the man at http://www.digbynevermoor.com who got our obscure League of Gentleman quote and joined in.

Best overheard conversation of the day was a father to his young daughter “What is it you’d like to buy?” Daughter replied “A pug in formaldehyde” To which I turned around and said “Well who doesn’t want one of those?”

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Feed me Seymour!

I’ve been singing “Suddenly Seymour” all day since I bought this baby.

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Touch it! Touch the mummified penis

 

Trussed up fetish Barbie.  Boob implant Barbie. Severed digits chess set.  Cabbage patch skeleton. Was also tempted by the skeletal mermaid of course but it was a bit big.

 

 

Some people had gone to a lot of trouble with the old costumes.  Possibly a little too much time on their hands but worth it for some selfies.

 

 

 

 

The scariest part of the day for me was when we’d asked some scary boiler suit zombie Michael Myers type for directions and he sent us the wrong way.  On the way back past him, my friend told him off for sending us the wrong way. We saw him again a bit later and she poked him on the shoulder and then ran off, leaving me to face him.  I ran away and he chased us down the corridor. We did the dumbest thing ever and ran into the ladies loos – thus leaving us trapped.  I feared he would be waiting outside for us, machete raised above his head.  We left it five minutes before sneaking out.  Luckily he had gone to find someone else to butcher so we were ok.
In fact, there was a worrying amount of weaponry there.  Annie Wilkes with her sledgehammer (“You dirty bird”). Machetes, axes, acetylene torches, nail guns, etc.  So many masked people.  They could have been anyone.  We could have been attacked at any point by a psychotic lunatic who had  ‘el-snappoed’ after mowing one too many lawns, and we would have just thought it was part of the show and filmed it or got a selfie.

Truth be told, we perhaps should have paid more attention to the rules (“Gav”) before we decided to stake out the adjacent (empty) queueing area to Corey in our persistent efforts to obtain the perfect free photo op.

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To be fair, it doesn’t say you weren’t supposed to fall about laughing like morons and take a buttload of mostly useless photos.  Nor does it say that you’re not supposed to obstruct another ‘guests’ autograph line even though we were actually the only people in it.  Some poor fucker from American Horror Story amongst other things was sat there, pen in hand, with a grand total of nobody, waiting to get their merch signed.  No doubt cursing inside that he had been put “next to that gobby kid from the fucking Goonies” while two crazy bitches who make those mad old women waving union jacks outside Windsor Castle and creaming themselves over Prince Harry’s baby, look like absolutely normal pillars of the community.

At several points whilst signing other people’s things (an extra £35 to sign stuff) the man looked up – clearly distracted by our mirth and envious of the fact that here were two pals unperturbed by the fact that that they were making a holy show of themselves in a giant hall full of people in the close presence of a Hollywood celebrity.

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See – he’s looking right at me – he wants IN on this fun

 

This is probably my favourite picture of the day and he’s not even in it,  If ever a photo summed up an average conversation between us two, then this is it.  It could only have been improved if cardigan man wasn’t in the way of Corey and his Smooth Criminal hat.

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This is why my eyes are so creasy – too much laughter

I can’t even remember why we were in hysterics.  Possibly because Linda had just told me off for taking about eleventy blurry photos of nothing because she kept telling me off for moving the camera.

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This is me saying “stop yelling at me” & Linda saying “I’m not!”

Another comedy moment, later on, was when I was looking for Pennywise the clown and Linda suddenly grabs me and says, “Dead ahead dead ahead”.  I’m looking about gormlessly for someone dressed as a clown and she’s hissing at me, “There! There! in front of you!”  I’m still staring about like a dolt going, “What? Where am I looking?” and eventually I realized she meant this…

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This is not a waxwork

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No, that isn’t Bman next to him

Linda, ever the opportunist, inveigled her way to him to ask if he would sign her pot (she recently knackered her arm falling over). He was very polite about it but said he wasn’t allowed to. But he did shake her (other) hand.

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The hand that shook Corey’s

She said his hand was very soft “from all the drugs maybe? (allegedly)” assuming I suspect that Hollywood = must have indulged at some point.  But I’m not sure if she knows how drugs work. Unless the man was snorting lines of Nivea back in his misspent youth.  Hands that do narcotics are as soft as your face and all that.
I sniffed her hand afterwards, so I’ve smelled a hand that has touched a Frog Brother.

We then went and had a brew to calm down and compose ourselves before we went to the Q&A session.  I was stood behind Paddy from Emmerdale in the queue for tea. At least I think I was. I’ve tweeted him to ask if he was there but funnily enough, he hasn’t replied.

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That day we ‘met’ Corey Feldman in Sheffield

I honestly haven’t laughed so much in ages for no real reason. I’m pretty sure when Corey clocked us doubled over in pleats, pissing our pants, he was put in mind of the good old days with his shits and giggles with his old pal Corey Haim.

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Neither of these are Will Wheaton

He is more than welcome to join our little clique, as long as he knows his League from his Inside No.9 and his Fast Show from his Fonejacker. Fuck it! Paddy off Emmerdale can come out with us too, He looks like a man who enjoys a good craic.

So mostly my future now lies in creating horror and gore themed dolls and weird shit like mummified (ethically sourced) animals in ghoulish tableaus so I can have a stall there myself next year.

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