A Wonderful Christmas Time

Christmas kind of crept up on me this year. You'd think, what with your arrival and various other things it would have been momentous. In fact, I thought it ought to be just that, but in real time, it was a lovely, fairly understated few days with my nearest and dearest.

Perhaps the positive MRI of a few days before took the sting out early, but no, I personally felt like it was another Christmas - a good one, and one I will always cherish, but not as epochal as I'd thought it would be back in, say, the dark, hot days of July.

So, what happened? Well, we got all the decorations up pretty early this year, by Hutchings standards - ours were finished on the 23rd-ish. I couldn't wrap presents worth a damn, so opted for the ever-reliable fail-safe that is the gift bag instead. As a consequence, I was finished with wrapping after about half an hour. I thoroughly recommend this approach should it arise in future, as I was able to make an early start on the Christmas Eve martinis.

Our only real concession to having a noisy nine-month old baby in the house was the addition to our festive arsenal of a fake plastic tree. Then again, you already know that because as you read this, you'll be aware of how redoubtable a tree he has been over the years. At least, I hope so, as he cost a fucking arm and a leg. Anyway, he is a beaut, as you can see from the pics below and throughout.

Our veggie Christmas dinner was fortified with 12 pigs-in-blankets, and your first taste of the unholy matrimony that is sausage. You went a bit mental for it, and I can't really blame you. I had nine of them. Yummy!

Your favourite present, I think, was the big red bus from Tim and Claire (via the good old ELC, natch), but you also loved your tractor and sheep combo, and you don't even know about your illuminated globe yet. Laugh of the Day goes to the unveiling of the giant lion soft toy we picked up from IKEA. You nearly burst with happiness, to be fair, it was pretty awesome.

Boxing Day
We headed over to Sladewyns for additional festivities, but things were tempered somewhat by the realisation that Sparky had liberated about 200g of really quite nice camembert from under our noses. Bastard. You were dressed as an elf throughout, which was downright adorable, obviously.

Concerned that we need to get you out in die frische Luft every day, we even did something on the spur of the moment yesterday - we bogged off to notorious dog hotspot and sandpit Exmouth, about an hours' drive away, to see how quickly one or all of us would have a nervous breakdown. Turns out, nobody did. The dog was completely overwhelmed, and you were rosy-cheeked and laughing all the way. We staggered home, ate leftovers and then your Mum ate some people, thanks to Vampyr, which is very good indeed. A hardcore-but-worthwhile daytrip.

We've pretty much hunkered down at home since, working our way through various supplies of chocolate, booze, cake and other resolution-smashers. I feel pretty good, physically, and psychologically, this little blog is a light in the dark sometimes. New Year tonight always brings back memories of Lucy, a little more so this year as this marks the 18th anniversary of her passing. I still miss her.

Alex’s Favourite Albums

This list is the one that I keep in my head, and I just spewed out fifty amazing albums that are important to me now, or informed my journey through music when I was a kid, really. The first single (ask your Mum) I ever bought was Creep by Radiohead, because of the guitar landing in the middle of it. I defy you not to like that one. The first time I heard the climax of Abbey Road I was on a train and gasped audibly at the sheer wit of it. Similarly, when I came back from a lunchbreak in 1999 with Discovery by Daft Punk on CD, it was a beautiful summer’s afternoon in Bournemouth, all the pretty girls were out in town and a friend described it as ‘sunshine pressed onto a plastic disc.’ He was right.

There are so many memories connected to these records. As I say, I’ll explain in the fullness of time, but my advice is to search out these records if you’re in any way drawn to them. There’s gold in them thar hills, son.

I’m not saying these are the best albums ever made, as such a distinction doesn’t make a lot of sense. One person’s freedom fighter is another’s terrorist, after all. No, these are just the albums, and I suppose, by extension, the groups or artists, that I really love. Every album on this list is vital for some reason. It may not be perfect - in fact, none of them are - but something about each of them makes them special and uniquely great in some way. I hope you listen to them and love them as much as I have, mate.

