Just as it was mediocrity that made me embark on “The Neverending Project That Dare Not Speak Its Name”, it was mediocre blogs (not yours, A.W) that made me think that I probably need to try my hand. That way, if mine is any good I can have a go at the ones that aren’t (most of them) and if mine is cack, then I shall get with the winning side and contribute to the ever increasing stream of effluent. I’ll be writing about myself, as it’s one of the few things I’m an authority on. When there’s anything that affects me directly or indirectly and that I can/am willing to juice a few words out of I will. So.
I went to the
Neurophysiology department in Colchester General today for an Electroencephalogram. The all-seeing all-knowing consultant who
diagnosed me with epilepsy referred me to this department to confirm his
diagnosis/cover his back in case of a lawsuit. This involved having the
electricity produced by my brain measured on a screen whilst having
instructions barked at me by an Australian. I asked if he was from New Zealand
when I heard his accent, even though there’s about five times as many Aussies
in the world. The reason is that if you’re wrong about an Australian they’ll
laugh it off, but if you accuse a Kiwi of being from Oz, they will rip your
head off and use it as a chamber pot.
For some reason, he
decided to try and put me at ease by asking me about my aspirations. I muttered
something about having unfeasible and unrealistic dreams, and he countered this
by saying it’s all about attitude and believing I can do it. Perhaps the
Aussies have a slightly less jaded and cynical outlook than the British.
Anyway, he pushed me for an answer for what I most wanted, and I told him that it
was to accumulate all the wealth and materials on Earth, become King of the
world and leave everyone else in the gutter wishing they were me. He countered
by telling me that that was his plan and he was a little closer to it than me,
but that I could be his acolyte. We eventually agreed on the condition that I
would be able to delegate responsibility but not power (so blame the lower down
bastards whilst not letting them actually do anything) and for me to be able to
rid this Earth of one person. I chose Hugh Dallas, a referee who as yet is the
only person to cause me to make these noises.
So there I was, lying
back with electrodes pasted to my scalp having to hyperventilate on command
whilst lying on an NHS La-Z-Boy chair (other brands are available). The
most interesting part was being made to stare at these futuristic lights that
were strobing with the brightness of a thousand suns- reminiscent of the bit in
2001: A Space Odyssey where David Bowman has all those otherworldy lights
streaking towards him at a huge velocity. Also a bit reminiscent of that bit in
A Clockwork Orange. The ultra-violent droog Alex has his eyes held open and is
forced to watch violent images that he slowly grows sickened and scared of. After
that, he commits or looks at acts of violence again due to intense nausea.
Consequently, I suppose I’ll start gagging the next time I’ll see a strobe
light. Perhaps that’s the consultant covering his back again. After all, he
wants me to look like an epileptic…
No comments:
Post a Comment