Time for another Vote-o

I feel it's time you 'orrible lot chose a tale for Monday's post. So here, for your selection are 3 titles for you to choose from:

1. The leader of the pack - my first foray into riding a motorbike.
2. Graffiti - Banksy, I'm not.
3. Heights - The point where I found I don't like heights.

Remember, vote well, vote often. Cast as many votes as you like, as long as each one is a separate comment...

What's Woolies Worth?

It is sad to hear that one of the mainstays of every British high street has called in the administrators with a debt of £385 million. The problem is it's a 20th century shop, struggling to survive in the 21st century. It sells sweets, great, but this can't be the foundation for a strong business model today. It sells CDs and DVDs, but with the advent of online downloading or buying from the supermarkets for half the price, how can it possibly compete? It has always had a huge toy department, and whilst my son still loves to have a wander around the shelves, most of the kids today would rather spend their Christmas or birthday money on the latest Xbox 360 classic "Ninjas with rifles shoot bad people in a middle eastern city."
In the past few years we've seen Woolies diversify into 'housewares', selling things like toasters, and even my cordless drill. The problem is it's not cheap there. For it to survive it needed a kick up the jacksy 10 years or more ago, and whilst they are a valued retailer in everyone's mind, people are still not prepared to spend twice as much as their local out of town Tesco or Asda.
I, meanwhile, will always remember Woolworths in my childhood as the place where I got my first record ("Get Down Shep" by the Barron Knights), where I got my first black and white passport photo taken for a whole 50p, and where BLS get her first Saturday job.
Oh how times are changing.

Arty farty music.

Music is now by and large 'thump thump' music or some twat teenager trying to look like he/she has an attitude.

Don't get me wrong, this is a well known sign I'm getting old. But the fact of the matter is that some great pieces of music came from before I knew what music really was. One of the first pieces that I remember was a certain French bloke who liked to play loads of instruments. I would say I also liked the video, but seeing as they didn't appear for another 7 or so years, I can't say I ever saw it until much later. Then someone re-made it for youtube. (Thanks to TRT for pointing me to this late last night)


Meanwhile, another great 70s musician remade his most successful album in 1992. One of the tracks on this great album was an introduction to instruments. Take a simple bar of music, and play it with many differing instruments, introduce each instrument before it is played, preferably with the great voice of Alan Rickman (on the album version, not this one).

Enjoy.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

I know it's too early but BLS is nagging me via comments on here, and emails, asking me to post her version of the twelve days of Christmas.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve furry foreskins,
Eleven used condoms,
Ten gay lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies drinking,
Eight maids a-tugging,
Seven perverts a-watching,
Six couples a-laying,
Five types of VD,
Four gonorrhoea appointments,
Three embarrassing diagnoses,
Two saggy boobs,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

Yes it's only the last verse, but I don't want to bore you all with the full version where you get the idea from that one. This then got me thinking about a Welsh version of the song...

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve furry foreskins,
Eleven day-tripping scousers,
Ten pounds to cross the bridge,
Nine teenage pregnancies,
Eight souped up Corsas,
Seven days of drizzle,
Six broken streetlights,
Five robberies.
Four binge drinkers,
Three rugger buggers,
Two dodgy AMs
And a cold day on a Gower beach.

Meanwhile, my all time favourite piece about the original is the great Bob and Tom talking about it.

