Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Oh no! Oh yes!
The result of the x-ray said "lesion on the lung" and so the BOF looked it up...
There can only be one conclusion when looking up an ailment on the Internet: you're going to die. So, for several days before judgement, he was preparing himself for the cancer announcement. 45 years of smoking made it inevitable.
One doctor said to him: "...but you knew there was something, didn't you?" Put like that, the answer has to be yes, even if you didn't previously know you knew.
More waiting, more tests, more time to engage the internal drama queen.
Enter the loquacious Irish expert. His statement early on in the meeting that "only the good die young" had the BOF scratching his head. Was this a nugget of wisdom mined from experience, or was it a resentful swipe at smokers who should already be dead dragging their arrears-ridden bodies into his rooms? Probably both, as Dr O'Lungs seemed to be working a version of hope for the best, expect the worst.
The machinery in modern hospitals is as reassuring as a doctor with a good bedside manner. There's a sense that something as complicated and expensive as that can't possibly be wrong. Lights flash, powerful hums throb in the background, hoops of metal and plastic traverse the body, peering inside at the engine. At the end, instead of a sealed envelope to be given to to the doctor, a CD is presented, almost as if this were the same as a trip to HMV.
Dr O'Lungs teased out the process, pausing to examine his screen like a witchdoctor consulting entrails, stopping at every possible point to meander off on another observation on the body and lifestyle. The BOF sat further forward on his chair, resisting the urge to blurt out: "Well? Is it or isn't it?"
Eventually, he got there.
"Now: it should be cancer, but it isn't."
Sweet words. Life is not a rehearsal, but it does contain many opportunities to rehearse. Given that death is the final act of every performance, the BOF thinks it useful to have had a peek at the script.
There can only be one conclusion when looking up an ailment on the Internet: you're going to die. So, for several days before judgement, he was preparing himself for the cancer announcement. 45 years of smoking made it inevitable.
One doctor said to him: "...but you knew there was something, didn't you?" Put like that, the answer has to be yes, even if you didn't previously know you knew.
More waiting, more tests, more time to engage the internal drama queen.
Enter the loquacious Irish expert. His statement early on in the meeting that "only the good die young" had the BOF scratching his head. Was this a nugget of wisdom mined from experience, or was it a resentful swipe at smokers who should already be dead dragging their arrears-ridden bodies into his rooms? Probably both, as Dr O'Lungs seemed to be working a version of hope for the best, expect the worst.
The machinery in modern hospitals is as reassuring as a doctor with a good bedside manner. There's a sense that something as complicated and expensive as that can't possibly be wrong. Lights flash, powerful hums throb in the background, hoops of metal and plastic traverse the body, peering inside at the engine. At the end, instead of a sealed envelope to be given to to the doctor, a CD is presented, almost as if this were the same as a trip to HMV.
Dr O'Lungs teased out the process, pausing to examine his screen like a witchdoctor consulting entrails, stopping at every possible point to meander off on another observation on the body and lifestyle. The BOF sat further forward on his chair, resisting the urge to blurt out: "Well? Is it or isn't it?"
Eventually, he got there.
"Now: it should be cancer, but it isn't."
Sweet words. Life is not a rehearsal, but it does contain many opportunities to rehearse. Given that death is the final act of every performance, the BOF thinks it useful to have had a peek at the script.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Sepptic Jack
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
iWank
It's in the BOF's nature to welcome new technology rather than dissing it. When Apple announced the iPad he was initially onside but soon started to wonder what it was for.
He now knows. It's for subterfuge. WAGs have long known that text messages are a man's worst friend. They sit in a phone, and the phone often sits away from its master because it is small and easy to forget for a moment. That would be the moment that the wife or girlfriend, the WOG, picks it up and expertly scans the contents. Computers (desk or laptop) are too cumbersome for secrecy. Nobody can hide an attempt to keep WOGs away from them.
The iPad is different. In its little rubber case (SO bdsm!)it sits stylishly in the crook of a man's hand as he meanders around the home. She loves it because, frankly, your average Ashley is anything but stylish, and a WOG loves stylishness. Ashley can carry his filthy cargo with impunity because it's disguised as a pointless man-toy.
