Now, dear blog fiends, here are The Beatles - they were a popular beat combo of the 1960s (you might've heard of them) - out-and-about in 1968, searching for the ruddy 'ooligan tea-leaf wot pinched the bottom-half of Sir Paul's shirt.
On a somewhat-related topic, this blogger will Never Understand why more people, you know, don't.
This blogger had a really nice kip one day early in October after that morning's exertions whilst The Stately Telly Topping Manor weekly washing was an on-going issue. He woke up feeling like a new man ... but, sadly one wasn't available so, instead, this was the afternoon's Stately Telly Topping Manor viewing. After all, what else y'gonna watch on Sitarday? 'Oh, dey do dough, don't dey dough?'
And,
here we have a, rather hip-and-groovy looking Peter Cushing in what appears to be a suede jacket (
gear) and his friend and frequent co-star Christopher Lee, his wife and daughter on the set of what this blogger claims in
Return To The Vault Of Horror to be one of his six favourite movies of all-time,
Dracula AD 1972.
Meanwhile, we've also recently had the arrival at The Stately Telly Topping Manor of two of this blogger's favourite
European horror movies. Which was nice.
All of which brings us, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, to that extra-special (and, increasingly lengthy) part of
From The North dedicated to this blogger's horribly on-going medical malarkey. Or, strictly speaking,
malarkeys as there have been - and continue to be - several of them. For those dear blog fiends who haven't been following this epic adventure, almost three years in the making, it goes like this: Keith Telly Topping spent some weeks around Christmas 2021 and into the New Year of 2022
feeling pure dead rotten, so he did; he experienced an alarming five day
in hospital; was
discharged; received some
B12 injections; then
more of them; somewhat recovered his missing
appetite; got an initial
diagnosis; had a
consultant's meeting; continued to suffer from
fatigue and insomnia; endured a (second)
endoscopy; had
another consultation; got (unrelated)
toothache; had an
extraction; which then took
ages to
heal; had
another consultation; spent a week where nothing
remotely health-related occurred; received further
B-12 injections; had an
echocardiogram; was subject to more
blood extractions; made another
hospital visit; saw the unwelcome insomnia and torpor
continue; received yet more
blood tests; had
a rearranged appointment; suffered
his worst period yet with fatigue. Until the
following week. And then, the
week after that. Oh, the
fatigue, dear blog reader. The depressing, ceaseless
fatigue. He then had a go on
the Blood-Letting Machine; got
another sick note; had
an assessment; was given his
fourth COVID jab; got some surprising-but-welcome
news about his assessment; had the results of his
annual diabetes check-up; had another
really bad week
with the fatigue; followed by one with the
sciatica; then one with the
chronic insomnia; and, one with a plethora of general
cold-related grottiness. Which continued over
the 2022 Christmas period and
into 2023. There was that whole '
slipping in The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House bath and putting his knee through the side' thing; a period of painful night-time
leg and foot cramps; getting some new
spectacles; returning to the
East End pool; only to discover that he remained as weak of a kitten in the water. Or, indeed,
out of it; felt genuinely
wretched; experienced a nasty bout of
gastroenteritis; had a visit from an
occupational therapist; did the 'accidentally going out of the gaff in his
slippers' malarkey; saw the
return of the dreaded insomnia and the dreaded return of
the fatigue. Had the latest
tri-monthly prickage; plus, yet more
sleep disturbances; a further bout of day-time
retinology; a bout of extreme
exhaustion; picked up a
cold virus in the week that he got his latest Covid and influenza inoculations; got through
the entire Department Of Baths malarkey (and then, its
sequel) whilst suffering from significant, on-going, back spasms. Received the welcome news that his latest test for cancer of the colon had
come back negative. Got scheduled for
yet more blood tests. And, during one,
suffered 'a nasty turn' and ended up spending a night and two days in the RVI.
October, in fact, turned into something of a horrorshow (and drag), generally, in relation to yer actual Keith Telly Topping's well-being. September, of course, had included the 'fainting and spending a night in hospital' malarkey mentioned
in the last From The North update.
That experience however now seems like a mild summer breeze in comparison to the Force Twelve
Tempest that
was October.
