stephen2485

[stephen2485]

Its a mystery

The mysteries of life. The fundamental questions man has wrestled with since the dawn of time. Why are we here? Is there a God? Is there intelligent life in space? And why the fucking hell did I watch Fire Maidens from Outer Space? This film stinks. It's a bad film. It's chewed your favourite slippers, shat on your bed and humped Father O' Malleys leg until, well, you know. Bad film. Baaaaad film. A group of US/UK scientists are heading to the 13th (?) moon of Jupiter for reasons that hardly seem worth telling you about. Instead of your usual rocket where the crew are strapped in with space suits on, these lads sit round smoking tabs and making crude predictions about sexy alien life forms. Which is uncannily accurate. For once they arrive, guess what? Yep sexy aliens. The last survivors of Atlantis, 1 old man and the 28 daughters he wants impregnating. Oh and a bullet proof bloke with scaley skin who says "Grrrrrrr" a lot. I've watched some crap recently. That's the point of this exercise obviously. But I fell asleep twice during the first 12 minutes of this intergalactic turd. And this is without doubt the worst thing I've ever seen. Ever. And bear in mind I sat through the Mike Walker and Walter Smith years at Everton. And the Thatcher government. And tonight's Hollyoaks, which my wife is "enjoying" while I write. Please don't watch this film. I couldn't take it if anything happened to you. Fire Maidens from Outer Space, 1956. 0 out of 10

[stephen2485]

Mutton dressed as man

The Conqueror, 1956. I've always been amazed by John Wayne's career. Not amazed by his acting. Or by his films. Just amazed that a man who resembles a joint of mutton that's been hammered flat and nailed to a chopping board ever had a career in cinema. I can't think of a single John Wayne film I like. And his performance in The Longest Day is on the list of things I expect to see on my arrival in hell. Acting to make your teeth itch. But I wouldn't want my opinion of Big Marion to spoil your enjoyment of The Conqueror. So here goes. Wayne plays Temujim, soon to become Ghengis Kahn, leader of the Mongol hoards. Whilst out hunting, Temujin comes across a caravan (not the kind that clogs up the M6 on Bank Holidays) carrying the beautiful Bortai (played by the stunning Susan Hayward; seriously, Hollywoods current crop of leading ladies could NOT hold a candle to their 50's counterparts) on her way to her wedding. Temu falls big time for her, and steals her away in a "daring raid". As usual, girl rejects boy, girls father declares war, father rescues girl and captures boy, girl falls for boy & releases him. Sheep face then has to find the traitor in his own ranks and of course ends up having to kill his bezzie. You know, that old story. Visually parts of the film (and not just those parts belonging to Miss Hayward) are breathtaking. Filmed near St. George in Utah, the backdrops are amazing. Until you discover that 11 nuclear weapons were tested 137 miles down wind of the location & 91 members of the 220 cast and crew contracted cancer in the years following the films production. Howard Hughes, the films producer, bought every copy of the film and refused to allow it to be broadcast, owing to the guilt he felt over this epidemic. Or because it is without doubt one of the worst things the human race has ever done. The stilted delivery of Wayne and his supporting actors, coupled with the pathetic attempt to make up Western actors as Mongol tribesmen make this a painful watch. Apparently the film was written for Marlon Brando, and the decision to give it to Wayne instead is widely regarded as one of the biggest casting mistakes ever. If it's on tv on a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon, go sit in the garden. Catching pneumonia or watching The Conqueror? A surprisingly easy choice. Get the ambulance on stand by. The Conqueror 1956. A full fat zero out of 10. Oh and I've watched it 3 or 4 times now. Knobhead.

[stephen2485]

