Disc-Oww Inferno

Done gone and put my back out, haven’t I? And done it in the most pathetic way as well. I’d like to say that I did it whilst outrunning an avalanche on only one ski or that my parachute got twisted and I hit the ground hard but lived to tell the tale. I’d love to say that I did it whilst carrying a child from a burning building or that it happened whilst attempting to lift my own body weight at the gym.

It would be great if it were something exciting or dramatic but no…

I did it getting out of the car.

The worst part is that I’m not even sure what happened exactly. We pulled up in Morrisons carpark on Monday morning, I opened the car door, stuck my leg out, went to stick the other one out and the next thing I knew I was walking like Igor and in a state of total panic.

The problem is, you see, that my back tends to go out in two stages. The first stage, that I’m in now, is like a painful warning shot that much worse is to come if I don’t watch out. I can still function but in a limited capacity. The second stage is a full-on prolapsed disc that renders me incapable of even turning over in bed without screaming for about a fortnight or more.

Thankfully, I’m at stage one still and with careful management it should put itself right and I’ll be back to myself in roughly ten days or so.

If I’m not careful and it goes to stage two then I’m in a world of trouble and you won’t be hearing from me for a while because, let’s face it, it’s incredibly difficult to type whilst lying flat on your back. And that’s just about the only position I’ll be in if it happens.

Now, here’s the thing – I haven’t had a stage two since April 2016. There’s been a couple of stage ones but mercifully it’s gone no further than that. So as you can probably guess I’m on tenterhooks at this precise moment.

And if it does go to stage two there is only one solution and that is a visit to the chiropractor, which is an ordeal in itself. What about painkillers you say? Pah! A waste of time, effort and a perfectly good glass of water. The only pain relief that would touch it is probably banned by the W.H.O, the U.N and most countries in the Western world.

No, it has to be the chiropractor. Only he/she can end the misery of a stage two.

I have a kind of love/hate relationship with chiropractors. I hate them when they’re pulling me about and twisting me into the kind of positions normally only achieved by Judo masters and I feel like screaming for them to stop but then all of a sudden there’s that wonderful little ‘click’ and the pain is gone. When that happens I love the chiropractor to the point of offering to wash their smalls for them.

Of course, the chiropractors charge for putting you through hell, don’t they? £50 a pop these days I’m led to believe. Last time I went (2016) it was only £30. Well worth it though I suppose. The sense of relief when I leave the chiropractor is beyond profound. I feel like I’m sixteen years old again, although that feeling only tends to last about a day before I remember my actual age but for a while there it’s nice to be a spring chicken for a few hours.

The most annoying thing about it all is that its entirely my own fault. I did it to myself many years ago aged just twenty-three. I was working in a warehouse and it was my job to load pallets onto a lorry with a forklift truck. On the day in question I had a metal pallet on the forks upon which were two gigantic leaf springs for a HGV suspension. Whoever had prepared them hadn’t done a very good job and as I went to load them onto the lorry one of the springs slid off the pallet.

Not to worry, though, I was young and fit and strong, wasn’t I? I’d have it back on the pallet in no time at all – this thing was about 75kg by the way. So I dismounted, put on my heavy-duty gloves and grasped the leaf spring in both hands and lifted with all my might.

They heard the scream from five miles away.

I’d prolapsed one of my lower vertebrae and I had never experienced pain quite like it in my few short years on this Earth. Thankfully, it was right at the end of the working day and I went home in the misguided belief that a Radox bath and an early night would soon put it straight.

How very wrong I was.

The next morning my entire body had about as much movement as a cheap ironing board but considerably less structural integrity. I was in sheer-bloody-agony. There was nothing for it but to ring in sick and get my sorry ass to the GP.

The GP gave me some painkillers; codeine possibly, and advised me to go to an osteopath. I’d heard of osteopaths but weren’t sure exactly what they did. I was told there was one on the High Street who was very good but I couldn’t get the treatment on the NHS and would therefore have to pay. That was fine, I’d have paid every penny I ever earned if this chap could make me walk like I hadn’t soiled myself.

The year was 1989 and it cost just £5 for the osteopath to sort me out. Oh, admittedly, I nearly fainted as he performed his best Hulk Hogan impression and bent me into positions that would defy any self-respecting contortionist but then, eventually, he pushed the heel of his hand hard into my lower spine, there was a loud ‘click’ and he said, “How’s that?”

I could have French kissed him, tongues and all. I was cured!

During the years between 1989 and 2016 I only had a stage two on three occasions. Once when I was raking leaves off the lawn, once when I bent down to pick my Yorkshire Terrier up and once when I went over the handlebars of my bike.

Now, three times in twenty-seven years might not sound a lot but believe me, when it goes to stage two I cannot do anything except sit and cry like a lost kiddie in a supermarket. Honest to God, that’s it; that’s all I can do. So three times was three times too many in my opinion.

So here I am, in the midst of a stage one and taking the very greatest care not to do anything remotely physical so as to avoid a stage two. But if it should go to stage two you won’t need me to tell you about it as I shall be noticeable by my absence.

Watch this space!

A&E and Me

I make no secret of the fact that I am the National Health Service’s biggest fan. Seriously, for all those that criticise it do you realise just where the hell we’d all be without it? Up Excrement River without an oar, that’s where!

The NHS saved my life in 2003. Literally! I was about one degree higher in body temperature away from shuffling off this mortal coil but the skill of doctors and nurses pulled me through. And that’s before I get to the bit about how they have looked after and treated my wife in the last few years when she has had both a heart attack and cancer.

In short, they’ve been bloody marvellous.

So, please, do yourself a favour, if you want to slate the NHS then don’t do it to me or you’re liable to get a lengthy diatribe in its defence.

