Missed Rolling Up My Sleeve

I missed my slot for my seasonal flu jab this week which usually would be greeted with a shrug of 'oh well' but today the Health chiefs have issued a warning that there is: 'a realistic possibility that the UK will see a surge in flu cases this winter' and England's deputy chief medical officer, Professor Jonathan Van-Tam, is using the winter of 1989/90 and the 19,000 excess deaths as a marker of what to expect this season.
The report mentioned a triple threat of coronavirus, flu and respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) due to
extremely low flu infection rates last winter means community immunity will be much lower as we head into the flu season.
In an average year, 11,000 people die from flu in England while in 2020, the death toll from Coronavirus was 72,178 so to have both circulating at the same time is a worrying prospect, especially at the UK Government seem to have given up any pretense of battling Coronavirus and we are currently contracting 40,000 new cases a day in what is considered to be the time of lowest transmission.
With the economy tanking spectacularly due to the madness that is Brexit and the strain of the Coronavirus struggle, the Government will be desperate to try to avoid another expensive lock-down although the cynic in me say's that the last 15 months Covid implications has acted as a very convenient fig leaf to blame all the problems on and not the Brexit deal they gave us which saw many EU citizens driving lorries and picking fruit decide that Britain was not a place they wanted to be.
I am sure that i will get a text inviting me to another session where i can roll up my sleeve and close my eyes because where generally i would have had that internal argument about i haven't had flu for 20 years so it isn't such a priority, i think i will make the effort to chase it up this year.

Howay The Human Rights Abusers

How a consortium headed by the reprehensible human rights abuses, torture, executions, state-sanctioned assassinations, bombings and responsible for the killing of journalist Jamal Khashoggi passed the FA's fit and proper person's test is a good question they will obviously dodge answering but while the unloved Mike Ashley disappears off into the sunset with his back pocket bulging with £300 million notes in it, the new guys from Saudi Arabia are the latest to join in the game of Football Manager 2021 which is the Premier League.
Of the 20 clubs currently in the Premier League, there are only four owned by Brits in the shape of Norwich, Brentford, Tottenham and Brighton while the rest are the playthings of billionaires from elsewhere.
There are Americans in the top seats at Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United and Burnley and a mix of Brit and Yankee at West Ham United and Crystal Palace and an Iranian/Brit partnership at Everton.
Italians control things at Watford and Leeds and then out comes the atlas to see Russians at Cheslea, United Arab Emirates at Manchester City, Honk Kong at Wolverhampton, Thai at Leicester, Aston Villa is run by an Egyptian and the Chinese at Southampton.  
So with the Newcastle changing rooms clothes pegs now expected to containing the jackets of many £100m players very soon, Newcastle fans have been wetting themselves since the news broke yesterday although i doubt many have stopped celebrating Ashley’s departure and their new found billions to consider that they are actively cheerleading on behalf of a replacement responsible for far worse atrocities than the unloved chubby shop owner who wasn't great but as far as i can remember, he never exploited them as propagandists trying to polish its global image.

Not A Smart Move By Insulate Britain

The 'Insulate Britain' protest is a worthwhile cause but wow are they going the wrong way about it by blocking busy roads during rush hour.
The tipping point was when motorists physically dragged them out of the way to allow an Ambulance through, that was when any semblance of public support went out the window.
Now into the 12th day of protests, the activists claim they will continue until the government commits to a national programme providing insulation for 29 million homes therefore reducing CO2 emissions which isn't going to be happening anytime soon unfortunately.
I'm all for the reasoning that it's the squeaky wheel that gets the grease and without the protests going on, nobody would be talking about the CO2 emissions leaking from uninsulated homes, but once the public tunrs against you, then you may as well pack up your banners and go home because it would only be public support that would force the Government to do anything.
Home Secretary Priti Patel has already used the blocking of roads to set in motion further tightening of protests which may well be supported by those who are late for work or unable to travel freely and although it may well end this particular one, it will have far reaching consequences going forward.
The clock is ticking on the climate crisis, after years of feet dragging it may already be too late and future generations are in for a rough ride thanks to the ignorance and stupidity of previous generations, but this isnt the way to do it and the lasting memory will be the woman pleading with the unmoving protesters to let her through to visit her mum in hospital.
Got to be smarter than this to make your argument and take the public with you.