It all started promisingly enough, too. This blogger's six monthly diabetes check-up, following the passing-out daftness from a couple of weeks previously, occurred in mid-October. There was still, at that stage, nothing solid on the cause of the latter (not that this blogger was particularly expecting any, it just seemed to be 'one of those things'); otherwise, it was a decent(ish), thoroughly routine, session with lovely Nurse Adrienne. Weight down four kgms; the wee-wee test was okay; blood pressure was okay; bloods were taken and this blogger was told he would find out how they were in a couple of weeks. Of course, that two weeks subsequently turned into a total bloody nightmare of epic proportions (albeit, one which included some significant further weight loss which is
never a bad thing, no matter what the circumstances may be). Keith Telly Topping was also amused to discover that he now gets the full dementia test as part of his diabetes check-up (can you name the twelve months of the year backwards?
et cetera). 'How've you been over the last few months?' Nurse Adrienne asked. 'Not bad. Surviving. Wrote a book ...' this blogger replied, truthfully (although, if truth be told a bit
smugly.
That was just asking for trouble, so it was).
Because,
that was as good as it got. From that very day onwards, as it happens,
everything which could go wrong, did. 'I've been as sick as a dog for the last week and I'm still not feeling over-clever even as we speak,' this blogger told his
Facebook page fiends on 22 October. 'The cold has turned nasty, the cough's just sort of lingered and, since the back end of last week, I've had both sickness and diarrhoea. I've been consisting exclusively on coffee, cuppa soup and fruit juice and spending lots of time in bed with hot water bottles watching DVD box-sets. Hopefully, I should be able to get myself pulled together by this time next week when I've got another dinner date with Young Malcolm planned. For the moment, it's a case of trying not to pass out or spew up each time I have a coughing fit. Which is great fun.' Amazingly (possibly amusingly)
that was just the start of the fun and games.
Yer actual KTT continued to feel about as a rotten as a frog in a blender. It got so bad that, a couple of days later, the lovely Doctor Simon from the local medical centre was required to visit The Stately Telly Topping Manor for an emergency home visit. He suggested what this blogger had already half expected, that yer actual was suffering from a
really nasty dose of
Norovirus (also known as 'Winter Vomiting Thingy Whatsit'). Or, possibly, worst-case-scenario
ecoli or
salmonella but, since the treatment for all three is, essentially, the same - liquid, rest, more liquid, even more rest, no antibiotics cos they'll do no good at all and, possibly, some harm - it made little difference to the diagnosis. Doctor Simon suggested that this blogger had been 'very unlucky' in contracting this particularly virulent form of the Norovirus lurgi as it usually comes and goes within a minimum of three to a maximum of five days. This had already been going on for close to a fortnight. The symptoms were constant nausea, albeit with only intermittent vomiting (mostly just a sort of foamy phlegm as there was little or nothing solid to actually bring up); constant (and particularly aggressive) diarrhoea, to the point now where as barely nothing solid had crossed the Telly Topping lips, it was merely flood after dispiriting flood of shitty brown water; a very tender stomach and a feeling of being bloated shortly after
anything passed this blogger's gob (and, given that this blogger was drinking lots of liquids to try and keep hydrated, that was pretty much
all the time). Apart from the odd bowl of milky cereal, Keith Telly Topping was existing, as noted, on cuppa soups and hot beverages (although, bonus, he discovered a partiality for milky tea
with lemon juice, something he'd've run a mile from previously). Also, this blogger had a nasty incident in the early hours of that Saturday morning (his birthday, as it happens - not that he particularly celebrates them these days) when getting up to go for a pee. Coming into the kitchen for another drink full of water to ease his dry parched dry throat, he had another sudden dizzy turn and ended up sprawled out in the hall, sandwiched between the filing cabinet and the bookcase (how he managed to avoid smacking his head wide open on the concrete floor is a genuine mystery). This blogger
did then manage to crawl back to bed and, mercifully, that had - at that stage - been the only instance of such rank fainty daftness occurring. This blogger was assured that the cough was 'wholly unrelated' to the Norovirus and Doctor Simon wanted this blogger to get a chest x-ray at the RVI once he was feeling well enough to travel and 'just to be on the safe side.' So, all-in-all, Keith Telly Topping'd had better weeks …
Having continued to feel wretched all the
following week too and having had two further (and, really upsetting) spells of fainting and falling, one on Thursday night another Friday late-afternoon (the day of publication for
Return To The Vault Of Horror) - this blogger felt it necessary to dial nine-nine-nine. And, to explain that he was feeling, in the words of Neil Pye, 'really terrible, actually' - sickness, heavy diarrhoea, coughing, stomach pains, dizziness, fainting
et cetera. The symptoms were no longer pointing to Norovirus or similar but, rather, to something more serious. The emergency lady was marvellous, calmed this blogger down, told him as he's in at least two 'at risk' health categories and because he lives alone and the fainting thing could, potentially, be very serious indeed, he'd done the right thing in calling. She said she'd put all of the details of our conversation onto the system and that an ambulance should be with this blogger in 'a couple of hours.' This blogger thanked her and, dizzily, went for a lie down to await help.
