Senility or Stupidity

Senility or Stupidity

People say ‘Life begins at Forty’ but neglect to say you are f**ked at fifty. If Life begins at forty why do you have to be a Saga member at all? Sharabang of coffin dodgers singing ‘We’ll meet again’ stopping at every tea shop because of weak bladders and to stuff themselves with scones.

Yes, old age comes to all of us. I am just a year or two off the half-century mark and already exhibiting signs of dementia. For example: Sleeping with other women I believe to be my wife. Obliviously shoplifting, obviously. Forgetting it’s my round of beer. Burning the toast. Well, I blame that on the toast ‘colour’ chart. It actually has ‘black’ on the setting. So, if you like coal for breakfast you can order it! What’s that all about?

I mean when I go into ‘the greasy spoon’ café do I ask? “Err can I have the beans black and stuck to the bottom of the pan please? Oh, and could you make the eggs like congealed bathroom mastic, thankyou?” Don’t forget I want the bacon so when I get it, they look like scorched pork scratchings. One last thing, please cook my sausages so that when I put a dinner fork in them it bustsa prong and breaks the plate. I want them like blackened heat-rods found from the debris of the Chernobyl meltdown?” Imagine what the assistant chef would say.

“I can’t cook your breakfast like that!”

I would answer, “Well, you bloody well did last time.”

Talking of burnt to buggery toast, it is claimed that it might be the cause of Alzheimer’s disease. I know I read it somewhere. Honestly, my memory these days. Where’s my cup of tea. Oh, I didn’t make one. Nevermind. What’s that brown stuff coming out of my bottom? Oh well, it looks better in my hair. Doesn’t my Xmas list seem easy this year? Now, where did I put my glass of diesel, the kind lady gave me?

Yes, toast. Anything consisting of carbon is supposed to be carcinogenic, or so we are told. Cancer growing stuff! Why is that? 25% of us are made of carbon, anyway. I mean, not 25% as in only a quarter of the population. I mean all of us have 25% carbon. Enough to start a Bar B Q.

Squished carbon become diamonds and they are a ‘girl’s best friend’, and easy to swallow in my case, when I’m at the duty free shop.

Of course there are all sorts of carbon. Monoxide, Dioxide, Tetrachloride, Carbon black. We are going to look at charcoal in its refined form or ‘activated charcoal’.

Charcoal is used by artists worldwide and whether or not handling charcoal in this way is harmful is still a bit sketchy. Only the pictures look a bit drawn and a little faint.

Read this:

“Activated carbon has been known as a miracle filter media by many researchers because of its unique ability to remove offensive tastes, odors, color, chlorine and volatile organic chemicals, pesticides and trihalomethanes (a group of suspected carcinogens). Briefly, activated carbon acts like a sponge, with a large surface area to absorb contaminants in the water. Many scientists believe this is a result of affinity that these chemicals have for carbon because of Van Der Waal forces. Activated carbon is the preferred treatment and method recommended by the EPA to remove a host of potentially hazardous and possibly carcinogenic chemicals in drinking water.”

So, charcoal filters in water systems actually take harmful cancer causing chemicals out of drinking water? So water is more dangerous, yet, we are told by health experts to drink the stuff all the time. So, that’s what ‘carbonated’ water is, then?

This is probably why healthy people look so ill, anyway?

But if you want to compare studies made here, it seems then, you get two schools of thought. That carbon is good for you, or it may kill you. One lowers lipids and treats cancer. The other is thought to be a toxin that may cause it.

Read this too:

“Based on a lipid-absorbing ability of lymphatic capillaries, a fat emulsion containing anticancer agents was applied to selectively deliver more increasing amounts of anticancer agents into regional lymph nodes. The emulsions, in which the drug solution is contained as the innermost phase or as oily soluble drug, yield high drug concentrations in the lymphatic system. Clinical trial of the emulsion method was carried out preoperatively for 180 patients with stomach cancer. As a result, the emulsion enhanced the chemotherapeutic effect of the anticancer agent on lymph node metastasis. About a 20 m mu-sized activated charcoal, in which anticancer agents were absorbed, selectively delivered the anticancer agents to the lymphatic system. The activated charcoal was also excellent carrier material for the lymphatic system, and we have applied it to patients with lymphatic metastasis.” (American National Library of medicine)

Or how about this? The other argument.
“A retrospective cohort study was performed on a group of 6,635 male workers employed for more than 15 years during the period 1970-1985 in seven factories including the carbon plants and the potroom and carbon department in an aluminium reduction plant. The SMRs for lung cancer and liver cancer among the workers highly exposed to coal tar pitch volatiles (CTPV) were 4.30 (p<0.01) and 2.25 (p<0.01), respectively. The SMRs for lung cancer and cancer of the esophagus among moderately CTPV-exposed workers were 1.52 (p> 0.05) and 5.46 (p < 0.01) respectively. Results showed that the numerous deaths from lung cancer were correlated with CTPV in the carbon-producing process in carbon plants.”

