If you’ve just become a parent, you’ll have realised that patience and caring are your new learning curves.  Mum’s completely knackered after firing out an object that’s ten times the size of the exit, and dad’s a gibbering idiot.  

Up to this point you thought you were a patient person and nothing could faze you, and if it did you could laugh it off.  Now let’s wind the clock forward four months.  After partially giving up her career, mum’s finally secured an eating and sleeping routine for your newborn, and is still a little sore around the edges.  And what was all, cuddles and rumpy-pumpy, has now turned into your partner passing out on the sofa the minute the soaps start.  Don’t worry, this change in your life is a universal cycle for couples and you’re not alone, it just seems like it.

After six months mummy is tearing her hair out, and by nine months she wants to tear yours out.  She’s bored and feels trapped between four walls while you toddled off to work each day and talk to real grown up people.  As a dad you step up to the plate to give mum a rest – even if you don’t know what to do.  You tell her she beautiful, and to call the girls for a night out.  Why?  Well, if mummy doesn’t get any chill time soon or loses anymore sleep she won’t be responsible for her actions!  What could go wrong? 

HA!  Have you ever seen a grown man dealing with the contents a full nappy?  After just six hours dad is close to his first breakdown!  The baby has been screaming its head off for two hours solid, and when you finally got your son of to sleep, a car back-fired and woke him up.  Welcome to the sharp end son.

So dads, if you feel you’ve had a rough ride, spare a thought for a male rookie Emperor Penguin.  He comes home after a hard days graft, hoping for a sit down and a fag, and his partner says, “Look after the egg, I’m off out with the girls!”  What you’re not expecting is – she’ll be gone for almost two months!  There’s no grub in the house and the electric has run out on the meter.  Worst still, it’s now 60 below freezing and the wind has picked up nicely to 124mph! 

You’re not alone.  All of your mates are in the breeding site too, wondering just how long a shopping trip to Iceland takes!  Meanwhile, you all decide a group hug would be the best way to survive the elements. 

The egg hatches but you’ve only got a week’s worth of food in your gut for your chick.  Back she comes, swingin’ ‘er ‘andbag, after you’ve had nil-by-mouth for eight weeks, with a belly full of food for the baby.  “Right,” you say, “I’m off to the café, where is it, I’m Hank Marvin?”  “Seven days that way, just past the new IKEA,” she says.  You think about it for a nano second and reply, “Bollocks to that, I’ll pick up some snacks from the pub!”

I seem to remember a time when if you had an intruder in your home, they had more rights than the owner.  Only in England could this be a fact.  But it’s alright, if you’re a conservative with a shotgun, you can now pop a cap or two in their asses!  Bloody good job I reckon, but how would that work for the everyday labour voter, faced with the same situation?

Well I guess it all depends on where you live and what class of burglar your property attracts.  If you live on a farm say, you’re likely to be facing down the barrel of a 12 bore and if you reside on an estate, it’s likely you’ll be on the rough end of a baseball bat.  But I can’t help think that the conservative law will benefit a conservative voter over a labour support.  Picture the scene…

Burt Cobblers, of 74, Gusset Lane, London is woken up in the small hours by noises in his flat, prior to a lock-in at the ‘Slapper’s Rest.’  He stirs, locates his trusty bat, enters his front-room and batters the intruder to a pulp, then calls old bill.  At this point he thinks justice has been served.  Wrong – Burt is arrested for GBH!  Then, the scum bag that broke into his abode sues for damages! 

Conversely, Simian Pilchard-Crop the III and his wife Jocasta, of Wonga Avenue, Rutland, we’re awoken by the sound of disturbed thoroughbreds, prior to an evening of beater thrashing in readiness for the weekend shoot. 

Grope, the butler loads the 49 grand’s worth of his master’s favourite Purdey & Sons bird maiming equipment and waits at the base of the balustrades.  Simian shoots, Grope cleans up the mess and pushes the alarm that’s linked to the local constabulary.  Simian and Jocasta are promptly arrested then instantaneously released – hoorah!