Less than twenty minutes later, just as this blogger was nodding off, there was a knock at the Stately Telly Topping Manor front door. Taking his - hastily assembled - overnight bag and wearing just a t-shirt and leggings, a dressing down and slippers - this blogger got down to the door expecting to leave straight away, only to find a paramedic, alone, in a car who'd merely been told there was a job for him but not what the symptoms actually were or anything else. So, this blogger had to explain everything
again and then, when he wanted to do a few preliminary tests (an EKG and a temperature reading, for two examples), we had to do it there on the doorstep because there was no way this blogger was able to get back up the stairs at that point. Eventually, the paramedic, Paul who was very nice and very professional, decided that this was a worthy case for A&E and asked if this blogger wished to wait for a full ambulance team or he could take me in his car, though it would be 'a bit less comfortable.' This blogger, feeling that speed was off the essence and more important than comfort, chose the latter.
We arrived at the RVI and this blogger was seen quite quickly (like, within twenty minutes max) by a nurse for initial triage. Keith Telly Topping explained his medical history, having also brought with him a copy of his current medication list (always a good idea in such situations, I've found), mentioned his visit from his own doctor a few days earlier and the possibility of Norovirus or similar, but also suggested that the majority of the symptoms felt, uncannily, like those he'd experienced before being diagnosed with anaemia for the first time in early 2022. Only, this time, much,
much worse. However that was quickly ruled out as the bloodwork showed no obvious anaemic distress. Nevertheless, the fainting stuff was clearly
something so, Keith Telly Topping was put in the Waiting Room to, eventually, be seen by a doctor. The wait time, he was informed, would be, roughly, five hours.
And let this blogger tell you, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, five hours in a major city A&E department on a Thursday night/Friday morning, you really
do see both the very best and extreme worst of humanity all rolled up into a - very messy - package. In the case of the latter it was a seemingly endless parade of barely-dressed or daftly-dressed (well, this
was Hallow'een, to be fair) young woman (mostly, plus one or two men), who'd either drank or 'taken' something which they shouldn't have and we're now experiencing 'a bit of a reaction.' And wanted the whole world to know about it. All whilst hard-working underpaid medical staff rushed about with people who were actually, properly,
ill, wrapped in insulation blankets awaiting admission.
Having sat there as a mute (and, by now
very dizzy, disorientated and thoroughly miserable) observer to all this crass malarkey, yer actual Keith Telly Topping was, finally, seen (almost to the minute five hours after coming in, so good on the NHS for punctuality). The lovely Doctor Rhianna, listened patiently as this blogger went through all of his many symptoms - for the fourth time that evening to four different people) and, after some additional checks, she felt that it was worth admitting this blogger overnight 'for observation'.
It was, of course, no surprise what with '
Still Ill' remaining, to this day, this blogger's favourite song by Them Smiths, that Keith Telly Topping was. in the early hours of Friday morning - for the
second time in less than a month and
the third time in under three years - back as an in-patient at The good-old, world-famous RVI (Observation Unit). Feeling (and looking)
shite.
At least he had his own room this time around. You take whatever little victories you can get, frankly.