I went a bit quiet last week and did very little in the way of actual writing. Now, there’s a perfectly good reason for this and it’s a bit of an old chestnut, I know, but I wasn’t very well.

Tuesday afternoon my face went numb and I was greatly alarmed gentle reader. I thought that perhaps the Bell’s Palsy was making a return or perhaps it was something a lot worse – you know what I’m talking about. Anyway, my fab-u-la-tastic wife thought that it warranted a trip to A&E to get it checked out and so off we went once more on that well-trodden road to Airedale Hospital.

I say well-trodden because in the last 10 to 12 years or so I have made more trips to A&E than any other person alive. So much so that I believe I should have my own private seat in the waiting room and some kind of loyalty card for the vending machines.

And yes, there have been times when I’ve had to wait an eon to see someone but I realise that its only because the poor staff there are absolutely snowed under. When we walked in on Tuesday I counted exactly 48 people, including myself, in the waiting area. I took a seat and we waited with them.

It took a full six hours before I was sat in front of a doctor, although I had been through triage and had my blood taken etc much earlier. After a discussion and examination with the doctor he concluded that the nerves in my face have been compressed by my CPAP mask at night and this was causing the numbness.

I breathed a sigh of relief but also felt like giving myself a jolly good kick in the pants for having the damn mask too tight in the first place. That was a week ago and I am still experiencing some numbness but nothing as bad as it was last Tuesday. To cut a long story short there was a fault with my mask that I hadn’t realised which has now been satisfactorily resolved.

But it did get me thinking over the Easter weekend just how many trips I have made to Airedale A&E department. Actually, its not called A&E anymore, is it? It’s just called “Emergency” now but I still call it A&E because I’m an old stick in the mud and I don’t like change when there’s no need for it.

Anyhoo, about those visits to Airedale A&E. There have been a great many. The first of which was in the Spring of 2013. I was chopping some fire wood and without going into too much detail I successfully managed to – bury the hatchet, as it were, into my right foot.

Ange hastened my to Airedale and I was seen quickly, stitched up, bandaged and on my way home again in no time at all. And I learned a valuable lesson that day which is this – don’t try chopping wood wearing only Crocs.

Since then I’ve gone and sat in that old familiar waiting room for things such as:

Pneumonia
Chest pains (twice)
Bell’s Palsy
Vertigo
Violent stomach pain (which turned out to be constipation on an industrial scale)
A bad knee
A bad arm
A bad back
And a great and varied host of other minor offences

Sometimes it’s been a quick in and out and sometimes it’s been a more prolonged and drawn out experience. It just depends how busy they are on the day. Although, the pneumonia one led to me being put on a ward for the best part of a week whilst they pumped me full of nuclear strength antibiotics.

And the thing that has stood out the most for me in all that time is the tremendous patience and complete unflappability of the staff. From the first point of contact at the reception desk right through to the doctors, nurses, radiographers and everyone else.

I’ve had X-rays, MRIs, CT scans and had more blood taken than a black pudding factory and it’s always been done with the utmost care and the most remarkable professionalism. Never, I say again never, have I ever felt not in safe hands there.

So, now you see why I am such a champion of the NHS. They do an immeasurably difficult job with nowhere near enough funding and they do it with smiles on their faces and tenderness in their hearts.

As for the rest of last week, I spent all day Wednesday in bed catching up on all the lost sleep I’ve missed and Thursday I was as limp as a two-day old banana skin although I did manage to shuffle down to the chip shop at teatime although the walk back felt like I was trying to conquer Everest. I just barely roused myself on Friday to do a bit of catching up on my journal and some laundry but that was about it. As for the weekend it was pleasant (and chocolatey) enough but I still had less energy than Rip Van Winkle on his day off.

Monday was nice as I did a bit of canal boat steering which brought back some genuinely happy memories and proved that however crap my body is these days; I’ve still got it at the business end of a tiller!

Here’s hoping this week will prove to be far more productive and please join me in raising a glass to our glorious NHS. Long may it continue.

Rude Awakening

We all have a favourite pet peeve don’t we. For some it’s people who speak with their mouths full, for others it could be something such as a person leaving a light on or not shutting a door when they come through it or even not putting the lavatory seat down after they’ve been.

Well, I think I’ve identified my own favourite pet peeve and it is…

Rudeness!

And the reason that I hate rudeness so very much is because it is becoming more prevalent in Western society than ever before.

I know that rudeness is not a new thing. People have been rude for millennia; but rudeness that was once often seen as unacceptable is now the absolute basic norm.

And I’m getting so pissed off with it!

Someone was very rude to me on Saturday night. We’d been for a meal to celebrate our granddaughter’s 19^th birthday and had a lovely time. The food was gorgeous, the staff were brilliant (Efendy, Skipton, you must try it) and a good time was had by all.

There was myself and Ange, Erin and her boyfriend Billy, Becky and Paul and Ange’s brother Steve. And it was great. We had a laugh and a few drinks and the atmosphere was superb.

After the meal it was decided by majority vote to go for a couple of drinks at the Sound Bar, which is a smashing place that I’ve mentioned before on here. Unfortunately, when we reached the Sound Bar we were dismayed to find that they were closing early for the night. Undeterred we crossed the bus station carpark and went to the nearest pub (The Fleece, Skipton, don’t try it) and entered therein.

There was some kind of agonisingly loud disco going on, which was ran by a filthy-mouthed man in a Dolly Parton wig, make-up and a dress who was masquerading as a woman. The music was excessively loud and the first thing that caught my eye when we went in was two very drunk forty something women clinging onto each other for dear life whilst belting out the words to Living on a Prayer in a hopelessly tuneless fashion that resembled, in both sight and sound, a pair of violently rutting elephant seals.

Not a particularly auspicious start. But worse was to come.

