Well right nice y'all are, dearest bloggerisationism fiends and welcome to the latest From The North update in the area and all that. Here is a visualisation is today's general mood.
Or, to put it another way.
The death of one of this blogger's favourite actors, Kenny Cope (mentioned in the last From The North bloggerisationism update), inevitably brought a Stately Telly Topping Manor rewatch of several episodes of his most widely-regarded work. And, with it, this image. With, perhaps, not the most original of potential captions: 'What kept you?'
So, first-things-firstly and, as mentioned on that last From The North bloggiersationism update, this blogger's first sustained piece of work in quite a good long while, Return to the Vault of Horror, has recently been completed, edited to within an inch of its life and then delivered and is thoroughly available for pre-order at the publishers' website. Here, in fact. Go on, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, if you haven't already done so, click on that there link and pre-order the mother. You know you want to. Well, this blogger knows you want to even if you, yourselves, do not.
As it happens, this very week Return to the Vault of Horror has acquired its very own ISBN number. This blogger had quite forgotten how thrilling getting page-proofs through for correction (in this case, on a PDF via e-mail) can be. It's just like child-birth. (Actually, no, it isn't anything like child-birth ... but it's probably the closest Keith Telly Topping is ever going to get to that particular sensation). Having spent the subsequent three days doing pretty much nothing but a full proof-read, please allow this blogger to say - even if he does say so himself - this is a thing of effin' beauty (and, this blogger is not merely talking just about writing. Although, that's pretty good too).
And, before you all ask, this blogger does assert his moral rights most fully. And, very moral they are, too. Just, you know, for the record.
All right, you can stop laughing now, it wasn't that funny.
On Thursday, this blogger finished his complete read-through and note-making (all four hundred and thirty two pages of it) and sent the last set of corrections and amendments (almost all of which were tiny, only mildly consequential, things like spelling and encoding issues) to his editor who is, of course, the greatest bloke in the whole world, bar none. Aren't you David? For anyone still considering their options over whether to pre-order it, here, or otherwise - just look what you're letting yourself miss out on if you don't.
To not pre-order one? Why, you'd be a laughing-stock among your fiends. You would have to be a brain-damaged moron, or the victim of a cruel medical experiment to even consider such a ludicrous strategy. You'd be a figure of fun, a joke, a risible excuse for an individual whom small children would giggle at in the streets and who would, as a consequence of your indecision, find yourself ostracised from polite society. And, possibly, kicked out of your family. And, you wouldn't want that, dear blog reader, would you?
Think of the shame.
Think of the disgrace.
Think of the ignominy.
Think of the potential repercussions.
Think of how Bob and Terry would feel?
People who have not ordered this book from the Telos website, as we speak, include: Donald Trump. Suella Braverman. Mister Nigel Farago. Hitler. Kim Jong Sun. Piers Morgan. Erik Ten Hag. Laurence Fox. That dancing bloke off the We Buy Any Car Dot Com advert. Is that a list you really want to be on too, dearest bloggerisationism fiends? Really?
No, dear blog reader, you're all - clearly - sensible, rational, tuned-in individuals (I mean, you're here in the first place, aren't you? That proves it). So, I'm sure you're already on your way here to do that which needs to be done. And, if you've already done so then, hey, why not do it again? Return to a Vault of Horror is, after all, the perfect gift. For people you don't like.
On that bombshell, meanwhile, it's been cheap-but-fun-British-SF-week at The Stately Telly Topping Manor. With this.
And this.
And this.
Which brings us, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, to that extra-special part of From The North overly 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. And got scheduled for yet more blood tests.
In mid-September this blogger broke a tooth over a weekend (it's always over weekends when the surgery is closed, is it not? Sod's law. And, as a fully-practicing sod, this blogger can attest to that fact). So, he did the 'ring up at one minute past eight on the Monday morning and hope for the best' routine. 'Can you get in for two o'clock?' the jolly nice receptionist asked when Keith Telly Topping told her of his misfortune and confirmed that, yes, he was suffering from a wee bit of discomfort. This blogger resisted the overwhelming temptation to ask if he could have an appointment half-an-hour later as that'd be much more comedically appropriate and merely said, in a state of complete and utter shock, 'what today?' Having expected something more along the lines of 'we can fit you in three weeks on Wednesday.' Soon, therefore, it was all sorted out satisfactorily thanks the marvellous-as-always hole-filling efforts of Dentist Megha.