Lots of love, breathless excitement, sunny days and a lifetime of discovery,

Dad x

Reasons to be cheerful

Great news from my most recent checkup - Mr Cancer is still in retreat, and the specialists don't really know why. I do though - it's because my immune system rules, and I have you to fight for, young man. And fight for you I shall.

I am feeling better today than I have in weeks, and feel like you can bet on all sorts of Daddy-shaped memories now. A weight has, at last, been lifted.

You're also sitting up, and have been for a few weeks. You're into everything, and have now been real longer than you were imaginary. Well done, you. You are almost sleeping through (you get more sleep than Mummy or I, but that's fine), and you love your food. I have never seen anyone cast as many amorous glances at cauliflower and broccoli as you do, you massive wierdo legend.

'Tis nearly Christmas, and the house is a happy, forward-looking place today. This time next year, we may well be chatting about it.

Too negative by half: let's have a laugh

I feel much better today, so I thought I'd share a list of my favourite songs and artists that you should definitely check out. I might even expand this to, like, Dad's Top 50 Films' etc, because you might like them :) This list is ever-changing, and a mere sample of the stuff I like at the moment. Hope you enjoy it, and imagine me Dad-dancing to it up there somewhere. I assure you I will be.

https://open.spotify.com/user/alexjones46/playlist/5fdVEW1nrMQRmum27sRDdf?si=DpISgRqbRlCPfvr7ISeIXA

<iframe src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/alexjones46/playlist/5fdVEW1nrMQRmum27sRDdf" width="300" height="380" frameborder="0" allowtransparency="true" allow="encrypted-media"></iframe>

On the unravelling

"Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace."

—Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

"It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but retire a little from sight and afterwards return again."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

 Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it."

—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

"They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time."

—Banksy

"Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you"

—Welcome to Night Vale

. "You'll drift apart, it's true, but you'll be out in the open, part of everything alive again."

—Philip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass

It's not here yet - today, I feel fine and dandy. I just liked these collections of words...

More moaning

Brain tumours are so dumb.

He sits there, burrowed into my mind, plotting my downfall. Months go by, during which my son is born (hurrah!) and I lose my job (boo!). I get  through four rounds of chemo pretty much unscathed, besides a bit of tiredness. 

About three months ago, I started to lose my sense of direction. Big crowds, especially those in places I’ve not been to before, begin to intimidate me. Nevertheless, I negotiate the Rolling Stones live in a big venue; I walk about two miles a day with the dog. I go to London purely for the honour of being made redundant in person, during which HR ask me ‘how little I could survive on’ by way of an opening gambit. Charmers to the last.

Then last week, stuff started to shift on me - my anti-seizure meds are up a bit, and holding, but I’m not as sprightly as I was. Walking to our local shop, once a nonchalant trot of about 10 minutes, now feels like an expedition that needs to be considered before it’s completed. But I am still, broadly speaking, OK. My research has also proven that wine is an effective deterrent to most ills.

We saw the mighty Jenner clan last week, which was and will always be a joy. Hope, were it a candle, would flicker at the slightest breeze, having brought from the dark by friends and family, and those I need. Some mornings I feel like I will be dust at Christmas; until recently, others made me forget anything is happening. But now, all mornings carry a reminder that I am finite, and that below the waterline, the ship is, slowly, sinking.

But I am not sunk yet. When I had my op in January I worried that I wouldn’t be able to play shit bass guitar again. I was right. Slowly though, I have been able to pick up the pieces and play. Initially, playing itself made me dizzy; too much coordination needed, too many inputs, too much data requiring processing. But today, 303 days after my op, I played as well as ever, nice and loud, for 90 minutes. 

This is significant, because if I could have my time again, I would throw myself into learning and playing music more vociferously than i did this time round. Listen to Miles Davis, or Coltrane, or The Roses, or Metallica, or any decent musicians, and what you can hear is the result of someone wanting to make noises that are great fun, or emotional shorthand for something else, with and for their best friends. 

