Today The Beasel Ponders: Taking it in the eye

I love computer games. A few years ago I treated myself to an X-Box and was instantly blown away by how far gaming had progressed since I was little. I was brought up on the Commodore 64 and spent hours upon hours being punched by my brother as I kicked his ass yet again in some pixelated kung-fu game or reduced to screaming tears as Big Mac fell to his stupid death because he couldn't jump over the stupid gap for the 50th stupid time. Man...that game was awesome. I moved on to the Amiga 600 in the late 80s/early '90s and was amazed by the fact the computer was so small. This was basically because someone at Amiga had decided that it would be a good idea to remove the number keys on the right hand side of the keyboard to save space, who uses those anyway? EVERYONE it turns out and it made the computer irritatingly difficult to use. The graphics at the time were amazing and I had my first taste of 3D, even trying my hand at a little game design (which was really hard WITHOUT THE DAMN NUMBER KEYS!)

When I finished school I went to University to study Graphic Design. Sorry I can't keep a straight face...I went to University and drew pictures, badly, for 4 years while trying desperately to fit in with the pretentious wastes of oxygen who also went there. You know the type, those annoyingly floaty people who see the world as their blank canvas and who just want to express themselves. FUCK OFF. My parents bought me an Apple mac G3, which at the time, around 1998 was a mind blowing machine. I developed a keen interest in 3D animation and for a time pondered trying to pursue this as a career. I would spend hours sat in front of the screen designing space ships and the like and I think I became quite proficient at it. But, as is the story of my life I did not have the confidence to see it through and instead left University with a 2:2 in Visual Communication Design (advertising basically) and went to work for a web design company run by a character from a Dickens novel. He started me on £8,000.00 a year with promises that I would be on £25,000.00 within a year with commission. After 2 years I was grudgingly on £12,000.00 a year and constantly being told I wasn't earning him any money even though I had won a design award for the company and had designed a website for a company who's budget was in the millions. One afternoon I told him where he could stick it and I was escorted from the building, unemployed, but with an enormous grin on my face. My weight had dropped to about 10 stone and I was mentally and physically exhausted. I vowed never to be bullied and miserable in a job again.

It was during this time that I had moved on from the Playstation 1 I had received as a 21st Birthday present from a girlfriend some years before to the X-Box. I remember playing Splinter Cell and Halo and being absorbed for hours in these vivid 3D worlds that I longed to be able to be a part of creating. Now, being unemployed and having a strong interest in the gaming/visual effects world and having the degree and the skills I had learned during my time as a slave you would think this would be the perfect time to pursue my dream career. I had always dreamt of working for Pixar or Industrial Light and Magic. But, no, my confidence was pretty much non-existent from my previous experience and I just wanted to get as far away from the computer industry as I could. I therefore happened across my current career path, which many of you reading know what it is, but my employers do not like people to talk about it and I don't fancy being unemployed at the moment so we'll just say it's law based and leave it at that.

During the latest phase in my life I treated myself and my stepson to an X-Box 360. I try to explain to him how amazing the games are now compared to when I was his age, but then I realise it's like your parents trying to tell you how hopscotch was the height of sophistication. I have also come to the inevitable conclusion that my reactions have become geriatric and if I try to play against him on Call Of Duty: Modern Warfare I may as well just stand still in the middle of the arena pissing myself as no matter how stealthily I think I'm sneaking about with my sniper rifle my head is separated from my body with annoying regularity. You know in films where the baddy sniper is looking through his scope at our hero who it turns out is looking right back at him smiling before shooting the baddy through the eye. That's me that is. I've been relegated to cannon fodder for my son. I recently bought him X-Box Live after months of harassment and cries of, "My friends have all got it, it's unfair." Now I can enjoy being shot in the face by children all over the globe and if I'm really lucky, sworn at in the process by a stream of pre-pubescent oiks.

The future is bright.