Why, oh why, oh why do some people think that it’s ok to accost you as if they’ve known you all your life when they’re drunk. I know alcohol removes inhibitions but why do they have to get in your face with their fag ash and Kopperberg breath and a thin sheen of perspiration from their ungainly efforts on the dance floor?

I ask that question because that is what faced us as we stood at the bar waiting for the half-asleep bar staff to serve us.

The people in question were a heavily set woman who seemed to have abandoned all notions of grace and poise and a shaven headed f**kwit who clearly thought he was Skipton’s answer to stand-up comedy. And it was he who was rude to me.

To cut a long story short he called me “Gandalf.”

Now, here’s the thing.

I know I look like Gandalf or even Dumbledore.
I don’t really care that I do; I’m comfortable in my own skin.
He called me “Gandalf” about four times and, despite his obvious merriment, it got less and less funny with each hackneyed attempt.
I didn’t know him from Adam.
I hadn’t been rude to him.
I’ve heard it a thousand times before.
Rudeness is the lowest form of wit

I can take a joke. Believe me, nobody can take a joke better than me. But to go up to someone you don’t know and call them names just for cruel fun makes you a total and utter c**t in my eyes. It wasn’t so much that the idiot said it to me; I would have been offended for anyone else who had to endure his boorish, drink-sodden effort at being funny.

And you could also tell that in his eyes he was being somehow novel and fresh when in reality, as I’ve pointed out at number 6, he wasn’t the first to say it and he almost certainly won’t be the last.

But me being me, I let it go.

I know plenty of blokes, and women too, who would have put him firmly on his arse with a well-aimed straight left or uppercut. Me? Nah! I’m not going to sit in the back of a police car explaining my actions and ruining my (and my granddaughter’s) evening just because of some piss-wet-through rummy who thinks he’s Ricky Gervais.

I didn’t even give him the luxury of a response.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I could have given him a heck of a response. I could have said, “F**k off you fat-faced, bald-headed, beady-eyed, pointy-nosed, sweaty, B.O reeking pimple on the ring piece of the universe.”

I could have said that.

But I didn’t.

And do you know why?

Because that would have been stooping to his crass little level and I’m not like him. Yes, I probably do look like that character from The Lord of the Rings but I have a damn sight more class than he’ll ever have. I also like to think that one day he’s going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and end up in the AMU of the nearest hospital.

Actually, now I think about it, the landlord really ought to have a word with him. He cost the pub the loss of seven drinks that could have been sold if we hadn’t all left the awful place.

As we made our way home I had mixed feelings. Part of me was glad that I didn’t rise to the paralytic oaf but a small part of me was wishing that for once, just this once, I should have smashed his smug, gurning face in. Not just for my benefit but for everyone else as well because I recognised in him all the obnoxious traits of the serial piss taker.

I wasn’t the first person he’s insulted that way and I won’t be the last. The drink-addled alacrity with which he approached me was nothing new to him. He’s done this before. He really does need decking but I’ll let someone else do that. Someone really unpleasant hopefully.

But rudeness itself is all around us. It’s everywhere you go. Drivers are incredibly rude these days, children and teenagers seem to take rudeness to dizzy new heights, bosses and colleagues are so stressed that being blunt is often the only recourse, I see and hear people being rude to shop staff and waiters for no good reason and there is countless man hours’ worth of rudeness online.

And it’s got me thinking a lot about it, so yesterday, just as a small experiment, I put a post on Threads that said, “Why and when did abject rudeness become the norm?”

I got one reply from some guy who said, “Ever since the internet made people brave.”

Damn it he’s right. There are millions of so-called “keyboard warriors” in this world who love nothing more than slating other people and being as rude and offensive as possible. And it’s ok for them because they have the safety net of not knowing the people they are attacking or even have the remotest chance of ever being in the same room as them. They insult and offend via distance and it’s just about as cowardly as it could possibly get.

And that’s the norm. You can say what you like, so long as you don’t cross certain boundaries (although some do) and make all manner of unsubstantiated remarks about other human beings. I tell you; Western society is going to the wall. Notice I didn’t say Western civilisation? There’s nothing civilised about any of these people.

Keyboard warriors? I’ve shat ‘em.

I’m giving serious thought to backing away from social media all together. With the exception of posting about what I write. That’s how wound up I feel about rudeness right now. It’s there every-bloody-time I go on Facebook or Instagram or Threads (I don’t do X, Musk is also very rude) I see some crap individual having a snidey little jibe at someone else. And I hate it!

To be perfectly honest with you, this has been building up in me for some time now and I think that clown on Saturday night was the last straw. I don’t need to put myself in situations like that anymore whether it be online or in real life (social media is not real life by the way) or anywhere come to that. I’m a 58-year-old man with a decent brain who loves books and intricacies of progressive rock and I need, nay crave, more intellectual stimulation and conversation than standing in some naff, crowded, noisy pub listening to Bon Jovi at a billion decibels and being told I look like someone from Tolkien’s epic masterpiece.

To summarise, I’m not rude to other people and I ain’t gonna take it from them anymore. I won’t get violent but I am a wordsmith – be warned!

Rant over.

Thanks for reading.

Re-Appraisal

I’m disappointed gentle reader, disappointed to say the very least. I find myself floundering somewhat at the moment. Things just aren’t going my way right now.

Substack, as much as I love it, is pissing me right off. I see so many contributors on there with hundreds of followers and subscribers just for basically posting fluff and nonsense whilst I have the princely total of 22 subscribers. And I’m not blowing my own trumpet but I think I produce some pretty good copy that’s worth reading.

For example, I wrote a 3500-word humorous murder mystery short story over the weekend for my 22 subscribers, called Death by Bunting. It took hours to do and it’s a clever little thing too. Compare my humble effort with the average Substack post, which goes something along the lines of – Hi, I’m Samantha. I like Taylor Swift, Tik Tok and writing poetry although I haven’t posted any yet. If you like my page I’ll like yours too. Let’s all get to know each other.