I suppose you have to try and get into the mindset of a burglar.  Some do it for the shear buzz, others take people’s possessions for a quick cash deal, and some make a career out of thieving.  But, when all said and done, you have to ask yourself, what pillock would break into a house knowing that the occupants were still tucked up in bed?

In one case, a farm was burgled more than once, and the owner shot two of the buggers with a licensed firearm.  A conservative MP stated that this was ‘reasonable force’, which begs the question, what is reasonable force in the   working class world?  You’ve got your man down by spanking his head of the woodwork and he’s now unconscious.  Still unhappy the scoundrel used your front room as a public convenience and helped himself to your last cold sausage, you reverse your jag over him.  Apparently, this is unreasonable force!

You might have heard of Compound Interest but you may not have had the benefit of it, unless you’re loaded.  So you can relax, having £4.62 in your Post Office account isn’t going to make much of a difference to your financial year!

Basically it’s a great way of earning more wedge without actually doing anything, and in its simplest form its interest that’s added to the interest of a huge investment.  Now, on the working class front this issue is reversed, hence  one well worn phrase, born free – taxed to death. 

But, there are those within the working classes who pray on their own for monetary gain, prompted by those in high finance.  So, watch out, there are slugs about.  No, not the ones that make a suicide run up your garden path as soon as it gets damp, I mean the ones that turn up on the doorstep and claim to have an offer you can’t refuse. 

The Provident Financial Group (PFG) has the most amount of slugs working for them, and their sole aim is to visit people in cash-strapped areas and relieve them of money they haven’t got, on a regular basis.  Correction: not people – targets – something to aim or shoot at, an object that’s to be kept in focus at all times.  Now, PFG say they avoid targeting vulnerable people who can’t make an informed choice by themselves – hold on my bullshit alarm’s just gone off.

Rochdale is just one such cash-strapped area, and it’s there that the licensed bandits in the high street and the ‘door knockers’ make a rip roaring trade from the misery caused by the current economic climate.  Hence my phrase – Vulnerable Interest, the very arse end of Compound Interest.  But at least the high street leeches make some checks to see if you can make the repayments.  The ‘door knockers’ approach is some what lacking in that department. 

Case 1: a couple borrowed 500 quid 17 years ago and now they still owe £2,000!

Case 2: Norma’s house has a smell all of its own.  There was rubbish all over the house and she clearly wasn’t well.  But the collector from Provident gleefully took her weekly payment of £42.46, which no doubt came straight out of her benefits.  And still the rep returned to ask if Norma wanted another loan!

Case 3: a pensioner, owing over four grand, was asked if he wanted another loan and in the space of one breath he said, no then, yes.  And what’s the single most vital phrase past on to the ‘door knockers’ when training them up? “You don’t ever want them to pay up a debt, because they won’t borrow anymore money and you’ll lose out on your commission.”  Nice people…

It’s true to say that everyone has a book in them, but it’s not until you’ve finished your first master piece that the hard graft really starts.  So with this in mind, let me take on a brief and frustrating trip through the wonderful world of publishing… 

You’ll need three things initially: the patience of a Saint who went to St Patience University for applied patience, the skin of a rhino, a small forest’s worth of paper, plus 30 gallons of black ink.  A small loan for postage and A4 envelopes would be advisable.  The game is to get your book published before you die.  You’ll also need 14 quid for the latest copy of the Writers’ & Artists’ Year Book. 

This book is the Bible for the aspiring writer and it’s filled with every publisher, agent and their cleaners in the known world.  It’s more confusing than useful, but you need a copy so you know how to approach the people concerned.

At the very basic end, you’ll be asked to supply: an introductory letter, a brief synopsis and the first three chapters of your book or the first 10,000 words, which ever is the greater.  Then by the means of magic alone, you’re supposed to know: how long the letter should be, what to put in it, how brief should a brief synopsis be, and will the type face Britannic Bold, be acceptable?  It won’t.

What happens?  You spend a week putting your submission together.  In fact you’ll have spent so much time checking and re checking your work and the needs of this faceless God you become word blind.  You post it off with hope in your heart and you wait. 

