I finally read Fight Club 14 years after everyone else and was amused by anti-hero Tyler Durden’s passion for service industry terrorism, including relieving himself in the house soup, sneezing on artfully displayed cutlets and farting on the creme brulee because it ‘holds the fragrance.’

However, fact is often stranger than fiction. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall in MacDonalds press office when the newspapers rang up about this one.


I visit Tony once a week as part of a befriending service for people with dementia. Tony is 70 and has lived in a care home for several years since suffering a major stroke.

He’s in the early stages of dementia but keeps it at bay with an encyclopaedic memory of bad jokes and on-going disputes with his fellow residents who, he declares, are either mad or have given up on life.

I say he must see a lot of people come and go.

“ Yes. And all of them feet first under a blanket,” he replies with a cackle.

The communal TV room is lined with high wing backed chairs whose occupants sit listless and glassy eyed staring at place I can’t see. Loneliness and depression seem to erode their minds as much as dementia

It can’t be much fun seeing people around you in advanced stages of dementia knowing that is what you will be like.

I ask Tony if he has been outside since I saw him the previous week. He says no. We slip out of the security doors and walk round the adjacent green.

It’s just rough triangle of grass hemmed in on three sides by rush hour traffic and he tells me about his father who served on the North West Frontier in 1920s, his love of carpentry and how he first meet his wife.

“It was nice to be free for a while,” he says as we head back to the care home.

“Do you want to make a run for it?”

“Nah. Maybe next week.”


‘Find the song inside and sing it to the world.’



I do moan about work but in fairness it is like working in the pit of Saruman the Great. I thought I was being roped back into the office Xmas dinner today but have an iron clad get out clause in the shape of accompanying a GP to an interview at a local radio station.

They’re a nice bunch who insisted I record a jingle last time we did an interview there. Why anyone would want me promoting an Asian Valentine club night is beyond me. Barry White has nothing to fear.

I can now pretend to be a self sacrificing, pious bastrad while secretly thanking the gods for this escape route from a miserable afternoon chewing the turkey bones with my fellow drones. Rejoice.


‘You’ve got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down.’

Ray Bradbury


Smiling health minister Andrew Lansley puts the knife in the National Health Service. Who needs the Grim Reaper when you’ve got this snowy haired rider of the apocalypse riding roughshod over a national institution. 


The NHS is being rapidly drained of employees now Count Lansley has got his fiscal fangs into the jugular of the world’s fourth largest employer. Our workplace is no exception and the office seems to get emptier with each passing week. The day starts and ends with tea while the rest of it floats by in contemplation of our fate. Even the clocks have stopped working.



Trying to do the right thing and spent the weekend planting trees on a plot of reclaimed woodland in deepest Wales. Typical pavement creeper thinking I could just breeze down there, rub some skin with the bark and be home for tea.

Wales always has plenty up her druidic sleeves to queer the pitch including a shotgun wielding farmer, his equally barking sheep-dog, a neighbouring eco loon, rain ,mud, spears of sunshine, more rain and a falling of the day that would wrapped the credits on the big screen. A good day.


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