Honestly, some of them are quite literally as vacuous and as lacking in substance as that and then you look at their stats and they’ve got something like 1.3k subscribers and the post itself has 538 likes.

If that sounds like I’m jealous you’d be completely wrong. I’m not jealous, I’m bloody furious!!! I’ve written almost 100 well-worded, and, at times lengthy, posts so far and the biggest audience I ever garnered was about 90 views for my first short story called Jessie.

Nobody wants to put any effort in any more, whether it be writing or reading. Everyone just wants instant gratification through having a vast multitude of friends and followers on every internet platform they use. It’s doing my head in, it really is.

And I keep getting emails by the dozen from other Substack authors offering to tell me how I can get more subscribers and then when I open the missive there’s just more fluff and little or no substance. I’m heartily sick of it.

So, I’ve decided that the only way for me to reach more subscribers and get people to read my stuff is to sit down one day and go through Substack’s tools and options with a fine-tooth comb and learn as much about it as I can. How hard can it be???

So that’s Substack.

Then there’s the whole novel writing thing…

Honestly, it’s a slog right now. It’s like pulling teeth trying to make a sale on any of my books and when I do make a sale it’s even harder trying to get a review out of people. And yes, I am acutely aware that I’m working in a crowded market place and people are very busy these days and don’t always have time or they have other things on their minds than to write me a review. I get that. But then I see other indies and they’re getting reviews left, right and centre.

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

And, I hasten to add, due to feeling extremely despondent about it I haven’t even attempted novel writing for about a year now. I made a good start on the next Ingleby book, featuring the adorable Archie and Aggie Stone, and then I just seemed to tail off. All I seem to do at the moment is Substack and this here blog.

Ergo…

…It’s time for a full re-appraisal of everything I’m doing. I don’t want to quit. I’m one of the “Winners never quit and quitters never win” brigade and have always had a good work ethic so there has to be another way. But I do know when I’m banging my head against a brick wall and it feels rather like that at the moment. Something has to change.

My head is absolutely buzzing with all sorts of exciting ideas right now, inspiration isn’t the problem, the problem is this – I’m a really good writer (I am) but I’m piss poor at marketing, promoting and selling my products. I’m far too reticent for one thing. Whenever anyone buys one of my books I feel I should just timidly give it away instead. And that’s not a great place to be.

I’m also getting a bit pissed with Amazon, through whom all my books are published. They take a huge (and I mean HUGE) mark up on your books leaving you with very little and they have pulled the rug out from under many a self-published author that I know by talking their books off sale without either warning or reason. I don’t trust them anymore.

And, might I just add, that the only way anyone is going to find Medicine Show on there is if they go directly to my Author Page as it doesn’t show up in the search results for Alan Stevenson. The other six are there on full public display but not my most recent one and that irks me like a splinter in the bum. I’ve never had a splinter in the bum to be perfectly honest but I have had plenty of them in other body parts (mainly hands) and so I can imagine how irksome one in the bum would be.

I am now seriously considering other outlets for my books.

And so, it truly is time for a big re-appraisal of everything that I do. I’m giving serious thought to a social media hiatus for a month or even longer to help me focus on things as my physical health is so bad that at times I spend far too long scrolling through rubbish instead of being productive. I think I’m going to get some decent voice recording technology downloaded to my phone so I can dictate to it on those occasions when I simply have to rest. I will keep putting up my Substack and blog posts on Facebook, Instagram and Threads but I need to step away from idly scrolling on them and damn well concentrate on infinitely more important things for a while.

To tell you the truth, I think I’m going to shelve the Ingleby novel I’d started and work on the next Joe Wilkie/Blessham one instead. I’ve got such a great plot and story for that one and am rather excited at the prospect of writing it. I believe it may well invigorate me as an artist somewhat, and that’s exactly what I need.

So watch this space. I’m not chucking the towel in; I’m just having a massive re-think.

Death By Teapot – The Answer

Ok, so a few months ago I wrote my first ever comedy murder mystery story and it was well received actually. I was chuffed with it at any rate. But what I didn’t reveal in the story was the identity of the culprit. I mentioned that the police arrested the wrong person but left it for you, the reader, to work out who really bludgeoned Mrs Baggley to death with a heavy earthenware teapot.

So here is the answer to the mystery…

If you recall, the bulk of the story took place at the PCC meeting in the church. There were five people at the meeting – the vicar, Mrs Baggley herself, Mrs Windebank, Mrs Wenlock and Mrs Dunwoody.

Well, barring the deceased (it wasn’t suicide: one does not commit suicide by bashing one’s own head in with a teapot) that leaves four people who all had a motive.

The Vicar – Mrs Baggley had threatened to report the vicar to the bishop over things that were said at the meeting.
Mrs Windebank had a motive after Mrs Baggley bluntly insulted her French ancestry.
Mrs Wenlock was accused by Mrs Baggley of being a sex maniac; not something that a PCC member would want bandied about.
Mrs Dunwoody’s mother was exposed as a drunk by Mrs Baggley. She was most upset about this.

There are other factors to consider as well.

Mrs Baggley was killed by a violent blow to the head from a heavy earthenware teapot. During the meeting Mrs Windebank had spoken of such a teapot as the ideal replacement for the current one and had passionately exclaimed that she would “buy the bloody thing myself.”
Mrs Dunwoody and Mrs Wenlock both expressed their dislike for Mrs Baggley. Mrs Wenlock said she would “swing for her myself” and Mrs Dunwoody went as far as saying she wished Mrs Baggley were dead.
The vicar had said he would reimburse Mrs Windebank himself for the teapot. Could it have been that he did so the night before the murder and taken the pot with him?

