ALBERT HAMLIN 82 Grumpy old Bastard
September 24, 2008
Oh my I have chest pains .My bloody son says its all in my mind, but he just wants me dead anyway so he would say that .I should go to the Doctors and I would but I can`t get a bloody appointment this week unless its an emergency and as I`ve been to see him 35 times about the self same pains the stupid receptionist said I`d have to wait until a week next tuesday to see Dr Odogo. Bloody national Health I really don`t know why I bothered fighting in two wars for this in my old age. I`m 82 you know. And anyway, even when I get to see a bloody doctor they`ve got no idea what`s wrong with me. Well They make it up as they go along most of the time. Take Mrs Reynolds from the day centre, she went to the doctor with a bunion and he ended up giving her Prozac for it. She complained of course. Brought on her hot flushes and she got this weird look in her eyes as if she could explode at any time during Celebrity come Ice Skating. See they don`t know what they`re doing.
My bloody apology for a son hasn`t been to see me for four days, and even when he came last time he only stayed for thirty minutes and talked all the way through The X Factor. He made me one of those roast dinners you get from Iceland, the shop not the country, you know the ones that come in a plastic tray with the pudding on as well. Fifteen minutes in the microwave he says, couldn`t eat it. it tasted of concrete chippings. Dreadful and the spotted dick had gravy spilt into it, the yorkshires were rubbery, the Peas tasted as if I`d already passed them through me in my morning ablutions and the meat, don`t get me started about the bloody meat. It said lamb on the packet. It was green. Lamb should not be green. My son said it was pea juice mixed in with it, but he`s trying to bump me off for me stamp collection and me Nationwide savings so I don`t trust his opinion. Anyway, I didn`t eat it. waited until he was gone and had a piccalilli roll and twelve Wurthers Original.
My bloody son keeps leaving me Nursing Home pamphlets to go through. He thinks I can`t look after meself anymore. I didn`t Thwart the german war machine twice to be told at 82 I`m useless and can`t wash myself. I can`t but that`s not the point. its about freedom of choice. Last time my son left I swear he took the bloody TV remote control with him, couldn`t find it for days, and when I did eventually find it, Where he`d obviously replaced it, down the side of the sofa, There was nothing on. Well there never is, its all those make over shows with bloody poofs telling you what colour to paint your bloody toilet. Anyway,I `m off to bed in a minute, just make myself a Horlicks. now I`ll just turn everything off, oh bugger, my sons had the bloody Tv remote control again.
Age, Rap and Snooker
May 10, 2008
I feel really old today I know I am old but some days I feel positively decrepit. Today has turned into one of those days. I’ve started rolling my eyes at the insufferable things my father would say in his last days. And he was 104 when he breathed his last. It’s a sure sign of dementia when you start channelling long departed close relatives. I’ve started shamelessly stealing all his best lines.
I’ve received three useless letters this morning. Two were from AOL Online. One was addressed to me by name, the other to ‘Current Resident’. Both contained identical materials; shiny new discs and an offer to try AOL 90 days risk free. What on earth is AOL and why would I want to own one for just three months, even if it was free? I just don’t understand. I’m sure it’s for the computer because it doesn’t work on the CD player. My son sorts out the computer stuff for me. I’d much rather have a typewriter. I’ve left them on the sideboard along with an unwanted sex toy catalogue addressed to a previous resident. My son can deal with them.
I live in a world of bloody empty hours and countless days, not unpleasant but without future, where the only checkout is death.
And the bloody residents in this block of flats I’m stuck in are so damn noisy. That tarty girl upstairs who works at Tescos comes clumping up the stairs at all hours, singing, banging about, swearing… it’s too much. And she’s not the worst. Below me I’ve got an insomniac alcoholic old woman who plays Billy Fury and Bill Bastard Hailey and the bloody Comet records at full blast until the early hours. If I bang on the floor with my stick she just turns it up, and the care assistant who lives above me then thinks its my stereo and starts banging on her floor. It’s a bloody nightmare.
