Simple Things Make Me Happy, Like the Shuffle Feature on My MP3 Player

I guess when I received my MP3 player as a gift this Christmas I was a little behind the rest of you in that it is my first ever player of this type. Formerly I had been wedded to my Mini Disc player never to be parted but men are fickle and I have spurned my trusty disc player for my new musical best friend.

The best bit for me has been blowing the dust from some CDs I've not played for ages, picking the best bits and loading them on to the player. With the rate at which new music is published it is easy to forget how good some of the stuff you already have is. But then the fun really starts when you push the shuffle button: it's like having your own radio station when you know that whatever comes on next you will like but you don't know what it will be. And how weird is it when you get strange coincidences that link tracks together. For instance walking the dog this morning I set off and one of Daniel Barenboin's fabulous pieces from Bach's Well Tempered Clavier Book 1 came on, it was interspersed by much else and then the last track as I stepped through the door was an organ piece by Dieterich Buxtehude the 17th century composer who Bach loved so much he walked a vast distance just to hear him play.

One of the CDs I blew the dust off was Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill. What a stunningly good album that is; and if you (this is for the men) were ever wavering on the verge of unfaithfulness, having Alanis creep up and mug you from your MP3 player is more than enough to put you back on the straight and narrow - who needs Fatal Attraction!

An ageing relative of ours is having an MP3 player for his birthday to help while away hours in hospital. He doesn't have a computer so it will be Mrs C and I who load it with his favourites that include Black Dyke Mills brass band, Nana Mouskouri and Jim Reeves. It might perk him up a bit if I pepper it with the odd track from Alanis or Billy Bragg perhaps. On second thoughts Billy Bragg might send a Daily Mail reader like him into apoplexy - best not eh?.

When A Man Shat On My Hand

I promised when I did the post 'Seven Things...' that I would explain how I once allowed a man to shit in the palm of my hand. It seems a good time to write about this sort of thing because it is pretty much the first anniversary of my blog and this sort of subject is pretty much where I started. I started writing my blog when I had time on my hands, having been in hospital for a while. One of my most popular early posts, The Fug and the Time had a particularly faecal theme.

Twenty six years ago I was a callow Student Nurse learning the rudiments of care: bed making with hospital corners, cleanliness, bed bathing and other basics. These were the days of starched sheets and patients who had to look tidy, I remember the protests of patients who liked to lounge in their beds, sheets askew, only to be told by Sister that they could not possibly be comfortable sat like that and made, at her insistence, to sit up straight.

Whilst bed bathing a man who had recently had both of his legs removed, we were in the process of changing his sheets. This was achieved by rolling him over to one side of the bed, changing the sheet on the other, bunching up the remainder of the clean sheet in the middle then rolling him over the lump onto the clean side whilst the other nurse changed the other half. We had just rolled him on to the clean side and I was smoothing the wrinkles out of the clean sheet when the movement must have taken its toll on his insides, "Nurse, I've got to go to the toilet...NOW". Before my colleague had returned at high speed with a commode he added with some urgency, "There's some coming..." and sure enough the evidence presented itself.

Here is where it becomes apparent to what extent the sanctity of clean sheets and orderliness had been impressed into us, because I instinctively grabbed a clean wipe from the trolley and, as if diving for the catch that would save the Ashes, allowed the offending item to land in my hand. Wanting to be sure that there was no more to come before we transferred him to the bedside commode, I asked "Have you done?..."
His reply indicated that he had misinterpreted my question and actually thought I was offering an even higher degree of service than that to which he had become accustomed:
"Ah, thanks lad, there's more where that came from, nnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh", and with that deposited a load that any man would have been proud of into my waiting hand.

So there you have it, a man shat in my hand. I often wonder whether his misunderstanding caused any future embarrassing moments for him or my colleagues during bed baths as he marvelled at the quality of service that allowed a man to shit without having to leave his pit.

Happy Birthday to my blog!

Now The Dust Has Settled Allow Me to Explain

Try telling anyone, as they are liberally splashing Hugo Boss over their manly chest or donning a posh frock (not necessarily the same person you understand) that New Year is a stupid celebration and they look at you like you have just told them you are off to join a commune of some strange religious sect. Now that it's all over I will explain why I have never quite understood the need to draw an arbitrary line in the sand of time and call it a new year. For that is all it is: an administrative necessity to have a beginning and an end of the so called year. I understand why it is convenient to have one but why celebrate it?.. nothing changes.

At least Christmas, Eid or Divali have some sort of symbolism, even if you don't believe the in the spirituality that goes with them; but new year is a nothing. If we are going to celebrate it we might as well celebrate it in April when at least the accountants have something to be pleased about.

For many people this idea of taking stock of the previous twelve months and looking forward to the next is anathema. The time to take stock is when it is right for you. That is why so many new year resolutions fail: people are forced into resolving when their hearts are not in it. When you really want to do something do it; make a plan, find your motivation for achieving it and go for it. Away with this clap trap.