Teenage hacker + Powerful computers = Mayhem

Shortly after my success with the teacher's details on the school, I upped my game. Hacking, whilst not completely legal, was completely cool in my eyes. No fix of teenage cider on the street corner or sniffing of the finest Bostik would be as good as the rush of finding something that I shouldn't on a computer somewhere out in the ether.
In school we'd been given a project to write a program of our choice. My mates Terry and Woody would cover my back by making out we were writing Blockbusters (the game, not the video store) whilst I wrote a simple 'dialer,' a program designed to dial numbers sequentially after you choose the range, and it would log and remember each and every carrier detected and at specific speeds. I'd like to say this was my idea, but boyed on from the success of Wargames only a couple of years earlier, this was a simple and effective way of finding computer linked modems. With newly complied application stored on 720k 3.5" floppy, I now took my pride and joy away with me. That weekend I was going to spend in my father's office. A large office belonging to Logica, with loads of partitions, hidden corners and hidey holes, and loads and loads of PCs, XTs, ATs and other clones all with juicy modems built in. All they needed was a floppy drive, a spotty fat teenager, and a dialer.
Being a Saturday morning, like most of the offices around Great Portland Street, this office was deserted. My father was at his desk, hidden behind a partition, beavering away manically. BLS was doing some work for him, sat at a typewriter, and also beavering manically. Jane, my father's girlfriend was also doing something productive. So, all in all, a very busy office. None more so then my father's boss's office, with a door that shut. Inside was a simple shopping list, a 16 bit Compaq 286 12Mhz, with colour CGA screen, floppy drive, 2400 bps modem and dedicated line, and rebellious adolescent nerd with self written dialer. What could possibly go wrong?
In goes the disk, and the modem kicks into life with whistles and squeals. A quick modification, "AT M0 L0," in the command line, and it falls quiet again. I start locally with modems around that area of London. Running diskcopy with a floppy I found in one of the drawers, I use a second disk on a second PC (presumably my father's boss's secretary) and start dialing on that. After a spot of lunch (Pizza Hut opposite the Palladium) we return. A quick scan down the list and out of the half a dozen or so numbers I notice a nice 2400 (so full speed) carrier detected. I try it, and I am welcomed to the world of Badlad.
"Enter Surname:"
"Aitch" I type.
"Enter Forename:"
"Rik"
"no match found."
Bugger.
I try again, this time with "Aitch, Aled" and get no match.
I can't remember what else happened, but for some reason I tried my neighbour, and my mate Nick's Dad. He'd been about a bit, and had had many fingers in pies.
"Pee, David" I try.
"1 match found. Enter record to show 1)"
Rather taken aback by the success, I try it. There listed is a nice simple record, showing handling stolen vehicles, breaking into vehicles, and several other felonies that aren't legal in any civilised country in the world. Also listed is his address, date of birth, any distinguishing features (apart from looking like Hank Marvin) and other essential information required by the filth upon apprehending someone.
Yes, I'd cracked open the Police National Computer. Apparently it was a link to Hendon, and the Met's training centre. Being a Saturday afternoon, most of the staff were either off, or getting ready for a night of kicking in poor people and blacks around the streets of Soho. This meant that it had gone undetected far too long. When we left, about 4pm, they'd still not cottoned onto the unauthorised entry. The following Monday morning however, and the log of calls in showed that Logica, and more importantly, Philip Hughes, one of the UK's most respected computer consultants, had hacked into their system.
My father had full deniability, and once again, they could prove nothing.

McDirty Cow

McDonald's sued over nude photos

"The nude pictures have been removed from the website that had posted them."

Aw.

On it being a small world

Earlier this week, I had a call out to a young family. The mother of the family had a strong london accent, and in passing I asked where she's from?

"South London, do you know Croydon?" came the reply.

"Yes, very well in fact. Whereabouts?" I asked.

"Thornton Heath (Pronounced Forton eef)," said in thickest Saaf Lannanish

"Oh crikey. I know it well. A lot of people from my school lived there."

"What was your school?" she enquired. (or she would have done, if she could have spelt enquired.)

"It doesn't exist anymore," said I, skirting around the fact it was closed to remove the vermin that went there, and to mop up the steady tide of blood caused from stabbings and drive by shootings. "It's now called Harris."

"You went to Sylvan," she said with some disdain. "So did I."

It turns out she was two years below me. I showed her the pictures from my jaunt back to the area in May and she suddenly said "You knew Danny?"

"Black Danny? Yes of course. You knew him as well?" I should, however, point out two things at this point. First of all, Black Danny was called Black Danny because his name was Danny, and he was black. This was because we also had a Danny a couple of years younger then him living in the area, who became known as "Little Danny." Secondly, the customer was also black, and I had to explain the previous point to her. She just laughed rather nervously, before we continued to compare notes.

Most staggeringly, the highlight of the conversation was the myth (*cough*) of a boy years above them who'd planted the personal information of the teachers on the computer system, and had been expelled because he'd been caught. Fame and fortune should have followed, but in reality the Robin Hood act had meant that whilst I had to kiss some serious arse to stay in the flea ridden school, some folklore had been generated from it.

At least I know my work there was done.

On getting news you've always expected.

