The legacy of Walsall's Workhouse.

Walsall Manor Hospital now stands on the site.

Most of us living in and around the Walsall area, have at some time been either an inpatient, an outpatient, a staff member, a visitor or simply one of the many who repeatedly circle the car park at Walsall's Manor Hospital, with their face an ever increasing shade of red and plumes of comical smoke exuding from their ears. Inside their vehicle, air tinged blue by the choice language spontaneously voiced during this search for a space to "Pay-and-display" for the purpose of enjoying an entertaining family outing at the hospital (because only a luxurious treat warrants that kind of suffering). Having availed themselves of a ticket upon entering the labyrinth (designed by Escher himself), exists a nagging reminder in the back of said driver's mind of a meter spinning so rapidly that only a London cabbie could fail to be alarmed. Adding another £1 with every circuit, passing by the same vehicles that seem more like they've been abandoned there, exiting this waking nightmare quickly becomes infuriatingly impossible due to the expense as well as the shameful admission of defeat in such a seemingly simple task. Formerly fit and healthy individuals are sure to be on the verge of a coronary event by the time they finally reach the foyer.

  Others, arriving by public transport, in a "ring-a-ride" vehicle, a transport ambulance, on foot or in an emergency vehicle; few have any thoughts other than negotiating the vague directions and procedures described in the documents clutched tightly within a sweaty grip, achieving their objective and leaving as quickly as possible. 

  How many of us spare a thought about the past purposes of the people treading that same path as us in this place? For as long as we've known it, this has been a place devoted to healing, but in fact, this particular incarnation has only existed for the past 100 years. 

  The Manor itself (by which name it's commonly known) expanded and changed substantially during that period, incorporating a greater number and variety of medical disciplines; treating patients that previously attended smaller outlying "cottage hospitals".   Designated as "inefficient" these once essential institutions have one by one, since closed their doors as a single centralised location became (we're told) the most cost effective alternative. Costly maintenance of crumbling maternity hospitals, psychiatric units, specialist opthalmic infirmaries, paediatric hospitals, dental teaching facilities, sanitariums and institutes for rehabilitation; frequently extravagant and grandiose structures set amid vast grounds, many of which were donated to the public by wealthy philanthropists specifically for this purpose (public usage), but somehow proved to be far more valuable when sold to developers, eagerly seeking space to erect exclusive residential properties. 

  On a sunny day, staff, patients and visitors can be seen sitting on every available piece of grass, enjoying an infrequent lustrous spell together, or simply enjoying a peaceful lunch break free from the busy medical environment.

Still keeping a vigil after 125 years.

  Opposite the main entrance, stands a small garden area that but for the oversized LGBT flag, would go unnoticed. Here shady bowers, shrubs, seasonal flora and a couple of seats provide a space for those who's needs had tested the limitations of this resource's capacity for healing. Perhaps a shock, an unexpected prognosis, a member of staff that had seen too much sorrow for one day or even a partner preparing to make that unexpected journey home alone; a peaceful space set aside from the hustle and bustle of the world where the unfortunate that wandered pensively in can stop the spinning Chaos for a few moments. Perhaps shed silent, private tears, find temporary composure and solitude in a place that never sleeps. Given their situation, it's unlikely that even they noticed the wall against which this space stands and the building of which it's an integral part

  This structure that increasingly appears out of place amid its modern surroundings has stood watch over the changing landscape in the vicinity for more than 125 years. The three storey Grade II listed property is often wrongly described as "A deserted former workhouse and office block".  Whilst it was originally the offices of the Board of Guardians of Walsall Poor Law Union, the expansive workhouse that was erected on the site, took the place of outlying workhouses including those at Bloxwich and Darlaston in 1838. Construction was overseen by The Walsall Poor Law Union elected board of 19 guardians representing 8 constituent parishes. The 1931 census establishes that 24,931 persons resided in the region incorporated by the union. Much like today's harsh cost cutting decisions, the £7,300 spent on the new workhouse at the junction of Moat Road and Pleck Road would accommodate 350 inmates with the former sites being made available for sale or repurposing.

1913 plan of the Walsall workhouse 

   The First Victorian workhouse in the Walsall area was opened in 1727, housing 130 inmates. Extended in 1799, records show one "Henry Lucas" as it's governor, standing on Hill street.

  Bloxwich had a workhouse on Elmore green (Formerly Chapel green). In 1776, it's recorded as housing and was located on what is now a shopper's car park on Elmore row. Closing in 1838, houses numbers 14 - 18 replaced it, with no. 19 being the former home of the workhouse master, later becoming a shop called "Fanny Beech's", demolished in 1937.

  A parish workhouse was built in Darlaston in 1813, near the corner of St. George's street and The Green.

  The Walsall poor law union was formally established on 10th December 1836. The 19 "Guardians" elected to oversee its operation, represented the 8 constituent parishes: Aldridge, Great Barr, Bentley, Pelsall, Rushall, Walsall and Walsall (Foreign). The 1831 census indicates a falling population of 24,931 and an annual average poor rate expenditure for the two years between 1834 - 1836 having been £5,297, or 4s 3d. per head of the population. The erection of the new workhouse, designed by W. Watson, at the junction of Pleck road and Moat road, costing £7,300 with the capacity to contain 350 inmates was one of numerous cost cutting exercises to which we have sadly become accustomed. The new "poor laws" also 

fulfilled a problematic labour shortage in the aftermath of The Black Death, by preventing persons without means from travelling to find work.   Where monasteries (formerly a major source of alms) were dissolved under royal decree, these facilities were a perfect breeding ground for measles and smallpox, with staggering mortality rates. A government survey in 1800 recorded some 90,000 (official) places in England's workhouses. When enacting the Poor Laws, some parishes forced horrendous family situations, for example whereby a husband would sell his wife in order to avoid them becoming a burden, which would then prove costly to local authorities. The laws brought in throughout the 18th century would only help to entrench the accepted system of the workhouse further into society.