Having thrown together a quick bag - including some underwear, a spare tee-shirt, plus my phone and charger and the electric razor - this blogger remembered to add little light hospital reading material for times between what now promised to be endless blood tests, kidney function tests and blood pressure measuring. Enough to cure anyone of
any ailments, the publicity blurb suggests - and whom is this blogger to argue?
That day, incidentally, this blogger was being positively inundated on
Facebook with congratulations from the first purchasers of the book, many providing photographic evidence they'd really, genuinely, probably paid their hard-earned money and bought the damned thing. Here's for instance, is Keith Telly Topping's good fiend Mad Ken with his copy. All of which inundation, along with lots of still unanswered birthday greetings for the weekend before, were going ignored as this blogger simply didn't have the energy to reply, or even click 'like'!
Friday afternoon, this blogger was catching up with some of the missing shut-eye from the night in an A&E Waiting Room, deep in his kip whilst hooked up to a drip (Keith Telly Topping has certainly been
called one often enough) when he suddenly got shaken awake and told that he was being moved - as excepted. But, not to a different ward within the RVI, rather to a different
hospital - The Freeman, five miles across the city. Queue, being taken
off the drip, a very hasty grabbing of the overnight bag and its contents and a helter-skelter ride through rush hour traffic to the Freeman, a hospital this blogger is
very familiar with - the late Mama Telly Topping having spent much of her final two or three hospital stays there - but this was the first time Keith Telly Topping had actually been a patient there. This blogger was in a specialist observation ward up on the seventh (top) floor, though he still had his own room and the staff seemed every bit as nice as the little darlings he'd previously encountered at the RVI.
'Why a different hospital?' asked this blogger's mate Ben, not unreasonably. Availability of beds, this blogger speculated. It
was a specialist unit that this blogger had gone to; to be fair, the RVI also had one of those but if both have, say, twenty beds but one is full and the other one has a spare place, you go to where the spare place is. '[The] Freeman is quite nice (as hospitals go). Food is better than the RVI,' this blogger's fiend Jennifer advised him as he was in-transit. And, she was certainly not incorrect on either score. This blogger's first meal there that Friday evening consisted of Cream of Minestrone soup with soft noodles, chicken in wholegrain mustard sauce with wild rice and jam sponge pudding and custard. Plus a steaming hot cup of milk tea and a (small) packet a Shortbread biscuits. Keith Telly Topping couldn't come close to finishing it all, of course - some cereal aside, that lot was the first sustained solid food this blogger had eaten in about three weeks.
And, whilst it seems utterly - and needlessly - churlish to criticise pretty much
any aspect of the treatment this blogger received whilst at the excellent - and rightly famous - RVI, there
was one disappointment; this blogger missed lunch shortly before the crosstown move came about - 'do you want a sandwich for lunch?' asked the lady handing out the nosh. 'Have you got anything else?' this blogger asked (nicely), explaining that he wasn't really eating solids at that particular moment. 'Well, you
could have had soup ... but it's cold,' she said, with seemingly genuine sadness. I'm not sure exactly what this blogger was supposed to
do with that information. Provide her with a list of wholesalers where pots and pans in which soup can be, you know,
heated up, possibly? This blogger let it pass with a smile and a dismissive gesture. And, within an hour, he was gone.
'Medical professionals across the country respect the Freeman,' this blogger's fiend and former neighbour, Young Jim who's 'in the industry', advised on
Facebook. 'You're in good hands.' This blogger confirmed that he certainly appeared to be early on Saturday morning, adding: 'They do
jolly nice breakfasts too. Just sayin'!
Thanks to the delightful Nurse Sree, this blogger was soon, once more, back on the drip. Getting a diluted diet of Potassium
and Magnesium plus other assorted electrolytes which were, at that time, missing-in-action in Keith Telly Topping's badly dehydrated state.
Which, if this blogger recalls a few Chemistry O Level lessons at Walker Comprehensive with Mister Sedgewick circa 1980 correctly, in the event of some kind of Bruce Banner nuclear accident-type affair involving a bag of fluid would've, potentially, made Keith Telly Topping into KMg Man.