Next, this blogger had to attend the hospital to receive the Ludovico Technique as part of his annual diabetes check-up, with the squirty, stingy, nasty eyedrops of horror. After which, his eyes felt like flying saucers and people walking past had vapour trails coming off them. It was, as usual, a bit like being unpleasantly drunk. Which, as the late Douglas Adams wisely noted, is okay unless you're a glass of water.
Then, this blogger went into the RVI on Friday morning of last week, basically for some further blood tests (a regular occurrence over the last two years), plus his latest, three monthly, B-12 injection. During the course of which he had what his old mum used to call 'a funny turn.' That's funny peculiar as opposed to 'ha-ha', just in case you were wondering. Keith Telly Topping doesn't recall much about it, personally. Apparently, he had a blackout or a fainting spell or whatever you call it - he passed out, anyway (whilst sitting in a chair talking casually to the nice nurse who was going through his blood test results from the previous week). He came round but was babbling somewhat incoherently for a while thereafter (anybody who says 'so, no change there, then' with probably incur the considerable wrath of this blogger's considerable bombast).
This blogger was, thereafter, taken into intensive care and spent a very uncomfortable day and a night and another day being poked, prodded, asking questions and then poked, prodded and poked again. He only got out late on the Saturday afternoon because, he believes, they needed the bed following a spate of heart-attacks after United's unexpected one-all draw with Sheikh Yer Manchester City and because he was starting to whinge (really loudly) about the possibilities of spending another night in the joint. They had, then, absolutely no idea what had caused all this malarkey and kerfufflement (so, if they didn't know, this blogger had no chance of being ahead of them on that, particular score) but they were concerned enough that he had to go back the following week for yet more tests. Are you seeing a pattern being established at this juncture dear bloggerisatiosm fiends? It's not just me, then?
As a consequence, this blogger got at home (to a freezing cold Stately Telly Topping Manor) late on Saturday evening and spent the week since, convalescing and under strict instructions to, generally, try his very best to do nowt until they worked out whatever it was that caused these shenanigans. Meaning that. consequently, this blogger missed out on a long-looked-forward-to night out with his old mucker, Mick the Mod on Wednesday. This blogger then woke up the following (Sunday) morning to find sixteen (count 'em) PM messages on Facebook all from fiends of Keith Telly Topping asking, essentially, the same question - 'are you all right?' This blogger was, then and remains, genuinely not ungrateful for the sentiment but, as he'd just spent two days-and-a-night in hospital, clearly the answer to that question was 'no, I'm not!'
Today, it was back to the jolly old hospital for the follow-up to these previous shenanigans. Expecting some answers, this blogger ended up with naught but inconclusivity (which probably isn't a real word but it fits nicely). He felt like he was in a Little Bobby Thompson routine: 'I went to the Doctors. He said "Can't find anything wrong, it must be the drink." I said "Oh, I'll come back when you're sober!"' The bottom line being that they still have absolutely no idea what caused the fainting and speaking-in-tongues nonsense. They know what it was (a 'Vasovagal Syncope incident', apparently), but not what actually caused it. 'Possibly streets,' they suggested. This blogger stresses, 'possibly' (in a bit of would-be clever word-play he's actually quite proud of given the circumstances). But, seemingly they aren't too worried about it (although that didn't stop a further series of blood tests being taken - this blogger is now, officially, known as 'donor number one' to any vampires in the NHS). Still, at least this blogger had his annual 'flu jab whilst he was there, so that's that out of the way for another year. Of course, he would get it when he's in the middle of a stinking cold. Sod's law innit? And again, as a practicing sod, this blogger fully concurs.
Now, dear blog reader, here's an advert for Manakin Cigars circa 1973 from an era when adverts were worth avoiding the programmes for. Big Caroline, dear bloggerisationism fiends. She can hack her way through my jungle any time she likes ...
Also, when this blogger grows up, he wants Milton Reid as his personal 'chick-picker' like he was in the Saint Bruno adverts.
And finally ... So many questions ...