A factory style production line focused on profitability.

    The 1834 poor law amendment act (commonly referred to as The New Poor Law), aimed to address the widely held consensus at this time. The system of relief, was believed to have being abused by mere "idlers" and thus, a new approach was required to reduce the excessive cost from cosseting perceived "idlers" - sounds familiar, doesn't it?

  Whilst most inmates were unskilled they could and were frequently used for hard manual tasks, such as breaking rocks and crushing bone to make fertiliser, as well as picking oakum using a large nail called a spike. There was no payed employment for inmates and often, the only way out was in a greying shroud, feet first.

   The 1834 Law therefore formally established the Victorian workhouse system which has become so synonymous with the era. This contributed to the splitting up of families, with people forced to sell what little belongings they had and hoping they could see themselves through this rigorous system. Now under the new system of Poor Law Unions, the workhouses were run by “Guardians”. Usually local businessmen who, Dickens described as merciless administrators, seeking only profit and delighting in the destitution of others. 

  It's said that some existed in the North, where “guardians” reportedly adopted a more charitable approach to their guardianship – the inmates of the many workhouses across the country continued to be at the mercy of the variable characters of their “guardians”. Conditions were invariably deplorable marked by cruel treatment. Families were divided, forcing the separation of children from their parents. With the abundance of highly contagious diseases and rampant malnutrition, childhood mortality was a solemn and everyday event.

  Upon entering a workhouse, a single uniform was issued, to be worn for the entirety of their stay. Conversation between inmates was forbidden, whilst long hours of manual labour such as cleaning, cooking and using machinery were routinely expected.

   The demographic of inmates had changed dramatically, with a large number of elderly and infirm having very different needs,  just as social attitudes to the treatment of the poor and vulnerable altered, with increasing objections to the prior climate of cruelty. 

  By 1929, legislation allowing local authorities to adapt workhouses for use as hospitals. 1930 saw a formal dismantling of the workhouse system, but due to the sheer volume of people trapped in the system with no alternative options available to them since many had known no other life and were entirely without means, it would be several more years before these horrific, inhumane institutions closed and locked their gates for good. 

   Many of the former workhouse structures remain to this day, used by the hospital for various purposes. 

  Following the detestation of world war two (the conflict incurring the greatest loss of life to date), the establishment of the National Health Service and the Welfare State (both institutions that depend on social solidarity to succeed), an extensive litany of legislative, moral and practical changes occured. Not a single individual was unaffected by the horrific events. The awesome scale of need for all kinds of assistance among the British population necessitated measures unlike anything previously provided. 

  For those who witnessed this tragic impact, every penny was well spent in the hope that such extreme provisions should never be required again. Few of those people remain today, but the relics stand as a reminder that nothing is as valuable as the lives of those we love.

  With the introduction of the 1948 National Assistance Act the last remnants of the Poor Laws were eradicated and with them, the sinister policies of the workhouse institution. Buildings may have been changed, repurposed or levelled, the cultural legacy of the cruel conditions and social savagery remains an important part of understanding British history.

In 1945,a landslide electoral victory for the Labour (socialist) party brought about a nationalised healthcare system and a welfare state ,intended to be owned by and for the use of the people of Britain.

  The reason that the NHS and social care services were so successful at this time was because of a single factor. From the number of people suffering trauma and pain, the country developed a sense of solidarity. Everybody recognised this need if Britain was to recover. It meant caring about people other than just you and yours. The central Walsall area, like much of the build up British towns, suffer with severe subsidence problems. Due to numerous shelters and passageways that were essential for the townspeople during the war. 

As time passed and years became decades, some such spaces were flooded, others repurposed, but many were simply sealed-up and forgotten about.

   Two years ago, the rather precarious grade II listed landmark that is a remarkable illustration of how wealth inequality, with all its glaring contradictions can go unnoticed by so many. We should all appreciate the grotesque disparity that so vividly illustrated the despicable way that human beings can treat other human beings and how wealth is by no means any measure of virtue.

   In a pitiful state of disrepair, this historical monument was sold at auction in 2023 for a bargain basement price of £236,000. Whilst the renovation will undoubtedly be costly, unlike many such local properties (in an area notable for the profusion of mine shafts with an abundance of subsidence), it's seated upon solid ground, retaining some truly immaculate original features. Until 15 years ago, parts of the structure were used as office space by hospital administrators. 

  This provides us with a unique opportunity to see the opulence that would have been the last thing of note seen by the deprived and destitute, before all colour and hope drained from their world. When viewing these images, we should each delve deep within ourselves and dredge up any remnants of humanity before such a disgraceful disregard for our fellow man recurs. 

   Peeling paintwork and water damage hasn't affected the exquisite tile work lining these hallways. Bare footed and hungry as they tread into this obscure example of finery belonging to a world of which they are not a part. Bereft of all worldly possessions and fully aware that their child may well be lost to them forever, or separated for so long that their own blood will be just another hard faced stranger. The workhouse existence is a monotone environment exclusively consisting of a grey colour palette. Grey food, clothes, skin, air; the only exception being the bloody evidence of TB, typhus or consumption-coughed up in thick globules and an intermittent spray across a wall and ceiling when complacency resulted in an amputated digit or limb.

  By contrast vibrant colours and stylish design of such a value that this meek newcomer could only dare to dream of. Such cruel taunts would bear no significance to the guardians, entirely unrecognised as the taunting reminder this reluctant applicant could never know of.

