Nobby the Northern Dinosaur
Cheerio
Hello! You all right? Nobby the Northern Dinosaur here.
Last place I expected to spend Christmas was in Coma, but if War taught us owt, it were how to cope.
This time of year, Hospital bed, count your fucking Blessings. It makes you reflect on your Life and I've done plenty of reflecting, I can tell you, lying here. Doctors and Nurses say my Condition is Persistent Vegetable.
Which is fucking rich, I must say, considering my Views on Salad. As I said to Lads in my Imagination, why not Persistent Pie State, something sound, or fucking Ale.
God, could I fucking murder a pint now, it feels like nothing's gone into me for days. Good week since I wet myself or had a Brainwave.
Only sorry I can't smell owt. The Christmas tree, I used to like. Me and the wife used to get ours from Len, who had a pal in Forestry. Smell of pine, cracking. And the food, obviously, the turkey dinner and that. Excitement all round, specially with the children SHUT YOUR FUCKING NOISE I could have murdered them sometimes but luckily Carole always made a point of shouting 'Not the head, Nobby!'
Christmas 1961, I always remember. Same upside down, like. Great film on, a cowboy. Something Canyon. Churchill still alive, and the lad Kennedy who I always got mixed up with Perry Mason. Or Donald Pleasance. With him, he always took the part of a baddie. You see what I'm driving at? You were told such and such, and believed it. Or it came to blows.
At the Time I was in the Merchant Navy. Away a lot. Come home, everything changed. Carole drinking. Away a lot. Her from Nigeria, not a fucking clue about how folk lived in Wigan, trying to fit in but to be perfectly honest people spat.
There used to be these great fucking Christmas Lights on at Club. Guinness Is Good For You. Little plaster animals on clockwork, a bit worn after years of use but there was something, I don't know, about the way they trembled as they went along the rails...it chokes me up. What birds call a Bailey's Moment.
Wish I could smell something. But I can't smell owt, or see owt, or touch owt, or fucking taste...but I can hear, and understand.
Staff are right, there is no Next of Kin. Carole moved to Bletchley with the children - I remember, David Essex was Number One. 1976, that was the last card I had. Nurses are wonderful, but they couldn't save our youngest, Helen, who was Spina Bifida. I was absent from the funeral itself, plus I came down with something.
The shit I've heard in my life...
He's a cunt because he's from London.
Black people all go pop-eyed when you say 'You're not on the guest list'.
Asians wear nappies.
Gay people are eyeing up your children.
Certain types of folk are better.
Fucking Corrs.
At least I've still got some hearing, though to tell you the truth that seems to be firing on three cylinders at the moment coming and going though it may be the reception i get confused with the voices i'm ok if people whisper really close usually saying sorry or it's for the best or dignity but there was one christmas in the mid-50s everyone in dressing gowns dancing in front of the wireless everything was a bargain there's something happening in my tunnel my funnel some puppet i saw on someone else's telly strings like fucking rope man and the waste of it all im sorry im sorry i didn't know i hope that's been of some help cheerio