So what do you think? Have you worked out which of them committed this dastardly deed?

Which of the four was responsible for Mrs Baggley’s untimely demise?

…

Well actually none of them were.

…

If you recall there was a sixth person in the church at the time – Eric the organist.

Think back now:

Eric was a devoted follower of not just the church but the vicar also and was prepared to do anything for the good of both.
He’d recently had a new hearing aid, which whilst not helping his organ playing any, did mean that he overhead every part of the PCC conversation and Mrs Baggley’s threat to the vicar.
He also heard Mrs Windebank mention the earthenware teapot and her impassioned declaration of buying it.
When the vicar left the church, Eric was playing the hymn Nearer My God To Thee. A clear portent of what was about to befall Mrs Baggley who was soon to be a lot nearer to God.
Finally, Eric was known as a kind and gentle individual. Who would suspect him of doing it?

So there you have it.

Eric the organist finished his practice session in the church, he then went into town, purchased an earthenware teapot, hid in the bushes in the churchyard on Sunday morning and when Mrs Baggley went to unlock the church he crept up behind her and brained her with the pot thus speeding up her entry into the next world.

Did you get it right? Did the detective in you suss out that it was Eric? If not, who did you suspect and why?

…

I’m currently working on another comedy murder mystery short story where you will have another chance to play Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple.

Watch this space.

The Power Of A Chat

The amazing and wonderful woman I am proud to share my life with (Ange) has been having some reflexology sessions as part of her recovery treatment from breast cancer. I must confess that I don’t know an awful lot about reflexology and may have perhaps dismissed it in the past as quack medicine. But minds can change and mine certainly has towards reflexology. If it helps the woman I adore then lets crack on with it.

The reflexology session lasts about an hour and so whilst Ange is in there I go to a place called the Sound Bar, which, if you’re interested, is situated right next to the bus station in Skipton. I like the Sound Bar although I do think it’s trying a little too hard to be cool. It really doesn’t need to.

It’s called the Sound Bar because…

It is a bar
It sells music in both vinyl and cd formats

Also, they have regular gigs and performances there and they play some pretty decent music while you’re having a drink or a vinyl/cd safari. Plus, the walls are decorated with all manner of Rock n Roll memorabilia. It’s kind of like stepping back in time to the early eighties so it is extremely retro in that respect.

Anyway, I like going in there and it’s a very rare occasion that I don’t come out of the place with at least one new record in my hand; often several.

And so, last Friday I found myself in there again.

There were only a few people in at that time and so I bought a pint of Guinness Zero and had a quaff before perusing said vinyl. There was a lady seated at the table next to mine, maybe in her early seventies, holding a Yorkshire terrier and drinking a latte. I smiled and said, “How d’you do?” to be polite and then I took a generous swallow of my non-alcoholic stout.

To cut a short story even shorter we began a conversation about music and we discovered our tastes ran along similar lines. We talked of bands we’d seen and whilst I name dropped Wishbone Ash and Uriah Heep, she countered with Hawkwind and Smile. For the uninitiated, Smile was Queen before they were Queen. Wow!

We talked of many other things; grandchildren being one, and I felt quite proud to tell her that Erin at 19 years old is rather fond of Fleetwood Mac. We also talked about dogs and pets in general. I had a Yorkie/Jack Russell cross many years ago (Suzy) and so we found another shared interest.

When I’d first sat down I noticed that there was a certain air of melancholy about her but as we talked her mood seemed to lift. I finished my pint and excused myself as I wanted to look at the records.

My vinyl safari lasted about fifteen minutes or so and I came away with a copy of Foxtrot by Genesis in excellent condition. Feeling rather chuffed I bought another Zero and sat down again. The lady was still there and was now drinking a glass of lager; it being after midday I suppose.

We got to chatting again and she asked me about my walking stick. I gave her a potted history of my health problems and then she told me something that really stopped me in my tracks.

She told me that very recently she had been diagnosed with dementia.

I didn’t quite know what to say at that juncture. Here was a total stranger telling me that basically life is about to get a lot worse for her but still saying it in a chatty and conversational way. Now I knew the reason for her melancholy countenance when I first arrived but the thing is that without us having that chat I wouldn’t have known about her condition as she was so talkative.

Now, I think I realise what was going on.

She was unburdening to me about her diagnosis. Having formed a sort of connection through a shared interest in music, grandkids and dogs she had felt able to tell me about dementia affecting her life. And the amazing thing was that even though she’d told me that she did seem a lot happier than when I’d first met her a mere half hour ago. Relieved almost.

We chatted a little more about Led Zeppelin and Genesis and then she said that she had to go and meet her daughter to whom the little dog belonged. I said something like, “See you later!” which is a bit phatic really. Unless she’s in the Sound Bar the next time I’m in there it’s highly unlikely.

I wish I’d told her that I hoped she would be all right or given her some words of comfort and encouragement instead of those three vacant words I had employed. I was cross with myself to be perfectly honest.

However…

Since then I’ve had a different opinion. It didn’t matter how we finished the conversation, what was more important was the fact that we’d had one in the first place and it had made an improvement to her day. And that, I suppose, is the moral of this story. We should never shy away from engaging with our fellow man or woman. A bit of a chat about music, dogs, art, literature, football, gardening, tea bags, bog snorkelling or whatever the hell else you have in common can make a massive difference to that person’s day.

I realised that our little chat had been a powerful thing and, even though I never even asked her name nor she mine, I like to think that I made a bit of a difference to her.

Ange arrived about ten minutes after the lady had left and had enjoyed her reflexology session immensely. I told her that this woman I’d never met before had confided her dementia diagnosis to me and part of me wished she had been there at the time as she is the most understanding and sensitive person you could ever hope to meet and would have been a much better sounding board for such things – I’m not a great conversationalist at the best of times.

