Top Gear?

It's not often that I stray into the realm of Jeremy Clarkson, what with him being a jingoistic petrol maniac amongst other things, but motoring matters have been somewhat foremost in my mind lately....

After owning two Peugeot hatchbacks for the last few years, I have embraced the world of Ford.
My last French motor, Le 207 GTi en noir, was so unpredictable it had to go ....

Our three year relationship was a fractious one.

"Bonjour" I would politely announce as I started the ignition and gently eased it into gear.

 "Hmmmph" (or more accurately L'hmmmmph).. Tyre Pressure warning...Tyre Pressure Warning...curiously, even though the tyres were at the correct PSI.

Attention! Engine Management System Failure! (There was nothing wrong with it, as the garage deduced, but not before charging me several hundred dollars for the pleasure)

One day the front passenger window decided not to open. I had simply depressed the switch, a simple enough request to action for a reasonable car....

Pah! you stuck up toffee nosed Englishman...(echoing the French Knights in Monty Python's Holy Grail)
You are no good, you cannot even say Ouvre la Fenetre....therefore I refuse to cooperate.

So for 2 years the window remained closed, eventually relying on a local mechanic emailing a UK friend of his, acquainted as he was with a contact who worked for Peugeot in Paris, in order get the unlock code for the car's computer.!!!

Yet at times, I worshipped and adored my little Gti: the style, the interior, the equipment, so Chic, so French.

And therein lies the problem. In New Zealand European cars are deemed expensive and not like the normal run of the mill Japanese marques, the armies of Swifts, Mazda 3's, the ....(Yawn.....!) Corolla.
Not such a problem if you own 2 tons of German Vorsprung durch Technik. But un petit Peugeot GTi? Merde!

Consequently Euro car's services are more expensive, as are the mechanics bills, spares, and labour costs. All of which means the ultimate resell figure, like a descending lift on the Eiffel Tower, plummets.

Therefore it was time to buy a NZ trusted Ford, and whilst my Ecosport  is not the most expensive car in the range, to me it is the top Ghia.

What is boohoo in French?

No, I'm fine really.......

In 1992 Opus III would have us believe that it was going to be a fine night tonight, and a fine day tomorrow, as can be evidenced by the fact that people were opening windows. This British house/techno dance tune encapsulated all that's modest and understated about the British mentality.
When stressed or angry, ill, or emotional (quite rare for Brits to get emotional - unless it's during the X factor finals), or just simply don't walk to talk, we Brits will always try to brush things off with "I'm fine", 

I too espouse the cliched vernacular, reassuring people that I'm fine. For example at the renal clinic this week, after being asked "how are things", I replied that things were just fine, thus bringing the conversation to a shuddering halt. 

For in English the phrase I'm fine often can be read as  "I don't want to talk".
On this occasion the answer was intended to keep the conversation as limited as possible, in order to avoid excessive parking charges!  

This leaning towards duplicity can be further seen in the following explanation of "British speak"...

1. “I'm fine” – I am moments away from a devastating mental collapse, so please leave me alone

2. “I’ll bear it in mind” – Let us never mention this again.

3. “I'm sure it’s my fault” – It’s your fault.

4. “Chuffed” – Experiencing heart-racing euphoria.

5. “Not too bad, actually” – I'm possibly the happiest I have ever been.

6. “A bit miffed” – I've been ripped apart by a tsunami of pain and sorrow.

7. “Down in the dumps” – Severe depressive episode.

8. “Under the weather” – Close to death.

9. “Gutted” – Suicidal.

10. “Peeved” – Consumed with rage.

11. “Can’t complain” – But I'm going to anyway.

12. “Oh dear” – A life-altering catastrophe has just occurred.

My particular favourite is number 10......

Short Fat Fannie

Of course not  a personal reference...., although I am not the tallest of persons. Indeed mine would be spelt "Fanny" and would be called a bottom, since I don't speak American.

No this was a 1957 smash hit for blues singer Larry Williams.  This rock n roll number was one of the first "novelty" records and was featured by many other groups in their touring sets, including The Beatles, who played in their cinematic homage to excellence, 1969's Let it Be.

