Hold tight

You’ll have to bear with me – I’ve got a bear with me. His name is Bill. He’s in the hold. He’s not a real bear – that would be cruel. But I am thinking of him now. I like to have him with me in times of stress. He would have been with me, here in this warm cabin, except that his eyes are held in with steel pins and they would have bleeped going through the detector. I know this because I tried it on a previous occasion and Bill was impounded (it was either that or remove his eyes, which I could not bring myself to do). When I remonstrated with the official he said the pins could be used in an attack on the captain of the airliner.
So, Bill lies there in the cold, cold hold!

Oh, and I am afraid I have been telling lies again (not about Bill). Sydney really is my son – the DNA test was done, some time ago. Another ‘white’ lie concerns my friend Hector the trolley dolly. Actually Hector is my brother – as those who have been following the story closely will know. He really was a trolley dolly though. He packed it in because of his legs: he was getting varicose veins, or those very close veins as he called them.

He applied to train as a pilot but they turned him down – on account of the maths: he just didn’t have the mathematical ability required of a captain of airliners. I hope this fellow has the maths. Of course it’s all done by computers now. Somebody told me they don’t really need humans on the flight deck – a computer could do the job. Better. But the reason they have real people is to calm the fears of the passengers: they wouldn’t trust a computer.
Well, you can count me in that lot, I told him. I would much rather be in a crash that was due to ‘human error’ than one, which was down to ‘computer error’. Call me old-fashioned, but there it is.

I wanted to get those lies off my chest, just in case anything… you know… went wrong. I can see the runway lights now. I wish old Bill were with me.

Not there yet

How do you work an iPod? It can’t be that difficult. There’s a kid across the aisle – can’t be more than three years old – and she’s had one plugged into her head since we left Heathrow.

I wouldn’t mind getting one, but I would be embarrassed in the shop because I don’t know anything about them. I believe you can store millions of tunes on them. Where do you get them from – the tunes? The Internet? How do you download them? I thought all of that was illegal?

I have a record collection. Now, I understand records. You know where you are with records. I have some very old 78’s. Remember them? The music was embedded in wax. And if you got tired of a record you could warm it gently and mould it into a fruit bowl! How’s that for re-cycling?

I also have 45’s and 10 and 12-inch LP’s. There is some great jazz on my records. On the 78’s some old New Orleans stuff from the likes of Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, Turk Murphy, Sydney Bechet, Ken Colyer, The Dixieland Jug Blowers, Gerry Mulligan (yes I have eclectic tastes), The Original Dixieland Jass Band (the spell check is telling me I have the wrong spelling – but I haven’t), Humphrey Littleton… need I go on?

No, we’re getting bored!

Okay – philistines!

I hope the lavatorial arrangements are satisfactory at wherever I am supposed to be staying. I can live in most places but I do need unrestricted access to an adjacent bog. Of course, en suite is to be preferred but one cannot always achieve that.

I must confess I am a little nervous at the prospect of meeting Anastasia again. I don’t know how Sydney feels – I may ask him when he wakes up. Come to think of it, perhaps I should wake him now so that he can experience the terrors of landing!

The plane banks, and I can see lights – roads and streets I suppose. Can’t see any water – hope the pilot can!

It’s very quiet now. Nobody talking. The plane tilts again, then levels out.
I hope we are not in one of those ‘stack’ things… where you just go round and round, waiting your turn to land.

Hello – what’s this? A stewardess is walking down the plane, towards the tail – she has a torch in her hand. The must be something wrong. She’s going to inspect something. I elbow Sydney in the ribs, hard. He makes that funny snorting noise, and then opens his eyes. ‘Are we here?’
‘No, I think the tail is about to drop off.’
He is awake in an instant. ‘Father, don’t make jokes like that.’

Then that ‘bing bong’ noise – it’s the captain summoning one of his cabin crew. Oh dear, there really must be something amiss. I wish I’d listened to the safety drill. Where did she say we’d find the life jackets?

Sydney is looking pale. I wonder if I am? I haven’t made a will. Kept meaning to do. Never got round to it.
Who would get my record collection?
(There’s some CD’s as well.)

Final Approach

Stockholm is built on fourteen islands, the captain informs us, as we are about to make our final approach to Arlanda airport. One third of the city is water. (Apparently they call it ‘The Venice of the North.’) I am just hoping he doesn’t overshoot the runway and ditch us in the Baltic.