Being in the same room as a bunch of people intent on creating something with you that wasn’t there seconds ago, and if you stopped, would cease to exist altogether, is actual fucking magic. It is a glimpse of the inner workings of the mind. It is the higher state - pure creativity, emotion, clarity, faculty and freedom. It is as close to telepathy as you can get with your clothes on. 

Music has power. It started a civil war in Yugoslavia, and helped to end the war in Europe. It can evoke untold suffering and limitless joy. It is the only thing that can stop a room in its tracks. Humans are driven by it, inspired by it, die for it, are, sometimes, even made thanks to the atmosphere it can generate.

So, to know that I can still command my fingers to hold my bass in such a way as to make a sound I recognise as music, when I was warned that my treatment might - perhaps should - have taken that away by now, is good to know. The reason I started this by saying that brain tumours are dumb? Mine stopped me playing for a year, right? I couldn’t play stood up, like I have since I was 17. In a revolutionary moment, I sat down, giving my brain a rest, as it didn’t have to deal with balance issues that have been increasing for a year or more. With all those issues stowed, I could play, properly, again. 

All I can say is, sometimes it’s best to sit on your arse. 

‘The worst tragedy that could ever happen to anyone, in my opinion, is that when they die, they never sang the song that was inside of them. They were never able to give their greatest gift away.” 

“But the beautiful opposite of that is that if you pass away and you know that you’ve sung your song - that you gave your gift - that’s the greatest accomplishment I could ever hope for anybody.’ - Flea

Trigger Warning: Eulogy

I have to plan these things, because I'm not going to be around forever, but I still feel I should warn you of content and themes that might be upsetting, were you to run across this without your Mum checking that it's OK to read first.

This is a draft [unfinished] version of the eulogy that I want Tim to read out at my funeral. A eulogy is a short speech or reading that crystallises your feelings about the person who's died, and highlights their best points - funny things they've said, fun times with their friends and loved ones. I cried a lot while writing it, and will do so again before it's finished, but that's OK. That just means I understand the importance of what I'm writing and how it could affect you. I'm sorry if you find this upsetting, but I'll share it anyway.

Hello.

It is I – Al.

Yup, I’m just temporarily commandeering this vehicle in order to blether some sacrilegious balderdash for your entertainment.

One of the ‘advantages’ of knowing you’re going is that you can plan this stuff, and, as unwitting vessels go, Timmo here is significantly cheaper than the New Orleans-style Jazz band I wanted, so, there you go. Austerity, innit.  Mr Mason, had you been sat nearer the front, I’d have chosen you, Sir. Sorry today wasn’t your turn - there’s always next time, though.

So, yeah.

Shit.

Dudes, I have in fact finally died (elegantly as ever, of course) and now, I use my new powers of haunting to gently come amongst you, one last time.

This means that The Event has happened. Turns out I lost, like anyone who plays the game, existence, to the end.

I have to apologise unreservedly to anyone who was saddened when it finally did occur. As I write this, on a classically Tupperware-grey August afternoon in 2018, my passing away seems faintly ludicrous, albeit technically plausible from a medical point of view, but I feel nothing, right now, today, that would give it away. Which, if anything, only goes to show that you shouldn’t take betting advice from me.

And I want you to know that on the way to this point, I had many, many days when I have felt like a fraud, not ill at all, but bored, and stuck, and becalmed, outwitted, outgunned and overwhelmed, furious, resigned, hopeless, empowered, focussed and strong as an ox. All at the same time, sometimes. But I’ve had terrifying days, long, scary nights and seizures that made me wish this day would come sooner, too.

Despite all that, I’m glad it didn’t.

Dying itself holds no fear. I am not afraid of anything apart from pain, and while I will have suffered intermittently while descending the escalator from full-on, maximum-annoyance Al to the useless pile of malfunctioning limbs I undoubtedly became, I was managed, helped, counselled, cheered up, dressed, hugged and wept over by beautiful souls who don’t get the praise they deserve.

Every pain can be managed, be it emotional, spiritual or physical. Please, if you have anything spare, reward those who helped me and give generously to the collection for the nurses and staff at XXX and XXX, without whom I would have not been able to slip quietly into the next room, as I undoubtedly did.