  In an era when the theft of a loaf of bread could be punished by the  public hanging of the culprit and although by now less common, the reality of punitive transportation remained a strong deterrent for potential law breakers. Survivors of the arduous, months long journey traversing tempestuous waters, all crammed into the rat infested belly of a ship, then faced a period of time the duration of which, was decided during a legal court hearing (unable to pay for legal representation, their chances of a truly just outcome were non existent) enslaved into indentured servitude. This strange land where everything was seemingly intent on the taking of life. Dominated by vast expanses of unforgiving terrain, filled with wildlife perpetually hungry for flesh, both on land, in water and in the torrid, sweltering, airless atmosphere; Insects, arachnids, serpents and their fearsome "man eating" much larger cousins lurking unseen where appears only an innocuous puddle of mud. 

  Coming from a land where only other humans, hunger and cold endangered one's existence, new arrival's gullibility presented an irresistible source of amusement to their new overlords. By convincing their infantile minds that black was white, night was day and up was down - reality here was effortlessly manipulated for mere amusement. Under such circumstances, physical and sexual abuse was abundant. With no way to measure the passing of time, sentences lacked any clear end date. Sufferance in the new world lacked limitations of duration and of severity.

The Walsall workhouse.

   A concept like social security would be an unthinkable and irrational fantasy. Only a single "safety net" existed by way of the newly created "poor laws" (of which Walsall's workhouse was one example) - funded by nominal governmental funding, donations from businesses and church congregations offerings in the"poor box". Unfortunates with no alternative but to accept a future of interment and hopelessness within an institution, that in return for sustenance -for that is the only way to describe the Dickensian dietary regime consisting of gruel, stale bread and rotting produce served to inmates - a harsh living environment, often pointless gruelling labour under frequently treacherous conditions, without the slightest respite for men and women of all ages and even very young children was expected. A workhouse was in every sense a punishment for the crime of poverty that also served to conceal undesirables from their superiors, behind high, brick walls.

  The number of inmates  consistently exceeded the stated occupancy, leaving the young and the weak sleeping huddled in stairwells, doorways or adopting a single stone step as a meagre element of long term security. 

  The workday started long before sunrise, continuing until well into the night-time hours. Submission and obedience earned a rewarding  hour long Sunday service, during which sermons reinforcing the concept of sufferance and hardship delivering the penitent of the stain sin had brandished upon them. Traipsing back to their workstations- ill fitting wooden clogs against the uneven cobble stones, echoing around the courtyard enclosed within tall block walls heralded the beginning of another long and arduous working week. 

   Having made that fateful and foreboding option, to accept their lot in life as one ever bereft of the smallest luxury or privelidge. This would be made abundantly clear as a "Guardian" upon whom their future depended would, adorned in flamboyant silks of such finery, few would ever know, now picked apart  the character, mocking illiteracy and ignoring an ever growing volume of gastric reminders that food was unfamiliar within the workhouse life.

   The extravagant luxury in which the Victorian guardians would have been clad as they judged their new charge without pity. Once accepted into this space, designed for punitively tormenting the "have-nots". Each of the poverty stricken was issued with a single outfit that would be worn during the entire remainder of their days labouring there. Males and females existed entirely separately - reminiscent of Eugenics, such segregation ensured only the worthiest genes would succeed. 

   Here, they are pictured in their earliest days, before they had tie to be patched, extended, lengthened, waistlines and chests let-out. A monogram might indicare the "name" and "position" or "duties".

   An inspection by The Lancet in 1867, finding the facility to be in superficially good order, also pointed out a number of serious defects. Extracts from the report follow....

SNOB©️🎼 Copyright

🖕🏽 Copyright 🖕🏽

    Whilst some artists consider it to be an honour for other artists to choose their material for a cover version, remix or some other kind of tribute, there are those who will fiercely protest at every opportunity, issuing copyright notices if a few chords sound even the slightest bit similar.

  Others, adopt a view that the "owner" of said sounds is that person who can best make use of it for the purpose it is intended, i.e: for the audience's entertainment and auditory pleasure. After all, there are sufficient listeners, so that a dozen artists may perform without stealing any significant amount of revenue from the others. What matters is that as many listeners benefit from by hearing it - more likely if an artist whose work reaches to whence from they can access their preferred music.

  When the popularity of EDM (Electronic Dance Music) erupted in the latter part of the 1980s within the underground rave scene offered some respite for disillusioned, despondent young Brits. Left without hope for a future in a climate epitomised by hate, violence and all consuming avarice, such that capitalism (by it's nature) demands. 

  Unlike popular commercial music produced for maximum appeal, the arrangement and production of EDM lay in the hands of the DJ. By mixing and scratching samples, selected from pre-recorded records, film, TV and pop culture references (some described as "butchering them), they delivered a metaphorical British to fingered salute to the "ownership" of sound. In the spirit of rave - P.L.U.R. (peace, love, unity, respect) - EDM's success rapidly ballooned beyond the members of generation X that had refused to sink beneath the same mire, into which their aspirations & dreams had been consumed. 

  Through huge speakers, corresponding with the dancefloor (filled to capacity with a united congregation) and strobe lighting - hands aloft - young, old, black, white, boys, girls, rich, poor - for that brief time, no animosity, judgement or threat could interject itself. 

   The K.L.F. (The JAMS- Justified and Ancients of Mumu) a.k.a. "The Timelords", who had a #1 single in 1988 with Doctorin' the Tardis - a  mash-up of Blockbuster by The Sweet, Rock and Roll by Gary Glitter and the theme tune from Doctor Who - were strong proponents of the "fair use" loophole. They followed up the #1 single with a #1 best selling book entitled "How to write a #1 hit single". That fine line between genius and madness you've surely heard of - that applies right here.