The flight has been fairly uneventful – apart from the aforementioned incident with the falling flight attendant. She apologised profusely but I told her there was no need to, as it was one of the best things that had happened to me in a long time. Flashing me a beautiful smile, she edged carefully backwards, this time making sure no part of her bosom came into contact with the - now snoring - Sydney.

The FASTEN SEATBELT sign comes on.

And now, that awful silence as the engines are cut back and we begin the descent. Suddenly - the thump of the undercarriage going down. A collective sigh of relief - well you never know if it’s going to get stuck! At least we’ve got wheels – we’re in with a chance now.

Seat in the upright position, tray folded away, hands clasped – I stare at the top of a bald head. And think.

BOEING 747 CRASHES IN BALTIC EN ROUTE FROM HEATHROW TO STOCKHOLM

I kept seeing that headline as I felt the sudden pressure against my back and the aircraft accelerated, tyres bumping along the tarmac, faster and faster, until the nose lifted, and we were airborne.

Gradually I relaxed. I had been sweating profusely (and farting a lot) before we took off, expecting carbine-toting police to burst into the cabin and drag me and Sydney off the plane. They didn’t - but I was relieved when the door was shut and we were being towed off-stand - I picked that term up from a friend who used to be a trolley-dolly: Hector, his name was. I wish we’d kept in touch.

Bagging the window seat turned out to be a bad move: by the time the seatbelt sign had been extinguished, Sydney was fast asleep, and remained like that for the entire flight. (he’d obviously taken something). He didn’t wake up once during the three times I climbed over him on the way to the lavatory.

I couldn’t sleep.

I thought, what if we did crash? And it was the end? Just like that? No chance to make amends, no chance to explain.

I suppose there would be panic as the plane fell, faster and faster, towards the sea – but from 30,000 feet we’d probably be dead before we hit the water.
And then what? Nothing?

I began to reflect upon my life. What would it all have been about? Well, it would have been about living. Is that all? You reply. I say, what better purpose could there be?

I started to run the old ‘B’ movie I have in my head: The life and times of George Jackson. The first half is in black and white because colour had not been invented. There is sound though – I am not that old!

Women. They have played a big part in my life. Some bigger than others. (Actually, when I think about it, I seem to have mostly attracted the heavier woman).

As I said in my ‘profile’ I have been searching for love. I really cannot think of anything more worthwhile. Someone to share your life: your hopes, your fears, your dreams – someone to hold in the night when the vultures hover outside your window.

Not a lot to ask, is it? So why is it so difficult to find? Or having found it, to hold on to? (Answers please, on the back of an old marriage certificate.)

I wonder what they would say about me at my funeral?


“His wife had something to put with, you know.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he liked his women.”
“Yes, well, he’s dead now, and his little peccadilloes have been buried with him.”
“I should hope so – there was some talk of keeping them in a glass jar on the mantelpiece.”

The old ones are the best, eh!

But seriously, what would they say about me?

If you refer to my post about ‘specs’ you will see the problem. Everyone views us differently. Perhaps there isn’t a real me but many me’s , which I wear like suits of clothes depending on what the occasion demands.
Ah, but who is the ‘I’ that chooses which suit to wear? (If you really want a sort of answer to that, read “Creation: Life and how to make it” by Steve Grand.

I once had a friend who used to say, with an impish grin, ‘talk metaphysical to me.’ Actually, she was one of the exceptions to what I was saying earlier about the ‘heavier woman’ – she was so slim. She would go on about her ‘scrawny breasts’ – but I liked them. She’s dead now, and I miss her.

I think I’ll buy a sandwich from this lovely young lady who is now approaching, with her loaded trolley. And perhaps supplement this with a miniature of gin, for the warmth and comfort that might be in it.

She has to lean over the sleeping Sydney to place my purchases on the little plastic tray. As she does so, the plane hits some turbulence, and next minute she has landed on top of me - one of her magnificent breasts (the left one) whacking number one son on the nose as it passes. He grunts and splutters but – amazingly – does not wake. Meantime I am drowning in billows of flesh and waves of perfume.

Wow. That was well worth the six pounds seventy five, I can tell you!

Shamed at the airport

Sydney’s hand luggage bleeped as it went through the detector thing, so they searched it.

What do they find? His manicure set!‘You cannot take this in your hand luggage’ says the Customs official.
‘Ok, says Sydney, ‘I’ll put it in my pocket.’
‘No, I mean you can’t take it on the aeroplane.’ Says Mr Customs man.
‘Why not?’
‘Haven’t you read the notices, sir?’ An ominous tone has crept into the official’s voice.

