Tuesday 20 December 2011

10 Years of Fellowship


10 years ago I got to see The Fellowship of the Ring. I was mildly annoyed not to have seen it the day it came out, but since I'd had a nasty bike accident the day the tickets went on sale I was lucky to only have to wait 24 hours longer. At the time, largely because of expectation, I wasn't entirely impressed. And though I came to love it, I've always enjoyed its flaws, as can be seen from this retelling of the film that I wrote shortly after a second viewing. 

Just to blow my own trumpet, quite a lot of these gags ended up in the 2005 Melbourne Comedy festival as part of Folk-comedian Martin Pearson's hilarious musical one-man show "The Unfinished Spelling Errors of Bolkien". 

The Fellowship of the Ring:
A Plot Précis

Frodo Baggins is a shy Hobbit from the shire. He lives in Bag End, which is technically under "The Hill", but for some reason is actual under "A Hill", since the Shire has turned into the Barrow Downs. His Uncle Bilbo, who hasn’t aged a day since he found a mysterious magic ring (despite in fact now being greyer and more wrinkly) is planning a party of special magnificence for his birthday (Bilbo has concealed from Frodo the fact that it is also the young Baggins' birthday as a mean trick).

Frodo meets Gandalf, who can be recognised by his inability to carry a tune. Frodo and Gandalf smirk at each other for half an hour, then the plot continues. Frodo guesses that Bilbo is trying to hide the fact it is his birthday too, but Gandalf will not tell him.

Bilbo makes some tea. This will obviously become very important later in the film, as great attention is paid to it.

Bilbo has his party, and vanishes before he can wish Frodo happy birthday. Gandalf, perhaps alarmed by the tea making, urges Bilbo to abandon his magical ring, which he does after demonstrating how far he can make his eyeballs bulge.

Frodo comes home, to find that Bilbo has finally sprung the joke by giving him a wraith attracting ghoulish article of hideous power for a present. Happy Birthday Frodo! Hurrah!

Movie Gandalf then proves himself far clever than Book Gandalf by realising immediately that this must be a ring of power, and a pretty nasty one at that. He dashes off, congratulating himself on saving seventeen years that will inevitably lead to the whole story being very much shorter, thereby appeasing all the critics that thought it was too long.

Unfortunately for the free peoples of middle-earth, Movie Sauron is also a lot brighter than Book Sauron, and decides to torture Gollum with something scarier than a stapler. Gollum, vocalised by a man straining his voice so hard he can only squeak one word at a time, shrieks something that Sauron's minions, being creatures of darkness and used to having conversations with whistling kettles, somehow understand as being vital clues.

Gandalf, walking into a library of ancient, tinder dry scrolls with a flaming torch, discovers a scroll written by Isildurrr that explains how to identify a one ring.
1. Take ring you suspect of being harbinger of doom.
2. Prepare one-hundred ounces of cooking chocolate.
3. Throw ring on nearest fire
4. Control room!*
5. Remove ring from fire.
6. Read horrible writing proclaiming ring as harbinger of doom.
7. Eat chocolate.

Meanwhile, Movie Nazgul have proved themselves more evil than book Nazgul by a) getting to the Shire quicker and b) actually killing someone, instead of letting small old gardeners slam doors on them and merely going 'sssssssss'. Unfortunately they are less scary than Book Nazgul, since where ever they go St Wallonstone's Church Male Voice Choir and seven children with trumpets start playing Mozart's little known "Symphony for Loud Unsubtle Bastards." Gandalf then proves himself far more careless than book Gandalf and again leaves Frodo to walk despite going pretty much in the same direction on a horse. Perhaps he thinks Frodo needs the exercise.

Sam, meanwhile, has joined the quest as a special reward for delivering the funniest line in the film.
Unfortunately the Hobbits are so unfit that their only chance of making he long journey is to slice huge swathes of film out with a penknife. This leads to fairly incomprehensible cutting, but does save on bunions. On the way, they meet Merry and Pippin who decide to join their perilous quest to avoid watching re-runs of "Keeping Up Appearances" on UK Gold.

At Bree, Frodo discovers new respect for his wicked Uncle Bilbo when he finds out that the magic ring that makes you invisible, also turns the visible world into a huge grey blancmange accompanied by the sound of Concorde taking off from Heathrow (described in the book at 'improved hearing') making him wonder how his uncle killed all those spiders and stole from a dragon with all those bloody distractions. The Hobbits take up with a man who likes to pick them up and throw them up stairs because they like his beard. 'Strider' increases his range of Hobbit taunting when he takes up throwing apples at Pippin's head, perhaps as some kind of in-joke for fruiterers.