We really do deserve to die

Following the invasion of Earth by the Ro-Men, (well Ro-man actually, as there's only 1 of them in the invasion force, which proves what I've always thought; Humans are a bit shit) the planet lies in ruins. Thinking that the mysterious "Calcinator" death ray that Ro-Man Extension XJ-2 (yes, that bastard) has used to attack the Earth is being fired by another country, humankind has responded in the usual, restrained way it does & waged nuclear war on itself. With the Earth now a barren wasteland, Ro-Man sets about killing the last 8 humans left alive, the family & assistants of a scientist who has developed a serum to cure and prevent all disease. In the first few minutes of the film, young Johnny, the scientists son falls asleep after a picnic, and the GCSE English qualification I managed to scrape sounds the Predictable Story Line alarm. Obviously special effects have come on a bit since 1953, but why director Phil Tucker thought a bloke in a Gorilla suit with a fish bowl wrapped in baco-foil on his bonce would make a convincing Robot, I don't know. XJ-2 uses what looks like a cosmic make up mirror to communicate with the humans and also with his Guvnor, "Great Guidance" back on the planet of the Ro-men. Obviously the Ro-Men's dialogue is over dubbed in these scenes, but the over acting and arm waving they insist on doing is a bit reminiscent of Adolf Hitler, but without the subtlety. After strangling the youngest daughter of the family and chucking hunky hero Troy off a cliff, XJ-2 goes more off message that a Labour peer and falls in love with Alice, the beautiful older daughter. Now being a married man, I'm used to sudden and inexplicable changes of mood and attitude. But why a robot would fall in love with someone who his mission in life is to destroy is beyond me. Oh hang on, thats marriage isn't it? No it's the film. Er, now I'm confused & still have to get to the end of this colossal pile of drivel. Great guidance decides (about 40 minutes too late in my opinion) that enough is enough and zaps XJ-2 with a Space Ray before transporting himself to earth to finish off humanity with dinosaurs, earthquakes and shit, fam. It's at this point Johnny wakes up & we discover....well we knew it was coming, didn't we? Remember kids, "it was all a dream" isn't going to get you in to Oxford. It will however, get you funding for a terrible film. There's a twist to come, but I don't want to spoil it for you. Poorly shot, with ropey dialogue, disjointed performances and what can only be described as unspecial effects, Robot Monster is quite rightly recognised as one of the worst films ever made. There have been lots of Earth invasion films since, but I can't think of any which could have stunk up the cinema as much as this steamer. There's a message in the film somewhere, probably about love conquering all, or something. But due to the ham-fisted delivery and clueless direction, it gets lost and you really can't be arsed looking for it. Take a tip from me, leave this one where it belongs, on the shelf. In the storage room of a Blockbuster shop. That's on fire. Robot Monster, 1953 2 out of 10.

[stephen2485]

What have I done?

Memory loss, anxiety, grief.....Is there no end to the misery? Probably not. I haven't had the greatest life, but to be honest I haven't had the worst. I mean there are people out there, moving around, functioning, getting on with their daily lives whilst coping with the horror of having a Birmingham accent. Imagine hearing that at sexy time. But I thought for a change, I'd try the emotion you humans call 'Happiness". So I thought I would set myself a challenge. I love shit films. Not your normal, run of the mill cinema bombs, but proper shit. Really shit. Massively shit, if you will. I'm going to watch 50 of the worst films ever made and attempt to review them. And what better place to begin than with the utter fucking abomination that is Reefer Madness. It's basically an anti-marijuana propaganda film. As with most anti-drugs films, it's made by people with NO experience of drug use. Unfortunately they don't appear to have any experience of acting, writing or film making either. It was originally made by a Church group, but then sold to Dwain Esper, an exploitation film maker who sexed the film up (as much as it was possible the 1930's) and began hawking it around America. The story, drug dealers luring kids into a world of addiction and crime is pretty standard soap-opera anti-drug stuff. One kid ends up killing a pedestrian and is then made to stay silent about an accidental killing he witnesses. He gets off with his crime, while police and prosecutors go after Billy, another hop head who is framed for the murder, which actually wasn't a murder. Eventually Mae the dealer confesses and Billy is released. Meanwhile Ralph, the handsome college guy with everything to live for, slowly slides into psychosis through his use of the drug. Ralph may actually be mental, but it's more likely he was driven that way by the script, which is camp and nonsensical throughout. Rather than laying about and eating crisps, the dope fiends are driven to dance, laugh manically and make the beast with two backs.

Although I'm not an actor, I assume in order to be convincing in a role, you have to have some belief in the story or the part. Not here. The only redeemable performance in the whole piece is from the eyebrows of an outraged jury member in the court scene. It's some of the finest Forehead acting I've seen in many a year and coincidentally is delivered without any words being spoken by the actor. Sadly neither the eyebrows nor the forehead make it onto the credit list, so it's unlikely we will be seeing a box set of Raging Brow anytime soon. Shame The overlying message of the film "Don't do drugs" really is pointless. I sat through this turgid drivel for an hour and my over riding thought was "Do drugs. Do all the drugs. Do whatever drugs it's going to take to wipe this glistening turd of a movie from my mind" It's on YouTube and if you really, really, REALLY have nothing else to do, watch it. Stoned would probably be the best way to watch it. Drunk might help. Sober will put you in a coma. I'm going for a shower. And a scrub down with a yard brush and lots of bleach.

Only 49 to go.