My mother is, was and always will be deaf. In the mid 80s she decided to get a hearing aid for her one deaf ear, and the other ear decided that if she's going to take the burden from it, it might as well not work, and so it packed up as well. This means that if she wants peace (*not piece*) and quiet (a good thing with a 1 year old grand daughter) she just turns off sound.
My father, meanwhile, is just hard of hearing. Not deaf, but great at saying "what's that you say?" and gesturing his ear towards you like some demented Quasi Modo. I've always suspected that it's selective hearing problems because he becomes completely deaf when someone says "It's Aled's turn to buy a round" or "Halfords is a bad place to get your bike fixed." His hearing however is impeccable when it comes to hearing a baby at 40 paces or someone opening a cold can of beer in the next county.
And so, my point (a bit late I know). I was at the docs yesterday, again, this time following up on my dizzy spells back in June and why they're still there. The quack suspects that I'm going deaf, after checking my ears, eyes, dangly bits and asking me to cough. When he asked if there's any history of deafness in the family, I said 'see above' and he has now referred me to an ear nose and throat specialist. So when we do meet up in January, I'll be the one avoiding buying the beers because I can't hear anyone saying "isn't it Rik's round?"

Speaking my mind

I have a bit of a secret ambition. One of those jobs that I'd love to do, but I know in my heart of hearts I never will, but I'm not bothered by it.

I'd love to be a voice artist.

Stop laughing at the back.

It's far from a route to fame and fortune. There is one person famous for their voice, and that's Mel Blanc, the voice of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Yosemite Sam, Barney Rubble and so many more. There is also Rob Brydon, Welsh funnyman, who was a voice artist before he became famous. But it's hardly a proper living, and so I know I never will.

DJing for 10 years meant that I got to use my plethora of silly voices quite often. I have a few 'characters' that I can do, and as my father will testify to, one is a very boring brummie. I can also do a strong scottish accent, and a dodgy 'saaaf lannan geeezer' very well. Some of the stranger voices I can also do include the gofer from the Caddyshack films and Mr. Bean, who has a very strange almost nasal tone about his voice.

One set of voices that were very easy to me were voices by Harry Enfield. Be it 'Tim Nice-but-dim' or Mr 'You Don't want to do that', I found I could adopt these styles and use them for myself. He did a character with Paul Whitehouse called the 'old gits,' and whilst funny, weren't very distinctive. He later changed this pair of characters into a female equivalent, and ended up with the 'lovely wobbly randy old ladies' whereupon he teamed up with the great Kathy Burke. This pair of ladies were convinced they were sex machines, whereas in reality they were spookily scary old women (sounds like my father). And their catchphrase of "YOUNG MAN!" is something I've always enjoyed saying, especially at the start of the Village People's YMCA.

Enjoy.

And God said, "Let there be light" ... "Just not in Powys."

Powys County Council have surpassed themselves. The largest county in Wales, and apparently the 22nd most densely populated, it is a long county that runs most of the way along the border with England. It has also decided, in it's infinite wisdom, that because it's so sparsely populated (mostly with sheep, I hasten to add) to turn off every other street light, as a way of cutting costs. This would work if it wasn't for a few things.

• The extra darkness means that life as a crook is prosperous.
  
• Prostitutes are to be found springing up everywhere, wearing nothing but fishnet stockings and bleating quietly from the corners of their fields.
• The streetlights aren't having every other one turned off, but every two or three. This means the areas that have few lights now look like the insides of my pants (normally damp and cold, but very very dark).
  
• The roads, which are confusing enough during a bright, sunny day in August (the last time was about 1954) are now not only confusing, but strangely black coloured.
• Every man and his anorak are now converging on the area so they can stargaze without the need for special filters on their telescopes.
  
• Every man and his wellies are now converging on the area so they can enjoy the local talent and the thrill of wool under the foreskin.

The benefit? Apparently to save £250,000. Already the increase in crime is staggering. Accidents are also up. And the Police, paid for by resident's council tax, are now snowed under not only during the day, what with penalising people for coughing without due care and attention or walking around with an offensive wife. They've now found they have to do some real bona fide paid for work detecting all the crimes that are now not being committed because no one saw anything.

In sickness...

Apologies for lateness, but John's been sent home from school and so I haven't been able to post until now. This led me to thinking about being off of school as a child.

I wasn't a sickly child in the slightest. If I was off of school it was for a reason, and so the teachers knew that something was wrong. One of my earliest memories of being off school was about age 6 or 7, when a bully in my sister's year decided it would be funny to smash my head against a drain cover. It's one of the only times in my life I have ever been knocked out, and I got taken to the terrifying Mrs. Robbins' (the head) office where they even made a bed for me to lie on whilst my mother came to collect me. Can you imagine the law suits that would follow today if this happened now?