We cut to Saruman, who reveals that Sauron, the Dark Lord and owner of the Ring, has returned to earth as an "I" rimmed with fire. To emphasise this, we see several shots of a huge flaming letter I surrounded with flame. Chilling. Saruman re-enacts several scenes from "Break Dance: the Movie", before inventing the elevator and sending Gandalf to the top floor as his prisoner.

Deciding to camp on the Watch Tower of Amon Sul (known in the ancient tongue as 'weather top', but excised from the film for being too archaic) because it's the most obvious place for miles around to camp and therefore the Black Riders following them will never find them, the Black Riders find them. The Male Voice Choir and the kids with the Trumpets set up shop somewhere up the hill, then Strider sets fire to the Black Riders, who then become Orange Flickery Riders and run away. But not before the Rotting Zombie King of the Riders has very, very carefully missed Frodo's heart with his knife.

Just in the nick of time, Arwen appears. Because Frodo is fading into the spirit world he sees Arwen, an Elf, as a) a bright and shining figure and b) as wearing a really out of place wedding dress, since everyone wears wedding dresses in the spirit world. Arwen puts Frodo on her horse and then rides the 200 miles to Rivendell in three minutes. Arwen cunningly uses a Guinness advert to kill the Riders, but Frodo is being killed by his contact lenses, which he forgot to bring the cleansing fluid for, so Arwen tries to cry into his eyes to soothe him. Failing in this, she takes him to Rivendell to see Elrond the Half-Opthalmist, who plucks them out in time to save the little tyke. Awwwww.

Through a few shots of wooden garden furniture in black and white which are perhaps supposed to represent a troubled subconscious, we see Frodo awake. Gandalf is there. Frodo, whose eyes seemed to have recovered, asks why Gandalf doesn’t join them. The wizard recalls being saved by a moth, but doesn’t actually tell Frodo any of this, and says simply that he was "delayed", so that the Hobbit probably thinks he lost his car keys or something.

Elrond convenes his Council, by which he means that everyone there behaves as if they lived on a Council estate. Several important characters appear. Legolas the Blonde Elf (not described as such in the book), Gimli the Ginger dwarf (not described so in the book) and Boromir the fair-haired, bearded Man (not described so in the book). At this stage the audience is advised to forget all the reviews praising Peter “Pyjama” Jackson for sticking closely to the book.

The Council argue a lot about very little. No one explains why they can't use the ring. They just say "we can't use it", and almost everyone nods and agrees (the only time they do). Pyjama invokes "The Ladybird Book of Racial Tension" and stages a race war at the council, with Elf and Dwarf and Man all getting hot under their very well designed collars. Frodo, representative of a race that no one has yet learned to hate (give them time) therefore volunteers to carry the ring, purely to stop the violence. Elrond smirks.

To save costs, Pyjama superimposes the characters on film stolen from the closing reel of "The Sound of Music". Legolas shows himself to an expert ornithologist by announcing that the approaching flock of Saruman's spy birds are "Crebain out of Dunland" instead of the erroneous but briefer and possibly more useful "duck".

The presence of large crows forces Gandalf to entirely rethink his plan (Film Gandalf is rather less good at planning ahead than Book Gandalf) and he decides that they should climb right over the top of the highest mountain they can find, because Legolas informs them that Crebain out of Dunland are a southern genus and cannot survive in the thin, cold air of mountains, where their sub-species the Hooded Crebain exist instead. Needless to say, this plan is shit too.

Scottish Ginger Gimli suggests that they go through Moria. Film Moria is nearby, and to the knowledge of the whole company appears to be comfortably settled by Dwarves, with no suggestion of contact having been lost years ago. This worries Gandalf, if only because he can’t stand the thought of all those unconvincing Scots accents. Fortunately, all the faux Scots have been killed Cockney Orcs, and things go very well until Gandalf is apparently killed by a giant, fire-breathing goat. And that's diplomatically skipping over the well-endowed cave-troll…

Blonde Bearded Boromir, showing his sensitive side (not described so in the book), asks for the Company to have a moment to mourn. But Aragorn knows that they must complete the story within three hours, and hurries them on to the Terrifying Realm of the Evil Elf Queen Galadriel, who tries to drive Frodo mad by whispering things inside his head. She tries to take the ring but, just in time, someone at Weta accidentally hits the "reverse image" key, and she turns inside out for a moment. This so unnerves her, she gives up her attempt on the Ring, and agrees to help the company.