He was also a firm friend of Little Richard....

Since diminutive seems to be the order of the day, it would be appropriate to mention the amount of time spent at my last transplant clinic.....16 minutes. That includes from the electronic ticket barrier opening, parking, walking to the clinic, sitting and waiting in the "waiting" room for the doctor.

My doctor having quickly reviewed my blood tests,was most pleased, and I was soon sent off on my merry little way. I was back at the ticket machine and out of the car park in a flash.

I know this because the ticket machine told me my length of visit and charged me ....zero. Parking for visits of less than 30 minutes are free! 

Which is gratifying to know. many times I have been short changed by that particular little machine.

The Politics of Dancing

Amongst other things 1984 gave us; a George Orwell revival, more Ronald Reagan, and this little songs by Reflex in which the politicians became DJ's playing hits across the nation. A respectable yet lowly entry at number 27 in the charts....
1984 also saw David Lange win the NZ General Election and turned the country into a land of nuclear free hobbits. 

New Zealand went to the polls again last weekend, and the nation was subjected to a bitter campaign of dirty politics and various sideshows. The nation spoke as one however, and the current party was reinstalled like a vague Apple update....No one really understood the point but it doesn't seem to cause any damage to the status quo...

This was only my second general election here, as for the first four years I was prevented nay prohibited from enrolling. Like Emmeline Pankhurst and her merry band of agitated suffragettes, I was like many tax payers in this country, unable to vote.

The reason? In New Zealand you have to be a New Zealand citizen or Permanent Resident to enrol. Due to the damaging nature of long term diabetes and therefore the likelihood of renal failure I was denied a visa, and therefore the right to stay and the the right to vote. This was due to the cost of  my care on the public health system :(

Four years of fighting immigration and various appeals finally worked and in 2008 I was given official residency. Since then I've received a new kidney, a new pancreas, and regular drugs costing at least $25,000 a year to fund.....

Now that sounds like the sort of manifesto I'd vote for, and no dancing whatsoever.

Imagine.

Arguably the best record in the world ever.....

A stellar recording by an influential rock genius, recorded when I was a wee lad in 1971. The disc shot to prominence after Lennon's untimely death in December 1980, just as I was an easily influenced spotty teen. It was soon number 1, deposing The St Winifred's School Choir with Grandma. 

Inviting the listener to ponder on the nature of the world and mankind….(not Grandma..)

Talking of wild imaginings, picture if you can the crippling pain caused by a double migraine attack following a week of stress.

Imagine then, that it struck on the Saturday of a busy weekend, simultaneously emulsifying with a viscious attack of influenza.

Continue to envisage then the painful swallows of rapid onset laryngitis, together with the coughing and tight constriction of a chest infection.. Painful? You bet.

Now conceive of a sudden deterioration resulting in an urgent need for accident and emergency services late Saturday night. Now at this point insert the words “consumed alcohol and therefore unable to drive” and phone the ambulance. Imagine further if you will, being packed off all alone in the ambulance, with no money, shoes, 'phone, in fact just a jolly old dressing gown.

And conjure up the horror of trying to dial home after being discharged at 7am, only to have your calls go unanswered and being forced to pay $100 for a taxi ride home…still in a dressing gown.

Now visualise that all these nasties had happened to you, how would you feel?

Especially if your partner had had a kidney pancreas operation, had been a diabetic all their life, and had been rushed many times to hospital and probably should be a tad more empathetic....

Ono!

Take that to the Bank

There it is, said Shalamar as they scoured the High Streets looking for somewhere to stash their top 40 gold. No doubt hunting in vain for a HSBC or Midland bank. This hit from 1978 added to that vast horde of riches.

On a completely unrelated vein, I was embraced by the warm and friendly glow seeping from the local team of phlebotomists at Labtests on Saturday.
As usual I strayed into the corporately fashioned designer interior, imbued with a warm inviting slick gloss of caring responsibility.....but still sterile none the less. I took a seat, then returned it. After a while an exotic voice called me over and directed me to room 4. I followed her orders and took another chair following the man in front of me as I went....

