FROG BLOG

The one good thing about having a scabby puss-ridden face, neck and left ear that give the impression of being the victim of an acid-throwing maniac, is that I now have a darned good excuse for not shaving - not that I really need one. Haven't shaved since the painful shingles rash first appeared about two weeks ago. So I now have a fungal growth that gives me the appearance of a balding badger. Rather natty these silver hair stripes. Could be described as distinctive, I suppose. Personally, I'd describe the look as scruffy. Never liked facial hair. Apart from Elvis sideburns, of course. And a good Zapata 'tache, despite the gay boy implications. Designer stubble? Do me a favour.

Being terminally ill, I've largely confined myself to barracks over the last fortnight. And the neighbours have thankfully kept their distance ever since Hadrian popped round and quickly disappeared when I muttered "zona" and "varicelle". Must try that more often. What's French for 'leprosy'? Anyway, yesterday I drove Georgie to Limoges airport after her long week-end visit (more about that later). Then returned home. Then drove the dogs out to a secluded hillside forest for a walk. Driving there I saw Isabelle coming the other way in her Audi. Out here in the sparsely populated back of beyond, one rarely comes across another car. On such occasions there's a strict code of conduct...

Firstly, one has to slow down - the roads aren't really wide enough for two vehicles. Secondly, it's customary to wave a 'thank-you for slowing down' when passing and doing your best to avoid driving into the ditch on your right. Thirdly, if you recognise the on-coming car, a quick flash of the lights can precede the hand wave. Fourthly, it's perfectly normal for both drivers to stop for a chat, window to window. Fifthly, if you're driving along and you come across two such cars blocking the road, unlike in the cesspit, it's extremely bad form to 'toot'. Instead, you wait patiently 'til the conversation's finished (generally, the natterers will manoeuvre so you can pass or they'll hurriedly finish chatting and move on) or, you join in. In such scenarios it's not unheard of for about half a dozen cars to block a road and the occupants to set up a roadside table and chairs with bread, cheeses, wines, spit-roast sanglier (wild boar), a team of accordian-playing musicians, perhaps a Lycra-clad cyclist or two and the ubiquitous petanque balls suddenly appearing from nowhere.

So..., I duly halted alongside Isabelle's Audi, wound down the window and prepared for a quick chat about whatever. Fully expecting my village neighbour to be looking rather concerned about my dreadful zona affliction, I was somewhat surprised when she burst out laughing. Took me a second or two to work out why...

Besides my badger-like countenance, my beanie hat was pulled down so my ears stuck out (a la Benny Hill - or Beanie Hill, or even Bennih 'Eeluh to use local parlance). Thus, with ear flaps facing forward, I could fully appreciate the aural majesty of the Rolling Stones (Exile on Main Street - a favourite) on the in-car stereo. Looks stupid but great for listening. Naturally, I kept a straight face (echoes of Jack Benny - or should I say Jack Beanie, or even Jacques Bennih?) while Isabelle fought a losing battle with the giggles. Conversation was near impossible. So we moved on.

(Rabbiting on from my previous posting...) From the little I managed to understand of Doc Tixier's verbal analysis, it would appear that zona or 'sheenglezuh' is a viral infection of a nerve; often the nerve that runs horizontally above the diaphragm (only goes to the left or right, not both). Apparently the virus is ever-present if you had 'sheekenuh poxxxsssuh' as a kid, but lays dormant until re-activated by stress, tiredness or inevitable weakening of the immune system in old age (generally the over-50s).

In my case, for some strange reason, it's whizzed along a neck nerve from the top of my spinal chord instead of taking the usual chest route. Maybe that's because my neck level is at about the same height as a normal person's chest. Am tempted to try and find out more about 'sheenglezuh' but part of me just doesn't want to know. Instead, I shall concentrate fully on defying medical science and making a miraculous recovery with the help of these 42 pricey tablets (6 per day for a week). Zo zere. I fart in ze face of ze virusse.