The Company take to boats, and sail down "Anduin", the 'Vaguely Sizeable' River. They pass by the Argonath, huge graven images of Isildurrrr and Elendil, saluting Hitler. A cute tweeting bird wanders in from a Disney film for no apparent reason.

The Company stop at Parth Galen. Frodo and Boromir argue. Frodo realises the problem with the fair hair and beard when he announces to Boromir "you are not yourself". Boromir mumbles several things, which might well be "yeah, and like you're a fifty-one year old, hypocrite" before falling over and getting covered with leaves. Frodo escapes into the Giant Grey Meringue, and climbs an unnamed hill, sits in an unnamed seat and mysteriously sees The Dark Tower and the giant, flaming "I" of Sauron. Frodo is so weakened by his quest, that the simple act of taking off a gold ring causes him to fall off the stone seat in exhaustion. He meets Aragorn, who carefully ways up the dangers of the corrupting influence of the ring and of journeying 250 miles through enemy territory on one’s own, and bravely sends Frodo away. The audience are probably meant to realise how serious this whole corrupting lark therefore is, but actually it just makes Strider look like a bit of a git (Cruel Strider now joins Wicked Bilbo and Smirking Elrond, not to mention Scary Galadriel, as being corrupted by the evil power of the script writers).

Frodo runs away. Strider faces Orcs alone, but they do their best to help by only attacking him one at a time.

Meanwhile, Merry sees Frodo and tries to get him to join him and Pippin. But Frodo has had enough of Merry's misshapen face and runs away. The Orcs see Merry & Pippin, but Blond, Bearded Boromir blows his bass kazoo and fights the Orcs. They shoot him three times. Puzzlingly, the crippled Boromir is then completely ignored by the fleeing Orcs, and then Lurtz conveniently takes half an hour to draw back his bow (the first sign of the crippling brain disease of delayed killing that the Orcs suffer from, perhaps because of the bits of chopped up Orc in their feed) , just giving Cruel Strider time to have a fight with him and chop his bits off. (much cheering)

Boromir dies, and his bass kazoo is cloven.

In a moment of panic, Sam realises that the film is running slightly under its intended length, and he throws himself into the river to fill up an extra minute. He and Frodo then leave.
The remainder of the company, Cruel Strider, Blond Legolas and Ginger Scottish Gimli throw Boromir's body over a wet cliff and then run after the bad guys with a needlessly macho five-syllable sign off. But it's a moot point whether it's any worse than "forth the three hunters".

The film ends with Sam and Frodo looking at some spiky rocks.

Cue soppy generic Enya mush.

THE END

* an injoke after someone posted a translation on-line of the scene where Gandalf reveals the ring to Frodo. As he throws the ring in the fire, rather than shouting "wait", Babelfish rendered it as "Control Room". Although this classic is lost to posterity, you can get a flavour from the surviving translation of the Ring Verse:

Three rings the Elbe kings highly in the light filters
The dwarf rulers in their halls from stone
The mortal one eternally death expire, to 9 The dark gentleman on dark throne
In the country Mordor where the shadows drone

A ring it to farmhands to find in the darkness drive it all and eternally bind
In the country Mordor where the shadows drone


Tuesday 15 November 2011

Puerility

My mum once banned the watching of Blackadder on the basis that it was puerile. This was a touch harsh on a number of levels, the most important being that 1) I was a child, and therefore it would be very appropriate for me and 2) no it bloody wasn't. It was occasionally bawdy, and seldom but sometimes scatological - but no more than the average Shakespeare comedy. Fortunately, mum has now seen sense and views BA as a comedy classic. Indeed she denies using the word with regard to Mr Adder, but given it was the first time I'd ever heard anyone use it and I had to go and look it up, she's not getting away it that easily.

We re-edit reality to suit us all the time. I have a few Indian friends who are now trying to suggest that when they predicted a 3-1 kicking of England by the India team they were kidding. Yes, that will be why you bet a tenner on it. And how many psychopathic mass killers do you know who have totally sublimated their murderous impulses and have no idea at all how many blondes they've killed in their bathtub until they find bloody hairs in the plug hole. Honestly, it happens all the time.

Take this very morning - I reported to my Beloved that a male friend (known here as TLSoM) had made a Facebook posted which asked "Have you seen Bridesmaids? It's actually very funny." Since she has seen and liked the film, her response was the slightly testy "oh, he's surprised it's funny because it's a bunch of of women, and women can't be funny, is that it?"