This blogger was, let it be noted, being looked after splendidly right-damned-good-and-proper by his own, personal, Freeman Angel, the delightful Nurse Sherry. Saturday morning, for instance, saw breakfast, a wash and a shave ... and, also, regular blood sugar tests (from Sherry and others) - in fact, I think this blogger must've been pricked on just about every single digit over the previous forty eight hours and the subsequent couple of days. Thrice. If not more often.
Time started to take on something of an abstract quality in this blogger's little room with just a couple of books, his phone and, hourly visits from nurses for yet more blood-sugar and blood pressure tests. Except Sunday dinner-time, obviously.
That went without saying.
Like, for instance, watching
The Cure At The BBC on
iPlayer (via his phone) whilst lying in a hospital bed, attached to a drip. Yes, dear bloggerisationism fiends that is, indeed,
very much an example of what we call 'dramatic irony' at its finest.
Though, after he'd posted of his sorry plight in a whiging fashion on
Facebook, this blogger
did draw a - completely unexpected - visit from family. So, thank you, Our Maureen, it was lovely to see you. (And,
not the first time this blogger's beloved sister-in-law has come to his aid in times of sickness when no one else could, seemingly, be bothered to!)
Nevertheless, ultimately on Monday afternoon, this blogger had an excellent chat with the very nice Doctor Kyle. The hospital were pleased with this blogger's progress - and this blogger was pleased with his own progress to the point of saying that he felt a bit of a fraud still being there - they had a few further tests to run to make sure everything had settled down then, with luck, this blogger could be discharged sometime on Tuesday, once the consultant has signed off on things. In the event, one of the blood tests that they should have done on Monday evening, didn't get done at that time and it wasn't until lunchtime on Tuesday that they remembered, thus delaying this blogger's potential release by several hours. Much to Keith Telly Topping's self-evident
chagrin. Still, there
were compensations, I feel like chicken curry tonite, for one! God it was
nice. And the Apple Crumble and Custard dessert to follow wasn't half-bad either.
So, this blogger eventually made it back home to The Stately Telly Topping Manor, after an agonisingly frustrating and slow taxi crawl through rush-hour Heaton and Byker (still wearing, remember, his dressing gown and slippers). He thought, at one point on Tuesday, that he was going to have to stage a jailbreak. But, in the end, Doctor Kyle and his excellent, angelic nursing staff did this blogger right and got him out the door as-pronto-as-possible just as he was about to use the 'don't you realise I'm using up a valuable resource that should be given to
actual sick people!' line on them. because, frankly, they knew that already.
So, what has actually been
wrong with Keith Telly Topping (besides all the obvious things) you're probably all
not wondering. But, he's going to tell you anyway so sit back because this is a good'un. It all started over a month ago with what was, initially, a minor bronchial infection in the aftermath of a heavy cold. It was quietly working away on its own when it was joined by
some sort of gastroenteritis-type bug - it could, indeed, have been the dreaded Norovirus lurgi, or one of several variants or, indeed, any one of half-a-dozen
other stomach bugs, they're all as nasty as funk and, when taken in conjunction with me already feeling under-the-weather, the diarrhoea, in this case, quite literally hit the fan. This blogger's body had three weeks of trying to fight both infections simultaneously before waving a little white flag and basically giving up trying. The bronchial virus caused the cough which
didn't cause but did make
much worse the already pre-existing sinus-related headache; the gastro-bug whatever it was, meanwhile, caused the diarrhoea, the nausea (and, occasional, bouts of vomiting) and, eventually affected not only this blogger's stomach but also some (minor) kidney functions. Hence, the dehydration, which, in turn, caused the fainting and the fatigue and night-time muscle cramps. Add in pre-existing Type-2 Diabetes, Hypertension and Anaemia
et voila, you have a ripe little cocktail of 'lets put Keith Telly Topping in hospital for five days,
that'll be good for a laugh, eh?' Fireworks, meanwhile, were going off all over the city - people must have heard that Keith Telly Topping survived the ordeal. Thank you, people.