Er, since writing the above brave words of defiance a few days ago, curiosity and a desire to know more about the enemy within (this is war) have compelled moi to Google 'shingles'... Bleugh! Sounds bloody awful. Juicy descriptions tell of painful pinky-red blotchy skin lumps oozing sheekenuh poxxxsssuh fluid (yes, you could have caught chickpox from me at that oozy stage - I'm currently scabbing up) which eventually harden over with itchy yellowy crusts that scab and can leave scars for the little that remains of the inflicted's life. And apparently the painful nerve condition (oh, tell me about it!), instead of just buggering off when it's had its fun, can hang around for weeks, months, years or indefinitely. Brilliant, eh?

In many cases, the virus attacks the eye, creating havoc with eyelids, corneas, irises and heaven knows what else. I also discovered it can attack the inner ear, sometimes causing deafness. Painful jaw dropped when I read this - the bastard enemy's set up base camp behind my left ear and my hearing's been a wee bit off in that ear of late. Left eye's been a bit itchy too. Found myself absent-mindedly scratching it with the hand that absent-mindedly scratches the itchy blotches on my neck. So I've now convinced myself that I'll end up blind and deaf. Left side of my skull's a bit sensitive too (have had a slight headache there for about a week), so it's obviously attacking what's left of my brain. Ho hum. Apparently 'it' can make you confused, disoriented and forgetful. What was I saying? Ah yes, been that way for years so no great shakes there.

Rang up my sister to find out if we'd had chickpox as bairns. Told me she'd had it aged thirteen (I'd have been fifteen) but she can't remember me catching it then. So I must have had it earlier. Also told me if you've had chickpox as a kid, you're immune to sheenglezuh in later life. Hah! Immediately put her straight about that!

Imagining the worst, I then looked up whatever skin disease the great Dennis Potter had (he wot rote 'The Singing Detective'), believing that maybe sheenglezuh was just the start of it. Apparently not. Slight relief there. Then, being mechanically inclined, I started to do a bit of self-diagnosis...

Some considerable time ago (25 years?), at a particularly stressful stage of my life (Aldershot F.C. had just gone bust, I'd just joined a new ad agency, had a massive mortgage, still battered and bruised from a ballistic bust-up with a blood-sucking, bi-faced bitch, Dad just died, etc.,), I developed a strange lump on my neck. Turned out to be a carbuncle. Bloody great thing. Oozed yellow puss. Never really went away. Been regularly squeezing it for a quarter of a century. One just gets used to it. Anyway, I remember giving it a quick squeeze just after shaving about ten days ago. And, shortly after, that's when the sheenglezuh started. Now, I reckon that because carbuncles are also caused by stress, the two are linked. And I reckon the nerve that's been running along this carbuncle route is the same nerve that's now riddled with this sheenglezuh virus. Q.E.D. So there you go. Nothing to do with being stressed now; all to do with being stressed twenty-five years ago. That's my analysis and I'm sticking to it.

Shall now take the dogs for a quick stroll down that sunny road to recovery. "I'm walking, yeah yeah yeah, I'm talking, yeah yeah yeah..." Now who sung that? Fats?

I don't do ill. Never have. So when I first noticed a slight rash on my neck, I put it down to shaving. Next morning though, the rash had spread to the back of my neck, up behind my left ear and even a bit on my cheek. Bit itchy so I thought it might have been fleas from the dogs. But they don't have any. And there were none in the bed. So I then thought it may be due to a lack of fruit and veg. But I regularly eat oranges, the occasional apple and always stick loadsa veg in my stews. So, being a proper bloke, I ignored it. Maybe it'll go away.