  They drove to Sweden in their old American police car, intent upon confronting members of the Eurovision winning group ABBA when they refused to permit the aforementioned "fair use". Unable to locate them, Caulty and Drummond spent the ferry trip home tossing records overboard like frisbees. Undoubtedly, they went ahead and rinsed that ABBA track until it dissolved anyway. 🙂

   Together, they created, performed, recorded, cut, promoted and distributed all the works on their own record label, including duets with global stars Tammy Wynette, Whitney Houston, 2 unlimited, The pet shop boys, The moody blues,  Extreme Noise Terror, The Red Army Choir and Acid Bass. 

  Using the name Kopyright Liberation Front they released a studio recording of the Rites of Mu track (1997). They later gained notoriety with a series of exploits, intended to convey a statement that was generally lost in translation, or just didn't quite live up to their carefully crafted plans. Sacrificing a sheep, emptying a machine gun into the audience, staging an elaborate party on the island of Jura in the Scottish Hebrides, where guests including journalists and friends were greeted by the pair, clad in official uniforms waiting to inspect luggage and rubber stamp passports before issuing robes for The Rites of Mu.

   Being the best selling artists in the UK (1991) , the duo had used income to cover taxes and production costs, then decided to call it a day. Ever popular, money continued flowing in, leaving them with little but a plan for a swift exit, slamming the door behind them and shoving the key through the letterbox, so there could be no return - but what was to be done with the money?  October 1993 revealed; "Nailed to the wall", the first artwork by The K Foundation. Entitled "Money: A Major Body of Cash"; £1 million nailed to a pine frame, it was revealed to the press with the foundation's announcing the winner of their "Worst artist of the year" award. During the ensuing year they negotiated with galleries that inevitably backed away, seemingly nervous about the personalities involved. When an idea to take an uninsurable £1 million to Russia and America fell by the wayside, there only seemed to be a single foolproof answer.  

  6 weeks later, Caughty & Drummond, with  freelance journalist Jim Reid as a witness squashed into a small aircraft (made smaller by the sacks full of £50 notes) and made the trip back to Jura. In the fireplace or an abandoned boat house there, for more than an hour the pair fed £50 notes into the flames. Incineration has a cathartic effect on the mind.

  Once again, they faced a barrage of insults, accusations, slurs and condemnation for doing something in private, with their own pieces of paper that they had earned almost single handedly. Surely those people had only one concern and that was their own greed. Money does not bring the happiness that is essential on this life. In fact, such large sums are definitely a hindrance to obtaining the genuine heartfelt human interactions that are vital for the maintenance of physical, mental and emotional wellbeing. Nobody tells you what you can and can't do with your income, so...                                      ---

   Leaving a dead sheep on the doorstep of the BBC outside the filming of "The Brit Awards", The Kopyright Liberation Front had left the building. On 3rd November 1995, signing a contract on the side of a Nissan Bluebird; which had then been pushed over the cliffs at Cape Wrath in northern Scotland - agreeing to wind up the K Foundation and not to speak about the money burning of the million quid for a period of 23 years... and that was that. 

   2 guys who had wanted nothing but to bring some joy to their audience had been bullied and driven to the very edge by idiots like Julian Cope who thinks that money was his. strange because in my extensive collection, I have no recollection of seeing his talentless arse even once, peeking out of a roadie's van. The real artists with notable substance to contribute, had done so happily and without yelling at a vulnerable person. If you know any truly outstanding musicians..or perhaps you've attempted to write a book... You'll know how damned hard it is and how unhelpful behaviour like that is going to do a lot of harm. 

   When I went to check on that collection, i discovered that much of it had gone. K2 plant hire had quietly withdrawn their entire back catalogue.. for what? 

                    Kopyright

         You joyless, bitter twazzocks!!

  On 23rd August 2017, rested and driving a pink ice-cream van whilst handing out books, as a delighted crowd welcomed them back.

The worthiness of all things in this world cannot necessarily be measured measured according to the mercenary sell-out scale.

  The white room album is listed in the "100 albums that you need to hear before you die" list. 

Snob

Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip

Track 10 onThe Logic Of Chance album.