And by way of a cheery note on which to end; did you know that the early hours of new year morning are the most common time for suicide. Surprised? You shouldn't be when thousands of people who have had a shit year and another shit one to come are forced to reflect on the fact.

Happy New Year!

My Best Presents

I always think that the best Christmas presents are those that have required most effort on the part of the purchaser; and so it is this year for me. It might not seem too difficult for Mrs C to have popped into HMV and selected a CD but I know how it hurt to buy me this one. We have a debate in our house that has almost ended in sulks as I have staunchly defended Amy Winehouse. On one side of the dining table we have my sons and wife who consider her to be a spoilt, drug addled wreck fit only for stepping over in the street; on the other side we have me.

I don't know what it is, but I do seem drawn to the work of damaged people like her: Dylan Thomas and John Martyn are two more of my favourites, both alcohol and drug victims I keep having to defend to people. What is it about addiction that makes us rail against one type but accept another (nicotine vs alcohol for example). Perhaps we don't like the idea that we could all find ourselves at the mercy of something beyond our control - now there's a subject for a future blog post.

Back to Black is a stunningly good album especially if you have the two CD version with the stripped down versions of Valerie, Monkey Man and others. My neighbours will soon be sick of me walking the dog singing unrestrainedly with my MP3 player (a present from my sons that they are now regretting!); you should hear me doing Valerie (no pun intended for those who know Mrs C!).

Talking of alcohol abuse it's nearly New Year and although I don't like it - I think it's a completely nonsensical, arbitrary celebration - I wish you all a very happy one.

A Traditional Family Christmas?

We have had reason of late, to think of heritage and the things passed down from generation to generation. Our consideration of heritage is thanks to the occasional visitor, that comes slinking like a sly cat around every family door from time to time: mortality.

Our families, Mrs C's and mine, have little in the way of family silver; there is little to show for our combined heritage. So it was interesting today to see my mother-in-law's family bible dusted off. The faded leather tome is inscribed on the fly leaf in beautiful copperplate handwriting with the year 1899 and the name of her great grandfather. Equally interesting was another book that belonged to her aunt: May Byron's Pot Luck a collection of recipes from around the country dated 1923.

I pointed out to Mrs C, how timely this book was: with all this talk of heritage and tradition, we were just in time to take its advice for a traditional Christmas. Amongst the many recipes, including Rook Pie that starts with the instruction 'skin and draw six young rooks', there is much advice for the aspiring cook. But from the outset one thing is clear, right from the first paragraph of the first page though: there is no place for men in the kitchen.

I pointed this out to Mrs C and, along with a reminder of her twenty-year-old promise before God and the late Rev A.T.P. Harrison to obey me, I indicated my intention to retire to the lounge on Tuesday while she prepared the Christmas dinner, which this year must consist of our own vegetarian option and a turkey-type option for an elderly relative who cannot under any circumstances be convinced that nut roast is a reasonable equivalent to the more traditional fare.

I have to say that Mrs C put up a number of excellent philosophical arguments about how literally we were meant to take the words from the traditional marriage service. She included a number of tautologies with well reasoned examples of how, had she followed this promise to the letter, things might have gone very much awry at chez Croft over the years - and she managed it in so few sentences, a quite prodigious talent for getting the point across in a small word count, something some of us bloggers could learn by!

So, I will be doing my share in the kitchen as I have every year; a scene that will no doubt be mirrored across the world. I wish you all a very happy Christmas. No doubt we will all be far too busy to blog over the coming days so I say bye for now and to close I offer you the seasonal work of a blogging musical genius who writes of his quest for good musical things for his favourite instrument: Uke Hunt; click here to hear, so to speak.

Seven Things You Didn't Know About Me and Probably Will Not Benefit From Having Learnt

Thanks to Tracey for tagging me with this meme. It is the sort of theme that runs the risk of revealing too much or of being completely inconsequential - I will do my best to strike a happy medium (I shuddered then as I recalled a Ken Dodd joke involving Doris Stokes).

Here are the seven things you didn't know about me:

1. It has at times been convenient to attribute the slightly broken appearance of the bridge of my nose, to a life of toughness and masculine pursuits. The truth is that it attained its slightly wobbly look during a mid-playground collision with Andrew McLung at Stansfield Rd. County Primary School, Failsworth around 1968.

2. Whilst at sixth form of Chadderton Grammar School I shaved a chunk out of my hairline to emulate my then hero Peter Gabriel. It did not have the effect I desired and considering that I had shoulder length hair at the time, the appearance of a tuft sprouting from my forehead, as it grew back, was definitely not a look I desired.

3. I once almost circumcised myself - accidentally. On a trip to the pantomime at Oldham Coliseum I found myself caught midst pee, when the warning bell sounded for the end of the interval. Being far from confident in my ability to relocate my seat in the dark I rushed the proceedings and caught my little foreskin in the zip of my trousers. Further panicked at the zip's refusal to budge either up or down I forced it - I draw a veil over the remainder of the proceedings for the sake of all men reading this post.