Four or five days later, at Isabelle's insistence, I visited a doctor. Don't actually have a doctor of course, but I noticed a sign once on a door near the garage that serviced my VW camper. Made a mental note just in case I one day needed a quack. Went there yesterday. Sign still there. Dr Tixier. Nameplate brassy and shiny so he/she must still be practising. Receptionist showed me to the waiting room. A stark white chamber with a neat pile of Paris Match mags on a central table. Sat there on my own for about half an hour. Kept wondering what Doc Tixier would be like. Old, young, man, woman? Hadn't a clue. I just hoped he or she would have a slightly greater understanding of my mumbled Franglais than my dear old dentist. And would he or she be prepared to see me as I'm still not registered? Worry, worry.

Just as I was about to make a run for it, Doc Tix arrived. A man, thankfully. In jeans and sweater. Aged about fifty. Fit. Probably a squash and tennis player. Dunno why I thought that. Very nice fella.

Whisked me off to his consultation room. Lovely wood panelled walls and polished floorboards providing welcome contrast to the starkness of the white waiting room. Felt at ease immediately. Explained the problem. Then he sat me on the inspection couch, shone a light at the infected area and peered at it through a magnifying glass.

"Aha!" he exclaimed triumphantly, "zona!!" At least I think that's what he said. As my apparent malaise began with the letter 'z' I presumed it was the end of the line. There's something strangely terminal about zeds. Mind you, he didn't appear overly concerned so I thought there may be a chance I'd survive. Seeing my confused look, he then attempted some clarification. "C'est semblable a varicelle!" Zona, varicelle..., what the hell is this geezer on about? Then he consulted his handy French-English dictionary. "Zona... sheeeenglezuh! Varicelle... sheekenneh poxxxxssssuh!" Bugger moi, I've got the dreaded shingles and sheeken pox! Aaaaargh!

Bless him, he then went to great lengths to explain the background to this weird malaise, issued me with a prescription (said it was a shame I hadn't come in earlier as the pills really need to be started within three days of symptoms first appearing) and gave me the phone numbers of three local English people who'd probably help in getting me French registered so I could reclaim the 100 euro cost of my anti-biotics. Very helpful chap. Because shingles can be caused by stress, he then asked if I'd been worrying about anything recently. "Oui, actuellement...," a look of concern crossed his face, "je supports les ecossais a rugby et ils sont tres mal a ce moment. C'est terrible." He smiled. Then I added that I'd recently been going to bed late and getting up early when Jock starts barking at the sunrise. He agreed this may be the cause and advised more kip.