Producer

Dan Le Sac

Mar. 15, 2010

1 viewer

Little Sammy was a kid on a council estate
His dad listened to the skids, the slits and the slates
So Sammy listened too, he loved the passion in it
He loved the feeling in his spine with every snare hit
One day his dad bought the Sunday rag
Came with a CD of Mozart and a TV mag
The TV was broke so he put the CD on and listened
And his eyes lit up and his smile, it glistened
He had never known that music could have so many layers
Different emotions placed upon different parts and players
Each week he waited for the next free CD
To put on his headphones and get lost completely
So he saved all his money, one goal in mind
To go down to a performance and see this live
It took eight long months to raise these funds
But the excitement was immense when that day did come
With his pockets full of coins he got the bus to the city
He watched the view become less shitty and gritty
Even though he was alone in this big dark place
Nothing could remove the smile from his face
When he arrived, everyone was in suits
Sammy stood there in tatty jeans and boots
He slammed his coins on the counter "one ticket please"
But the guy turned up his nose like he was gonna sneeze
He looked away and served the next couple suited and booted
But Sammy stood his ground and asked again less muted
They laughed and someone sneered "Get out of here pikey
Appreciation on your level seems less than likely"
Tears built up in little Sammy's eyes
It seemed his place in society he could not hide
His head dropped for a minute but then his head was held
He looked them in the eyes as he screamed and yelled
He said...
Stop being a snob with ya music
It's made to be heard man, anyone can use it
Ya get so damn precious sometimes
It's just rhythms and rhymes and melodies in time
There was this other kid, she lived on the outskirts of Leicester
Her friends called her Frankie, her parents Francesca
I gotta admit she was kind of ignorant
But the kind you expect of wealth and affluence
No offence! She just lived in a different world
With different priorities, a real status girl
Her musical taste were an NME playlist
And anything recommended by the rich and famous
Now one day she was buying tunes online
She'd just got into Beck five years out of time
When she went to download Midnight Vultures
She got confused and grabbed Midnight Marauders
The only hip hop she knew was when that boy Kanye
Got featured in her mag doing a track with Coldplay
But as she reached to turn it off Q-Tip started to speak
And in that split second somehow he connected deep
She sat up, 'til god knows what time
Hunting for more beats, breaks and rhymes
She could barely believe that music so far from her role
Could resonate and connect to the root of her soul
She woke late the next day and hit the record store
She'd found a lot of dope tracks but she wanted more
She walked in and went straight to the guy at the desk
She said, "I'm loving De La Soul and a Tribe Called Quest
I've heard good things about Rakim and KRS
So I'm looking for advice on what's the best of the best"
The guys looked at each other, raised an eyebrow and smiled
And they looked back at her like a little lost child
Then they laughed "little posh girl getting her ghetto on?
Go back to daddy little girl this ain't where you belong"
She felt demoralized and stupid and all alone
And then she screamed in their faces with a visceral tone
She said...
Stop being a snob with ya music
It's made to be heard man, anyone can use it
Ya get so damn precious sometimes
It's just rhythms and rhymes and melodies in time

Producer

Dan Le Sac

Mar. 15, 2010

1 viewer

Listen to Snob:

Links for you:

The lost sounds of Mu (Acid house, Techno, ambient 1996)

The KLF -Chill out

The KLF- The White Room

The KLF - Live from Mu

The KLF burn a £million - BBC Omnibus

The KLF feat. Children of The Revolution

The KLF - Space [ambient]

The Timelords (KLF) - Doctorin' the Tardis 12"

The KLF- Madrugada Essential (extended mix)

The KLF -The stadium house trilogy

💊Tramadol💩

 Saturday 10th August.

💩Tramadol💩

            💩TRAMADOL 💩

  My friend had just got home from the hospital after getting her broken leg "seen to", so I take the dog and embark on the 20 minute walk to her place. 
  Doggy squats and does what dogs do best -we'd all be pooping in public if we could get away with it. Being the responsible citizen and dog owner that I am, out comes the poo bag. Tying off the warm, squidgy laden bag, I can breathe easy once more. Then as I approach one of the few remaining public bins in the country, what's this I spy right on top, just about where I would ordinarily aim the bag of turds??
  It's a pharmacy bag that's very obviously full. Never one to let an opportunity pass me by, I swap my bag for the crisp white paper bag with the instantly recognisable green cross. My heart's a-racing as I instinctively check all  around me before surreptitiously opening it up and stealing a quick glance inside (just to check it's not full of razor blades, more poop or maybe all my aspirations, broken dreams and personal failings (I know they're somewhere waiting for the optimum moment to slap me in the face at a time of unparalleled inconvenience).
  I am disappoint!! 😕 It's bloody Tramadol!!

  🩲Pants!!

🫧💆‍♂️Now relax💆‍♀️🫧

 Saturday 11th August 2024.

    And so Relax...

Issues like politics and religion are always inflammatory. No two people will ever agree completely as they shouldn't - we each a "one-off", having a life that is unique to us alone - full of experiences, relationships, circumstances and situations that are unlike anyone else's. Together, they create a climate within which we form our individual character; our opinions, ideas and values. All those things shape who we become.
Repeatedly bringing up themes that consistently cause friction is sometimes called "flaming". Recently, we've seen a lot of flamers around here setting fires then occasionally chucking on a jug of petrol to ramp up the temperature. Typically for these fire starters, it's nothing more than their preferred brand of entertainment. 

Whilst there's nothing wrong with having strong opinions and standing up for what we believe to be right, stress seriously affects our physical and mental wellbeing. 

That iconic cartoon image we all know and love- the raging feller, his fists clenched tightly at the end of arms rigidly defiant at either side of the body, face turning a frightening shade of purple with eyes bulging - extreme blood pressure forcing steam to surge from his ears and nostrils isn't so far from the truth afterall. Elevated blood pressure levels are the most reliable indicator of an impending cardiac event.

Driving whilst angry is understood to be equally as dangerous as driving under the influence. Both rage and drunkenness

Take some deep breaths, count slowly to 10 - starve the fire of fuel and it will eventually burn itself out. Look after yourself and look out for one another💟

Mr Angry with Steve Wright - I'm So Angry

A curious one this based on a popular feature on Steve Wright's Radio One show in the 1980's. This song reached number 90 for two weeks in the UK in 1985.

🔗https://youtu.be/fx4H1oACnyk?si=XRDj7Hokx5g1HLRB

Try this little tool....

🫧💆‍♂️Now relax💆‍♀️🫧

✌️

Cc

🫂HOPE🌅

🫂

Left wing/right wing/centrist/Communist - ✝️/☪️/🪯/☸️/⚛️/Wiccan/Agnostic/Modern Pagan - Hetero/ gay/lesbian/bisexual/poly/Asexual/celibate - ♂️/♀️/⚧️/Non-binary/demi/3rd gender/genderless - Black/white/mixed/minority/non-committal - old/young/ancient/eternal...

   💫

We are all human beings and providing what we do causes no harm to the others we share this planet with, is consensual and does not infringe upon their rights..

  🌅

How about we live and let live? Maybe focus on our own faults instead of scrutinising those existent in this world about us?

Only one thing matters in this life - that we each get to experience a little of the happiness we deserve. 