So, is carbon good for you or not? If somebody wants to ‘carbon date’ you, does that mean they want to take you upstairs to see their etchings and gently smudge you after rolling you sideways?

Research shows that eating carbon can’t kill you. For example, I had a Carbonara the other day and I feel as right as rain.
Some carbon may hurt you. My sister married a carbon copy of her former husband and still gets beaten up regularly. I rest my case.
Anyway what was it we were talking about? I’ve forgotten. Who is that person in the photograph? I must stop playing with myself. Oh, yes, Dementia.
They can stick their research where the monkey put its nuts. My theory is that our brains travel to our arse when we hit middle age. Let me explain. You walk into a room. You stop. You look around and wonder what the feck you walked into it in the first place  for.

It’s only when you ‘sit down’, and that is the first time you remember what you were supposed to be doing. Hence, your brains have slipped into your rear end.
No cure? My arse…
Alzheimer’s disease is easy to reverse. I’m not talking about genetic engineering or wonder drugs. I have a cure. If people read my website a bit more for its pocketfuls of treasures they might live to be a hundred. They might forget their own name and everybody else’s, on the way, but that’s irrelevant. You learn to call people, ‘Dear’ or ‘Luvvie’, like the lady in the white coat does.
But first. What is Dementia? If you haven’t already forgotten.

There are 4 types of Dementia. Pick’s Disease affects only the frontal and anterior portions of the temporal lobe; the neurons in this disease become abnormal and swollen. Alzheimer’s Disease involves the formation of neuritic plaques and neurofibrillary tangles in the brain. Lewy Body is identified by abnormal structures in brain cells called “Lewy Bodies”. Vascular Dementia is the second most common form and is the result of a single or multiple stroke. There are no known cures for Dementia. The main symptoms I was asked to address were insomnia, anxiety and restlessness.

Here is an ode from Jeannette Howe. If you relate to anything below then you are still quite lucid and not got it anyway.

“Why won’t this hotel let me check out? Why didn’t my students bring their books? Where are all my things? Who are all these people? Has my husband called? Where are the kids? I want to go home. Will you take me home? Why do I wake up each morning and nothing is ever the same? When will I wake up from this nightmare and confusion? Why are all the doors locked? Let me in! Let me out! Help me! The questions are endless; until you don’t even remember what questions to ask? Looking into the eyes of a woman trapped between reality and another world, confused and scared. Our eyes fill with tears, my heart sinks. Sometimes we share a smile, sometimes laughter, sometimes just silent space.”
Being absent minded is not dementia. It just means you haven’t got the feckin’ brains you were born with.

Alzheimer’s and Dementia is a disease of the neurotransmitters or electrical system that uses fine capillaries to rush messages within the brain. The fine ‘tubes’ get plaque or sticky lipid substances that clog or confuse the routes. It’s a bit like our GPO services at Xmas. The information or messages end up going to the wrong destination as the ‘glue’ accumulates over years.
How else can you explain it?

It’s like very old wiring in a house that has become brittle or the rubber sleeves on the wires and the cablesbecome dangerously bare and get tangled and touch, fizz and spark. Lights fuse and start to flicker on and off. The wiring in some old people ‘short circuits’. Some days they short out. Become confused and frightened.

So oldsters may seem to have their lights on but nobody is at home. Or the curtains are drawn anyway.
Other days they seem very alert and themselves again. As Dementia takes hold, the bad days increase over the good days. Generally, it is heartbreaking and sad for family members. For example, you try to work the DVD and a demented relative has pissed on it and you are not covered for flood.

My Mother had dementia and it’s terrifying for the victim as well as the visitor. I may joke about it but I wouldn’t have wished it on my own mother. Well, she had it anyway, but I didn’t wish on anyone in particular, other than her, in that case. I used to visit her and she would be naked in a wheelchair. She would then mistake me for her far younger husband ( my father was already deceased) and try to take my clothes off and then start French kissing me. If she had lived any longer we would have had to make some sort of announcement. To avoid any further overtures from my Mother I used to visit dressed as Beelzebub to discourage her ardour. Thankfully she soon realised that she had died and gone to hell and left me alone.

What are the first signs of dementia?

