And the Oscar goes to...

A year ago today I had a stroke. Fortunately, I’m one of the very, very lucky ones who’s able to look back over the year gone by with fully restored brain capacity and without impairment to any bodily function. One dreads to think how the whole situation could have turned out, had it not been for the alertness of my partner Andrew and the stellar medical care provided the NHS. To come out at t’other end completely unscathed is like divine intervention, if you believe in such nonsense.

Since it’s Oscar nomination day (Parasite for the win), I’d like to take the opportunity to give recognition where recognition’s due, in the shape of my own private Oscars.

Best Picture – This one, taken a just over a week after the stroke. Made it up the hill in Greenwich Park. 

Best Director – Dr Striha, Neurology Consultant at King’s College Hospital for being in charge of administering the all-important clot busting treatment, and continued after care. I’ve since found out that he’d finished for the day and was waiting for a train at Denmark Hill when A&E called and said that a patient who would benefit from thrombolysis had just arrived. He duly headed back. Hashtag lifesaver.

Leading role – Andrew Dibb. Possessing the right balance of persistence and nagging for dealing with a stubbornly uncooperative patient.

Supporting role – The stroke team at King’s College Hospital and the speech and language service at Oxleas NHS trust. I heart the NHS.

Best Script – The high drama of Sunday 13 January 2019. The gentle build up (panning shots of the Thames pathway at Greenwich peninsula, morning run in the early sunshine), the moment of crisis and drama (stroke in Sainsbury's, unwitting protagonist wrestled to the ground by punters, breaks free and makes a dash for it), the 'get with the programme' moment (protagonist unwisely goes to bed, amidst said crisis), the knight in shining armour moment (partner comes home and rescues protaganist), the ambulance stand off (paramedics vs partner, partner wins), the hospital sequence (rapid jump from assessment, to scan, to thrombolysis). The stroke ward (tracking shot through hospital corridors and lifts, crisis averted).

Best Music – R.E.M. Soundtracking my life since 1991.

Best Foreign Language – Swedish. Or rather, the relief at regaining cognition for both Swedish and English. To start with, I definitely struggled with both. Had my first or second language ended up foreign, the road to recovery would definitely have been more gruesome.

Best Sound – The cork on the bottle of fizz we’re about to crack open. Here’s to another stroke-free year!

A calamitous event, especially one occurring suddenly and causing great damage

Being a disaster isn't easy. It takes a lot of effort. Years of practice, a relentless suppression of common sense, a method actor's commitment to the cause. At times physically and/or emotionally draining, disaster is not a mantle to assume for the faint-hearted. "You want disaster? Well disaster costs. And right here is where you start paying... in sweat". Debbie Allen knows.

The awards season is upon us, Whiplash for the win goddammit, so in the spirit of things I've prepared a list of those to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for achieving Towering Inferno levels of disaster.

First of all I'd like to thank God, i.e. Michael Stipe, because that's what every self respecting (American) winner would do at the Oscars and if Mr McConaissance himself says so then that's pretty much final. Any potential objection rendered obsolete. In his speech he explained that God "has graced me with opportunities that I know are not of my hand or any other human hand". Here I beg to differ though, God/Stipe has graced me with plenty of opportunities that I know for definite were of my own hand.

Secondly I want to thank my mum (still on the Oscars tip) for providing excellent lineage in the art of spending. Pedigree of the finest order. Honourable mentions also go out to my employers, current and previous, for providing me with the financial foundation to develop into a first class disaster; Asos, Primark, Topman, H&M, River Island, Zara, any other menswear retailer and various manufacturers of electronic equipment for continuing to pour out fuel for the bonfire of disaster; Tinternet for 24 hr shopping; Aviation for the ability for disaster to go global; life itself for providing untold recipes for disaster.

I've put in a Herculean effort for disaster greatness over the last week or so. Like the fluffiest, pinkiest Duracell rabbit I've just kept on going. My excuse: everyone's still peddling sales and we're almost into February. I've bought the following items in quick succession, all crucial purchases obviously, if not for playing the lead, then for providing Oscar worthy supporting roles:

Checked wool blazer from Topman - £22.50

Skinny stretch jeans from Topman - £24

Mustard chinos from Zara - £12.99

Black t-shirt with black patent print from River Islanwd - £5

Yellow printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99

White printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99

Multicolour printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99

Blue wool blazer from Pull and Bear - 2 x £19.99

Green jumper from Asos - £5

So some might say that it's slightly excessive to buy 4 t-shirts in one fell swoop. Not me. Na-ah. Granted, I've got quite a few t-shirts already (disastrous amount to some, capsule collection to me) but I reckon quite a few of them are nearing retirement. I've got my t-shirts divided into two categories: those worthy of being on display and those that need covering up. There's obviously a natural turnover/progression so there's always a need for new starters. Call me a call centre, though not Ant Marketing. I draw the line at that.

The doubling up on the cost of the blue blazer is not an accidental typo. I mean come on. Rather, I made the slightly inexplicable manoeuvre of trying on a medium in the shop, deciding that it didn't fit, and buying a large instead. In the cold light of day, the large is just too big. Maybe I'd had an all you can eat dinner and a KFC family bucket tea that day or something. I grabbed the first opportunity to rectify the situation of course. I've now got a medium sized blazer which does fit, and a large one which requires more calories than Elvis. Oh well, the combined £39.98 for one wearable blazer is still cheaper than the original full price. Besides Elvis might be on the horizon.

I bought the bulk of the clothes in London, spent 5 days of work then leisure there last week. Highlights included dinner at Palomar and a cocktail bar tour of Soho with the mighty Gaspari and the free Daylight Music gig at Union Chapel in Islington. Knowing a fair few people down there has its benefits for sure.

One of the bands performing at Union Chapel was The Papas and The Mamas, a newly formed cover band with none other than Sarah Cracknell of Saint Etienne as a third of the female vocal power. Sadly but unsurprisingly Saint Etienne songs were not on the menu. Afterwards we all congregated in a pub directly behind the chapel and much to my delight The Papas and The Mamas were all in there. At one point I deliberately shuffled sideways so that I was stood next to Sarah Cracknell, just to be able to declare it in a blog like.

I drew the line at that. Regardless of where the person is on the A-Z list of celebrity, I wouldn't be able to think of anything remotely interesting to add to the conversation. Though at some point I might try "Do you know who I look like?". Rupert Cook on the other hand made good use of his encyclopaedic music knowledge and helped Sarah Cracknell out by answering her question about the name of the band whose song was the second one they covered in their mini set. Offspring Rupert said. Thank you Sarah said. Wow he's chatting to Sarah Cracknell and Surely not that Offspring I thought. Turns out there's another Offspring. They should've covered both, a rousing version of Pretty Fly (for a White Guy) would've gone down a treat.

My other celebrity encounters are limited indeed, a really rather embarrassing exchange with Phil Oakey in Gatecrasher ("I remember listening to you when I was a kid" is not cool) and a really rather amusing encounter with a pissed up Guy Garvey in Manchester after a First Aid Kit gig.

My all time favourite celeb moment though involved TV's Dr Christian. They were filming Embarrassing Bodies - the sex special, at Hallam University's fresher fair and working in sexual health promotion at the time, we'd been approached by the production team to provide a stand and represent the local sexual health services. At lunch one of the crew members took me down to the catering room for a free dinner. As we walked in Dr Christian was having a massive rant at the production team, effing and blinding about students asking him questions expecting him to know the answer.  The guy I was with did a loud 'ahem' and introduced me and immediately Dr Christian snapped back into his public persona and politely shook hands.

Maybe being a celeb is more of an effort than being a disaster...