After the by now well rehearsed pleasantries, we settled into our respective roles. For the her, the ever efficient health professional, for me the slightly squeamish and agliophobic customer.

"Can you please confirm your name and date of  birth please"

Why yes certainly I can, the sight of impending blood doesn't actually cause my memory to fail.

"And for security reasons, your address"

For security reasons !? Was this in fact the SIS, (New Zealand's top intelligence bureau, with more spooks than a haunted house fair ride)

"Sorry, force of habit, I used to work in a bank" she weakly smiled. More embarrassed perhaps by her past employment in these recession hit times, rather than her slightly foolish mistake?

In a bank? I laughingly retorted....Shall I utilise that obvious pun? Yes let's do it...

Was it a blood bank? Ha! A stunning punning victory for me I think!

"No" she replied, flatly "it was Westpac"

Nothing. No smile, no laugh or wink, no acknowledgment of the recent linguistic tool whatsoever.

I felt like a total clot.

Video killed the Radio Star?

Or so Buggles mused in 1979, when the future seemed bright and goggly, more UVF than VHF.
Not so says the radio in the background, frantically waving it's antennae and speakers about in a frankly cheesy manner.

As the world  fast forwarded, we watched the epic cellulose battle between Beta and VHS, and still the the dear old wireless went from strength to strength. Video shops boomed everywhere. Soon every house had a video recorder, complete with enormous cabinets housing huge libraries of bulky rectangular tapes. 
I remember the language firmly asserting itself in our collective consciousness. We started to "tape" stuff, and forgetting to "set the video" became a national sport. How many of us can remember "taping over" a cherished memory with a hastily recorded EastEnders, or Brookside replacing the Royal Wedding.
But now the video is  dead, killed by shiny new plastic discs, and digital downloads are now the norm.

Why then do I still want to "tape" Sky? Or when I press series link, do I then affirm that I have set the video? 

On a similar vein, I occasionally wonder whether I have missed my evening injection, or I forgotten to go to dialysis! So much for 40 years of conditioning and habits.

Oh well, time to eject this thought and get on with playing the programme..

Wot?

Long before "Estuary English" swept our world, we just had Londoners....and Captain Sensible was one of those entertaining capital city dwellers. Wot was his second hit single after 1982's Happy Talk.. No, seriously "Wot" WAS his follow up hit...This former singer from The Damned made an eminently sensible choice to go it alone..
Less sensible were the 'goings on' and machinations of  last Friday. Was there a medical mishap (so oft the muse of these posts?), an amusing but avoidable altercation with a fellow human being? No, This drama was solely the result of my striving for hygienic perfection.

On my way home last week, I stopped at lights, and whilst counting down the seemingly interminable minutes, I decided to clean and refresh my hands. Having reached and secured the hand gel from my cup holder, I deftly flipped open the lid and squeezed. It was if a medicimally minded aseptic llama had suddenly sneezed on my hands.

The resultant wave of liquefied gel engulfed my hands like a hygienic tsunami. Aghast, I looked down at my hands, then the steering wheel, and back again. How to drive without  making the wheel wet and slippery? Time for action, as the lights started to turn to green....I quickly tried to wipe the gel from my hands, leaving a trail of gel like an anti bacterial Gastropod. I gripped the edge of the wheel using my palms, blowing rapidly on the drying digits. A quick hand waggle on the way to the gear stick, and I was dry, safe to resume my journey in accordance with the road code. 

I must remember to move the hand gel from the car so it doesn't heat up and liquefy. That would be rather sensible. Wot?

Sweet Dreams (are made of this)

Who am I to disagree? Standing in a cow field and being "worried" by malevolent looking Frisians was a strange video choice for their breakthrough hit of 1983, but the Eurythmics certainly made their dreams much sweeter after this classic bought them the sweet smell of success.