Special Guest Blogger: Robert Liston

The 19th Century wasn't exactly known for its state-of-the-art medical facilities, it was a time in history when getting a splinter was enough reason to go coffin shopping and main treatment for pretty much anything was chopping off the affected bit of body which was every bit as effective as it sounds as in terms of pain and survivability, it all depended on how quick the surgeon was, anesthetic not yet being a thing.
I was known as the 'fastest knife in the West' during my time as chief surgeon and trainer at The Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh and held the record of amputating a mans leg and his testicles in just under 2 and a half minutes although the testicles were an accident in my haste, i would have apologised to him afterwards only he died of gangarene like so many of the patients.
Working so fast there was always going to be accidents but my blood stained frock coat was testament to my skill, the more blood and pus on the coat, the busier and therefore more sought out the surgeon and i would spring across the stained boards upon the strapped-down patient in-front of medical students and the flash of my knife was followed swiftly by the rasp of saw on bone clasping the bloody knife between my teeth.
Such was the blur of the knife that one time i took off the patients leg, two fingers of my assistant who was holding down the patient and accidentally slashed a watching official who fainted and later died of shock although actually all three later died, the patient, assistant and spectator, i did it all remarkably quickly.
It took just over 3 minutes of slashing to help the man who came to me with a 45-pound scrotal tumour, so heavy he had to carry it round in a wheelbarrow but two of my students were James Simpson and Joseph Lister who would go on to be pioneers of chloroform and anesthetic techniques.
It was said that such was my legacy that some patients had a heart attack just by looking at me but this was Scotland and to be fair, it's probably not all that difficult to induce heart attacks in people whose favorite dessert is a deep-fried Mars bar

Special Guest Blogger: Billy Tipton

Throughout history, men and women have disguised themselves as the opposite sex, some of them really, really well right up until some surprise genitals turn up, or don't turn up, in a medical emergency.
Born Dorothy with all the required female bits, i loved jazz and tried to join my Missouri High School band and was told no women allowed because they lacked testicles, which are obviously necessary for making music, so i returned home to Oklahoma, started binding my breasts and dressing as a man and joined bands calling myself Billy Tipton.
At first it was just to fool people so i could play jazz gigs, but i dug it so much and nobody seemed to realise that i was a woman and when i became the leader of a band playing on KFXR radio and began touring the Midwest and greater things were coming down the line such as a recording deal, i realised that i had to keep my secret, declared myself a full time member of the penis owning club and so began living full time as a man.
Our success grew and we began getting more work and were performing at all the top clubs along with all the big names of the era and still nobody noticed the guy at the front pounding the piano keys was actually a female.
Incredibly, i got away with it during several relationship with women including four 'wives' to who i explained the lack of bedroom activity was down to a serious car accident and the bandaged chest was broken ribs from when i was a child and nothing down there worked so we had better visit the orphanage if children were required.
I was the adopted 'father' to three sons but in the late 50's jazz was on the way out and rock n roll was on the way in so i decided to bail out while the going was still good and took my well disguised womanly bits to Spokane, Washington to became a talent broker.
I managed to keep my secret until i was on my death bed, dying from a peptic ulcer and the paramedics who were trying to save my life removed my shirt to give me CPR and things either popped out or failed to pop out, possibly both, and my son William got the surprise of his life.
My son, bless him, had me cremated to try and keep my secret but word got out and four very shocked 'wives' and band mates turned up at my funeral service but i could never work out if i had been very, very clever or the people around me all that time were very, very stupid.

