Wednesday, 4 August 2010

bloody pigs

it doesn't surprise me anymore when pretty vapid characters turn out to be a bunch of utter despicable, disgusting, pathetic excuse for humanity in the end. i've seen a lot in movies this month, and certainly a few in real life as well.


tgf and i went to london to ally with an old friend (see i love london no. 7) we lost touch with - literally. that is if you consider a facebook poke as the equivalent bond to keep the social and emo tie going on. he had been very busy accomodating a very famous author from motherland and had loads of amusing stories to tell. she is quite known back home, you know.

but being a writer who mainly writes in english and known for her wry humour and cynicism, i think that she's the kind of work only followed by a few cognoscenti. i could be wrong.

a few people wanted to see their 'favourite author' so they went to have a decadent afternoon tea of strawberry bellini, scones, clotted cream and champagne at the fifth floor of harvey nichols in knightstbridge. that area near harrods where the evil first lady of the deposed philippine dictator would famously get the shutters down to shop in private.

'your friends are sooo rude, ryan! if they really are massive fans of mine, how come they didn't ask for photos with me.'

or words to that effect from the author. in fairness, one of them has a copy of her book for signing. but she took off feigning a profound headache to look for a pharmacy down sloane street.

'she should have gone down to specsavers!'

perhaps in reference to the author's iconic 60's cat eye glasses. amidst the cackles. and the drone of handbags, gladrags and the choral clicks of the mandible: displaced discs as their collective vile neanderthal heads knock back bottles of champagne.

'what do they know about literature and culture.'


this is my second foiled attempt at going to 'highgate cemetery'. upon hearing that an illustrious author from mothership (see no. 1) went 'this week', tgf suddenly finds the sense of paying homage to a dead communist. and various other writers and artists.

'how much is the entrance fee to see the tomb of karl marx?'

'oh. bloody pigs.'

'that kind of defeats the purpose of the manifesto, doesn't it?'

never mind douglas adams who must have amassed unimaginable fortune from his 'hitchiker's guide to the galaxy' franchise. so we decided to watch a movie instead. for my consolation, it was easy to dissuade her from a potential rom-com to sci-fi this time. 'predators' it was, and i quite like it.

i like the idea that adrien brody is on it. someone that could easily barf out a pretty harmless and slightly sensitive character from a woody allen film, as opposed to cheesy chuckful of steroids and protein supplements arnie schwarzebloodynegger. there's less emphasis on ripped invincible action heroes making absolute ape-shit mayhem and a whole lot of 80's freudian big machine gun imagery clich├ęs. and a bit demographic-wider cast of 'interesting characters'.

there's also topher grace looking like your typical highly paid preppy harley street surgeon. but is in fact your serial-killer-next-door-neighbour, hiding-in-plain-sight ready to stick a poisoned scalpel off your back.


back to work, a slightly batty bespectacled ginger in pristine blue uniform that will blend in nicely with good humoured ladies that clean after your room at disneyland had a go with me. no disrespect to my esteemed sister colleagues, but i think the nursing professional body should investigate why theme park domestics copy the uniforms. see, this is why it's nice to keep the whites on.

the thing i like about my new job (see smell the coffee no. 1) aside from the uniform is the fact that it's almost nurse led. no messing about with the doctors and their tedious rounds. it also operates super-cali-fragil-istic-espi-ali-dociously, like clockwork: you attach patient to the machines, they feel happy, you take them off. sometimes, if they don't look so happy, you can amuse them by explaining the science of why you connect them to the machines and why they should keep an eye on the fluids they take. very rarely you get really unhappy ones with blood pressures that crash in the middle of your conveyor belt. these ones you send downstairs at the 'acute' wards to be looked after by 'proper nurses'. then off to the next batch of happy patients. it's so disney. perhaps our sisters at this end should get rid of their blue drabs. and as a rebound defiance against the domestics at theme parks, wear bright yellows instead and oversized red boots.

last wednesday i transferred one of 'these' patients to the acute ward. very septic, was on a ventilator in intensive care for three days and a very unhappy blood pressure at the end of haemodialysis. he was feeling very cold and completely loose, bowel-wise. pressure crashes and the faeces flow in biblical proportions as far as science is concerned. normally, you would try your hardest to contain the deluge, but you can't fight science.

so i said hi to miss tight lip in blues downstairs who if not for the obvious abscence of a heavy crucifix on her neck, would make a convincing badass nun in 'sister act' the musical. and quite predictably, the first thing she went for is the backside and in her booming voice of god impersonation: asked if the patient has been washed. trying to make a more or less resonant version off my vocal chords, i said the patient has been given a few times in less than ideal situations as he would have in the 'wards' hinting (as if it would make sense) that perhaps the patient should have had his dialysis in the wards anyway.

(in my mind, creating a visual of two index fingers on both ears) i was thinking of the patient being not so well, and the risk of spreading the bug to otherwise 'happy' patients, and without doctors. you could potentially kill a sick patient by giving a wash, you know.

i was stuck in a mental loop of making up excuses in the deep recesses of my unconscious whilst she takes the crap.

f*%king unbelievable. after all these years of holistic philosophy, humanity and comfort and dignity, all she could think about is the state of the bedsheets.

it's not rocket science.