At that time, my sweet experiences were artificially limited to saccharin.The chemically enhanced and flavoured sugar "substitute" was the nation's tried and tested diabetic/slimmer's beverage sweetener. It was a poor imitation though,with an unpleasant simulated taste, leaving a lingering metallic tang.This was something the manufacturers went to great lengths to disguise. However with unalluring names like Sweet "N" Low, Splenda, Hermesetas and Sucryl it should not have been to hard to spot.

Like a monocular modified pair of spectacles: they do work, but the overall effect is rather odd..

Thankfully those saccharin days are gone....or have they?

The NZ Pharmaceutical Agency (Pharmac) has changed supplier of my tacrolimus anti rejection pills in an effort to save costs on the public purse. The lucky new recipient of the golden contract is Sandoz. Previously Novartis, (a merger of Ciba Geigy snd Sandoz) in 1899, the Swiss chemical giant started to commercially produce .........saccharin!

As I gave up saccharin long ago, (the taste really was excruciatingly bad), I hope my impending reuinion with Sandoz and their lab's products is much sweeter...

Three is the Magic Number

Three is the magic number! Did the late eighties rap band De La Soul have a psychic premonition? Were they perhaps privy to some medical secret known only to themselves and Nostradamus? 

For did the soothsayer scribe "in the year 2014, cometh the third year of passing by the new part for the once afflicted sugary one”

Had he done so this may have been inaccurately predicted as a foretelling of the appearance of the iPhone phenomenon, the sinking of the Costa Concordia or some such unrelated malarkey. 

Demonstrably fact beyond doubt is the anniversary of my recycled kidney and pancreas.

For indeed it is three years since my shrivelled and frankly useless organs were given a palpable boost by the transplant this very week! In sugar terms, three years is a wealth of new cakes, biscuits and curious confections to discover, and I have the waistline to prove that as well.

Three years with no diabetic hypos, no further eye damage, no damaging daily dialysis, no 45 minutes trips to dialysis there and back three time s a week, no more injections, or daily blood tests. And no more ghastly laxative diabetic chocolate and low-cal drinks.

Three is a magic number, and may there be many more of them, or so I predict.

We are Detective.

In 1983 the Thompson Twins were on the lookout, perhaps for the missing plural consonant at the end of their UK number 7 hit. This alphabet catastrophe was just the latest in a set of misdemeanours for the group. None of their members were alas called Thompson, they were not by any means twins (3?) and to top it all, were not even related. 

Such intrigues! What better way however, to introduce the peculiar happenings in Whangaparaoa this afternoon.

Having performed a swift "mini-vacuum", (just like a thorough spring clean, but quicker and less exhaustive), it was time for a spot of lunch. As the autumn sun's rays filtered  through the clouds, the garden provided an enticing haven to enjoy a sandwich. As I tucked in heartily, I noticed from the corner of my eye a glimpse of gingery orange from nearby. It appeared to be our enormous ginger cat, Jinsy, sitting in foliage and silently staring at me.  This is not new, for he often hides and stares, like one of Emil's detectives....

Lunch was soon over, followed by a nap, but there was no movement from the Orange Overseer hidden in the foliage. 

"Jinsy" I called. No affectionate mew in retort, just quiet immobility.

He had become the silent sentinel. 

This was most odd, and quite un-Jinsylike. This warranted investigation.

There was similarly no movement as I approached... "Jinsy" I called again.

Perhaps he was stuck, but then why no movement?

As I grew nearer and my eyes focused better I first gasped, and then giggled..

Instead of a noble feline warrior stalking his prey, I had been the unwitting victim of a newly placed terracotta pot.

 Next time I must remember to take my glasses into the garden.

Together Forever

As I sped to the chemist this weekend, Bluetooth blaring out Rick Astley's 1988 dance hit, the sun, like the audio, was streaming in. I think it would only to be fair to say that given the evidence in his videos, Rick was not one of the worlds greatest dancers.

 Indeed many pop kings and queens have been the inspiration for dances;  Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk, Madonna’s Vogue, and Mud’s Tiger Feet for example. Rick alas was not blessed with such cavorting excellence.

On the other hand, I prided myself on being a bit of a disco dolly,like a toe tapping Happy Footed penguin.

