DISCO Inferno......

Not really a good week in the world of disco icons. First Donna's summer turned to winter, and next Robin Gibb was hustled off the disco floor. In the late 70's both were symbols of an exciting and pulsating world of dance and sophistication from the USA. A vast gulf away from my life, growing up as I did, a suburban boy, in Northampton, UK.


New York had Tony Manero,          










Northampton had me.....

Whilst the U.S. boogied with "Saturday Night Fever", we Brits were titillated by "Come Dancing"

Stateside they enjoyed the wit and humour of Kermit and the Muppets. The UK was stuck with Keith Harris and Orville.

And as the US gave us Star Wars with its multi million dollar budget leading to innovative strides in sci-fi film production, we had Dr Who with the glories of the BBC special effects department.

However one of the clearest differences between our friends across the pond was our attitudes to healthcare. Since 1948 the UK's cherished National Health Service has often been maligned and lambasted, but inherently a very good idea. Universal healthcare free at the point of delivery. Introduced in the post war years it grew to be an institution so engrained in the UK psyche that it became an object of fun and affection, rather like the dear old British Rail sandwich, the BBC and our renowned civil service.

The USA provides a user pays system, that encompasses most of the working population. Insurance companies pay for the majority of the fees, linked to a persons employment.  With the onset on the global recession, workers lost their jobs and with it the benefit of their health insurance. An underfunded, overstretched public system picks up the pieces when the premiums run out.

Luckily the UK system has been adopted by New Zealand, so we too have a publicly funded and widely available free healthcare, which has been generous to me in the extreme. Over the years I have been a high user of services, both as a diabetic, a dialysis recipient and of course for providing me with the transplant organs and all the attendant post transplant care.

I feel lucky  to live in a society that operates universal free at the point of service healthcare, that is constantly criticised in the press and media.

To misquote the 1979 single by Ottawan:  D.I.S.C.O, the NHS and NZ system is:

She is D:                               Dependable,

She is I:                                 Irreplaceable,

She is S:                                Super Special,

She is C:                                Caring Caring,

She is Oooohhhhh:               D.I.S.C.O             



And the inferno in the title?

Having had my Ranitidine dosage dropped down by 1/3 the esophageal pain has returned when eating. Not a violent as before, but as noticeable as a power cut on a disco dance floor.
Mainly restricted to hot food, the constriction at the back of my throat flares up like a white suited Travolta, causing a spasmodic reflux gobbling turkey like on the dancefloor.
Gagging on a mouthful of mashed potato is not a look I like to present to the world.
I will mention this to my renal team and see if we can get the old dosage reinstated.

I used to enjoy Hot Stuff, but since the pain has crept back it is time to say No more Tears (Enough is enough). Then I can strut my funky stuff and get down on it once again.

Ра Ра Распутин...Ra Ra Rasputin.

Ra Ra Rasputin, Russia's greatest love machine......
boogied Boney M as they bopped camply along the charts to various number ones spots throughout the globe. Bursting with historical allusions the Caribbean/German sensations let us believe that this dastardly holy man of old was lover, schemer, had eyes of flaming gold, who attracted Moscow chicks, and men of higher standing wanted his head, so they shot him till he was dead....
All very lyrically interesting but scant on historical fact.
Which can hardly be applied to the nuggets of truth penned on these pages, dear bloghoppers.
For example, The first renal transplant was performed in April 1933 by Yuri Vorony (1896-1961) in the former Soviet Union. 

In the procedure he transplanted a cadavic kidney into the medial thigh of a 26 year female patient who had attempted suicide by swallowing mercury, causing acute kidney failure. The  grafted kidney received blood from the thigh artery and began to produce urine. However the blood types were incompatible, the patient a B and the donor 0. Rejection set in and the kidney function deteriorated and after 48 hours the patient died. Despite this, Voronoy is credited with being one of the pioneers of kidney transplantation, and his work along with many others was significant and led to the first successful procedure in 1954 in Boston with the patient living for a further 8 years.

I bet you didn't know that. If you did may I have you as my "phone a friend" on Millionaire? 

As I weld these words weekly many joys are encountered. An aspect I love about blogging is collecting the stats about the readership. Blogger gives you various ways you can observe the traffic and sources that attract people into reading your blog, including referring sites and google search words. Bizarre searches that have lead them to my world includes the terms "blueberries are good", "grimly octavian" and even "clip art of women in church"???

What gems await me from this weeks statistics, I dare to wonder.

Blogger utlises (yes spellchecker, it is with S because Im English and this is the English language) a world map which provides me with visitor stats from around the globe on recent traffic. Like an evil Bond villain  I survey and take note of the territories I have added to my ever growing empire of conquests.

Random nations flock to join, and just like the UN security council nations rotate and depart.
We have had brief flirtations with Israel, Malaysia, Egypt, Poland and Japan. And just like the UN my map view has been dominated by the permanent members of my own world, Countries whose denizens contain my family and friends and syndicated twitter and facebook contacts: the US, UK, Germany and Australia (Hello folks!).
But thrusting itself mightily onto the global stage recently, I can now welcome Russia.
Привет, Россия, я надеюсь, что вы наслаждаетесь моим своеобразным взглядом на мир.