I had to do something. I took the man to one side. ‘Look, I apologise for my son’s behaviour but he’s been ill.’ I tapped my head with my forefinger. ‘The hospital has released him on licence to visit his sister Anna, who is expecting her first child. I am taking full responsibility for him – making sure he takes his medication, and so on. Is there perhaps some way around this?’

The official thought for a moment, then he said ‘Ok, go into W.H. Smith and purchase a Jiffy Bag. Write his sister’s address on it and I will post it.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I effused.

Taking Sydney’s arm I led him away, explaining what we were to do.
‘Well, I don’t see why I can’t take it with me’ he said, petulantly.
I tightened my grip on his arm. ‘If you don’t button it they’ll lock you up!’ I hissed. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
‘What war?’
‘The war on terror, you berk!’

Anyway we got the Jiffy Bag. But then I realised I didn’t know Anastasia’s address. While I was thinking what to do, our flight was called.
‘Come on – forget your fucking manicure set.’ And I propelled him towards the gate.

Honestly, the lad is so gormless. Can he really be the fruit of my loins?
I’m determined to get that D.N.A. test done.

Our adventure begins

We are all wearing different specs. But we don’t know it. We think we are all looking at the world through the same lenses. But we’re not.

You look at me and you think you see me – but you only see a bit of me. And somebody else looks, and sees another bit: a different bit. And so it goes on. And you all think you know me. But you don’t. You only know that bit that your specs show you.

And I only see a bit of you. And I call that bit ‘you’. But it isn’t.
I don’t know you.

What can we do about it?
Take our fucking specs off!


Sorry about that. I don’t usually swear. I haven’t taken my medication today; it’s all the excitement, preparing for the trip.

They’ve returned my passport to me, and Freddie has given me one week’s supply of meds. He won’t give me any more, in case I do myself in; no chance of that – ‘the purpose of life is living’ (remember?) But he is going to fax a prescription to Karolinska University Hospital. He has arranged for me to attend weekly to collect my pills - and so some doctor can keep on eye on me!
A small price to pay!

We’re booked on one of these ‘cut price’ airlines – coincidentally, the same one they used to deport Anastasia! You can’t specify which seat you want – it’s first come, first served. I’ve told Sydney (he’s never flown before) that if we sit together I want the window seat. He said, that was ok, as he preferred to ‘sit near the gangway’ in case he needed to pay a quick visit to the lavatory.

I warned him that he must only used the lavatory when the plane is over the sea. He said how would he know when we were over the sea? I told him he must check with one of the cabin crew.

The boy is such a worrier.

"I'm leavin', on a jet plane..."

The lines of that wonderful song by Peter, Paul and Mary are going around and around in my head.

It's all fixed. We're off to Sweden. I've had a letter from Anastasia; here is an expurgated version.

Hello My Georgie,

I am delightful to be having you, here in my country of Sweden. Also your fine son, Sydney - how is the little bugger?

The only fly in the K.Y. Jelly (you see how I am remembering quaint English sayings I learn from you) being that I have only one bedroom flat - so one of you naughty boys will have to share with Anna, and other staying with my brother, Sven. Perhaps Sydney be better staying with Sven because my brother often have young men staying with him at his cabin by the lake; he is such hospitable person. And he will be pleased to have Sydney too, so he tell me, and so Syd might enjoy wholesomeness of young people around his person.

[Para deleted]

Unfortunately I cannot be meeting you at airport since I have important shoot, as we call it, for new video, and also Sven cannot either come for he is directing shoot. So Elof, he will collect you in company van. Unfortunately also, Elof speak very little English, but wonderful actor – with great staying power. So he will bear piece cardboard with GEORGE written on it, so you should be watching for such person at barrier.

I cannot wait to clasp once again to this aching bosom, my Georgie, and of course young master Sydney – not at same time, of course (although such thing might be possible?)


[Para deleted]

So until our tongues once more entwine,


Your Anna

By the way Doctor Tankersley, although all comments are welcome – critical or otherwise - I took exception to your remark suggesting that some people with a PhD in psychology like to pose as medical doctors. You may not be aware of this, but I, myself, have a doctorate in the aforementioned discipline. I have, however, never, led people to believe I was a medic.

There was one occasion when I helped deliver a baby, in a phone box in Hounslow. But that was an emergency, and at no time throughout did I claim to be a medical practitioner.