In these halcyon days of the late 80’s London, the hot summer nights were boogie night. If there was ever a Kool, I was in his gang.

As I climbed from the car and bopped into the chemist, I spied my reflection….checked shirt, slim jeans.. Eighties fashion has come full circle and is now in Vogue again.  I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky.

Bursting forth like a new Stock Aitken and Waterman record, memories came flooding back. The combination of the warm autumn sun, the clothes and the efforts of Mr Astley sent me straight back to the summer of 1988….Dance music, parties, pub “sessions” and falling asleep on the underground. Young, single, living in the capital and enjoying life to the full.

I think it’s no exaggeration to say I was a “bad” diabetic then…Sugary drinks, crisps, missed meals and some rather dubious parties may all have contributed to the neuropathy and related problems culminating in renal failure in 2009.

But unlike the eighties some things do not return, the Filofax, printed London A-Z’s,  and my diabetes.

I truly thought we would be together forever.

Victims

Boy George and his clan left us with this haunting melody in December 1983 as they described the turmoil inside the band over failed relationships. Another failed relationship recently has been between New Zealand Immigration and a young Fijian chap called Sanil Kumar. This 30 year old was recently deported from New Zealand after our system refused to let him stay due to the cost of his ongoing dialysis. Fiji does not perform  kidney transplants, whilst New Zealand does. Quite understandably Mr Kumar and his family wanted him to stay here as a dialysis patient as he waited on the transplant list. Unfortunately he died this week in a Fiji hospital due to an infection, less than a month after his forced deportation.

I too was similarly refused a residency  permit after 2 years of working in New Zealand, and my work permit application immediately cancelled. Not because of my diabetes, but because of the likelihood of renal failure brought on by the diabetes. The process involved four long frustrating and anxious years of medical tests, medical conjecture, policy debate and expert testimony After a judicial review and the intervention of a senior MP my case was referred back to Immigration and I was given residency. 

Whilst there have been tweaks and minor changes in policy, basically the same rule applies. If you cost the country more than $25,000 in the course of your treatment then your visa application will be declined and you must exit the country or face deportation. Once all appeals have been exhausted, applicants have the right to apply to the Minister of Immigration for a discretionary waiver of policy. In Mr Kumar's case the minister, Nikki Kaye  MP (National, Auckland Central) made the decision that he could not stay in NZ as dialysis is available in Fiji. 

"Immigration decisions involving health conditions were complex and involved consideration of a range of factors.

"That's why I give careful and thorough consideration to a range of factors and often seek additional advice as I did from health agencies in this instance."

However she managed to ignore the advice that Fiji only funds three months of treatment and patients end up dying of infection or complete renal failure.

Whilst rigid structures are in place to ensure that health systems are not abused or subject to unreasonable burden, the Minister is included in the process to intervene with human wisdom, where compassion and oversight might mean the difference between life and death. 

If the minister is going to ignore her humanitarian role in the process, and adhere to policy, then civilised society as a whole is undermined. Today Mr Kumar, tomorrow the new girlfriend or boyfriend of your child, the overseas cousin, grandparent, or friend who wants to move to New Zealand, but develops or is likely to suffer from a potentially expensive condition, defect or disease.. 

 If that is to be the case then we are all victims

Sanil Kumar 1983-2014

Well heeled

I've just been handed today's topic and am rather excited as a result. Obviously the blog authorities have at last heard my plea for suitable workwear and relented at last.

Finally I can take my place amongst the stylish and respectably attired in London's Jermyn Street. I can strut my funky stuff, put my best foot forward, whilst consistently maintaining my brogue vogue. Hailing as I do from Northampton, the home of the British footwear industry (True indeed, the town museum displays a wealth of ancient and not so ancient footwear. Top exhibit award must go to the 1959 Elephants Shoe, made for a re-enactment of Hannibal's Alpine crossing);

I amtherefore thrilled by the prospect  of exquisite hand stitched leather pieces cobbled skilfully together.....

One moment please.....I've just been handed a note from the producers.....

Ah, apparently I was misguided in my sole assumption. It says I am well healed.