(Of course I speak fluent Russian about as well as Minke the Burmilla, renowned for her chirpy chatter, "мяу". Alas her miaow would be as unintelligible to a cat from Kaliningrad, as it is to me.....)   

This cyrillic visitation from the former Eurovision winner from 2008 adds not just an additional audience, which It must be said does inspire creative blog writing juices.
However more importantly and aesthetically it adds to the peaceful karma of Andrew's World. 
To be precise, because of it's vast tracts of land sweeping across the Steppes, from the Volga to Vladivostok, Murmansk to Magadan, Russia is enormous! As a result of Russia's great size my map of global visitors looks evenly balanced and gives a reassuring sense of global access.
As countries appear on the map, they are announce their prescence by becoming green, not unlike a viral 

Andrew's World has been rather lopsided of late, with the densest of green emanating from the USA, with the UK, NZ and Australia being slightly lighter green. 
But hark! Russia joins the hushed throng of nations, settling like a moss over the previously bleak and barren landscape of the east. It salutes me with its fresh cold mintyness..

Now at last my world has equilibrium, and balance, thanks to the resurgent green empire.

Of course balance is also required for that most Russian of dances........the Kazachok

Ohhhhhh those Russians........

A Change would do you good..

Or so Sheryl Crow would have you believe.

She is incidentally my favourite artiste with an ornithilogical appellation. Other pecktastic pop personae include The Eagles, A Flock of Seagulls and Paul McCartney with Wings. Unfortunately on this CD cover, she looks less like a crow and more akin to a screech owl. But before we get in a flap and our blog flies off course, lets bring it home to roost and nest on today's update.

Change can be very unsettling for those used to our acquired habits, whether it be lifestyle, financial, domestic or in my case health related. Imagine one day you are strolling along life's highway to perpetual bliss, calling at the service stations of Mid Life Crisis, Lower Expectations, and Great Realisation, only to be diverted along Transitional Avenue.

Getting my feathers ruffled this week was a slight change in my medication......

Since my transplant 10 months ago I have been a regular consumer of Fludrocortisone.

Not the latest variant of exciting new wonder toothpaste, or an obscure Italian  film director,but a synthetic manufactured steroid. It aids the body in producing sodium and therefore water retention. It works alongside the new kidney by helping it to generate additional salt and is common in kidney transplants until the new organ is fully established. It also had a side benefit of countering the dreadful postural hypertension earlier in my tenure of this donated piece.

Regular followers in Andrew's World may remember the highs and lows of my immediate post transplant recovery. My daily struggle with maintaining the perpendicular, Concordia like I would develop a severe list to starboard.

However the affliction went away, cast aside like an unloved pullover. Thanks to Fludrocortisone I have been  able to keep my pecker up.
Mass pill popping is, since my entrance onto the chronic end stage renal failure stage, not new to yours truly. So I systematically developed a morning routine that incorporated the daily ritual of 0.3 mgs, three tablets of the steroid.

Get out of bed, feed the cat, start to boil the kettle, count out tablets, swallow said tablets with tea made from boiled kettle...etc etc


Until finally fully preened and coiffeured I step inside my car and enter the serene world of the Auckland commuter ready to flounce into the office for another exciting and fun filled day of being Andrew.

However for the last few visits to the renal clinic my blood pressure has been a tad on the high side. Not ragingly high pressure like Mt Etna or the San Andreas fault, but still considerably raised from my norm of 105/85, sitting around 155/105.

Initially I thought it might be the stress of commuting, the shared joy of being immersed in the  the warm collegiate atmosphere of fellow travellers joined in union on a long and purposeful journey. Just like hobbits on a quest we strike out together in a comradely bond and share the universal sign of the commuting classes....

Having undertaken this soothing venture deep in to the heart of suburbia, it is little wonder that my blood pressure has risen slightly?

Of course the clinical chaps and chappesses err heavily on the side of caution,  high blood pressure being of course a medical no-no for all sorts of reasons. and so my intake of fludrocortisone has been reduced  to just 1 tablet, lest it cause complications.

Trying to remember this during the morning ablutions and kettle boiling routine, having been ingrained for so long, can be a bit of a hit and  miss affair.


Get up, feed the cat, boil kettle, count out tablets, drink tablets with tea, remember correct dosage, smack forehead in disdain, try to cough up tablets, gag on warm frothy medicinal mess, swallow remaining gunge, resolve to try to remember next time.


Three times this week I have gone back to the previous dose, only to end up coughing, spluttering and generally scaring the poor cat, Minke who suddenly being presented with a snorting monstrosity, wisely flits away.

Obviously this is not ideal and I will have to work hard at trying to shake off the old regime.

What a twit twoo

Honestly I struggle sometimes to think of anyone so birdbrained as I am!

Nothing at all to crow about really.

Tour de France?

was a minor hit in the UK, in 1983,  for the German electronic computer based synth band. Their biggest hit in Europe came with "The Model", a repetitive ditty oozing 80's minimalism. The model idolised by Kraftwerk no doubt followed the same mantra that applied from Twiggy to Cindy Crawford and back to todays teeny twiglets again. They all share a similar characteristic, they are all thin.
Unlike yours truly.