Special Guest Blogger: Peter I Of Portugal

Romeo and Juliet has nothing on the passion, drama, blood and despair in the tale of Inês de Castro and I. Grab your tissues, because trust me, anyone who reads this tale of star-crossed lovers is going to need them.
Being the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Portugal sounds like a pretty sweet deal on the surface, but when my father came to me and told me i was getting married to the Castilian Princess, Constanza Manuel of Vilena, in a political alliance, i was only 8 years old and my first question was can I finish my ice cream and jelly first?
We were married soon afterwards but it was four years later until we met for the first time and she was pleasant enough but it was her lady in waiting, Inês de Castro, that caught my eye and the greatest love story of Portuguese history began.
My wife was already a distant memory as i met Inês in secret but we were rubbish at the secret bit and we got caught and my father banished Inês from the court to stop me from seeing her but i just ran off to be with her.
Seeing his political advantage slipping away, my father proposed i marry another princess but i said i only wanted to marry Inês but he refused
so we lived as a married couple and had several children but my father knew that he had to shake me free from Inês and could only think of one feasible way to do it.
I went on a weekend hunting trip and upon hearing of my trip, my father ordered three of his men to pay Inês a visit and they took along a huge sword with them which they used to decapitate her.
Now comes the blood bit because i went as berserk as only a man who comes home to find his wifes head in one room and her body in another could and spent a year along with the Castilian army run by Inês’s brothers who were none too pleased by their sister’s decapitation, sweeping through the country invading towns and cause as much chaos as possible and was about to ravage Porto when my mother got message to me that my father was dying and the crown would be passed onto me as heir and to generally stop being a dick as i was destroying the country i was set to rule over.
With the crown on my head, one of my first acts was to set out to find the three men that took Inês’s life but one managed to escape but i found the other two, dragged them back to Portugal and tied them up in the public square.
I did consider lopping off their heads but instead plumped for ripping one man’s heart out through his back and ripped the other man’s heart out through his chest and then declared although Inês was dead, being the old romantic that i was, she was still the rightful queen and should have the coronation ceremony and exhumed her body from her grave, sat her on the throne, dressed her with a crown and royal robes, and forced all my vassals to approach and kiss her decaying hand.
As no one really wanted to argue with the man that had just ripped out the hearts of two men, most members of the court decided to go with it and make her queen and then i had her re-buried in one of two tombs i had constructed facing each other with the words 'to the end of time' enscribed between them at the Monastery of Alcobaça where i joined her ten years later and we continue to look each other to this day. Beautiful.

Special Guest Blogger: Ignaz Semmelweis

Sometimes a little guy will wander onto History's highway and manage to do something that changes the world for the better, and in a huge way but not only not get recognised but die in a mental hospital for it but i'm not bitter. Okay a bit maybe.
I worked as a doctor and trainer at the Obstetrical Clinic of the Vienna General Hospital where we had two clinics, a training one and a second one run only by midwives with no actual doctors or students but the first one had such an awful rate of disease and mortality that pregnant women would beg to be admitted to the second one which had hardly any deaths.
My story starts when i was sat there one day and pondered why the women who came to our clinic not only gained a baby but a deadly disease so i began comparing the two and the only difference was the first clinic had students learning birthing, autopsying and everything in between and the second was run just by midwives and then after a colleague died after being poked by a scalpel and his autopsy discovered he had the same disease most of the women were dying from, the light-bulb flashed that the students were carrying particles on their hands and instruments from the autopsy room to the patients they examined in the first Clinic, contaminating the women with the disease from the autopsies.
I instructed the students to perform a simple hand washing task after handling dead guys and immediately got the death rate down to 1% and excited by my discovery, i wrote a book suggesting that doctors and students should wash their hands and instruments between the autopsy room and the birthing rooms and it would drastically reduce the contamination.
You would think that i would be chaired on shoulders around Vienna in triumph but what happened was monocles popped out all over Europe as the continents stuffiest old coots dropped their morning cognacs in unison and harrumphed in rage, as elegant ladies swooned in horror at the suggestion that doctors hands were dirty enough to kill people.
At this point i possibly could have accepted my request was too radical for a profession that decided blood letting was the sharp edge of medical technology and just quietly gone about my job but i took the other option of writing angry letters to all the prominent doctors who were rejected and ridiculing my discovery and calling them morons, ignoramuses and murderers which saw me dismissed from my job at the hospital.
Jobless and with the ridicule continuing, i began to drink heavily and sought out prostitutes and would rant about how only i knew the secret of how doctors were killing their patients which was so embarrassing for my family and the medical profession that they invited me to have a look at the new Viennese Insane asylum which proved to be a bad move on my part because when i got there they grabbed me, threw me into a straight jacket and tried to lock me in a cell.
A struggle ensued and i was beaten so badly by the guards that i died from my wounds two weeks later.  Years later Joseph Lister actually took my findings and confirmed them in his Germ Theory of Disease and the rest of the world came around to the concept of washing their hands to keep from getting sick and decided that i wasn't a nut after all and named me as a pioneer of antiseptic policy, named medical universities and put my face on stamps and even named a minor planet after me but too late ignoramuses, far too late.