Reefer Madness 1 out of 10 (for the eyebrows)

[stephen2485]

My specialist subject is...

Someone asked me the other day when the last time I'd been to a wedding was. You know, the bit in the day when you have be sensible. And I couldn't remember. (Nothing to do with m bad memory). Ask me when the last funeral I attended was and I can give you date, time, location & blow by blow review of the action. We've had so many funerals in our family that Ben calls the Crem a "Home Game". Grief is our business. They say practise makes perfect. I've practised more than the Pope. I've had more grief than the hardest of Danny Dyers Hardest men. If there's one thing I know about, it's grief. Rich Romans used to pay professional mourners to turn up at funerals. If that was still going on I'd be writing this on my private Island with diamonds on my breakfast Shreddies When you lose someone you love, it hurts. It's a pain you can't describe. It's an all over toothache. Even if it's not your fault, you feel guilty. Did you do enough? Did you tell them you loved them often enough? Were you there when they needed you? The answer to all those questions, and many more is Yes. You can't be there every minute of every day, but that doesn't mean that the people you care about don't know you love them.

You probably feel angry too. At the Doctors who couldn't save your loved one. At the relative who only showed up at the last minute. At the disease or ailment that took the life of someone you love. Sometimes at the person you've lost. I was really pissed off with Dave when he passed away, leaving me without my favourite brother, best friend and the best Uncle in the world (according to my kids, apologies to my fantastic brother in laws, who are great uncles and much loved by my minions). Go with it. Ride that anger wave all the way to the shores edge. Next comes the nostalgia. It's great. All those happy memories of your loved one. Any bad memories will be pushed onto the back burner. They will come back, but to be honest, you don't need them. I'm not saying forget or ignore them, but no one needs bad feelings. I'm not idolising my family, because they weren't perfect, but I loved them very much. Don't dwell on what you wish you'd done or said, because it's meaningless. Dave told me that his biggest fear about dying was that he would miss us all. Let me get that clear, a man who knew he was dying & was a confirmed unbeliever feared missing his brother, sister in law, nephew & niece more than he feared death. How the fucking hell am I supposed to deal with that? What could I possibly say that would equate with that?

We're now on to the next stage, which is getting on with life. Modern life is so insane that it's actually hard to grieve. You're busy working, raising a family, going the footy or out with friends and then you hear a song, walk into a pub or hear a word that reminds you of the person you lost and suddenly grief slaps you on one cheek and guilt smacks you on the other. My eldest brother died in 1984. He'd fought cancer for 2 years, but he was never going to win. It's the only grief I can't really deal with. It seems unbelievably unfair that he should lose his life the day after his 16th birthday. 33 years is a long time to miss someone. It's a lot of missed sarcasm, a lot of missed messing about, it's even a long time to miss a big brother giving you a hard time. My kids could have had another Uncle and I could have some more nephews & nieces to go with the lovely bunch I already have. No matter what I could have or should I have, I don't have Chris, Dave or Michael. I'm not interested in being rich, couldn't give a shit about a big house or a fancy car but if you could give me just one more day with my brothers, I'd be a very happy man.

So where do we go from here? Well for a start we can mourn the fact hat I didn't use the next line of a Haircut 100 song there. Life can't be all about the 1980's. Apparently. It should be, because the worlds gotten a lot shitter since then. Even The Professionals isn't good as it used to be. If swapping my IPad & android phone for a ZX81 & one of them house phones with a proper dial means I can have my brothers back, then stick some Farrah kecks on me and crank up the Lexicon of Love cassette. Grief is natural and understandable. It's probably the purest human emotion, because it can't be faked. However you grieve and whoever you grieve for, do it your way. Do it sober, do it drunk, do it at home or on holiday, do it at work or wherever the fancy takes you. The important thing to do with grief is to not to let it consume you, because then you've lost twice.

[stephen2485]

No, it's gone

Unsurprisingly as I was about to log into Tumblr to write a piece about memory loss & anxiety, I realised that I had forgotten my password. Fortunately I have a sure fire way of making up new ones. Although once you crack one of them, you can basically assume my identity as every password I have revolves around this system. If you get an email off me saying I have access to stolen Nigerian bullion, I’d ignore it.

Anyway, first up (before I forget), memory loss. Having taken a hiding a few years ago, I can’t remember 1996. Or my mobile phone number. Conversations tend to slip out of my head after a day or two and I have trouble counting, especially coins. If I’ve met you in the last twenty years, there a good chance that I’ve already ignored you in a pub or walked past you in the street without recognising you. I can lose my keys in an instant and have lost more money over the years than that fella who bets on Liverpool to do the treble every year. Don’t ask me where I was when Diana died (I’m not arsed) or on 9/11 (can’t remember).