My darling Tam, you are the strongest person I’ve ever met, but I know you get bored of hearing that. Folks, my wife is beautiful, and resourceful, and clever, and brave, but she has been going through this with me, and now I implore you to look after her and Leo for me.

Call her once in a while. Ping her a ‘hey, how are you?’ now and again. She needs you to help put herself back together now. She will front-up and say she’s fine, but she might not be, and she shouldn’t have to be doing this on her own. Cancer is a cruel, merciless thing. Dealing with its immediate aftermath is worse for her than it was even for me. As my friends and family, I’m telling you now: she needs help for a little while. Please be that help if you can.

Tam, rather than concentrate on the situation that my departure creates, I hope you can see it, in time, as an opportunity. You can do anything now, and as long as you have a roof over your heads, a family that loves you and friends who can see how much of your heart you’re pouring out for Leo each day, you will be fine.

I am totally heartbroken that I won’t get to see us grow up together as a family; beyond all the travelling, the fun times, the drama and whatnot, that was what I wanted for my life. My only hope now is that I can provide a start for Leo, some solace for you and all my love. I don’t have anything else left to give. I’m so sorry darling.

Please show the rest of the world you’re as great as you know you can be, and teach Leo to love life and waIk forward from here unafraid. He is my son. His constellation, and your initial, are etched into my skin. We are one, but we’re not the same. We carry each other.

I am, if anything, proof that having outrageous eyebrows and a great walk will only get you so far in this world. Thankfully, that little boy also has your heart, your charisma and your endless compassion. Lift him up for me, and watch him take on the world for both of us.

I hate people who won’t try for fear of failing. One glance at the brilliant men who are my greatest friends in all the world proves that I don’t judge a book by its cover, and I like people who don’t mind a dash of risk here and there. Boys, thank you once again for all things. I couldn’t, wouldn’t and definitely shouldn’t have done it without you. Oh, and Jon – please employ your notoriously burly physique to ensure that Mr Browning gets a round in for everyone here before he goes. Ta.[1]

Knowing that I wasn’t going to be around forever, I dearly wanted to prove to Tam and Leo that I didn’t give it up and hide; I took the doctors’ advice, sure, but I didn’t sit and wait – or tried not to, anyway. I fought this thing that has ripped the heart out of my family three times in the last 20 years. I did not lie down.

I knew I couldn’t do anything to effect the outcome, so I did everything I could to effect the outcome. I ignored as many symptoms as I could, and carried on. I went back to work, so that I could leave more behind for Leo. I scoured photos and videos, compiling them before it was too late. I contacted people I dislike intensely and asked them for help. The saying ‘you could be hit by a bus tomorrow’ spurred me on; I knew the bus was coming – I could hear it in my head every morning when I woke.

In Summary

I have truly loved my life. I have seen some amazing places, met some extraordinary people, lived, loved, lost and won.

I have been myself, but better, as per my best friends’ advice.

I have shaken the hand of a great and powerful Wizard

I have had a biro nicked by Paul Weller. Word to the wise – never lend the Modfather a pen.

I have seen Oasis live in front of 130,000 people, and 130. More is better.

I have been a regular patron of Jason’s Doner Van.

I’ve fallen over because of the Rolling Stones.

I’ve seen Radiohead break hearts in the rain.

I’ve shared long-buried family secrets while being thoroughly underwhelmed by Bjork.

I always remembered the fate that befell Deano, as we all should.

My wife has been chatted up by Russell Brand, which puts her in the top three percent of the world’s women in my book.

I’ve been asked ‘Ire you happy?’ by a toothless Irishman.

I’ve discussed complex geopolitical challenges with strippers in Edinburgh at four in the morning.

I have met strange, mystical Australians on trains, with overly sparkly blue eyes, who may or may not have been angels or something. Either way, they loved Holden Caulfield even more than I did.

I have watched my beautiful, ‘untrainable’ dog hit 30mph on the beach in brilliant sunshine, before ambling back at his leisure to my side. Untrainable my arse.