Today The Beasel ponders: General anasthetic and urine

So there I was in June this year, lying on a trolley in the anesthetics room outside the operating theatre. It had taken the best part of 7 months to reach this point following the rather untimely journey the disc at L5 S1 in my lower spine had decided to take. He hadn't got very far because my sciatic nerve decided he would intervene and so began a rather painful and bitter argument between the two. I had tried several remedies before I had reached this point; one of them had been a visit to my friendly chiropractor. In I had limped to his little room explaining what I had been up to and wondering whether I had in fact just pulled a muscle as I had done this before some years ago producing a week of gurning at my wife and son every time I tried to move. The pain down my left leg was worrying me though as it was excruciating and I had never felt anything like it before. The chiropractor took a look at me and stated that he believed it was probably a muscle spasm that was trapping the nerve and a good crack and thump would see me right. I lay down on his pain bench (I think that's the correct term) and he proceeded to cause cracking noises down my spine, which was unpleasant, but nothing compared to what came next.

"Lay on your right side and relax" he said in a calming tone.

"Right ho" I replied, turning over and allowing him to position my legs.

Now I know what your thinking, but it was quite innocent I assure you. He told me all chiropractors take their trousers off at this point.

Next came the most horrendous pain I have ever felt as pretty much all of his 14 stone frame was pushed into the nerve running down my left buttock by his right elbow. Apparently this was to release the build up of poison in the muscle that was causing the pain. It turns out he was wrong and I had gone back in time to the 16th century, but at least it only cost me £35.00 and the inability to walk for several days to find out.

Following this I was signed off work for several months and spent this time shouting at the NHS for their complete and utter incompetence. Do you want to know why they've got no money? Well I'm going to tell you anyway. It's because they employ people to make appointments for you to go to to find out that the appointment you're currently attending is a pre-appointment and in actual fact the appointment you think you're attending is the next appointment they will make for you. Unfortunately they can't make this appointment at the time because another department handles the booking of appointments and is apparently on the ethereal plain as you can't get hold of them, they will contact you in a week or so to book you in for 6 weeks time to find out they are going to book you another appointment. The reason they have this amazing 21st century system? The government have laid out that you must be seen within a certain period of time, if not, the hospital fails their target and something terrible happens to someone I couldn't give a toss about. Therefore if I attend pointless appointments the hospital can say, "Well The Beasel was seen only 4 weeks ago and he has another appointment in 2 weeks time." No-one seems to realise that it's all smoke and mirrors. Anyway, fuck 'em, work paid and I went private. Unfortunately it took me 6 months to convince work that this was the best option.

So there I am lying on the operating table wearing see through paper pants and a couple of doctors chatting away to me while they put lines in my hand.

Paper pants, what the hell! I was wearing them and a gown over the top, you know the ones done up at the back. When the nurse came in to get me from my room she helped me on with these DVT tights, but I'm pretty sure I gave her a good flash of my gentleman and twins trussed up like an angry bank robber with tights on his head.

Back in the operating room one of the doctors says to me, "You'll feel something cold going up your arm" and before I could check whether he'd taken his trousers off too I found myself waking up in the recovery room.

I was wheeled back to my room where my wife was waiting for me and for the next couple of hours I lay dozing, being checked every half hour or so by the nurses. After a few hours I felt the urge to go wee wee and lay considering my options. Getting up was not going to happen as someone had just been rummaging around with my spine and nerves and I was therefore a bit sore. Pissing myself just seemed silly so I went for the next best thing and asked for a bed pan. Now, I've never used one of these before and it turns out there's quite an art to it. I contemplated having my wife in the room, but we've never been one of those couples that goes to the loo in front of each other so I asked if she'd step outside, which, I think she was only too happy to do. I got the major out of the mosquito net, I was still wearing them, and aimed him down the little funnel thing. By this time I was ready to explode and was wondering whether the cardboard bedpan would be able to hold the lake of pee that was heading its way or whether it would realise it was just made of tough paper and dissolve all over my thighs. I didn't care anymore, if my destiny was to be covered in wet cardboard and hot urine then I would fulfill that destiny. Then...nothing happened. I couldn't pee. I was thinking all the right things, I counted the ceiling tiles, I watched Wimbledon, but nothing. It reminded me of when you get stage fright in a pub toilet, you know, when you really need a good beer piss so you go in the toilets, stand at a urinal and then some massive bloke comes in and stands at the urinal right next to you even though there's one free further down and lets out a torrent of urine that would put out a building fire. Then the thoughts begin, 'Why can't I wee, I can't just stand here, I'm starting to look like I like standing here with my cock out, what if he notices and then confronts me, I'll have to leave the toilet with him following me shouting about how I was there not weeing and then I'll just piss myself in front of everyone.' Or when you really need a poo at work so you go in the toilet only to find someone is already pooing in one of the cubicles so you're left with the conundrum, do I now go for a poo, what if it's noisy and then I come out at the same time as him and he knows I was the one who did the noisy poo. Or you're about to poo and then someone comes in the toilets and you sit there praying for someone to start the hand dryer so it will mask the inevitable loud poo fart you feel building the longer you hold.