Putting the milk back in the oven.
Hiding chocolate in your underwear when it’s not Cadbury’s.
Using flour bombs in libraries.
Watching the TV, and believing you can hear a curious ‘ding’ after the programme.
Wearing socks because you forgot your gloves.
Laying down on the floor facedown in supermarkets when an assistant points a pricing gun at you.
Keeping a goldfish in your purse.
Wearing tampons as earrings.
Making a 1970’s trim phone sound effect with your mouth.
Producing a 1970’s trim phone at airports to answer the call.
Gift wrapping Heinz ravioli bite-size pasta mince parcels, out of the tin, separately.
Making rafts out of road signs.
Cutting small crescents out of plastic vending cups, spreading them neatly at your feet, so you can fool your carer you have already cut your toenails.
Chewing a whole tube of Gaviscon tablets, and throwing yourself on the floor of a bus to get a seat.
Rubbing yourself up against furniture.
Weeing up against furniture.
Eating furniture.
Being in a doctor’s surgery when you do all the above.
Attempting to use dental floss on dangerous zoo animals.
Picking up a Bella magazine.
Reading a Bella magazine.
Going to the counter to actually pay for a Bella magazine.
Arranging potted plants stolen from garden centres at vital exits of the emergency services.
Picking up litter with the cheeks of your arse.
Attending church only to use prayer candles to leave under pews.
Wearing a shredded cardboard wig.
Using wooden clothes pegs all over your skin to prevent signs of ageing.
Throwing your voice, using disgusting expletives at Tesco’s delicatessen and blaming it on the coarse mince.
Throwing your voice so it sounds like “Fuck off and leave me alone” from your butt, at your Doctor’s surgery, so he believes you have Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
Doing the same by projecting your voice from your ribs and blaming it on a grumbling appendix.
The same from the chest area and saying you have a heart murmur.
Doing the same from your right wrist at least fifty times to say you have a Repetitive Strain Injury.

Two popular myths.

Myth Number One.

Some have said in the past that the use old aluminium pans are responsible for dementia. That each cooking use of them over many years, could release harmful metal oxides to cause brain damage. In my experience the only illness one could derive from these inoffensive kitchen utensils was dysentery, as your Mum used to boil your underwear in them, before making chutney.

Myth Number Two.
That people are not demented but already stupid. Hiding behind a thin veil of innocence just means getting married is very, very stupid, as you only get to wear the outfit once.
I could no doubt get off a drink driving rap if I claim to have had Alzheimer’s, but its all a bit late now.

My Cure.

Beat dementia by taking beta blockers and lipid lowering drugs from the age of three. Drink antioxidant teas. Like Green tea or Redbush. Stuff as many vitamin supplements down you as you can. Get your cholesterol down by a fat free diet. Drink alcohol every day. A bottle of red wine each night at least. Red wine has a dilating effect on the arterial walls and takes all your fat from the blood stream that causes furring of the capillaries and deposits it, out of harms way, onto your liver instead. The liver is a very forgiving organ and if you try and destroy seven eighths of it, it will still recover. So get down that pub now and enlarge the liver to take as much balls of fat away from your brain as possible.
Booze is dehydrating. That means our bodies start to dry up if we do not replace the water. So ask the Landlord for a glass of water in between the chasers. Or just put ice with all your drinks. Iced tea is delicious too. You don’t have to be gay to drink it.

M*st*rb*te twice a day. Just to clean out your tubes and prevent prostate cancer. You need the ‘five fingered widow’ if you want to ever see a buspass. Keep active. For instance: Masturbate on the stairs instead of the escalator.
If you must smoke, do so in fresh air while eating a fresh carrot. If you want to give up smoking, ‘light up’ in the shower, it will soon dampen the desire to smoke.

People who have ‘lost it’ are usually unaware that they are making twats of themselves. Did you see George Dubbya’s facial expression when he was addressing a local school on that fateful day? He sat motionless when the full terror of 911 was whispered in his ear by his Aids? He is not worried about dying of ignorance from that, either, it seems. Or, is he ‘doolally’, perhaps? He did not bat an eye. Not a raised eyebrow, not a flicker even. He just calmly carried on wondering what was for supper that evening and if the screaming yellow zombie had gone from the cupboard.

Yes, dementia is more fun if you are a world leader. George got into the Oval office so he didn’t have to find a corner to babble in. He wants the whole world to know he is completely bonkers.

President Reagan’s wife said at her beloved husband’s death. “I could not go where he wanted to go, anymore.” I’m not surprised. Not nice for the First Lady to be caught pissing in the pots on the White House lawn. Or washing her hair in marmalade each night.

Dementia will not stop me having a full and rewarding life in my twilight years. I will be able to grab pretty carers private parts to my hearts content, and expose myself to Social Workers. Steal all the whole biscuits, and pee and poop, with gay abandon, into a snug fitting absorbent pad without the added inconvenience of a convenience. I can watch purple hedgehogs climb up windows and take shit loads of Valium.

I can spit out my food, if I don’t like it, and strip off during Eastenders, in the dayroom while I shout obscenities, like they do in the House of Lords. I can cut all the knobbly bits off jigsaws and fart during Bingo.
The whole country is run by deranged people. Magistrates ‘don’t have all their chairs around the table either’. We are led, as a nation, by people who are as ‘batty as a box of frogs’.

My ambition is to be able to see Ian Hyslop become a vulnerable and demented old man. But that could be months away yet.

The Fugitive Author


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