Anyway, this blogger is now back in the Stately Telly Topping Manor - the plants have both died whilst he'd been away which was sad but, at least they were the only ultimate casualty in this fiasco. This blogger could've joined them. 'I'm going to have a shower and wash my hair for the first time since last Wednesday, put on some clean clothes for an equally long time and then have my first night's kip back in my own, lovely, big, hot-water-bottle-heated bed,' this blogger told his
Facebook fiends upon arrival at his drum. On Wednesday this blogger was supposed to be going into the local medical centre for the follow-up of his recent diabetes check-up (which, interestingly, as noted occurred on the very day when he started to feel as shite as a shite thing in the first place). However he rang them up from the hospital and explained the situation and they rearranged that to be a telephone call from Nurse Ami rather than this blogger dragging his tired and sorry ass on the bus down to Church Walk. The results, incidentally, were fine and they were particularly pleased about the weight-loss. 'Whatever it is you're doing, keep doing it,' Nurse Ami said. Before adding, 'well, maybe not so much getting sick and going into hospital!' Has this blogger mentioned yet how much he
loves the NHS? Because he should have.
Sadly, getting out of the Freeman when this blogger did (around 5pm) meant he just missed that night's three-course dinner (the main of which was gammon and chips, he recalls. But, it was a small sacrifice for freedom. Hospitals are very much like prisons, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, are they not? They're not all that difficult to get into but they're bloody hard to get
out of!
One valuable life-lesson which this blogger
did take away from one of the nurses at the Freeman (he thinks it may have been Leah) - or rather, one thing he had confirmed because Keith Telly Topping has an idea that he might have heard it somewhere before - is that the best way to drink tea is in either a very thin ceramic cup or, ideally, a
glass, with the teabag still in it and just a splash of milk (or lemon if you prefer). It tastes
divinely marvellous. As demonstrated here by our model, Keith (sixty one-sixty one-sixty one) using a Schweps Orange Juice glass which has been in the Telly Topping family household for years and has now found a new purpose in life. Cheers.
This blogger clearly must be on the mend - not only is he eating solid food again, he's eating it
after, first, preparing it. Presenting The Stately Telly Topping Manor Chunky Chicken Fricassee with sweetcorn, Ku Po mushrooms, chives and Basmati rice. Just a week ago, dear blog reader, this blogger would have been incapable of
looking at this, let alone making and eating it.
For those keeping score, incidentally, the - already postponed twice - Chinese meal/
Return To The Vault Of Horror celebration with Young Malcolm has been rearranged for a third time, to next Thursday. Hopefully, this time, there's just a vague chance this blogger may be in a position to actually attend. Though given that at the very time it was rearranged for last time, this blogger was in the RVI with a tube stuck in his arm, he's taking nothing for granted.
This blogger did, admittedly, get one or two new experiences out of his five days in Hell (with nice food), it's only fair to report: Like, for example, listening to the F1 Grand Prix (the most visual sport imaginable)
on the radio (via BBC
iPlayer) rather than, you know,
watching it.
Or, 'looking for and finding daft shit on the Interweb'; mind you, yer actual Keith Telly Topping doesn't need to be sick and/or/bored and/or both to do
that.
Or, finding 'instructive stuff' on the Interweb - like a handy assembly guide to Kelvin the new Stately Telly Topping Manor kitchen drying rack (now, thoroughly assembled and doing his job very nicely if you were wondering).
As you will have gathered, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, Keith Telly Topping had
plenty of time on his hands to ponder upon the inherent ludicrous nature of existence and stuff that was/is actually
important. Like ... the tense-scheme in 'Up The Junction' by yer actual Squeeze (1979). What's going on
there, then (as I believe all the stand-up comedians say)? It starts nicely enough in past-tense ('I never thought it would happen/with me and the girl from Clapham') and carries on in that fashion through most of the song with the couple moving into a smelly basement flat together, the narrator getting an indeterminate (and, possibly illegal) job 'with Stanley', the pair getting engaged and pregnancy ensuing; then it moves, nicely, into the present-tense ('this morning at 4.50/I took her rather nifty'). But then, suddenly and without warning, in the last verse, it goes
future-imperfect ('and now she's two years older/her mother's with a soldier...'). What, exactly, were you playing at Mssrs Difford and Tilbrook? Didn't you
do English Literature at Deptford Comprehensive? Jools, you're a smart man, couldn't you have said something?