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Hah! Him... Captain sodding Sensible. Banned me fro' chaicking oot cars'n'bikes on eBeey. Git. But he-tha'-has-t'be-obeyed (ma feck'n airse) Rip van bleedin' Winklebum's still aweey wi'they fairies an' driftin' aboot in tha'land ai'Nod, so, as yiz dooz when the windae opportunity's left a wee bit ajar, I've bin street ontae tha' eebie-jeebie eBeey trials bike section. Full ae junk, of course. Rubbish. Shite. Amazing hoo mainy eejits are oot there who dinnae ken aboot maintenance. Oil, grease... what the hail's tha'? Then these feck'n tossas have th' nerve t' use expraissions like 'wise investment', 'minor work needed to make good as new' and 'only one owner' (aye... King feck'n Kong). Well, who the hail 'ae these bastard shiteheeds kiddin'? Then the wee jessies have the nerve to put their shiteheaps up fae grabs at silly money. It's a joke. Ha friggin' ha! Anyways, just as I wuz aboot tae swap tae the Porsche section, I spots this absolute feck'n gem... a 350 CCM! A wee beauty! Now a' course ah realise none o'yooz feck'n dimwits'll have tha' foggiest idea wha' I'm on aboot, bu' I'll have y'know this is one o' the most feck'n brrrrulliant trials bikes o'all time. Only made 105 o' the bastards and they're all either wrecked or stashed awey in friggin' collectors' garages oot in Californiyay and Tokeeoh. So, when one comes up, y'gotta swoop. So I did. Walloped in a £1500 bid. Immediately got pished on by some airse who bid £2000. Bas. Bu' fae one glorious moment it was mine, er, ours rather. If his lordship knew wha' I'd done, he'd a gone mental. Traimble, feck'n traimble! No' him I'm worried aboot, it's her, tha' wee Georgie woman, she'da gone feck'n apeshite ballistic. So I'm keepin' schtum while I keep an eye oot fae bidding progress over the naixt ten dees. Then ah spotted a wee Transalp on French eBee. Only six thoosand miles. Noo, wha' his friggin' lordship should do is tae white-van 'is Africa Twin (UK reg. and still not registered oot here 'cos the git's put off by all the complicated paperwork involved) and Matchless back t' the caisspit and sell the bastards, then replace 'em with that Transalp (French reg. o'course) and CCM. Simple. Straightish swap. But will he listen tae moi? Will 'e feck. Waste a'friggin' space. Shite! Jus' remembered. Scotland's playing that bunch o'fatty, pish-heed, daffy-wearing, non-stop bloody singing, oot'ae work taffy miners, this aftanoon (how come the thick as pig-shite pillocks have the nerve tae write 'brains' on their jerseys when they obviously hav'nae any?). And judging by las' week's games, the fatty taffs are looking good while us jocks are looking like a bunch o'fanny jessies. Friggin' useless. Couldn'ae catch a sodding cold let alone a bastard bollockin' ball. So, I suppose whain the game's over, his lordship'll be talking shite like "Oh, jolly well done Wales, a well deserved victory chaps" while I'm slingin' remote controls an' coffee mugs at the telly and shouting "feck'n buncha lardy sheep-shaggin' ref-bribing inbraid baaaastaaaaaards... we wuz friggin' rrrrrrrobbed!" Bollocks, Rip's waking. Better get the shaggin' kaittle on. P.S. - Och, I dinnae believe it; now th' eejit's ootside, mincing roond the sunny garden mumblin' "Ooh, look, the first daffodil's just flowered." Prat.

I am to poetry what Dale Winton is to rugby. But, nevertheless, I know a cracking bit of rhyming stuff when I see it. And I've just seen it in the comments of a recent posting (The houses in between) on Farquhar's blog (you'll find him in my list of friends - or if that doesn't work, try Googling 'Farquhar'). If you're into poetry, give it a butchers. Now! This very minute! Beats bleedin' Shakespeare and all that poncy stuff.

Bugger. Damned Marshies have just stuffed us Sweaties. Christian'll be unbearable... Er, if you haven't a clue what I'm on about, the Frogs (marshy bog - frog) have just beaten we Jocks (sweaty sock - jock) at wugger. Alternatively, if you want to be really confusing, it could be 'sweaty tilburys' (Tilbury Docks - socks). But 'sweaty tilburys - socks' doesn't really have the same ring, methinks.

Which reminds me... Dad, an ex-army officer who spoke with a rather posh accent, used to crease me up when wandering around of a morn muttering "anyone seen one's tilburys?" And when he'd had a scotch or two (which wasn't exactly a rare event), he'd usually put on some classical music at a somewhat high volume uttering "can't beat a bit of (e.g.) Beethoven when one's a tad Brahms, wot?" Doesn't appear particularly amusing written here, but I can assure you it had me in stitches. Every time. (Brahms and Liszt - pleasantly inebriated.)

Having watched this afternoon's wugger on the telly, I'm now watching what appears to be a bunch of American bikers (complete with make-up, cissy shoulder pads and crash helmets - but without bikes) playing a somewhat strange interpretation of Webb's original invention. The tackling's pathetic, there's a flagrant disregard for the forward pass rule, they stop every ten seconds for a five minute drinks break and yet the crowd's constantly going bananas. Beats me. Superbowl? Superbore! Can't take any more of this rubbish. Damned Yanks. I'm off to me pit.

Never been a great one for suits. Always thought of them as a type of uniform. Being brought up in the army, I was put off sartorial uniformity at an early age. And civvy street seemed just as bad. All those toffs in bowlers with brollies. Looking like penguins. Just plain daft. So when I became a sixties art student, I opted for baggy sweaters and jeans. Which, of course, was a uniform. You just can't win.