Our time here is short - our presence so fragile and transient - we all need to take a moment to tell the people who matter that we love them and once each day to find one thing (however small) that will raise a smile.

If something doesn't please us, perhaps this once we turn and look for something else that does.

  🌠

You are unique - you are special - somebody DOES care about you - it actually IS darkest just before the dawn -everything WILL be OK. 🙂

🍊 Imagine you're an orange 🍊

🟩 Friday 10th May 2024

Imagine you're an orange 

(Coping with rejection)

🍊 Imagine you're an orange. A perfectly good, ripe, juicy, sweet orange - even an easy peeler. 🍊

🍊 Not everyone likes oranges. Do you even want to imagine living in a world where they do? It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with the orange. It just wasn't right for that specific person. 🍊

🍊 Or perhaps they only like blood oranges, only like orange juice, solely "juice with bits" or orange juice with a splash of voddy. There's still nothing wrong with the orange. 🍊

🍊 Maybe they just weren't in the mood for an orange that day or they filled up on apples. There's still nothing wrong with the orange and you can bet, plenty of other people will love it. 🍊

🧡Stay juicy🧡

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Full of sh*t~GRAPHIC MEDICAL CONTENT

🟨Wednesday 6th March 2024

 That time I was literally full of sh*t.

(Save our NHS)

On four separate occasions, and ambulance 
ferried me to hospital, only to discharge
myself. That idiocy could have cost me 
my life.

  I'm telling this story so that others can learn from my silly mistakes and hopefully avoid an unnecessary trip to the theatre..the operating theatre, that is. People have remarked that it sounds like something from a horror movie and that they were shocked when they checked, only to discover it's completely true. Feel free to share it as you see fit.

A&E where they finally pinned me down with innumerable tubes and wires.

    

   Over a period of about six months, I had become increasingly constipated. But with other things occupying my thoughts and not actually being in pain, it didn't concern me. Upon realising that dealing with this couldn't be avoided and that it wasn't a solo fix, I took the first of four ambulance trips to the hospital. An enema was administered and they pointed towards a door explaining that I should wait as long as possible before availing myself of the amenities. 

Making my way into the single toilet, I locked the door behind me and turned around only to be confronted by the toilet from hell. There was blood and excrement on the walls and floor. The toilet itself was brimming with toilet paper, indicating that it was concealing something unspeakably revolting and that flushing wasn't going to be possible, if it wasn't responsible for s*it volcano in the first place. Fortunately, the enema hadn't worked as expected, so I dressed myself and slipped out unnoticed. 

 The world's worst toilet. 

   On two more occasions, the same events unfolded. By the time I called for the fourth ambulance, I was retching constantly. This time there was no enema and no escaping. I was pinned down and a tube fed up my nose and into my stomach. As unpleasant as that is, the two bags of black bile that it drained from me alleviated the retching. You may or not be aware that expelling red coloured blood from the body is alarming but providing there's not an excessive amount, it's usually not serious. It occurs frequently when small blood vessels and capillaries burst in the body, perhaps from retching, vomiting or straightening. However, nothing black should be emerging from your being.. that is supposed to remain inside you and indicates bleeding from somewhere deep inside and quite probably somewhere critical.

 My surgeon announced that there was no time for a scan and I was prepped for the operating theatre. Instead of wasting time trying to find a willing vein big enough for the anaesthetic drugs, they decided to go straight for a central line (a catheter inserted into the jugular vein at the neck). Concerned about post-surgical pain management, despite my persistent writhing, an epidural was administered which seemed to take an eternity. I've never been very keen on the thought of having those sizeable hypodermic needles stuck into my spine. The final thing I remember saying to the surgical team surrounding me was: "please try not to leave me with a bag". Then I drifted away to my special place where everyday is a Propofol day. Though as I understand it, they gave me a hefty whack of Fentanyl too. I was unduly concerned about the possibility of spending the rest of my days emptying my excreta into the toilet from a colostomy bag. A temporary bag can be fitted until such a time as the highly elastic tissues of the gut can heal and regenerate rendering it redundant.

Eek! They were cutting me in two. Not unlike the magicians trick.

  This  procedure is called a "resection". Some of my intestine/bowel had spontaneously become necrotic (dying/dead). Necrosis spreads rapidly, so it's vital that it's removed as soon as possible. You won't last long when you're literally "dying inside". Had I not discharged myself on those previous visits to the Accident & Emergency department, endoscopic surgery would have been perfectly possible. Recovery times for endoscopic surgery (aka: keyhole surgery) is a fraction of the time and it's obviously way less traumatic so no need for that week in intensive care. Instead, a laparotomy was required. This procedure can last from 3 to 6 hours. Looking back, I feel for the theatre team that day. Given the length of time since I'd defecated, there must have been a veritable "sh*t ton" of doo-doo in there. Rather them than me. 

Following my surgery. 
Grey and swollen from the CO2 gas
they pump! Into your body, making 
space for the surgeon to work.

  Looking at statistics, you could be mistaken for thinking that going under the knife, is more of a risk than it first appears to be. Anaesthetists are the most highly qualified of all health services staff and receive the most pay too. They'll spend the duration of the operation focused entirely on the patient, carefully monitoring your breathing, cardiac activity, oxygen saturation levels, the depth of consciousness, gradually, delivering oxygen as needed and small increments of anaesthetic as required, so you're never too deeply under that you couldn't be quickly resuscitated if necessary. It's a precise state..not too deeply unconscious, yet sufficiently so not to sense any pain or be prematurely roused They'll remain conscientiously attending to your vital signs, making sure you're breathing and haven't slipped away, until they wheel you into recovery. There they can be identified by the paper shower cap they're sporting, staring at you, as you wake in a state of extreme confusion.