Thankfully there are things like Facebook now, so I can put names to faces. Although I have upset 2 ex girlfriends by drawing a blank when I met them recently. Sorry girls, but I am the only man who can honestly say, it’s not you, it’s me. Apologies were sent on both occasions. Although replies were not. Hell hath no fury, eh?

So if you bump into me in the street and I seem confused, I’m not drunk, I’m just peering through the fog trying to find you.

Anxious? Nervous? Worried? Yes I am. Not all the time. Not when I’m scrambling up a rock face in the rain, or in a crowd of football fans or even in a hospital waiting room. Pub I’m not used to? Nightmare. Room full of strangers? Terrifying. Shopping centre? Hell on Earth. I’ve had anxiety attacks in the Asda for fucks sake. Anxious people run in my family. And we keep running.

Some of you may have witnessed me in full freak out. If I’m in the pub and I’m 3 drinks ahead of you, then I’m riding the panic pony. I’ll make a crap excuse and leave. Or I’ll just disappear. I’ve walked home from town at 3 am in the past because I’ve bolted out of some bar. If I offer to check out the pub over the road, I’m actually off to hide. “See you after the match?” Only if I’m on the news mate; “Gibbering wreck found in phone box”. Involuntarily outbursts in cars? Yep. Putting things back on shelves in shops and going home empty handed? That’s me.

It’s not weird. I may actually be a knobhead, but it’s got nothing to do with anxiety. I don’t want sympathy and I’m not sure I want it to stop. It makes more me careful. I’m more thoughtful and aware of other people. I can spot a fellow sufferer a mile away. I wouldn’t say I can control it, but it’s not controlling me. I’m wary of new people and know that I often don’t make a good first impression. But I’ll go out of my way to help you if you need it. You can have the shirt off my back, or talk the ears off me. Got a problem? I’d like to help. Or find someone who can. I got drunk once and set up a support group for men supporting women with Breast Cancer. 159 members all over the world. They’ve all got my number and email address. Want to scream at someone at 3am because you’re fucking sick of paying for parking at a hospital, I’m there. Need advice on benefits? I’m googling all night long.

I’m not showing off, I just turned one of my panic attacks into something that helps people. And I’m not ashamed of anxiety. Why should I be? And why should anyone? No ones perfect (obviously that doesn’t include my Nanny Francis). And if you think you are, you may actually be one of us.

We’re the quiet bloke in the shop, or the lady on the bus trying not to make eye contact. We’re the kid who takes the long way home and the old lady peaking through the curtains. Often we’re the last people you would expect to be anxious. So give us a minute to calm down, be patient with our stammering and try to ignore the sweating. We only want a pint and a chat, or those socks in yellow or a return to Kirkdale.

[stephen2485]

[stephen2485]

Cala Llonga Ibiza

[stephen2485]

Sunset over San Antonio

[stephen2485]

Ibiza

[stephen2485]

A stretch of Ibizan coastline

[stephen2485]

Closer

Obviously I had intended to post more often, but the last 11 months have been a bit mad. Since my wife's diagnosis I've been doing a really good impression of someone who's coping well. It seems to have fooled a lot of people. Luckily I've married a woman who has been hiding a layer of steel under her friendly, easy going exterior. I also have the worlds greatest Mum in law and 3 sister in laws who can always be relied on for a bit of help, a laugh and a hug where needed. I set up Breast Cancer Husbands on Facebook because I couldn't find a place on line for men supporting women with breast cancer. I'm very proud to say that we've built a small and (sadly) growing community of men who want to share their experiences and talk about their situation. I want to thank everyone who's joined, without them I wouldn't be where I am psychologically or emotionally. I'm indebted to the NHS, the Delamere Cancer Centre at Halton Hospital and the surgical team for the incredible care they have given to my wife. Massive thank you to all the people we've met along the way, especially those ladies who have faced Breast Cancer down, kicked its arse and come out the other side. I'd like to ask any lady reading this to please check yourself. My wife has beaten it. She's actually battered it. You can too. But the key is early detection. There are many hurdles to get over. You will probably lose your hair. You may lose a breast, or both. But we need you. Baldy or hairy, boobs or no boobs. We're not ready to be released into the wild. Please look after yourself the way you've looked after us, because we can't bear the alternative.

[stephen2485]

This is me

I’ve tried many times to start this blog, but I never seem to get it done. So now that I’ve set up Breast Cancer Husbands on Facebook, I really should get my thumb out of my arse and do it.