Anyway...10 minutes it took to wee. Apparently, general anesthetic puts all your insides to sleep, which I guess is obvious as they have to breath for you, but I assumed my bladder would wake up the same as my lungs did! Something to do with muscles I'm told by my brother, bloody know it all scientists. It took about 3 days for me to pee again properly. Oh, and I found out I was allergic to morphine, which is a bummer, as my whole body felt like it was covered in fleas...again!

Today the Beasel ponders: Millers Gin

Welcome whoever you are to A Pondering Beasel. I have been indoctrinated into the world of the blogger by my brother, the ever more ponderous Tideliar due to my increasing lethargy caused by being sat at home following back surgery. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say I still have several weeks before returning to work so I shall try to post as much as I can ponder over, which will invariably be a lot.

I have rather an insatiable appetite for the finer things in life, which generally cost more than I should spend, but as my father always says in his ever optimistic way, "There's no pockets in a shroud", therefore I shall have to swallow my pension as I get old. Anyway... having had a pretty turgid year so far what with discs not staying where they should in my spine and having a 13 year old son, I decided to treat my wife to a weekend away in Somerset. Following hours of trawling the interweb while my wife napped on the sofa one evening wailing with the dog at their combined night terrors. I came across Glencot House Hotel. Have a look at the link, it's one of those places you must visit before you die. After speaking to the very nice lady on reception when I phoned to book, she kindly offered me a four poster bed for the first night and then one of the more regular bedrooms for the second night as the four poster was already booked. She tried to convince me that this was the right thing to do to ensure my wife had the best time possible. I considered this and being the dutiful husband opted for the cheaper option of the normal double for the two nights. (I would like to add that the cheaper option was still £225.00 a night). The sound of dissapointment the receptionist produced in her "Oh, well, it's your decision" quite literally stripped me of my manhood and made me feel like I was taking my wife for a dirty weekend at a travel inn in Croydon. So not wishing to appear a pawper and bastard I caved in saying, "Well, it is a special occasion after all... we'll have the four poster." Whats nearly £300.00 a night between husband and wife?

The drive down was as eventful as my sat-nav makes most journeys, it's amazing how long she can make 100 miles last, and eventually we pulled into the hotel's driveway. This is the oddest place I have ever been. It's owned by the antiques bloke, Martin Miller of Miller's antiques guides if you're curious, and is full of stuff he's collected over the years. There are books piled up all over the place that you can take home if you've begun reading one during your stay. It's the kind of place where a suit of armour stands next to a stuffed peacock with a manequin holding an umbrella, that sort of thing. We got shown to our room by a very polite petite young lady and were asked if we would like our bags brought up to us. Very nice I thought and quite right too seeing how much it was costing me! We climbed the sweeping, ornate staircase, entered our room and were greeted by a massive, antique four poster bed and views over the river and manicured gardens. The young lady left us to it and we had a bit of a snoop. "Wow, you could sleep more than two in that bed!" My wife exclaimed. "Awesome" I replied "As long as they're female, I'm not going anywhere near another man's thing."

A few moments later there came a knock at the door, pulling my mind from the gutter and hoping the pervert's leer that had spread across my face had dissipated somewhat, I opened it to find the very petite and now very flustered young lady from reception. She stood there wheezing over our over stuffed suitcase trying to smile and insist it was "Quite alright" as I guiltily took it from her. I assumed these places had some sort of boy who does that kind of thing.

Anyway, over the weekend we discovered Millers Gin, which is the owner's own brand. It's distilled in Iceland or somesuch. If you take nothing from my ramblings, please take this. Treat yourself to a bottle of this gin, it's one of the finer things in life and at about £20.00 a bottle won't cause the massive dent in your credit card it cost me to discover it. Then again... it was worth every penny to cheer my wife up.