A week goes by and so does the next.  And it carries on like this until, quite by chance you peruse the Bible and spot the word, line spacing.  Oh bum, you exclaim, when you find you should have put a space between every single line of type.  Actually what you shout out is, oh bollocks, when you realise your first submission will have hit the bin shortly after it arrived.  

The rejection letter arrives and things begin to get a tad more arty-farty.  In the next rejection letter you find that, ‘although your work is of value, we at Sole & Confidence Crushers only sign two new writers a year.’  More expletives ensue.

You see another publisher to approach and the submission process begins again before fully reading them.  After two days you read – please supply a 10,000 word synopsis.  Bastards, was the word I used the most.  Then you read a critics view of what goes on in a publisher’s office.  They get so many submissions it’s possible that if your introductory letter isn’t punctuated properly, they won’t even bother to read your manuscript.  The title of this piece is purely for encouragement purposes only!  Lottery ticket anyone?

Well, it doesn’t happen every day, so I thought I’d make the most of it and share this with lot.  You lot, being one of 500 hits I get per month.  I can’t thank you enough for passing through and for coming back for more.  One day I hope to be in a position to give you each a free copy of my second book.  I say hope, because securing a publishing deal is rather trying to prove you can actually walk on water.   

What am I celebrating?  The editor of a  mental health website called CALM has very kindly written an article about me after she saw a piece I wrote on the benefits of humour during a recovery.  I don’t like to blow my own basson, but what the hell, once won’t hurt… 

/http://www.thecalmzone.net/2012/09/a-backhanded-blessing 

I hope all’s well with you and your health, best wishes, Neil

It used to be an everyday task.  I had a repeat prescription and I’d sally forth to the Chemist with it, hand it over and 48 hrs later I’d pick up my medication.  So what went wrong?  Tech-bloody-knowledgy, that’s what – a new system. 

It’s not until you get a little older, you realise something that’s ‘new’ isn’t necessarily all it’s cracked up to be.  Some prepubescent computer geek comes up with an idea and they swear blind it’s fail-safe.  Four months down the line, when they’ve been paid for their botch and are no longer contactable, the whole system crashes.  Have you tried calling your surgery recently?

Oh it’s fine if you don’t mind listening to a recording and a list of options if you can afford the charge for waiting to get through to a human, only to be told there’s nobody available to help you.  Here’s my last attempt at trying to contact my surgery.  (Sound FX: Ring-ring, ring-ring, the surgery manger speaks.)

 “If you are having a heart attack please call 999.”  (How would you do that?) Next, a loud shrill female voice said, “Please hold the line we’re trying to connect you.”  Liar – they were sitting there with their feet up perusing Cosmo.  (One minute later)  A new voice said, “You are the first caller in the queue.”  Four minutes later she was still saying the same thing.  I’m British and of course I don’t like to cause a fuss, even if my liver has just exploded, but even I have a breaking point.  Minute five turned out to be less productive. 

Another voice said, “There’s no one available to take your call so please call back later,” and the phone went dead.  Bastards; had over by a tape recorder.  I’ve since discovered the quickest way contact my surgery is to hold a séance! 

When I finally spoke to a human lady, I explained that a full week had past and I still didn’t have the drugs that prevent me from having a PSYCHOTIC EPISODE!  “I’ll have a look on the screen,” she said, followed by, “No, it’s definitely with the chemist we issued it last week.” Great, now both sides were blaming each other.

“The new prescription system transfers them electronically from the surgery to the chemist now,” she informed me.  “Does it, does it really,” I said through gritted teeth.  Now in full irate flow I said  angrily, “Look love, this is the fourth time I’ve completely run out of vital medication.  I’ve used up my reserve supply and, bloody and, the small stash I’d given to my neighbour!  I don’t care if it is a new system a brewer’s dray could do it quicker.” 

Picked up my drugs the very next day!!!

Doubt and uncertainty, that’s all you need too pull off a multi billion scam, and that’s what we have with the, The Great Global Warming Swindle  it seems…

On one side of the planet the US has stated that global warming isn’t such a big problem as was first thought.  But here in the UK, the reverse has been reported.  So in the whole scheme of things, bearing in mind the lower order of the world over will be the last to be informed of the full implications, does it really matter?