  When I was a kid, like many people I wasn't a fan of the dentist. We had "school dentists" who would visit the school regularly and check all the kids. We invariably needed some treatment. Not because we had bad teeth..in fact I had such strong teeth that for a while I had two sets, the baby teeth failing to fall out when the adult teeth broke through. Much of this work was entirely unnecessary but free to our parents who completely trusted this kiddie mouth butcher. He clearly saw little harm in cashing in on this situation. But when he tried to put me under with this utterly revolting tasting gas, I was so terrified that I fought it and by the time that the gas won the battle of Sleepytime, there was no time for him to do anything due to the massive amount of gas he'd given me. I came round with him and his assistant slapping me in the face. Ah, the 1970's! 

  Michael Jackson and Joan Rivers both died after taking Propofol which is a short acting general anaesthetic with the appearance of a thick, white emulsion. Contrary to popular opinion, it doesn't make you sleep-it knocks you unconscious (not quite the same thing!). "The milk of amnesia" as it's known, is useful for patients intubated who are being intubated for ventilation, because of a unique effect of Propofol. It relaxes the muscles in the throat, frequently halting the patient's respiration. Anaesthetists expect and anticipate this - not such an easy task at home, without an anaesthetist or anyone at all. The appeal of Propofol isn't hard to comprehend but it's like playing Russian roulette, especially using it outside of a clinical environment, plus of course, it's also illegal. A drug like Propofol must be correctly administered to be effective and to avoid the patient experiencing the painful, stinging sensation this drug can elicit.

Metoclopramide, Propofol, Midazolam, Succinylcholine, Fentanyl and Lidocaine.

  A laparotomy (open abdominal surgery) is recognised as being one of the surgical procedures presenting the greatest amount of risk and trauma to the patient. But other factors that are massively influential include things like location, socioeconomic status, weight and respiratory health. It's also one of the most costly. Any surgery, especially one under general anaesthetic, is inherently risky. This is why the exact procedure must be explained, while the patient is alert and thus capable of understanding what's been said. This means they are able to make a fully informed decision before signing the "release", confirming that you comprehend the dangers and consent to their plans. This was a little like torture though. I would have consented to impregnating and marrying a plant pot, or anything else if they would just stop the pain.

  It's advisable to lose weight before surgery in order to minimise the dangers. How much anaesthetic is needed and employed can be calculated using an algorithm, in which your bodyweight is the critical variable.

The button quickly became the central focus of my entire world. Those things must take some real abuse

 

  The epidural that was meant to manage my post surgical pain, had successfully numbed one whole leg. I now had even more tubes and wires inserted into/attached to me than before. So even if I hadn't had my abdominal muscles sliced in half, there was no way I was going anywhere tangled in this spaghetti. Of course, that numb leg wasn't exactly conducive to getting up either. One tube was a patient controlled morphine drip. Although the patient can press a button as required to control their pain, a timer restricts the frequency with which it's released. I did my best to destroy that button and an oxygen mask muffled my cries of agony. The nurses mentioned that they thought I was "grumbling" before ensuring that mask was tightly secured over my noisy word hole. Oddly enough, when finally getting around to a closer inspection of what had once been a passable midriff, my belly button was gone! This has elicited allegations that I'm really a clone

  That week - possibly the longest of my life - was spent screaming and howling. I was sweating profusely, forcing the ICU staff to go out pilfering piles of bedsheets everyday, from wherever they could scavenge them. Even on the ICU ward, the number of sheets provided each week was limited. The sweating must have been the worst thing - besides the agonising pain obviously. This was due to the grinding pain, the furnace-like heat you get in in hospitals, which I'm not in the least bit injured to and the fact that even the morphine I managed to get from that miserly drip was insufficient for my immense needs. There was no getting up to get it off me, so I would pay shivering as some poor nurse got to sponge bath my clammy, grey body.

  Sleeping fitfully, minutes felt like hours and hours days. There is no sense of day or night and you take on the identity of your wound as it's poked and prodded. I had a vertical wound for my troubles, roughly twelve inches long and pretty gnarly.

There's nothing quite like a gnarly scar and an
outrageous tale of how it was acquired, to 
Impress children.

   One by one, the tubes and wires were removed. Having done my best to wear out the button, the morphine drip was withdrawn and replaced with oral pain relief. About a week after the surgery, I was moved from the ICU to a general ward where there were no beeping monitors, no alarms and the routine was more akin to that of a normal life, rather than the twenty four hour noise and activity of a high dependency unit. On the morning of the 5th day an epic wrestling match occurred, between a couple of very determined nurses and me. Nobody said so, but we all knew the winner would get ownership of my beloved morphine drip. Who fights someone with a body that's as useful as a plate of blancmange? It's not really cricket now, is it? For being the runner up, they piled all my nonsense on top of me and took me for a ride all around the hospital in bed. Most people feel lucky to get breakfast in bed. It's the only way to travel. 

 Able to sleep every night, I was healing well and twelve days after arriving at the hospital, I was discharged to continue recovering at home. 

Leaving is a joyous occasion and 
one at times, you think (or hope) may
never happen .

  Having sliced through all the abdominal muscles and removed a length of intestine, sitting, standing and just moving was a painful struggle. It was four long months before I really started to regain some degree of normal movement and I still have an impressive scar eight years later. 