I gently reminded her that her reaction to the trailer before she had seen the film was something like "Christ, they've tried to make some sort of female version of The Hangover - that looks awful".

I still haven't seen it. It looks puerile to me.



Friday 11 November 2011

Degenerate

I'm degenerating. It's like being Doctor Who, but instead of turning into Matt Smith I just turn into a fractionally older version of me, one that gets sore thighs after climbing long staircases or has weird niggling pains that won't go away even though there's clearly nothing actually wrong.

It's one of the joys of creeping up on 40. I'm still trying to work out whether the aching shoulder joints I'm getting in the morning are because of a new mattress (which is otherwise extra comfy) or because my body just can't handle sleeping on its side any more and is rebelling. I could be facing a whole new era of sleeplessness, since I can't sleep on my back (and sleeping on your front is frankly weird).

But I can't let it bother me. If I get worried about this, what will I have left in the tank to rail against the fact that my last tooth has fallen out and that tourists keep mistake my legs for the tube map?

Maybe ageing won't be that bad, and rather than look in the mirror and be disgusted by what I see, my perceptions will adapt and I'll be vaguely revolted by how smooth and shiny young people are, as if they were blank-faced aliens or were all in the process of very slowly being suffocated with white plastic bags with eyes drawn on them. Perhaps we fall apart so slowly that we only really notice when a doctor takes one of our legs away and refuses to give it back.

So I shall ache in a more upbeat fashion. For a little while.

Wednesday 7 September 2011

Red Eyes


Is it a kind of cold?
Or am I just slightly hung-over?
And slow to recover because I’m old?
Or is it a cold?

There’s a fog all through my brain,
A thumb print on my sinus
I feel pretty suspect and look quite low
Or so I am told
Oh-oh, is it a cold?

Red eyes
Burning like acid
Red eyes
How can you itch so much
How can the eyes that seemed so placid
Now seem so hot to touch
Red eyes.

Is it the pints that I drank
That’s causing this sense of distraction
Should I have eaten the food I was sold?
Or is it a cold?

There’s a dull throb in my temple
A perpetual sniff in my nose
And the bags under my eyes are as dark as holes
With creases and folds
Oh-oh,  is it a cold?

Red eyes
Burning like acid
Red eyes
How can you itch so much?
How can the eyes that seemed so placid
Now seem so hot to touch
Red eyes. 

Monday 5 September 2011

Machinery

I learned that I was not made for engineering (or even engineered for making) at an early age. As a child I wasn't particularly adept at using pester power, but I deployed it on a few occasions to get what I thought I wanted. My most magnificent triumph was the Fantom Four Hovercraft, a toy that brought such befuddlingly long-winded yet fleeting pleasures that it was either going to teach children the very meaning of patience, or end up in the bin.

But my most shameful experience came after identifying a very exciting looking box of Meccano in the local toy store (now a PC repair shop that also specialises in fixing Sky remotes). I banged on about it for ages, inspired by the amazing things the TV advert suggested I would be able to make.

Of course, what the TV doesn't make clearly, is that making anything interesting out of Meccano when you have the technical abilities of a gerbil requires hard work. Lots of hard work. The kind of hard work you're not really looking for in a toy shop, but might expect to find in some sort of El Salvadoran copper mine. I probably spent all of half an hour trying to stick some perfectly basic metal struts together, before realising that they were more fun if you pretending they were swords and rushing off to slay some dragons in the garden shed. Of which it turned out there were fuck loads. Who'd have thought it?

To this day, me and machinery get on like an EDL organiser and a Kurdish shopkeeper.

Friday 2 September 2011

Dole

Over at Speedyrants, my huffin' and puffin' alter ego asks can benefits claimants sue the Daily Express? The answer to which turns out to be "probably not" but getting there presumably makes him feel better, which was was in all honesty the only point.

I was unemployed at the tail end of John Major's 1990s recession, for about 9 months. It was soul destroying and deeply unpleasant. Though I did have a lot of time to play Civilization. But what I think people who might never have gone through this fail to perceive - mereckons -  is that being able to sit around doing nothing and playing shitty PC strategy games and watching daytime tv is only fun if that isn't all you have to do.

You can't skive if you have nothing to do. There is no glorious frisson of breaking the rules, or feeling that you have got out of doing something unpleasant. That's it. That's your life. Conquering Macedonia with your chariot force is all well and good,  but then you realise that your real life plunder consists of a tin of TESCO basics spaghetti hoops and sellotaping the wallpaper back on.