4. Having been invited to a Tarts and Vicars party at short notice and having already drunk a couple or so cans of Breaker, I searched for a suitable dress in my mum's wardrobe. Only many years later have I realised that there were two reasons for her displeasure, not simply the fact of my having stretched the waistband beyond its usable limit (she was a size 10 -12; I am more of a 16). It was also, I now realise, the fact of my having considered her best lacy black dress as being suitable for wearing by a tart that upset her.

5. I once allowed a man to shit in the palm of my hand. This is worth a blog post in itself. I say no more, for now.

6. When I was a student nurse we resented the prestige given to even the most junior house officer compared to the nurses who by and large were treated as skivvies despite the high level of skill and expertise they possessed; and, I must add, the amount of time they spent getting junior doctors out of the poop by telling them what they ought to do in certain circumstances. This prejudicial approach extended outside of hospital too; for example when we dined regularly in a long since gone Indian restaurant on King St in Oldham - I forget the name - the staff found it inconceivable that I was a nurse and not a doctor. Clearly a young man surrounded by a bevy of young attractive nurses must be a doctor. I am ashamed to say that we hammed it up to the extent that Doctor Steve and his harem were treated like royalty and afforded many privileges well beyond the odd free pappadum or two.

7. I am fond of saying to people, whilst adopting a tough, manly expression and glowering from beneath my life furrowed brow, "The last bloke that assaulted me is dead." Combined with the wonky nose I mentioned earlier you can imagine the intended effect. What I habitually fail to mention is that although the expression is in all ways true, the poor sod who hit me died of a heroin overdose 2 years after his encounter with me.

That's your lot; all that remains is for me to tag five more people. I am going to cheat a little as you shall see -

1. Mr Woppit: if you haven't read his excellent blog, you should.

2. Bill Blunt: we haven't heard from him for a while and I would like to hear things we didn't know about the ageing hack.

3. Mystic Veg: It would be good to hear seven unknown vegetable vignettes from the allotment plot doc.

4. (here starts the cheating) The Fuel My Blog Blog writers - I want to know seven things about the excellent FMB website that we didn't know

5. (and here is the other cheaty bit) Lisa - who doesn't write a blog. I challenge Lisa to add seven pictures to her excellent Flickr site that tell us things about her we didn't know.

P.S. the hits I get based on the labels I've added to this post should be interesting - I'll let you know.

Crofty's Advent Awards

Most of us are doing similar things in the weeks that run up to Christmas: shopping, work's nights out and such; so I thought it might be useful to add my own brief sage guidance on what is hot and what is not in the Manchester Advent experience.

We had our work night out yesterday afternoon and evening and when I told people we were going to the Radisson Hotel in Manchester there were two distinct reactions: either 'bloomin' 'eck that must be costing you a bit' or 'Yeuch, hotel food is rubbish at Christmas, it will just school dinners'. That is why The Radisson Edwardian Hotel on Peter St gets my first Advent award.

I was one of the many Mancunians who were aghast at losing the Free Trade Hall; that Manchester icon of the working man's struggle, home of the Halle Orchestra and gorgeous gig venue; but time marches on relentlessly and gone it is. Or rather not gone, but transformed into a beautifully modern interpretation of Edwardian Elegance: modern clean lines, glass and space but an equal amount of warm sandstone to make it a sort of cosy-posh. What made it so special though, for our team of about 25 revellers, was the way they just got it all so right. My experience of large hotel events really does amount to school dinners, thrown at you by spotty disinterested waiting staff who looked like they could barely tear themselves away from texting. The Radisson though was far from that - we were served by real grown-up waiters and waitresses who affably shared our revelleries (even laughing at some of the jokes during the Secret Santa presentations - which was more than we did!) and they had a quaint insistence on the quality of their service: bless them, they were aghast when, to rectify the usual meal confusion, we passed plates across the table rather than let them carry them around it. Well done The Radisson I recommend you to my blogging friends and readers.

My award for the most overrated Manchester Advent pastime goes to the Gluwein bars inside the Christmas market (more of the markets shortly). I will not labour the point but must thank 70s Teen for a descriptive phrase that really and truly fits the bill. It took 20 minutes to be served a single warming mug of mulled wine and in that time I had more physical contact with strangers than is good for a man of my age. Teen describes her morning commute as 'a rugby scrum with frotting' - a perfect description of the post-office crowd in the wooden shack that rocked in the wind like an Anglesey caravan holiday.

Out in the fresh air of the excellent, in all other respects, European market, a group of colleagues and I perused the varied wares; which gives rise to my final award, for the most subtle and discrete flattery. The award goes to the lovely French lady on the Pashmina stall (at the back of the market towards the left if you are facing the Town Hall - just so you know). Whilst I was buying one of her lovely cashmere and silk Pashminas she mistakenly assumed that my young (half my age) blonde, vivacious, attractive colleague was, you know, with me. I think L was very flattered (ahem).

If you get chance, take a break from the frenetic frotting of shopping and enjoy some of Manchester's Advent attractions: the markets, the big wheel or the ice rink (which, incidentally, doesn't have make the morning walk across Piccadilly chilly round your legs). Manchester's a great place to spend your Christmas preparation.