So following the advice of my renal team my diet has changed a tad, and I have begun to exert myself with a little more exercise. Having just purchased a bike from the lovely seaside town of Mount Manganui, with the express purpose of getting a bit more trim, I was ready to drop those additional kg's.

Note the transport, an excellent portent of the future...

So last weekend I decided to try out the new bike, and attempt a mammoth perambulation through the local environs.

With helmet safely in place (a pity really, we never had them as kids, and I even careered into the back of a VW Beetle in 1978 with no apparent lasting brain damage).
I looked like a dark storm tooper ready to do battle against Luke Skywalker.

I checked my route on the GPS and felt that the terrain and distance would be sufficiently challenging on my constitution. I checked my helmet, tyres,  brakes and made sure that the seat was in a position to minimise postural discomfort. Mentally I had plotted available rest stops, and had my supply of Kendal Mint cake and Scroggin for sustenance. With phone battery fully charged in case of emergencies, I was ready to set off, to begin my first cycle for 15 years, and was ready to fall in love again with the bike.

Before me lay the path to a healthier lifestyle.

Gingerly I let gravity lead me down the drive......

 Progressing through the palm lined boulevard took my mind to the Monaco leg of the Tour de France.

As I weaved erratically down the drive like a particularly stubborn supermarket trolley, I pondered the wisdom of this approach. Wisdom and balance flew away as I met the grassy verge in a grotesque parody of the late pope John Paul II kissing the ground. Carefully checking that I was unscathed and more importantly unobserved by any onlookers or TV crews, I dusted myself down and set off again, this time reaching the road safely...

Slightly shaken but undamaged, I continued timidly at first but as the pace picked up, the joys of riding flooded back from childhood. My pace picked up as I worked out how the various gears worked. Thank goodness my Peugeot only has 5 gears or else I might forever be veering off the road.

Legs a pumping I negotiated a roundabout , mindful of any other road users, but in a flash i was across and passing the vast watery expanse of the local storm water run off pond. Thoughtfully landscaped by the council to provide a habitat for wildfowl, this has become overrun with ducks lately.

Bravely steering past the quackers I encountered my first speed bump and was over in much haste, defeating the council's intent. Good progress was being made as I realised another roundabout was approaching. This one though being quite busy with local traffic. Keen to avoid a collision betwixt me and a vehicle I mounted the pavement and swept passed the obstacle in complete safety.

As I began to perspire with the exertion, I was thrilled at the new found energy and stamina that my new organs were allowing me to draw upon. At this rate the ponds will be just melting away.
And I had not even nibbled my mint cake yet.

Relentlessly I pushed on, changing road for pavement again and thence over a small stream and into a small reserve. Bravely pushing on, negotiating paths and pavements, lawn and tussock, avoiding doggy poo and ducks alike.

By now I was huffing and puffing, like a steam train and feeling just as hot. I reached the beach and stopped to rest at a convenient convenience. Despite the indication, there was not a Munster to be seen.

Feeling veritably virtuous, I radiated a sense of health induced smugness. I was keeping fit!

Not yet feeling the need for sugary treats from The Lake District, I set off once more along the flat and wide expanse of the local seafront. Winds swept in from the sea, and I was at one with nature, man and machine in harmony with zephyrs from across he Pacific Ocean.

Every beach has it's end, whether it be the vast expanse of Ninety Mile Beach, or the urban fringed endless sands of Blackpool, so sadly does Arkles Bay. Two choices stared at me, I could ascend the 45' degree incline of Arkles Strand which climbs up almost 300ft to Whangaparaoa, or I could turn back and ride along the flat back home, but via a different pathway.

The flat pathway screamed out to be ridden and with regret I said goodbye to the vertical cliffs and cycled onto the verdant way. A small hillock stood in way but with the correct gear selected, I rose unhindered like Hannibal ascending his mountains, and swooping down on Rome.
Instead of temples and mosaics I passed through a sylvan glade and over a small tributary heading for the beach.

Picking up speed I exited from the small reserve and shot like a bullet back onto the road.
I felt exhilarated and already somehow lighter! Some steady progress was made along this stage of the route and enjoyed the different views encountered from atop a saddle. The road stretched ever on and slowly I drew nearer to the roundabout, where I repeated my earlier move.

The way back was again exhilarating as I saw things from a different perspective, and this was also doing my body some good. Why, the kilos were literally falling away (in my mind...)

Taking much the same route home, I slowed as I approached our palm laden driveway, and coasted down and up the dipped entrance until I slowed to a halt.

Faced with the seemingly vertical upper driveway I conceded defeat and briskly walked up pushing my velocipede with me.

At the summit I turned around, and gave a whoop of joy, I had not felt this good for aeons! Tired but happy. I went inside to change, alas not into the yellow jersey but something  little more comfortable.

I reflected on my achievement,

Whilst not the Tour de France, I had pedalled many revolutions and had run rings around Madame Guillotine. Guillotine? I hear you cry? Bien sur mon petit chaufleurs....

I had, after all, been just around the block.