In Junior school, I seem to remember being off for the usual "squits," or one time going to North Wales for the weekend and not being able to return in time, so I was excused by my father. IN my last year I had made the mistake whilst on a weekend trip to our caravan in Andover of playing in the site's swimming pool all day Saturday, and by the Monday morning I looked like a human pizza, with cheesy special sauce emanating from the large pustules on my shoulders.

It was probably in the second year of secondary school that I decided I didn't like school any more. It didn't help that on Monday mornings for the first two hours I'd have my worst teacher, who I hated and she hated me. My mum would come in every Monday morning, and I'd play the "My tummy hurts" card again and again. I genuinely developed cystitis ("Does your pee burn?" - "I dunno, I haven't put a match to it.") around the same time, and had problems with my kidneys, so I also played this card, absolutely flaunting it to death. Another way to get off of school was conjunctivitis. I could make my eyes water at will, so on account of it being contagious, my teacher would repeatedly send me home. I had also found that my artistic skills were now coming to the fore as I could fake my own letters from my mother, and bunk off. My second year in school wasn't particularly productive.

Probably the last time I was genuinely ill in school would have been my last week of the third year. I'd turned up as normal on the Monday morning, but felt like crap. By 11 I'd been sent home again, with suspected tonsillitis. I spent the next week dying, and most of the summer holiday suffering as well. Upon return to school in September, I found that I didn't need a note to excuse me from school. This meant I wasn't there for the last week of term for the next two years.

The ability to fake illness was no longer needed in my eyes, and now at college my attendance was truly dreadful. Be it going to the pub instead of 'quantitive methods' was far more favourable, and having a job meant that I could also sacrifice the lesser needed subjects (in my eyes) for earning real cash money.

Now I'm self employed, I have to think twice about being ill. And phoning up the boss to feign sickness really is pointless, because the boss always knows when I'm lying.

In the news...

Yes, I know this 'Baby P' thing is terrible, and I shouldn't make jokes about it. But surely having the term 'Baby P' is just asking for trouble.

The last time a vegetable died this young, it was Ben Hardwick...

First class ticket to hell please



Oh, and I am up early because I have a friend coming here at 10am, and I need to tidy my office.

I am mad. That is all.

Advertising Road Safety

Don't worry, that's not as boring as it sounds.

As a child dragged up (kicking and screaming) in the 70s, we had two road safety advertisements. The bloke who played Darth Vader, and the red squirrel called Tufty who later became roadkill.

In the 80s Australia started to show truly horrific road safety adverts. These adverts would show the devastation caused by the accident, the loss of life, the injuries involved. It would shock you (very successfully I gather) into not speeding, or drinking and driving.


Meanwhile, in the UK we carried on with Jimmy Savile telling us "Klunk Klik, every trip." Following on from the Aussie success, we started to make adverts to compare. The most famous was the late 80s/early 90s advert "have a drink, have a drive" using the Mungo Jerry classic "in the summertime."

Staggeringly, this advert was withdrawn from the air after the ITC received complaints (!) that it was too graphic. Isn't that the point.

Coming bang up to date, and we now have another advert shocking grannies to pick up their phones and complain. That alone has led to this advert having a toned-down version for during the day, whilst the full version can only be shown after the watershed. Not wearing a seatbelt has always been a bone of contention for me. Yes, I agree that it undoubtedly saves lives wearing one, but even Stirling Moss has admitted that he'd not want to be wearing a seatbelt in certain types of crashes because he wouldn't be able to get out quickly enough. I hasten to add, I always wear a seatbelt however (something Sharon should learn) but this is because I drive a Volvo and without the seatbelt it'll nag you to death. A few years ago Ford changed their Mondeos as an experiment, and half of the things required in the car wouldn't work without the seatbelt on, like the indicators or the blowers. This was a very effective way of making people put on their seatbelts. Almost as effective as this week's video, which I personally think is superb and highlights how important a seatbelt is.

Maybe Enjoy's not the right word. "Watch and Learn" would be better.

Something different...

I'll post a video tomorrow, but today I have something very important to announce.


Pseudonymph is coming to the UK in January with her clan, and my father and I thought it would be nice if we could arrange a bit of a welcoming committee. I've emailed some of you (but Misty's email address has bounced for some reason - I'll try again), but any other readers who are interested in a trip to London (date tba nearer the time) please email me on my blog email blog@rikaitch.plus.com (all spam welcome, let mailwasher sort it out).