I have been underrated and overlooked my whole life. Wonky eyes, a funny walk, a funny run, no sense of direction and a bit of shyness make Al a confusing prospect.

I have listened as unwise people told me my relationship with Tam wouldn’t last six months, and been told I didn’t have what it took to be a writer, because I couldn’t keep everything in my head. How am I doing so far, though?

I have married my favourite person, on the best day of my life, surrounded by literally all my favourite people.

I’ve worked in Asia, despite not liking work or, for that matter, Asia, all that much.

I kept a list of people I hate. Ask Jon for details.

I have played bass alongside the best drummer I have ever met.

I have held my newborn baby, and heard his first-ever cry.

I have done 0-60mph in under three seconds.

I have felt the gut-wrench of unrequited love.

I have been that irritating dick with a new girlfriend who things everything is made of candyfloss and trampolines.

I have had some truly bollocks haircuts, and a couple of great ones.

I have had my heart properly smashed to bits.

I’ve feuded with people and not made up with them, because life’s tough, and arseholes don’t get let off every week, like it’s the end of He-Man or something.

I have been betrayed by those close to me, but also forgiven by those close to me.

I have made peace with being a bit crap at a variety of things, such as driving, cricket, catch, guitar, singing, card tricks, fatherhood and baking.

Despite sitting opposite Rob for quarter of a century, I still don’t understand the Israel/Palestine beef, or why anyone would do live-action roleplay. That said, as you can see, I do indeed prefer a fiery death.

I’ve been given a chance to prove I’m better than I think I am – everyone deserves one of those in life.

I have seen Southampton stick six past Manchester United. Ha!

I have seen England win a penalty shootout.

I know what a 110-hour working week feels like, and as a direct result, I know what setting up camp at a swim-up bar in Mexico at 1030AM feels like, too. Work hard if you like, but play hard afterwards if you do.

Whenever I have distanced myself from my friends - verbally or geographically, I have come unstuck.

Whenever I have phoned it in, people knew.

Whenever I have tried my absolute hardest, I have surprised myself at my own ability, and more often than not, succeeded.

Rudeness is fun, but it's not useful. Forgiveness is classy.

If you're given a choice to do a hard thing or an easy thing always, do the difficult thing quickly, first, then do the easy thing at  your leisure.

Pop stars and famous people are not prophets. Don't waste your time listening to them. Listen to your family. Real people are just that.

I have suffered, and triumphed. I have laughed a lot, and cried a bit, too. I am OK with all of the above, really. Please don’t be sad. Thank you for being all the help I needed, and for aiding and abetting me as I did this thing we call life. I love you all. I’ll see you again. Now, go out and get whatever’s yours, before it’s too late. Go and be a puppet, a pauper, a pirate or a poet if you like, because time is short, and life is tough. I'm out of time, but you are not. Carpe fucking diem, people.

I thank you for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is 'yes'. 

I'm Sorry

I've been away from this for so long... I will update it with various things I've got going on today and then do as much posting as I can, so that when The Time Comes, it's worth a read.

As I write this, you are five months old, and rocking. I will put various videos I have of you here too.

Almost sitting up, vocal, chatty, full of joy and my absolute favourite human man- that's you!

Back from beyond

Brain tumours are so dumb.

He sits there, burrowed into my mind, plotting my downfall. Months go by, during which my son is born (hurrah!) and I lose my job (boo!). I get  through four rounds of chemo pretty much unscathed, besides a bit of tiredness. 

About three months ago, I started to lose all sense of direction. Big crowds, especially those in places I’ve not been to before, begin to intimidate me. Nevertheless, I negotiate the Rolling Stones live in a big venue; I walk about two miles a day with the dog. I go to London purely for the honour of being made redundant in person, during which HR ask me ‘how little I could survive on’ by way of an opening gambit. Charmers to the last.