I’d rather be in a nursing home doped up watching daytime TV all day and pissing myself before lunch.
Talking about lunch, I’d better eat. Can’t remember when I ate last. My bloody son gets these ready meals from the supermarket. They all taste the bloody same, chicken curry or beef stew. They’re always burnt and taste of seasoned cardboard. All products nowadays are the same. None bettr than the other. Mobile phones, fishmongers, cars, same product, different packaging. Clothes - don’t even get me started about clothes. My bloody son keeps buying me underpants. He knows I like them Y front type from Marks and Spencer, but he got mne a load of cheap looking ‘boxer shorts’ last time. I’m not a bloody boxer. I only wear clothes these days so people can’t see my genitals.
And the radio. That’s become intolerable. Full of ‘rap’ bands. Big black fellas with guns and a hoe with a big booty. Whatever that might be. They wouldn’t know a tune if a bloody piano fell on their heads. And what the dickens is ‘pimping’ when it’s at home? ‘Pimp’ my this and ‘pimp’ my that, my radio’s ‘pimped’ my ‘cribs’ ‘pimped’. What on earth are they going on about? Do they mean ‘pump’? or ‘pink’? Its all a load of American rubbish if you ask me. Pink my roses by all means.
I’ll watch the snooker on the BBC. That shouldn’t be too taxing. Used to play myself before me eyes went. What was that? The commentator just said Stephen Hendry jumps on Steve Davies’s missus every chance he gets. Did I hear that right? I can’t even make out where the balls are or what colour they are unless I sit right on top of the box or squint from the sofa.
Getting old is useless. I can’t even turn the TV off now. I’ve lost the remote and if I bend down to pull the plug out I’ll do my back in again. Roll on death. I’ve had it with this world. All I’ve had to give, I’ve given. There’s nothing left. I’m a spent force and I can’t be bothered typing any more of this today. My son said it would be good for my brain. Keep it active - What’s the point in keeping my brain active if my body’s dead?
I’m hardly Stephen Hawking. I’m Albert Hamlin aged 82.
Albert - Early Morning.
May 1, 2008
I’m awake as usual. Can’t see the bloody clock. Don’t even know what time it must be - must be about two. I can still hear the swearing outside. I can hear it all. Some young miss is arguing with her boyfriend. He seems to have done some quite undesirable things with a young lady in a cloakroom at a night club and young missy doesn’t seem too pleased.
I leave the expletives out of course. My pen would run out of ink if I put the swear words in. It’s effin this and effin that. You sucked this cock, you sucked that. I can’t keep up with it all. I’ve got a bloody wheezing dog with his head plonked in my face a hernia that’s weeping as I speak and I’m expected to sleep with this ding dong going on outside my bloody window.
You have no idea how difficult it has become just being old. You just get on with your lives as if that’s all there is. Well, let me tell you - it will come to all of you. Sooner than you care to think.
Oh, you think you understand life, with your bloody ipods and your V2. Well, just wait a few years till your needing to run to the toilet every twenty minutes (mostly for a wasted bloody journey - the bladder might shout but the pipe don’t speak if you get my drift) but you won’t, because you don’t care for the likes of me.
Have I told you about my dog? My dog. It isn’t my dog at all. My bloody Son got it for me. He told me it would be company. Oh, I could smack that lad. He’s a bloody fool. What on earth would I want a dog for? He gave it to me at Christmas. Four months after Gloria passed away, God rest her soul. Anyway, I won’t weep, I’m a stronger man than that… he got me this dog you see. As a bloody surrogate. A replacement for the only woman I actually loved.
She was gorgeous. Everything I ever wanted in a woman. Nice design, beautiful, sophisticated, in her own way. And she could change the wheel of a Ford Prefect in the bloody rain, and on the A1. Can’t fault the lass.
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