Obviously, the more the merrier. I know it's sketchy at the moment, but the sooner I announce it the better. I hasten to add, drinks will be on my father.

*ducks*

The best 80's game ever?

After Elite of course, this was one of those games that everyone who ever played it on the Commodore 64 will remember fondly. It was called "Alter Ego," and is the tale of a normal person, from birth to death. A very basic (mostly) text mode game that gives you a situation, and you have to choose your responses. The choices you choose govern how your life changes (like in real life) and makes the game different each time you play it. Much like in life, playing it like a goody-two-shoes makes your life more rewarding and friendly, but once, just once, wouldn't you like to be the bad kid in the class or the young thug that mugs people? It sounds warped, almost perverse, but trust me when I say that some of the questions are priceless.

Some poor sap has converted it most faithfully the internet, and it is playable here

Oh, and watch out for the questions of a "sexual nature" like your first experience of Doctors and nurses, with your mother's friend's daughter Cindy when you're about 8. "You notice how her anatomy's similar to yours, bar one vital piece of equipment. You guess she must have snapped hers off earlier in life."

Just don't go blaming me if you start playing it at work, and find you've wasted a day.

For those who have sons & those who are happy that they don't.... (Lazy Blogging)

1. A king size water-bed holds enough water to fill a 200 m² house to a depth of 10 cm.

2. If you spray hair spray on dust balls and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.

3. A 3-year old boy's voice is louder than 200 adults in a crowded restaurant.

4. If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 20 Kg boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is strong enough, however, if tied to a paint can, to spread paint on all four walls of a 6m x 6m room.

5. You should not throw cricket balls up when the ceiling fan is on. When using a ceiling fan as a bat, you have to throw the ball up a few times before you get a hit. A ceiling fan can hit a cricket ball a long way.

6. The glass in windows (even double-glazed) doesn't stop a cricket ball hit by a ceiling fan.

7. When you hear the toilet flush and the words 'uh oh', it's already too late.

8. Brake fluid mixed with bleach makes smoke, and lots of it.

9. A six-year old Boy can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36-year old Man says they can only do it in the movies,

10. Certain Lego's will pass through the digestive tract of a 4- year old Boy.

11. Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.

12. Super glue is forever.

13. No matter how many jelly crystals you put in a swimming pool you still can't walk on water.

14. Pool filters do not like jelly crystals.

15. VCRs do not eject 'BLT' sandwiches even though TV commercials show they do.

16. Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.

17. Marbles in petrol tanks make lots of noise when driving.

18. You probably DO NOT want to know what that smell is.

19. Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.

20. The fire department in Pontardawe has a 5-minute response time.

21. The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy.

22. It will, however, make cats dizzy.

23. Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

80% of Women will pass this on to almost all of their friends, with or without kids.

80% of Men who read this will try mixing the bleach and brake fluid.

On 'Charidee'

We can't fail to be bombarded by charity organisations today. Be it full page spreads on the latest Cancer research in the Sunday papers, or TV adverts showing disadvantaged African children walking 36 miles for a cup of brown water. The fact is, and this has been niggling me for ages, why the hell can't they work with others like them? Take for example, cancer. Now admittedly this dreadful killer needs two things, a cure and support. And that's where a charity is good. But, do we need more then one? Be it Macmillan, Cancer Research UK (which means presumably there's a version for every other country), Clic Sargent, Breast Cancer care, the list goes on. Now presumably these charities all are trying to find a cure. Surely they could all talk to each other, put the money all into one pot, and find a cure much quicker and more efficiently. The problem with this is they won't be able to claim all the glory for their own charity, so the human ability for selfishness has surpassed itself. Take another example...
Children's charities bombard us with guilt tripping paraphernalia, telling us that if we'd donated £3 a month, little Billy here wouldn't have been abused. And yet, we have Save the Children, the NSPCC, Barnados, Children in Need, the list goes on and on. Again, if they pooled their resources, surely the problem would go away quicker, the service would be better, the support stronger.
Until this happens, I'm happy to help out occasionally (with Children in Need just around the corner I'll be chucking my loose change into the bucket at the supermarket) but I know that only a fraction of what should be used will be because of the shuffling of the coinage from one place to another.
Maybe we need a charity to govern all other charities, and amalgamate them. Oh, hang on.