Yes, after a long trek along the pathway of recovery, laced with countless dressings, and a few slips on the way, it seems all is well below.
 I am truly well healed.

русские

В Европе и Америке, растет чувство истерики ...

Стинг предупредили в 1985 году, когда в разгар холодной войны, зло Советский Союз выступал против свободы Запад (по крайней мере, это то, что г-н Рейган сказал нам). Как два павлина напыщенный зол и чистить, что делает подлые комментарии и извинился детей непростительно сверхдержавой поставлена.

Слава Богу, закончилась холодная война (Он должен иметь, потому что Джордж Буш-старший сказал так, и мы все верим, что семью).

Тем не менее, тридцать лет спустя, и Россия начала вести себя как по-детски павлина снова. Кроме этого павлина есть жестокое и непредсказуемый характер. Маленький ребенок Путин получает злее и расстроен, как он бросает свои русские куклы из его оборками коляске. В то время как в остальной части Европы и Америки, есть растущее чувство истерии ..... Боже мой, мы были здесь раньше.

Почти. На этот раз, однако, вместо того, чтобы взаимно гарантированного уничтожения ядерных боеголовок с наконечниками, Запад готов ответить со слегка неудобных путешествий санкций, которые будут препятствовать заместитель Питание Supervisor в российском посольстве в Момбасе ....

Все это суета над свободной Котлета по-киевски.

В моем мире, Украина занимает важное место, так как он впервые первые опыты по пересадке почки человека в 1936 году. Операции, проводимые украинский хирург Юрий Voronev, хотя в конечном счете безуспешными, сияли новый свет на то, что стало важным шагом вперед в трансплантации и здравоохранения. Без украинских достижений мы никогда не могли бы быть там, где мы находимся сегодня, с более чем 70 000 трансплантаций почек, проведенных в прошлом году. Из тех примерно 46% от живых доноров.

Так в то время как раздражительный Путин поглощает больше украинскую территорию, это было приятно, свидетелями Россия будучи освистан в обычно дружественной арене Евровидении. Да, это верно, так как санкции не то вывести ежегодный конкурс красоты Евровидения campness чтобы помочь раздражать ох как Бутч российского президента.

Детские? Да, Удовлетворение? Даже более того.

Boooooo!

Russians

In Europe and America, there's a growing feeling of hysteria...

Warned Sting in 1985 when at the height of the Cold War, the evil Soviet Union stood against the freedom loving West (at least that's what Mr Reagan told us).  Like two angry peacocks strutting and preening, making snide childish comments and excusing the inexcusable, the superpowers posed.
Thank goodness the cold war ended (It must have, because George Bush Senior said so, and we all trust that family).

Yet thirty years on, and Russia has started to behave like a childish peacock again. Except this peacock has a violent and unpredictable nature. Little Baby Putin gets angrier and more upset as he throws his Russian dolls out of his frilly pram. Whilst in the rest of Europe and America, there's a growing feeling of hysteria.....Oh dear, we've been here before.

Almost. This time however, instead of mutually assured destruction by nuclear tipped warheads, the West is ready to respond with slightly inconvenient travel sanctions that will hinder the Deputy Catering Supervisor at the Russian embassy in Mombasa....

All this fuss over a free chicken Kiev.

In my world, Ukraine has an important place, as it pioneered the first human kidney transplant experiments in 1936. The operations, conducted by Ukrainian surgeon Yuri Voronev,although ultimately unsuccessful, shone new light on what was to become a major advance in transplantation and healthcare. Without the Ukrainian advances we might never be where we are today, with over 70,000 kidney transplants performed last year. Of those approximately 46% are from live donors.

So whilst the petulant Putin gobbles up more Ukrainian territory, it was rewarding to witness Russia being booed in the normally friendly arena of the Eurovision Song Contest. Yes, that's right, as sanctions fail then bring out the annual pageant of Eurovision campness to help annoy the oh so butch Russian president.

Childish?  Yes, Satisfying? Even more so.

Boooooo!

The glamourous face of Vlad Putin in drag to win next year's Eurovision, with Conchita Wurs's beard.