You will notice I never mentioned psychiatrists! A bit too near home. In more ways than one!

I know I am being a bit free with the old exclamation mark, but I think I have good cause. Here I am locked up in a mental hospital and have fathered a child with my psychiatrist. Well, she says it is mine, and I must admit little Georgette is the spitting image of yours truly.

I have also entrusted power of attorney to our one time au pair, and my (short time) lover. I couldn’t transfer it to Amanda (aforesaid psychiatrist and mother of my child) because she said it would be unethical.
I said to her, well, isn’t it unethical to shag your patient? She said, yes but what is done is done – you can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube. I must say I found the metaphor rather inappropriate under the circumstances.

Sydney is peeved because I have not appointed him my legal executor. But the boy is a fool, he really is. I couldn’t trust him to manage my affairs.

I will let you into a secret: I don’t trust Anastasia, either. But she can get me out of here, and I fancy a short sojourn is Stockholm; they tell me Sweden is beautiful this time of year.

I would not like you to think I am running away from my responsibilities towards my offspring – not a bit of it. I intend to come back and do the decent thing. But I need a holiday – a short break to recharge my batteries, so to speak.

And old Freddie Foggatty (top dog around here) will be happy to let me go, into the custody of a ‘responsible person’. Of course Anastasia isn’t a responsible person – Freddie knows that as well as I. But he thinks if he gets rid of me he will have his sister all to himself again. Little does he know my ultimate intention!

As a sop to Sydney, I have offered to take him with me to Stockholm – for a holiday. Told him it might do him a bit of good. Now I know what you are thinking: I am courting disaster, putting him in close proximity to the Swedish tart. Trust me – I know what I’m doing!

A medical opinion

DOCTORS don’t wear gloves and a mask when they examine you. At least not GPs. And I bet they have to face some prett nasty diseases in a day’s work. Now, why is that, I wonder? Why don't they wear gloves?

I mean, I guess that they would wear gloves if they were doing a rectal examination – who wouldn’t? And no doubt they don them for the odd gynaecological foray. But generally speaking they come at you with their bare hands.

Incidentally, dentists can now call themselves ‘doctor’. I know that they have been doing this in the States for a long time (we’ve all heard of Doc Holliday), but in Britain it is a fairly recent development.

Veterinary surgeons just call themselves ‘vets’, and somebody told me that their training is a lot longer than that of a doctor. As well as learning about basic anatomy, vascular and nervous systems and so on, they have to know how to deal with everything from a snake to an elephant. Plus of course, they have to be an animal dentist!

All the same, if I were ill I would rather see a doctor than a vet. (But I wouldn’t if I were a dog!)

You get a lot of time to think, in here.

Open wide

I can remember when dentists didn’t wear gloves. They wear gloves now. Why is that? Have they gone soft or something? I mean, do they wear them for the patient’s safety, or their own? Is it perhaps to do with AIDS?

Masks, too. They wear masks now, and they didn’t use to. Is this so we won’t catch some nasty bug off them? Or – more likely – is it to stop them catching some dreadful disease off us patients?

I only mention this because I saw my dentist yesterday. A lady dentist. I’ve got a lady dentist. She is quite lovely. I don’t mind lying there, supine, in the chair and gazing into her eyes (over the top of her mask) as she gently inserts her (gloved) fingers into my mouth.

The reason I went was because I lost a veneer off one of my front teeth. I thought at first I might have swallowed it, but I don’t think I have. More likely it came off whilst I was brushing my teeth – vigorously – prior to an important meeting with a young female friend.

My lady dentist fitted me up with a ‘temporary’ replacement.

She gave me a pair of specs to put on - they weren’t really my style but I didn’t say anything -before she, and her aspirating assistant, went to work on me. Now why do they do that? They never did in the good old days of dentistry: fit you up with a pair of specs. Is it because she is afraid she might accidentally poke me in the eye with one of those stainless steel probes? And, in today’s ‘compensation culture’, get stung for a hefty sum? I don’t really think so.

Actually, I think the clue is in the ‘aspirating’: maybe, in sucking out all the saliva and debris the patient could accidentally cop an eyeful. Not as damaging as the steel probe, maybe, but still a possible claim for compensation.

Anyway, she has done a lovely job with the ‘temporary’, and once more I can face the world with a smile.

Now, the question is: is this Sydney or George speaking? Perhaps a strange metamorphosis is taking place.