But I’m going to try and do better in the future. I need to make more of an effort with people and take the time to chat with strangers. We all should. You just never know what it might achieve.

New Year, New Whatever…

Happy New Year one and all!

Can it really be a full year ago since the blog post – Good Intentions? It blooming well is you know. So here’s a quick review of the good intentions and what I achieved (and didn’t) in 2024.

Well, on a personal level I managed to lose the pitiful amount of 8 pounds in weight. Piss poor even if I do say so myself. At one point I’d actually lost over a whole stone but then Christmas came along and buggered all that up. So I’m more or less back to the beginning with that.

I have almost stuck to one of my goals that I set myself of going outside every day and getting some fresh air, rather than moping in the flat on bad days. And I came so close to achieving a full 366 days but for one when I was enjoying time with some visiting friends so much that I actually forgot to go out. I could kick myself for that one.

But in other ways I have been better. For instance, dry January ran into dry February, dry March and almost dry April. I broke my duck on April 28^th whilst out for a meal with the family and sank two pints of delicious, cold Guinness. And I’m trying it again this year. Going dry for a month I mean, not drinking two pints of Guinness, although I probably will drink a lot more than two pints of it before the year is out.

I’ve taken much better care of myself in many ways but my health has deteriorated with the arrival of cervical spondylosis, which is quite literally a pain in the neck. Fibromyalgia has run rampant like wildfire through my entire body and I had a cist the size of Bournemouth on my back at one point that required some pretty intense meds to shift.

So health wise it’s not been too great.

As for the old writing lark, well, that’s been an odd one. This is the first year that I haven’t published a book since 2019, when the wonderful Ah Boy! made its debut. Mind you, I did publish a weekly serialisation of a novel called Take a Hike that I wrote almost twenty years ago, which wasn’t very good to be honest, and doesn’t actually count as canon even though it does reference Ingleby but is set mainly in Whitby and therefore is something of an anomaly. It’s a bit like when Sean Connery made Never Say Never Again. Yes, it kind of was a Bond film with many of the usual elements in it but it just wasn’t officially part of the series. That’s how I look at Take a Hike.

This ‘ere blog has suffered a bit; I have to hold my hands up and admit to that. You see I got distracted by the glamorous lure of Substack. I envisaged that when I started posting in May of last year that I would be in three or four figures of subscribers by now.

That hasn’t been the case.

I’m still in the low double figures.

Then, on October the 18^th, my mum was hospitalised after a fall at home. The next two and half months saw Ange and I travel almost 3500 miles up and down the motorway to go and visit her every Friday to Monday. We slept on an air bed on my mum’s living room floor and I’ll leave you to guess how that has affected me physically.

And I’ll let you in to a little secret…

At one point I nearly quit!

I did. I nearly quit writing altogether. I just didn’t have the heart for it anymore. The horrible truth about being an independent author is that it’s frightfully hard to get people to take a chance on you. You see, if my name were David Walliams or Richard Osman or even Jamie Oliver (shudder) then publishers would be fighting each other to get a six-book contract into my sweaty little palms. But I’m not a celebrity, I’m a nobody, and nobody wants to read a nobody. If that makes sense?

But, I didn’t quit. Thanks to good advice from close family and true friends and the wonderful support of my amazing wife I feel a renewed determination at the start of this year. For one thing, Ange has retired now and I have to re-double my efforts at selling my books. Blessham Hall doesn’t get many tourists you see, and what with all the renovations to the front terrace and the owls nesting in the west wing, I really need to get myself paid for what I do.

Anyway, here’s the thing. I’m not setting myself any goals or resolutions for this year. I’m going to write when I write and not stress out on the days when I don’t. I’ve got plans for an anthology of my non-novel writing and I do hope to get the next Archie and Aggie Stone novel finished. It would be nice to start on the next Blessham book as well, which has a storyline I’m really excited about.

But if it don’t happen it won’t happen, and I need to keep a philosophical outlook.

I’d like to be sat here in 365 days’ time and tell you that I’m many stones lighter and several jeans sizes thinner but I’ll be happy with whatever I lose and if I can answer the front door without getting out of breath and breaking into a sweat by then, then I shall feel like a winner.

2025 – Bring It On!

The State of Play

I’m not really sure where to begin with this…

Apologies first I guess, for taking so long to do a blog post from the last one five weeks ago. I did have something pithy, witty and moderately scathing lined up for Halloween but I suppose that will have to wait until next year. But anyway, sincere apologies for taking so long.

Look, it’s been a bloody tough year here at Blessham Hall. One of the toughest in fact, and the last month or so have been extremely challenging. I’d love to report that the challenge has been getting the new novel featuring Archie and Aggie Stone finished but that would be an out and out lie. The challenge has been one on more personal terms.

On Friday 18^th October we received a phone call from my sister-in-law to say that my 92-year-old mother had fallen and broken her hip. Naturally this immediately caused a ton of worry and anxiety for us all and ever since then Ange and I have been travelling the 300-mile round trip to Leicester and back every Friday to Monday to see her and relieve the burden on the rest of the family.

In between I have managed to do a speaking engagement at the local library and a couple of Substack posts but that’s about it. The combination of motorway tailbacks, airbed sleeping, car parking in the middle of Leicester and hospital visits where my mum is talking on a constant loop due to dementia have been very telling on me both physically and mentally.

I’m exhausted.

I even drove home the other week with my TENS machine attached to my aching arms. That’s how bad it is. Trying to change gear around all those wires!

My wife, the lovely Ange, has been an absolute Trojan throughout all of this I have to say. She has supported me better than anyone else could ever have done. I’m so thankful for her.

Love you Ange xxx

But the truth of the matter is that because of all the aforementioned I’m in horrible pain all the time and permanently fatigued. And I mean badly fatigued as well. Not just a little bit tired and in need of a nap; no, I mean I’ve about as much energy in me as…

as…

I don’t even know how to finish that sentence, that’s how low on energy I am.