Tuesday 30 August 2011

Well


I'm not. Well, that is. Which I suppose, when it comes to random words, gives me more to work with than if I was feeling dandy, tip-top, swell, on top of the world and peachy-keen, though if I was thinking all those phrases it would probably mean that I wasn't very well.

Despite having a major orange juice fetish (I lied in my last blog, I like orange coloured drinks that taste of orange as well as those that don't) I must be lacking in Vit C or something, because my body appears to be utterly incapable of fighting off colds. If the end of human evolution means that we will eventually all succumb to some sort of mutant virus, I might be the only survivor - a mutant virus would pass so quickly through my immune system it wouldn't have time to kill me.

On the plus side, having a cold gives me a chance to really stretch out when it comes to luminous drinks. Now, next to my trusty bottle of Irn Bru, I've got some water in a green plastic bottle, and (drumroll) a nuclear waste-shaded simmering pot of LemSip, its lurid yellowness hinting heavily to my brain that I SHOULD NOT DRINK IT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. It reminds me of the colour my wee turned when I used to take Quest Super Once-a-Day time released multi-vitamins and minerals (I was only 18, and for a short time thought aliens had been experimenting on me before I remembered the suspicious , baguette-sized pills I'd just started popping).

The LemSip has now melted the spoon with which I stirred it. I accept that it might have been the heat, but this is a teaspoon - made, I would guess, for boiling water. Look at it! How can this be good for me?

Then I remember - it isn't supposed to make me better, it's supposed to make me feel better, like other health foods, such as Heroin. Oh well.


Sunday 24 July 2011

Amber

I probably drink too much orange-coloured fizzy drink. We're talking a likely 2,409,000ml since I was 19, when a bout of glandular fever first sent me hunting pig-like for the truffles of artificial energy boosts. Obviously GF doesn't last 20 years, but frankly by the time it subsided completely I was 20, ergo an old man and in need of stimulants. I've drunk so much of it that I sometimes wonder if I should be like one of those classic fish-aliens of sci-fi cliche that get pushed around the world in their tanks having bubbly conversations with humans. Except, of course, my tank would be full of Irn Bru or Lucozade.

Orange coloured fizzy drinks that don't taste of orange, I should stress. No, I'm a slave to drinks that taste only of themselves. If it tastes even remotely like something that exists in the real, non-fizzy-drinks world, I'm not interested. Even if it's nice. Obviously I'm not interested in a drink that tastes like a hair brush, but then noone else is either. But someone out there would like a drink that tastes like a kumquat. It's not me. (while I'm at it, why are there not a wide range of tangerine-flavoured cordials? Did tangerines upset someone high up in the drinks industry? Maybe they're not very good at networking, or something.)

Lucozade - what does it taste of? Lucozade. It's a lucozade flavoured drink. Which is quite cleverly self-referential for a sugary liquid. It's practically post-modern. Or possibly even post-post-modern. Have we reached post-post-post-modern yet? Modernism was now so long ago that you feel we must have at least squared it by now. Otherwise how would we have Lucozade and Ant & Dec?

Sunday mornings are supposed to be for getting over hangovers. If you haven't got one it's almost as if you have to invent one. So I'm drinking Lucozade to get over the torpor of having done next to nothing yesterday. I feel so lethargic I'm thinking of applying for a job as a speed bump. It'll pass. Hand me my post-post-modern drink and I'll see you later.
What did you do during the war, daddy?

Friday 22 July 2011

Tripping the light fantastic

It sums up the summer rather neatly when I wake up at 6am because my bedroom is filled with unmanageable quantities of sunlight. Why? Because it's the first time this has happened.

Admittedly I've only been there a week, hence my shying away from using the word "EVER" in large capitals at the end of that statement, but it's still fairly depressing that it's taken one 52nd of a year to get a sunny morning. I'm sure we'll get lots in January, except I'll have been in the office for an hour before they turn up.

Getting up at 6am because my brain has been infused with pure sunlight is a lovely way to start the day, but I'm fairly sure the darkness will have its revenge and I will be blearily bashing into bollards by 9pm. This could be awkward, since I'm off to watch a play at the Bridewell Theatre. The last time I did this I slept through 30% of the play (having recently arrived off a plane from Cambodia). If I'm not careful they'll ban me as a persistent snoring menace.