Then last week, stuff started to shift on me - my anti-seizure meds are up a bit, and holding, but I’m not as sprightly as I was. Walking to our local shop, once a nonchalant trot of about 10 minutes, now feels like an expedition that needs to be considered before it’s completed. But I am still, broadly speaking, OK. My research has also proven that wine is an effective deterrent to most ills.

We saw the mighty Jenner clan last week, which was and will always be a joy. Hope, were it a candle, would flicker at the slightest breeze, having brought from the dark by friends and family, and those I need. Some mornings I feel like I will be dust at Christmas; until recently, others made me forget anything is happening. But now, all mornings carry a reminder that I am finite, and that below the waterline, the ship is, slowly, sinking.

But I am not sunk yet. When I had my op in January I worried that I wouldn’t be able to play shit bass guitar again. I was right. Slowly though, I have been able to pick up the pieces and play. Initially, playing itself made me dizzy; too much coordination needed, too many inputs, too much data requiring processing. But today, 303 days after my op, I played as well as ever, nice and loud, for 90 minutes. 

This is significant, because if I could have my time again, I would throw myself into learning and playing music more vociferously than i did this time round. Listen to Miles Davis, or Coltrane, or The Roses, or Metallica, or any decent musicians, and what you can hear is the result of someone wanting to make noises that are great fun, or emotional shorthand for something else, with and for their best friends. 

Being in the same room as a bunch of people intent on creating something with you that wasn’t there seconds ago, and if you stopped, would cease to exist altogether, is actual fucking magic. It is a glimpse of the inner workings of the mind. It is the higher state - pure creativity, emotion, clarity, faculty and freedom. It is as close to telepathy as you can get with your clothes on. 

Music has power. It started a civil war in Yugoslavia, and helped to end the war in Europe. It can evoke untold suffering and limitless joy. It is the only thing that can stop a room in its tracks. Humans are driven by it, inspired by it, die for it, are, sometimes, even made thanks to the atmosphere it can generate.

So, to know that I can still command my fingers to hold my bass in such a way as to make a sound I recognise as music, when I was warned that my treatment might - perhaps should - have taken that away by now, is good to know. The reason I started this by saying that brain tumours are dumb? Mine stopped me playing for a year, right? I couldn’t play stood up, like I have since I was 17. In a revolutionary moment, I sat down, giving my brain a rest, as it didn’t have to deal with balance issues that have been increasing for a year or more. With all those issues stowed, I could play, properly, again. 

All I can say is, sometimes it’s best to sit on your arse. 

‘The worst tragedy that could ever happen to anyone, in my opinion, is that when they die, they never sang the song that was inside of them. They were never able to give their greatest gift away.” 

“But the beautiful opposite of that is that if you pass away and you know that you’ve sung your song - that you gave your gift - that’s the greatest accomplishment I could ever hope for anybody.’ - Flea

Wanna wanna wanna

I could make all the same mistakes, or I could make em with you.

Is this how you feel?

Baby, I wanna know, wanna know

(I don't have long now)

Is this how you feel?

Is this how you feel?

The Preatures 2014

Wow. What a time to be alive.

Hi - you're here! You made it! I love you! Mummy loves you! It's ALL good!

I will go into greater detail about your entry into the world later, but suffice it to say we are over the moon that you're safe, eating like an absolute trouper and generally adorable. Apart from all the farting.

Things you should know about your birth include the following:

Labour was very slow. Your mum laboured, having contractions every eight minutes or so, for about two and a half days, before things started to get really interesting.

We had a doula, Anna, who was like an experienced assistant birth-lady, who had had loads of kids and knew what she was doing. Anna was excellent, and a bit of a proper hippie. But, without her, and hypnobirthing (don't ask) we would have been in trouble.

After about 60 hours of agonising pain on your Mum's part, you apparently decided you might have had enough and stopped kicking for a little while. No blame here, but that scared us a bit, and Anna had to drive us into the hospital in Exeter with your mum in advanced labour, which by the expression on her face was, well... uncomfortable.