The other thing is that even despite the lack of energy and physical pain I just can’t seem to find time to write. It’s as if I can’t get any traction going with the laptop. I mentioned the next novel earlier and I have to be honest with you and say that’s it not going to be published this year. In fact, this will be the first year that I have gone without publishing a book since I began my independently-published journey in 2019 with Ah Boy.

And that actually makes me really sad when I think about it.

Of course, I am aware that prior to the current situation I have been labouring long and hard on my Substack output which has in turn made me neglect my first love of novel writing. It’s a lot easier to do a Substack post than it is to churn out an 85,000-word book.

But even Substack is beginning to suffer now and I find myself desperately trying to play catch-up every week. FFS!!! I can’t keep apologising! But that’s what I do.

And I do love writing. I can’t describe to you the immeasurable pleasure that I derive from it. I’m not saying I’m a great writer and I’m not even saying I’m a good one. What I’m saying is that I bloody well love doing it and I just can’t get any done at the moment.

If it sounds like I’m blaming my mum then that’s not the case. I don’t. It’s awful and heart-breaking seeing her the way she is. I’m just trying to convey the effect her accident and the rest of this stinker of a year has had on me; that’s all.

I wanted to put you all in the picture, especially in view of the fact that I’ve had quite an influx of new subscribers lately and I hate to disappoint people. My only excuse, if there is one, is that I do suffer horrendously from fibromyalgia and I do have other health issues as well. I’m just not as resilient as I used to be.

I mean, heck, when I was a younger man you should have seen me go. I was a live-wire of energy, always doing something, even after a hard day’s work. How I long for just a fraction of what I had back then energy wise. These days I’m more like an old worn-out leisure battery. Yes you can charge me up but I’ll run out of charge in no time at all.

Aah bloody hell, I don’t even know where I’m going with this now. It started out as a brief explanation of where I am and it’s turned into some kind of lecture on the physical history of Alan Stevenson.

Sorry folks.

The good news is that my mum has been moved to a lovely rehab hospital now close to where she lives and is getting a lot more visitors and so the pressure on the family is a lot less. So much so that Ange and I have this weekend off from travelling and the airbed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a good quality airbed and we’re extremely grateful for the loan of it from our neighbours – Josie and Glyn; its just not the same as one’s own mattress.

So the immediate future looks a bit better shall we say.

That’s all for now as I can feel the fatigue setting in again but I will try and post again next week. I need a bit of a lie down and then I’m going to try and get Substack back up and running and then tomorrow, hopefully, do a bit more towards the next novel.

Here’s hoping at least.

Love you all.

Al x

Ditties and Desserts

Well first of all, welcome to Blog Post Number 100. Yay!!! I’ve hit the ton. 100 not out etc.

Right, I’ve got that out of my system so on with this week’s entry.

We had the most delightful and fun evening at our local church last Friday. I know that a lot of people don’t associate church with fun and delight but believe me it was. And besides, some of you could do a lot worse than to get your ass to church of a Sunday, but I digress.

The delightful evening I refer to was an evening of poetry called Poems and Puds, which basically did what it said on the tin. It was a time of reading poetry and eating puddings. I ask you, what’s not to like about that?

There were no “professional” poets there, if there is such a thing, just a lot of enthusiasts who got together over apple pie and custard and raspberry pavlova (drool) to read either their favourite poems or ones they had written themselves. And there where quite a few self-written entries.

But I know what your mind is thinking. Did you read out a poem Stevenson?

Actually I did!

My wife (the adorable Ange) is quite the fan of poetry and likes to dabble herself. She attends a poetry group here in Settle and meets regularly with one of our neighbours (Liz) to write and discuss their own work.

So when this event was announced Ange was eager to go. The thing is that on the evening in question we were looking after our daughter’s Labrador (Noel) and so I reckoned I’d be stationed here at Blessham Hall to manage the beast.

That turned out to not be the case. I asked the vicar (Julie) if Noel could come along as well and she said that dogs were more than welcome in the church.

Win win! I was in.

The thing is, you see, that on the Thursday evening I wrote a poem. I had intended for Ange to read it on my behalf but thanks to the vicar’s progressive views on canines I had the opportunity to read it myself.

I’m not a natural poet, although I find it easy to rhyme things. The problem is that whenever I do write poetry it tends to be of the comical kind and turns out to be more Dr Seuss than Alfred Lord Tennyson. And this one was no exception.

I was inspired to write it by a sign on the toilet door at Victoria Hall. The sign said “Gentlemen” and something inside my head went ‘It’ll have to do!’ Not considering myself to be a gentleman.

And it stuck with me all afternoon until I began to put it into verse in my head.

We were paid a visit by our utterly smashing granddaughter (Erin) and went for a nice meal in the Golden Lion (can heartily recommend the fish and chips) and then gave her a lift home to Bingley. It was whilst on the journey that I actually took my phone out, open the notebook app and began to type my thoughts in. By the time we had got back home I had a fully formed poem on my hands. I hasten to add that Ange was driving.

Well, Friday evening soon arrived and after about an hour and a half it came to my turn to read.

Bloody hell, I was shaking like a wet gun dog as I mounted the small stage, praying that I could get a phone signal in the building. Thankfully I could and I opened my little poem and began to speak into the microphone.

I cracked a couple of jokes to break the ice (not that there really was any; good atmosphere actually) and then I cleared my throat and, with a trembling voice, read my hastily car-written opus.

And to my huge relief, when I’d finished I received a very warm round of applause and several nice compliments on it, including one from the vicar herself. Phew! I’d done it. I returned to my seat with a beaming smile on my face.

But what you’re all wondering now is – what was the poem like?