Then there's fashion. Never gone for that either. Winkle-pickers, flowery shirts, flared trews, hairy Afghan coats (quite smelly I seem to remember), sandals, trainers, blue suede shoes, kipper ties, narrow ties, op-art badges, newsprint suits (remember them?!), drainpipes, baggies, logo teeshirts (come to think of it, anything with a logo), Ben Shermans, ripped designer jeans, black Armani jeans, Vivienne Westwood belts, Doc Martins, (I've started so I'll finish), Beatle haircuts, Afro frizzes, Keegan perms, groovy shades, granny specs, any form of bling, tattoos, shirts worn outside trews, (this list is endless)... never really grabbed me. Experimented a few times of course. Just for fun. A luminous pink, preposterously lengthy, silk kipper tie for example. And a pink Wrangler needlecord jean jacket with matching trews. And Hush Puppies. Looked ridiculous. But that was the whole point. Oh, and an earring. Just for about six months though.

Anyway, having said all that, I bought my first suit when I was about eighteen. Or rather Dad did, as I was and still am, and probably always will be, totally bereft of coinage. Naturally, having agreed to foot 99% of the bill, Dad assumed we'd be going to a tailor of his choice to get kitted out with a proper whistle styled by some geriatric on his last legs who'd dressed Disraeli and Brunel in his youth. But I had different ideas...

And so it was, back in the sixties, that my good mate Howard and I, armed with loadsa parental wedge, trundled from New Romney to Folkestone to visit a suitable suit emporium where we chose our material and were measured for a couple of hip Pierre Cardin numbers with stylishly broad lapels, tightish waists, flared twin-vent tails and flared trousers without turn-ups. The bees knees. When the suits eventually arrived, Dad hit the roof and Howard and I hit the local disco (a shabby little back room at The Ship Inn in New Romney which was lit by a couple of ultra-violet strip lights that alarmingly exposed dandruff and, less alarmingly, tee-hee-hee, brassieres) where I seem to remember being subjected to a certain amount of ridicule. Think it was the only time I wore that suit.

Went suitless for the next century or so until I eventually gave way to peer pressure at an ad agency where I was advised to smarten myself up a bit. So I went out and bought a pricey Boss. Promptly ruined it by spilling my lunch down it. Or throwing up all over it outside Covent Garden's infamous watering hole, Zanzibar. Can't remember which. Probably both. Replaced it with a cheaper off-the-peg M&S number. Not trendy enough. So I then bought one of those trendy, baggy, silk sack cloth suits that's designed to crease like the heavily-lined face of a worried Cherokee grandmother who's right out of moisturiser. In a bilious shade of green. Looked totally ridiculous. Like a sack of spuds. At which point my sartorial advisers advised me to give up. So I did.

With memories of my disastrous ventures into the peacock world of sartorial elegance now laid dim and distant, I suddenly find myself toying with the rather novel idea of getting the sort of suit that Dad probably had in mind for me all that time ago. Maybe I've become my father. Hmm... had to happen I suppose. Anyway, as mentioned in my previous posting, I recently spotted a delightful three-piece tweed whistle on eBay. As also mentioned, what's the use of a bleedin' whistle out here in the back of beyond? Well, apart from calling hunting hounds or alerting rescuers if you're lost in the mists (ha ha), sweet Fanny Adams. No use at all. So I naturally snapped it up. Needs a few alterations but I have a handy pair of scissors which I normally use for snipping Jock's merde-matted anal hair. Georgie'll hit the roof of course, and maybe I'll hit the local disco. Er, maybe not.

To view said item, visit www.tweed-jacket.com It's the second one down on the 'tweed suits' page. Natty little number, wot?

Georgie! Take no notice whatsoever of the listed price!!! Snapped it up for a paltry sum due to it being used as a photographic prop in the production of their promotional material. Shall now take great pleasure in burning those three ghastly ill-fitting suits. Something I've been meaning to do for years.