[they actually have these - my friends' enjoyment of Romeo & Juliet at the Bridewell was somewhat spoiled by someone (noone can confirm who) having a good old high decibel snooze in the lighting box throughout the final, emotionally traumatic half-hour of the show].

In fact, I may not have to wait until 9pm. The fluffy clouds of doom are already gathering around the watercooler and gossiping about how they plan to cover the sun and steal my light-filled soul. I'll be in a coma by lunchtime.

Wednesday 6 July 2011

The Depths of the Swamp


This is not the best of days. It's half past seven at night, and I am probably less than halfway through the world's most depressing ambition: to clear a room known only as The Swamp.

I'm moving home - slightly involuntarily* - and gain access to the new property on Saturday morning, so obviously the sooner the various dampened fragments of my life are either boxed or disposed of the better. But many of them, the particularly damp ones, are hiding in a strange basement room - The Swamp. It is a desolation, a cube of cracks and flakes and drooping webs, of high rise slugs and a vague sensation of something tickling your neck. It is not a holiday destination, and as a day trip it sucks.

Still, I have a few hours to go, and if all that room is clear of the detritus of my existence by bedtime, I shall sleep soundly. As long as I haven't just moved it all onto my bed.

S.

* I decided to play hard-ball with my landlord over a 12% rent rise. Like killing Mandy Patinkin's father, beeg mistake.

Wednesday 1 June 2011

The Violent Eggs


The Violent Eggs are coming
They're marching down the street
Deserted roads are echoing with the clump-thump of their feet
They've all got salmonella (they've been eating uncooked meat)
Yes the Violent Eggs are coming, and they're turning up the heat

They're armed with sharpened tea spoons which they polish night and day
They're after more than a 7% rise in annual pay
The only thing that you can do is go to them and say
That you're Edwina Currie.
And then they'll run away.

The Violent Eggs are coming to murder kith and kin
They'll stuff you with mayonnaise sandwiches, and stop you being thin
Make sure you're good and hidden when the massacre begins
Yes the Violent Eggs are coming and they'll punish all your sins

The Violent Eggs are coming, their eyes are dead and flat
They'll trample on your garden and throw porridge at your cat
They'll even cut your ears off if they do not like your hat.
Yes the Violent Eggs are coming, and they'll make you very fat.

SR.

Friday 20 May 2011

Honestly, I must try harder

I thought giving up the random words format of this blog would be liberating. Of course it isn't, because when faced with the infinite possibilities of free-form blogging, I cannot, of course, think of anything to write about. Consumer choice is all well and good, but most of the time the act of choosing becomes an activity in itself, instead of just a gateway to something fun or informative.

My late Dad, it is not an exaggeration to say, spent almost as much time staring at the blue and yellow musaky screen of the Sky listings as he did watching episodes of House. My brother claims that his flat mate does much the same thing. This might all be very entertaining for the person doing the choosing, but for anyone else in the room it's like watching the test card thinking that it might suddenly turn into your favourite programme, but it doesn't.

I have lost precious minutes of my life watching my mum select a jar of coffee. At least I need not fear for her penury - the amount of person hours she's prepared to put in to save 17p means that it would actually be impossible for her to run out of cash (if only because while you're engaged in calculating the cost per kg of granulated sugar it's very hard to be spending money on anything else).

So this is all going to be a terrible effort. Or should that be a terrific effort? Possibly both. Bear with me.

Thursday 14 April 2011

Over-Stretched Generosity

Last Friday my Dad passed away. Although we tried to get him home to care for him, he was never quite well enough to be moved and died in hospital. The same day I was due to complete a Swimathon in aid of Marie Curie, an organisation that helps people care for their terminally ill loved ones at home, just as we had hoped to do.

Because of that association, I travelled back up to London and did the swim. When I returned home, I was delighted to find that my wonderful brother Johnny had forwarded my sponsorship link to his own Facebook page, and his equally wonderful friends had doubled my sponsorship in a few hours.

Subsequently my brother wanted to do even more. He took a fantastic picture of a daffodil that looked very much like the Marie Curie logo, and entered it into a hipstamatic competition, pledging to add a pound to my sponsorship for every vote the picture got.

The last count was 927. This might just be a little more than he had in mind.

To that end I’m making my own last plea – my sponsorship is still open, so if you sponsor me now I will a) match it* and b) release John from paying the equivalent amount so that he doesn’t end up eating dust in the street.

http://my.artezglobal.com/personalPage.aspx?registrationID=337278&langPref=en-CA

* within reason. See, I’m learning lessons from my big brother, just like any little brother should. :)