Well, as a special treat for you, here it is in all its glory. Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly present to you…

Gentleman by Alan Stevenson (58 and a quarter)

The sign on the door said Gentlemen

But I was desperate, for the loo

You see I’m not a toff or squire

My blood is red, not blue

That sign it made me start to think

About my lack of airs and grace

I’m not a gent like a Lord or Earl

I’m firmly in my place

I never wear an expensive suit

Don’t own a black bow tie

And I don’t have a monocle

Gleaming in my eye

Don’t have a silk top hat

Or even a jaunty bowler

I drive a battered old Renault

I can’t afford a Roller

Not married to a Duchess

Not wed to a Queen

Well, she is one in my eyes

If you know what I mean?

Don’t live in a mansion

Don’t live in a manor

No posh education

I’m a bit of a spanner

No social climbing

And no fancy etiquette

And I’ve not got bags of money

Just great big bags of debt

I’m not well turned out

And not that well spoken

Don’t have a Rolex watch

My cheap Casio is broken

Don’t eat in high end restaurants

Never have tried caviar

I’d rather have lasagne

That I’ve ordered from the bar

Don’t have a smoking jacket

Don’t play no country sports

I think I would look daft in tweeds

I prefer T shirt and shorts

Don’t know how to play polo

Can’t even ride a horse

My language it ain’t dainty

In fact, it’s sometimes coarse

But, I actually quite like myself

D’you know what, I really do

I’m generous and I’m kind to others

And my words are honest and true

I like to help my neighbours

I’m a good and faithful friend

Love for my fellow man

Well of that I have no end

I’ll open the door for a lady

And chat to a perfect stranger

I’ll give to those who are in need

Help those who are in danger

I don’t judge folks by religion

Or the colour of their skin

If you need a shoulder to cry on

Then brother, I’m always in

I like to have a pint with pals

And spin a good yarn or two

I’m a friend to everyone

Not just the chosen few

I do my best to be my best

A diamond in the rough

My family they all love me

And that’s more than enough

So when my time is over

That day I know not when

I hope people will say I was

One of nature’s gentlemen

The End

So what do you reckon to that then? Not bad for saying I wrote it on my phone in a moving vehicle in the space of an hour or so. I don’t know about you but I’m rather quite chuffed with it and, despite the jitters on the night, I did enjoy reading it.

Where could this lead to? Who knows? I don’t get the poetic muse very often so don’t expect an anthology any time soon. I’m more about prose than poetry. But from time to time I will pop up with the occasional ditty and I hope you will enjoy them.

Inflammation Explanation

I have gotten a little behind with everything this week and I have a truly valid reason. I’ve been as sick as a pike. And not just with the usual stuff, although that has been horrendous too, but I’ve been smitten with a foul and purulent entity on my body that caused me to miss out my Substack posts on Monday and Wednesday.

So look, rather than having to explain everything all over again, how about I just put the Substack post I wrote yesterday, detailing it all, on here for you to read.

Yes, I know it’s a cop out but if you will just have a glance at this then I think you will permit me this one extravagance. Seriously, it’s been that bad.

Anyway, without further ado, check this out…

From Substack: 27^th June 2024

I was struggling for a title for this post. My initial thoughts were “Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder” or perhaps “Come To the Boil” or even “Cyst-ematic!” At one stage I even contemplated “Simon and Carbuncle!” In the end I’ve gone for What’s New Pus-sy Cat? And that’s because I’m currently having a bit of an issue with pus.

I know, I know, gross isn’t it? But it’s a fact of life that from time to time most of us will need a bit of lancing at some point in our lives. And right now, I’ve had a go at it.

I have an abscess on my back the size of the Isle of Wight and it’s making me feel extremely poorly. That’s the reason why I failed to post on Monday and Wednesday; I was feeling just too damned ill.

Like all idiots I tried to lance the seething, glistening, pulsating thing myself and did manage to get some gunk out of it. My beautiful better half also attempted in a less aggressive fashion and got some more out of it using a combination of tea tree oil and hot water. But with every attempt we just seemed to make the thing angrier and angrier and now it’s reached the stage where it resembles a 1:1 scale model of Ayres Rock and I had to seek urgent medical attention.

I didn’t know that our local surgery had an Advanced Practice Nurse but I made an appointment to see her on Monday morning. She was very good and I could see the pity in her eyes as she tended to this poor, old, pus-filled man who had crept into her consulting room like a grotesque and hellish vision of corruption and diseased flesh. I was hoping that perhaps she might have a crack at lancing it herself but no, it had gone way beyond that; the situation called for medication. Strong, powerful medication. Arse-kicking medication.

So I’m now on Flux… floxi… flummox…

…antibiotics.

And they’re having a positive effect already after only 48 hours. I’m much more comfortable to the point where I feel well enough to write and catch up with my Substack and other things. Mind you, I don’t want to get one stuck in my throat; they’re like trying to swallow rugby balls.

I’ve no idea how this thing first came to be either. It just appeared one day and has grown like a well-manured marrow ever since. At first I thought that it might be a bad insect bite as I am terribly prone to having mozzies and horseflies sink their filthy little teeth into me every Summer. But that’s another story. And how does one get an abscess in the first place? I do not know.

Anyway, I’m on the mend now and hopefully can get back to some sort of normality.

Oh! I’ve just thought of another title – Sir Lanced-a-lot! Which, in hindsight, might have been better.

(sigh…)

So there you go. It’s all been rather unpleasant here at Blessham Hall this week, be assured of that. The good news is that the abscess has reduced greatly in size to where it’s more molehill than mountain and I’ve not had any adverse reactions to the medication.

Phew!

I’ll be back with a proper blog post next week.

Thank you for your patience.

In the meantime you can read and subscribe (for free) to my Substack HERE