When we got to the hospital, the nice nurses found your heartbeat and we could all breathe out again, which was excellent fun. Once she got in the birth pool at the hospital, your mum turned from a concerned greyish tinge, to the warm, relaxed pink we know her well for. Floating about in warm water (a lot of it) is ideal for pregnant ladies who haven't slept for a week and have had four paracetamol in that time. Yes, four.

Things started to get a bit more real in the pool. Your mum's water's broke (don't Google that) and they discovered a bit of meconium in them (don't Google that either) so things changed, and your mum needed more monitoring, so the pool had to go. Next thing you know, she's up on a bed, hollering like a beautiful, radiant and glowing wildebeest and after some fairly hair-raising scenes that I won't relate in full here (although what I've got to lose I don't know) you were born at 2305 on 15th March 2018.

Your mum is so astonishingly hardcore that you were home the following night, but you were restless and uncomfortable all night, and the visiting midwife was concerned, because you'd spat up some green nastiness. 'Off you go to Exeter' says the midwife, and, as the snows gathered and intensified, your mum had to drive you 24 miles through a blizzard to the hospital she'd just escaped from, where she was met by the nurses who were stuck there by the weather. You were taken to the Neo Natal Ward, where the poorly babies are, and at one point, they thought you might have a twisted gut, and there was even talk of an air-ambulance to Bristol. Mercifully, that wasn't required, and it turned out that you weren't all that keen on breastmilk. After a week of trying to breastfeed and being topped up with formula in The Hottest Room In Britain - with my radiotherapy going on across the hospital, don't forget) you were released for a second - and let's hope, final - time on Tuesday20th.

YOU HAVE BEEN A JOY EVER SINCE. I love you. I love your eyes, your wiggly-scribbly hands, your ridiculous legs (sorry about those) and even your half-hearted wailing  when I put you down before you've finished piling into yet another massive dose of synthetic moo juice. I could watch you looking at nothing much all day. Yeah, you're totally exhausting and don't know when to go to bed, but that's genetic - just ask Uncle Tim or Uncle Jon how long I can outstay a welcome for. Honestly mate, you're golden. Bravo. Now, go and hug your mum and tell her she's brilliant for being so strong, will you? I've got something in my eye.

Signs of life

It strikes me that I should keep a diary of what's going on, so here it is. As we're all no doubt aware, I have a brain tumour that may or may not do me in in a couple of years. Boo hoo.
You can find out about much more interesting things, such as my life with my new son - due in just six tiny weeks now, crikey - over at projectpeppercorn.blogspot.com. I initially started that blog and wanted it to be a chronicle of our thoughts and feelings around his birth and life, so that when he's older, we could share the sheer scope of our naivety with him and he could laugh at our silly haircuts and clothes etc. Then The Other Thing happened, and increasingly it took over my writing, most of my waking thoughts and as a consequence, his blog. Hence this one needed to be created. This one's going to be pretty honest, and I might even keep it a secret until the end. I will post more frequently than in previous lives, I hope. The following is a long piece I wrote just after being diagnosed. You would think that, having been given some fairly bleak news and allegedly being a writer, the outpouring of words would be more consistent; more voluminous at least. But no.

You're Nearly Here, Dude!

Sorry, it's been a while. We have been dealing with a lot of things since last I wrote. Mainly I have had a big operation but I am feeling A-OK and on top of the world, so that's all fine. Your nursery is also decorated, and we are as ready as we will ever be for your arrival. It seems like absolutely ages ago that we found out you were coming, and now we're only six weeks away! This is going to get a lot busier once you do arrive, of course. Roll on March 18th, or thereabouts :)

Love you fella x

This just in...

A little update following my delightful recent stay at Derriford Hospital - sorry if you've seen some of this elsewhere...

Ok, so the physical operation went well, with the neuro team able to remove a large amount of the tumour, mainly because I was wide awake and chatting about Barcelona's midfield with the anaesthetist while he was working - don't ask.

As a result, I have got about 80% strength and movement in my left ankle and it's going to be pretty much back to normal soon. Go me. Unfortunately, that's all the good news. 