   The takeaway from this story is: if your body is telling you that something is wrong, don't ignore it. Had I waited another day or two before going to the hospital that last time, I probably wouldn't be alive to tell the tale. What's more, had I addressed the problem earlier, rectifying it would have been much easier and far less painful with a shorter period of recovery. *If you have red blood in your stool or vomit, it's probably from the throat/rectum and although it's worth getting checked out, it's unlikely to be life threatening. Black stool/vomit is bleeding from deep inside.. blood that belongs inside. Always get help immediately. *Don't be embarrassed because your problem involves some part of the body or bodily function that is "personal". It's highly unlikely that you have something the medical professionals haven't seen many times before. It's much more embarrassing to have it be the thing everyone remembers you for after it kills you, or the epitaph on your tombstone. 

Nothing will embarrass you like losing
your life to ignorance and/or obstinacy.

  Something to bear in mind is that when we're seriously ill or injured, it's far worse for those who care about us and can do nothing but endure the fear, helplessness and concern. For the patient, it's just "happening" to them and it's not really possible to perceived it as others do watching from the bedside. 

   Only this week (maybe 6-8 years ago) did I realise just what a close shave this was. The mortality rate for people who have this kind of survey is as high as 25%. I heard that the cost of this procedure in the US $28,450.00. But remember that doesn't include any of the other things, American people are held to ransom for. There's those four ambulance rides, five days on the ICU, 7 further days on a general ward, A&E (the emergency room), all those morphine drips. They are even charged for each bed sheet, bar of soap and bite of food. I wouldn't last ten minutes in the land of the free. When you have the pre-existing conditions I do, nobody in their right mind is going to insure me. 

  Don't get me wrong. The fact that the cost of my life saving surgery, a week in the ICU, a week in the general ward, medicines, meals, ambulances, A&E, dressings, pain management, oxygen, more drugs, occupational health and aftercare all came to a handsome total of £0.00 is fantastic and something I will forever be thankful for. But people often misunderstand..we DO pay for our healthcare. We all pay national insurance contributions that is calculated as a percentage of income. This is on top of the considerable taxes we pay on virtually everything. It's not a matter of paying or not paying. The difference here is nobody profits from the misery and suffering of people who are unlucky. Going into hospital isn't a luxury. We don't think "oh I've done well this month and have a little extra disposable income. Enough to take the kids and have a picnic at the hospital." Affordable healthcare that nobody profits from isn't a "socialist" policy. It's humane and civilised. Because the taxpayer ultimately foots the bill for the NHS, we get things like preventative medicine, public health, price caps on medicines, supported initiatives for the promotion of health such as legislation promoting good nutrition, exercise, healthy lifestyles, immunisation programmes and social welfare in the health services. All things that minimise the costs for the taxpayer and while all that might sound costly.. it's nothing compared to the expense of not having them.

The elected politicians who sold the heart of 
Britain and of Brits.

  Of course the NHS isn't perfect. You'll be pushed to find someone with a good opinion of our system now. Largely because major underfunding has squeezed provision so waiting times have become impossible. It feels like everyday there's headlines bemoaning the British people dying before they could get an appointment with a doctor. It's nowhere near as bad as all that. If you're seriously ill (like I was) there are no delays. When you're in pain, sick or injured, time slows down and waiting feels like an eternity in limbo. British people love to moan about anything and everything. It's just part of who we are. We've been thoroughly spoiled and on the whole, are clueless as to how good we have it compared to people elsewhere.

  Long waiting times, understaffing, insufficient resources and difficulty getting appointments are not the fault of the NHS. It's entirely the fault of the Conservative government that tricked people into electing Margaret Thatcher more than 40 years ago. The budgetary cuts and privatisation that has brought about these failings are absolutely intentional, aimed at getting people used to coming home from hospital with a big, juicy invoice in their hand. Making them feel that private healthcare is for them (not just the wealthy) and a positive change for this country. What most don't realise is that much of the existing services they are provided courtesy of the NHS, are in fact private concerns. Even within NHS hospitals many departments are now run for profit, just like the corporatocracy over yonder in the "land of the free".

NHS waiting lists~a result of underfunding and 
intended to drive our healthcare services into 
the ground.

  I sit on the public board of our local NHS hospital and have seen this happening. Private healthcare (that term is really incorrect as it doesn't lead to health - rather the opposite - and as for care....!! Contracts were covertly handed to old school pals and "mates" by politicians, many of who have glaring conflicts of interest. If you are living in a place that has no universal healthcare available to all, perhaps you can tell them just what they're missing out on? When it's gone, there will be no getting it back. The NHS cannot be a part of a two tier service. As I mentioned previously, social care is an integral part of the NHS. When you hear about it's creation, it's lumped together with the Welfare state. This is because to work, they must intermesh. Another factor crucial for universal healthcare to work is social solidarity. Instead of feeling resentful that I am paying for the kid down the street to get glasses or have chemotherapy, I know it's for everyone's betterment and my own. I know by endorsing this system that I'd essentially "pay it forward", others will too and if/when I need it, it will be available for me too. The whole point is that it's "universal"..or: free at the point of service everyone.

 Like many British people, I would be prepared to pay even more tax and national insurance contributions, if.. and that "IF" is underlined...we could be certain it would go to the right place and not into the pockets and second homes of greedy politicians who have lied, cheated and thoroughly failed us.

Everyone working together and caring 
about each other~the NHS relies on 
solidarity.

  Most NHS employees don't work in the NHS for the fat salaries, great hours, conditions and the appreciation of moaning Brits. Instead it's about caring and a belief that despite the way we have been treated, we can maintain our humanity as people and as part of a society that won't give in to the cruel and mercenary in seats of power. The NHS doesn't just depend on those people though - like the social care and healthcare, each piece of our society benefits the others. Our nurses, doctors, therapists and technicians need teachers and childcare for their families. They need someone to run the store where they buy provisions, someone to build their homes, fly their planes, drive their taxis, empty their bins and put out fires from time to time. We are one and together we are strong. 

Why we need a people's NHS

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