Well only if you take into consideration how much money is being thrown at  this particular project.  But fear not, those in charge came to me to see if I could come up with solution to this situation, and I’m glad to say, after a NHS mental health outreach window-licking holiday in Provence, I have an answer for you.

But, before I reveal my stunning theory, let’s take a look at some of the facts.  Things kicked off during 1974 in Britain.  In 1976 we had the hottest summer on record, since records began, and that’s just one key area of doubt and uncertainty.  No one knows what the climate was like in Britain before 1860.

Now, it seems, if you say or write the words Co2 or carbon emissions, you’ll have so much funding thrown at you, you and your whole research team can retire.  Moreover, the climate change debate has become so vast; it’s more like a religion.  And of course this has led to mass employment for scientists.  So if it all goes fun-bags uppermost and some bright spark disproves the facts as they stand, he/she may find their life comes to an abrupt end thanks to a hit man paid for by the eggheads in white coats.   

The world’s climate has always changed, no matter what we throw at it, it’s got its own agenda and there’s nothing man/female can do about it.  We had the Little Ice Age.  The Thames froze over 200 years ago and no eyelids were  batted.  And between 1712 and 1830 the first industrial revolution occurred.  How many billions of tons of carbon and crap were thrown into the atmosphere then?  What occurred weather-wise?  The official report of the day says – knob-all.

It’s just one big money-making scam that’s been driven by fear and got so out of hand, a retraction from the facts to date, will result in a host of eminent scientists topping themselves, rather than face the music.  My theory is much simpler.   The ice cap isn’t shrinking, but the planet has warmed up.  And what happens when you heat something up?  That’s right, it expands.  So, what’s actually happened is, the globe has swollen, making it look like as if the Arctic has shrunk.  Piece of cake…

Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life, actually I have, but that’s not the point.  We’ve had the able bodied Olympics and now it’s the turn of the Para Olympians, and a good thing too.  But hang on – what about a mental games?   

I can only assume it’s an extended branch of the stigmatization that affects us all, rather like not being allowed to attend jury service.  Well I soon put a stop to that, oh yes matey-boy!  The events may not strictly follow the games rules but, if you can consider air rifle shooting a sport, it’s about time the mentals had a go.

My version of the games would far cheaper for a start.  I mean, you wouldn’t need a drug testing unit, after all everyone will be on something!  The only person you might have to hire is a psychiatrist to make sure the athletes have the correct side-effects for the drugs they take.  Finishing times will be affected badly, but if you’re suffering from nausea, stomach cramps, excess sweating, tiredness and have a “vague feeling of being unwell”, what do you expect!

So what events can you expect to see?  Well, for the depressive teams, even through they’ll believe they won’t be able to get over them; I would enter them in the 100m hurdles.  They will be lower than the usual games hurdles but all the competitors will have to do is get over the first one to win the coveted gold straightjacket, designed by Vivian Westwood.

For the safety of the crowd, the psychopaths won’t be allowed anywhere near the javelins.  They will be kept in reserve for any up and coming suicide bids.  This will be a floating event as most don’t want to top themselves, so the time frame is hard to predict.  There will be a ‘talking the patient down from the roof’ event.  And for insurance reasons, the hammer throwing event will now not take place.    

On day four of the Mental Health Games (MHG) a new event will be added called, Spot the Side-effects.  Glaxo Smithkline were asked to judge this event  but declined saying, ‘None of our antipsychotic drugs have any side-effects attached to them,’ at which point our MHG representative burst out laughing. 

The men and women’s Free Style Ward Escaping Relay proved to be such a success in trials, that it will now take centre stage during the last day of the games.  And, as it’s a key part of mental health treatment, this years games will see two more ground breaking events introduced called.  The first is ‘Spot the diagnosis in under a year’ and the second is, ‘prescribing the correct meds in less than three years.’ 

MHG update: people with dual personalities will now be able to enter the three legged race by themselves…