I was born in Liverpool in 1971, the 3rd of 4 brothers born to a typical working class family. Having been born with a tumour covering my scalp, I should have guessed that cancer would play a major part in my life. But hey, I was young and good looking, what did I care?

Anyway I managed to stumble along until I was 10 or 11 years old when my eldest brother, Chris, started disappearing every week to Clatterbridge Hospital. Obviously now that place is synonymous with Cancer treatment, but back then I didn’t have a clue.

Sadly on the 12th of June 1984, Chris succumbed to his illness and passed away. The fact that this was the day after his 16th birthday has always struck me as inherently unfair. But since when has cancer cared about fairness?

Cancer was obviously very busy ruining other people’s lives for a while, but it remembered us and called on my Mum sometime around 2000. Being the daughter of a war time sailor and my amazing Nan (yes, I am a Nanny’s boy, and I don’t care) she saw it for the cowardly shithouse it was and saw it off. Breast Cancer is a particularly nasty variant of the disease and I admire any woman who takes it on. I don’t know what women do to Breast Cancer, but they scare the shit out of me.

Once again we were getting on with our lives when Cancer’s cousin, Leukaemia turned up at my little brothers door. Another kick in the balls, particularly as he had turned his life around after 4 years in prison and was making the most of the 2nd chance he had been given. His employers, Fuji, were brilliant and I can’t thank them enough for the support they gave him. After two years, he was told that he had, at best 6 months to live and shortly after throwing a monumental “Going Away” party, he lost his life to a secondary infection just before Chistmas 8 years ago. He tried every treatment available, but it was obvious that late detection of the disease had left him with little chance of a win.

You’d think that would be it. That we’d paid our Cancer dues and would be left alone to die of the usual mundane working class ailments, and of course, you would be massively wrong. I’ll give breast cancer it’s due, it wasn’t going to let a tiny Scouse woman got the better of it. So the little shit showed up again, backed up by its mate Secondary Tumour and waged war on the body of my little Mum. She gave it all she could but, this time no wasn’t being taken for an answer, and once again the big C won through. So it was 3-1 to Cancer and we were approaching stoppage time. Fuck it, throw on the subs and we’ll start again next week.

You know what’s coming. Shortly after my courageous Dad died suddenly in his sleep (I blame Cancer for the undetected damage to his heart which took his life), my last remaining brother was diagnosed with terminal Cancer. He was having problems with his eyesight and the scan on his brain found a head full of tumours. Sadly they were secondary tumours from a mass in his oesophagus and he was given 18 months. Bastard. Cancer is a bastard. And I use that word because some people are sniffy about the other C word. But Cancer is one and I have seen enough of it. It can fuck off. And when it gets there, it can fuck off again.

Have you had enough yet? It’s hard work isn’t it? Well guess what kids, there’s more. Like the Third Godfather movie, Cancer showed up where it wasn’t wanted again on Friday 13th (it had to be really, didn’t it?) 2015 when my wife was diagnosed with stage 2 ductal Breast Cancer, She’s had a mastectomy and is on her 2nd cycle of chemo and things are looking good.

And here’s the difference. Early detection. In the 80’s when my eldest brother was ill, Cancer was the last last thing doctors expected. My Mums second bout wasn’t detected due to her alcoholism; I’m not pulling any punches here, the woman had a rough life and turned to drink. How do you handle growing up without a Dad, losing your eldest son and contracting cancer? If my younger brother hadn’t been in prison, his early symptoms might have been picked up. And if my other brother had gone to the Doctors with his stomach problems who knows what could have been done?

If in doubt, go to the Doctor. Catch it early, get the treatment, win that fight. If it’s just a cough or a cyst, as least you know your doctor is listening to you.

We were “lucky’ that my wife’s cancer was found before it spread. Lucky to have a great surgeon and one of the best oncologists in the country on our door step. And I’m lucky that I’m married to a cancer warrior. She’s kicking Arse and taking names. I’m in the background doing the dirty work, but I like that. If it means I get go spend the next 30 years looking after her, I’ll happily carry on.

What I’ve learnt from Cancer is, don’t give up. Don’t give in. Don’t let the little bastard win. It will grind you down. It will kick you in the knackers. But one day we will win. One day we will have Cancer by the bollocks and we will show it the mercy it deserves.

NONE

[stephen2485]

The Deck, overlooking the Manchester Ship Canal, Runcorn UK.

[stephen2485]

Heath Park Runcorn, just after sunset