The iPad is a philandery enabler. The size and resolution of its screen makes those sordid phone movies into real porn and that makes the iPad the ultimate wank-companion. Ashley ain't gonna leave that one lying around.
He now knows. It's for subterfuge. WAGs have long known that text messages are a man's worst friend. They sit in a phone, and the phone often sits away from its master because it is small and easy to forget for a moment. That would be the moment that the wife or girlfriend, the WOG, picks it up and expertly scans the contents. Computers (desk or laptop) are too cumbersome for secrecy. Nobody can hide an attempt to keep WOGs away from them.
The iPad is different. In its little rubber case (SO bdsm!)it sits stylishly in the crook of a man's hand as he meanders around the home. She loves it because, frankly, your average Ashley is anything but stylish, and a WOG loves stylishness. Ashley can carry his filthy cargo with impunity because it's disguised as a pointless man-toy.
The iPad is a philandery enabler. The size and resolution of its screen makes those sordid phone movies into real porn and that makes the iPad the ultimate wank-companion. Ashley ain't gonna leave that one lying around.
Sepptic wank
The absurdity (and BOF thinks it's beyond ironic) is that all the replays in world cup coverage are topped and tailed with the FIFA logo. These are the replays which show the need for football hawkeye, the replays which are inevitably more far-seeing than the officials on the field, the replays which simultaneously demonstrate the fallibility of human referees and FIFA corruption. The criminal Blatter's complacent apology is a shoddy attempt to disguise the real reason for the lack of technological aids: FIFA generally and Blatter in particular have no financial involvement in the technology. We hear that Blatter is allegedly involved with a competing, inferior, technology, one that he hopes might come good so that he can make personal profit from inevitable progress.
Watching the fat skunk's face as he attends matches in South Africa, the BOF is convinced that dollar signs flash in his eyes every time the vuvuzelas crescendo. Remember, the reason he's been so anodyne in his remarks about the plastic tubes is that FIFA sell them for $8 a horn. The BOF alleges that Blatter himself pockets a percentage of that, but we can't be sure...actually, we can be sure if we look at his history.
All the pundits hate him, yet they seem to be frightened of naming him when they splutter about FIFA's ineptitude. It would be a positive and progressive outcome if this summer's world cup ended with Blatter being exposed as the money-grabbing egotist that he really is. Sadly, he won't be. More likely is that he'll orchestrate a chorus of approval for his "fair-mindedness" when he allows a little technology in after the "enquiry".
The BOF would be happy to save FIFA a significant sum of money by writing the report without the aid of a "committee". But that won't happen either, because Sepptic will have already promised seats to those who have lined his pocket.
Watching the fat skunk's face as he attends matches in South Africa, the BOF is convinced that dollar signs flash in his eyes every time the vuvuzelas crescendo. Remember, the reason he's been so anodyne in his remarks about the plastic tubes is that FIFA sell them for $8 a horn. The BOF alleges that Blatter himself pockets a percentage of that, but we can't be sure...actually, we can be sure if we look at his history.
All the pundits hate him, yet they seem to be frightened of naming him when they splutter about FIFA's ineptitude. It would be a positive and progressive outcome if this summer's world cup ended with Blatter being exposed as the money-grabbing egotist that he really is. Sadly, he won't be. More likely is that he'll orchestrate a chorus of approval for his "fair-mindedness" when he allows a little technology in after the "enquiry".
The BOF would be happy to save FIFA a significant sum of money by writing the report without the aid of a "committee". But that won't happen either, because Sepptic will have already promised seats to those who have lined his pocket.
Thursday, 24 June 2010
Balls
The BOF has been awakened by an insult alarm. He understands that the most statistically extraordinary tennis match that is ever likely to happen anywhere, ever, has just taken place, at Wimbledon. He also understands that the Wimbledon committee of decision has decided to present the players (and umpire) with some "mementos" for this achievement.
The illustrious choice as the presenter? Tim "failure" Henman! Sitting not 10 metres away was John "The Greatest Ever" McEnroe.
British up-my-own-arse parochialism strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again.
The illustrious choice as the presenter? Tim "failure" Henman! Sitting not 10 metres away was John "The Greatest Ever" McEnroe.
British up-my-own-arse parochialism strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again. strikes again.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
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