Dizzy again

Those unfortunate souls that have me on facebook will know I have gone all dizzy again. Well, yes Dad before you say it, dizzier. For the past week the long gone spells of dizziness that haunted me back in June have come back. This is why I have been feeling so unwell, and to compound matters, it is affecting my driving so I'm telling people I'm not available for call outs. On a lighter note...

You can't get rid of Porn

Or, at least rubber dolls and other sex toys.

I mean, what is he, a pervert? What's wrong with a sheep???

More on Welsh Translations

"I am not in the office at the moment. Send any work to be translated."

I like the fact the sign has now been nicked.

Jobs to go at hoover

Welsh A.M. said to be "sucked off"

They missed the chance of a good headline there.

Larry Miller

This guy is most famous for his roles in subtle movies like Pretty Woman, but he also seems to play a college principal a lot. I first sat up and noticed him when he did the most excellent "5 Levels of drinking" and I tried in vain to find a version on Youtube, so I think I'm going to have to make my own version. Whilst looking on Youtube though, I found this week's clip. It highlights how different we are as generations, and oh how true it is. As he points out, by the time my father was my age now, he'd risen through the ranks of the computer departments of Nat West and the Woolwich, and was now working for a big computer company. He had owned a large 3 bedroomed house in a more desirable area of London (is that an oxymoron?), he had a company car, three useful credit cards, and only one set of alimony to pay. It makes you wonder where John will be by the time he's my age...

Enjoy.

How to make a man look 10 x older

John finally decided to make an appearance on the 20th of April 1994, at 12:14 am. 3 days after, I got a call at work from BLS, letting me know not to panic. If you've ever been told not to panic, the first thing you should do is sit down. John had a problem with his heart, and we'd have to take him up to London's Royal Heart and Lung (does anyone else think that sounds like a pie?) Hospital in Chelsea for a scan. The scan showed a tear down one side, but at the moment it didn't seem serious enough to warrant surgery. Breathing a sigh of relief, we returned home.
About a week later, and again we were expressing our concerns to the health visitor, but this time because John was being sick after every feed. When I say 'sick' I mean "*boilk*" followed by a milky smell and a small amount of milk, normally over my shoulder. The health visitor just assured us nothing was wrong, and in no uncertain terms told us to stop wasting her time. We did.
On the Friday evening John's mum was asleep and we were sat watching London's Burning. 16 day old John was fast asleep in BLS's arms, when he started to twitch.
"Oh look, he's dreaming" I said, nonchalently. Just at that moment the twitching started to turn into more violent spasms, and I realised there and then that he was possibly having some sort of fit. I phoned the ambulance, who told me to try and wake him by shouting at him or shaking him (gently, of course). Within minutes the ambulance guys were there and the fit was now over. John was back fast asleep, but the ambulance guys came in and the first one felt John's forehead and his liver, and said to the other one that he was showing signs of infection. We took him to the hospital, where they subjected him to a barrage of tests, all coming out negative. Whilst in hospital, whatever had caused the infection had it appeared also caused John to become constipated. As the antibiotics or whatever had kicked in, the blockage cleared itself in spectacular style. BLS and I were fighting the tide of ka ka that was now flowing freely. Well I say we were. BLS was, I was pissing myself laughing.
John still had problems with puking. It was getting more prominent, and was now starting to look like a scene from the exorcist, as he would cover who ever he was facing at 20 paces. I suspected the two things were linked, but we couldn't prove otherwise. Eventually I snapped. I didn't know what else to do, the various health professionals that had seen John all agreed nothing was wrong, and I felt pushed in a corner. Those that know me know that I don't like getting pushed into a corner, and helpless I broke down on the phone to my father. He got on the first available plane from Germany that night, and was with us by about 7am the next morning. We'd booked an appointment to go and see a BUPA specialist in a local private centre that evening, and imagine our surprise when we walked into the consultant's room to find it was his existing paediatrician, earning a bit of extra cash on the sly. The funny thing was, it was like John knew he'd seen someone prepared to do something, because he calmed right down. He stopped crying, and for the first time actually started to slightly peacefully. We were sent home, with an appointment to see him again under the NHS and a bill for £90 (which I hasten to add my father paid). We'd suspected that John had a condition called Pyloric Stenosis, something several people in my family had had.
The truth was a lot simpler, John was lactose intolerant. He'd not had much nutrition since birth, causing the fit at 16 days old. The vomiting was nothing more then expelling the milk that he could no longer absorb. He was put on prescription for SMA, the nasty foul smelling soya milk replacement. And all returned to normal.
I, however, never looked the same again. The stress had started to show.