Plus, as this blogger's fiend Deborah added, helpfully, 'also there is not enough space in an incubator for a woman to give birth'. She's not wrong (she is a woman, after all, she'd know about these things). So, we can add both Maths and Biology (and, potentially Physics) to the subjects Glenn and Chris were somewhat deficient in.
And now, a thought for the day, dearest bloggerisationism reader. Some films just get better and better with age.
Never Say Never Again, however,
isn't one of them.
The Legend Of Hell House on the other hand ... The film with the scariest cat in movie history. And Roddy McDowell so, you know,
doubly scary.
And on
that bombshell, we end this latest
From The North bloggerisationism update with the finalists ofthe
From The North Headline(s) Of The Week award. Starting with the
Liverpool Echo and
Man Banned From Doing The Thing He's Loved For Thirty Years. And when this blogger tells you it's
not what you think, dear bloggerisationism fiends, trust him, it's
not what you think.
Next, we have the
Somerset Live tale of sorrow and woe,
Fights Break Out After Bridgwater Carnival Results Are Announced. Would
Trouble Over Bridgewater really have been too much to ask for?
The
Manchester Evening News'
Dad Forced To Demolish Luxury Airbnb Cabins After Two Year Planning Row - John Phillips Built The Four Chalets In His Garden Back In 2022 isn't quite as thigh-slappingly hilarious as some of the others featured here but it does raise the question of exactly
how 'luxurious' something built in someone's 'back garden' can possibly be and whether anyone would actually want to go and stay there, no matter how cheap it was to do so? 'It's really unfair - it's one rule for us and another for everyone else,' John is quoted as saying. No, John mate, I think you'll find it's
the same rule for everyone else, too. If they had let
you keep them after you built them without obtaining planning permission first up then
that would have been one rule for you and another for everyone else.
The same, seemingly paranoid, newspaper also informed their readers
Which? Warns Some Air Fryers Are Secretly Spying On You. And, you should hear the gossip they come up with down the local air fryer hangouts with their mates about you and your doings. It's scandalous. 'They were havin' chips again last night. It's chips, chips, chips, chips ...'
And finally, the
Weston Mercury reports the dangers of a swift bit of how's-yer-father in the West Country,
Somerset Condom Shortages: See How You Are Affected. Of course, if you're
really worried about it, just nip across the Clifton Suspension Bridge into another county where they have Rubbers aplenty. Durex me to believe that? Blobbably ...
This blogger leaves you all alive, dear bloggerisationism fiends. For that, be very very grateful. He is.
A little bit of welcome brightness came to The Stately Telly Topping Manor in early October, dearest bloggerisationism fiends. But, it didn't stay that way for very long (see below). Both metaphorically and, indeed, literally. 
Firstly, dear bloggerisationism fiends, a sincere apology. There will not be an annual From The North Best and Worst TV Of 2024 essay this year as there has been every previous year on this blog since 2008. It's too much work and, for reasons which will become clearer later on in this update, this blogger simply doesn't have the strength (or, indeed, the time or inclination) to do one. But, for what it's worth, had there been one, the winner would have been the fourth series of From The North favourite Slow Horses. Not only is a fifth series already in the can (the trailer was played following the final episode of this year's series), but it has also been widely reported that the Gary Oldman-fronted Apple TV+ espionage series has been recommissioned for a sixth series. This blogger is delighted, as the series four might, just, be this blogger's favourite hour of extraordinary telly in, well, ever. And then the trailer went and sodding topped it. This, dear blog reader, is good news. This blogger likes this news. Bring, instantly, this blogger more news of this kind so he may celebrate his liking for it some more. 
So, since that last bloggerisationism update but thirty days ago, this blogger has had a book published by those marvellously beautiful people at Telos Publishing. You've probably heard about it (Christ, this blogger's banged on about it often enough over the last three or four blog updates, here, and here, and here). However if, by any chance, you haven't heard about it, go here to the publisher's website and order one, several or lots - it's the perfect gift for that special someone in your life ... that you don't particularly like. Meanwhile, it occurs to this blogger that he probably should be thanking many, many people for helping him get his shit together enough to write the damned thing over the last few months. Specifically these people. Thank you. 