As previously suspected, my tumour is, in the main, a type 2 glioma - a slower-growing variety. However, some areas of my tumour that have now been reclassified as grade 4. This means that there are small areas of what remains which are aggressive. Eventually though, all areas will become grade 4.

What does this mean? Well, it means that I am going to undergo combined radiotherapy and chemotherapy next. And that I am really quite annoyed.

My prognosis depends on numerous things - mainly, how well I take treatment, and how poorly the cancer responds. 

There are several factors in my favour: lots of the bastard was removed; I am young enough and healthy enough to fight it for some time, and it is mainly a type 2, which means it is lazier than it could be.

Given all this, it is fair to assume that I have three to five years left, assuming I am healthy, lucky, and my cancer doesn't fancy it all that much. It goes without saying that I wanted longer, but the fact is that five years is my best-case outcome from here.

I have not yet fully researched alternative treatments available outside the NHS/overseas but am in the fortunate position to potentially explore my options - if you or anyone you know has credible intel on efficacy for freezing/proton beam treatment etc for people in my position, I am all ears. Diet-wise wise I am doing what I can. I have a feeling that my proposed treatment is the best I can currently hope for but I will take advice from all corners at this point.

Regardless, I will only get to five years from here with a combination of my own renowned stubbornness and the support of my beautiful wife, my family, my imminently arriving son and you lot - my fabulous friends. On a dark day, I’m so glad I have you all around to pick me up when I need you. God speed, you rock'n'rollers. 

Right - enough of this wallowing - I am still cross and only getting crosser. We only go forwards around here, and I am not fucking dead yet. If ever there was a time to watch Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan for a bit of early-doors inspiration, that time is now.

Love love love xxx 

Rogue One is Proof That Star Wars is Ruined

Right. I have now seen Star Wars Rogue One. I have issues with it. I have made A List, if you'll indulge me:

The key ingredient of franchise-reboot stormtrooper armour is clearly royale icing, as in the more recent films, any contact with blaster fire whatsoever now results in instant death, rather than the famously blaster-proof stuff in earlier, more permissive Seventies outings. 

This is borne out by the later appearance of new, beige stormtroopers, who clearly are harder to kill because of their more resilient protective gear, which looks like it is shortcrust-based and has been left in the oven a few minutes longer to harden off before use. 

This led to unbidden but unshakeable visions of there being an enormous Armour Pantry of some sort, stacked out with massive industrial cooling-racks, in one of the Death Star's many cavernous halls. Never mind mining for Death Star laser fuel; how are they sourcing all that bicarbonate of soda?

AT-ATs are still an absolute fucking liability. Has anyone other than Chewie ever survived a journey anywhere in one? The insurance must be mental. How the hell do you park one? Or turn around? Disastrous.

There is a random space Frenchman. His purpose was unclear, but at least he survived a 15-foot spine-shattering fall with appropriate levels of elan. I hope the DVD includes a deleted scene of him relaxing in a pavement cafe in Mos Eisley, wreathed in Gauloise, knocking back a pastis with a pastel jumper slung nonchalantly round his shoulders.

The force is strong with the blind Chinese monk, who serves no purpose other than boosting takings in an important overseas region for Disney, until he is shot quite straightforwardly and dies. Hmmm.

Digital Peter Cushing was great, if a little unsettling initially. He was actually higher-res in some shots than some of the real actors. Amazing trick, though. Digital Leia also lovely. Genuinely heartwarming to see how they have stitched R1's plot into ep IV.

Couldn't work out who was on whose side for the first hour - not that it mattered overly. Why was Forest Whitaker's character even in it? At one stage the young heroine appeared to have more would-be sponsors and mentors than an X-Factor finalist at an AA meeting, despite needing none of them, as her whole plan was to sit still and be immolated in Cancun anyway.

Would a Jedi have sat on a beach awaiting death in so meek a way? Thought that was v poor form.

But! Last 20 mins of outright close-quarters Sith chaos was great, mind you. Go on, Darth me old son, you crack some facking heads. Bosh!

6/10, though. Blatant filler between ep7 and ep8. Still better than I,III and most of II.