Special Guest Blogger: St Francis of Assisi

First off my name was the very Italian Giovanni, but my father was a lover of all things French so he nicknamed me Francesco which was shortened to Francis but that wasn't what he called me when i began giving away the profits of his silk store after a vision told me to help out funding the rebuilding of a local Church.
When he found out i run and hid in a cave for about a month but got hungry and stank so i returned home and he locked me in a storeroom but my mother let me out so i ran away again to a local Priest but my dad took legal proceedings to stop any inheritance i was due so broke, destitute and still stinky, i wandered as a beggar in the hills behind Assisi before ending up with a bunch of monks who gave me a job carrying stones for the restoration of their monastery.
Over the course of two years i had restored several ruined chapels in the countryside around Assisi but being surrounded by all that religious paraphernalia had an effect and i decided that i should bring the word further afield and luckily for me the crusades were going on at the time so i set off for Jerusalem to try and convert the Muslims and end the war.
On the first attempt we were shipwrecked off the Italian coast and the second time i fell ill and had to return but third times the charm and i rocked up in Egypt at the Sultan of Egypt's place.
Kindly, he quit bisecting Crusaders long enough to grant me an audience and i told him all about how Jesus knocked Muhammad into a cocked hat and to prove it i had a brainwave to invite a group of his Muslims and me as a Christian to walk into a fire and see who came out unscathed.
I'm gonna say that there is a good chance that i didn't think that through completely, i cannot emphasize enough how little I was thinking to be fair but thankfully they all refused before i turned a crispy shade of burnt to a cinder but the Sultan was so impressed by my maniac plan that he didn't turn me into a Christian kebab and instead gave me permission to preach Christianity unhindered in his lands which is quite decent of him considering he was in the midst of fighting a bunch of Christians who were trying to kill him.
What i am most known for is my relationship with animals, not in a welsh sheep farmer type way, i would communicate with them, telling one wolf to stop eating the local townsfolk and preaching to the woodland animals but when you turn up at your kids Nativity Play and sit through an awful version of Little Donkey while wearing your best tea-towels on their heads, you can thank me because i also came up with that.
I used real animals so the audience could use all their senses, mostly smell, those animals really didn't care where they went.
I probably would have come up with some more cool stuff as well only God had other plans and he gave me a vision of an angel being crucified which started up my stigmata and i died weeks later to start a new career as the patron saint of animals so be nice to them, especially wolfs, my favourite furry thing but i wouldn't give one a cuddle, it will rip your face off. Cute though.

We Do Deserve Better

Not that i have any sympathy with Boris Johnson and the rest of the Conservative Party but it isn't easy once you have been in power for a decade to say what things need improving and how they are going to do it because the obvious answer is you been in power since 2010 so why haven't you done it before?
At the last election their slogan was 'We Deserve Better' which seems quite a comment on their performance but not enough people agreed because they were voted back in again so we ended up with more of the same which to be honest hasn't been great.
So this week the grand poo-bahs of the Conservative Party land in Manchester for their annual jamboree to a backdrop of fuel shortages, supply line disruption, Benefit cuts, containers mounting up at ports, food shortages for months, empty supermarket shelves, a lack of medicines in
pharmacies, tax increases and a host of humiliating U-Turns on bringing back the foreign labour they couldn't kick out fast enough due to Brexit, good luck with that.
Boris and the gang are keen to point out that the shortages are not due to the Foreign exodus while at the same time easing the laws and writing to the foreigners about how they can come back and work here.
On the Sunday media trips this morning Boris Johnson managed to make a point of how hew is saving Christmas while admitting that the supply chain problems with HGV drivers will mean a shortage of things this Christmas and saying that the festive season would be 'considerably better than last year' which as he cancelled, is not the best boast.
What is most shocking is that the Conservatives are 8% ahead of of Labour in YouGov's latest poll which is a damning indictment on Labour Leader Keir Starmer who did such a bang up job of making a pigs ear of the Labour conference this year but if you can't overhaul easily the worst Prime Minister the nation has ever had and his motley crew of money grabbing cheats and liars, then he should be stepping aside for someone like Angela Rayner who isn't afraid to call the PM exactly what he is.

Special Guest Blogger: Greek/Roman God Priapus

Throughout history man has believed in something whether it was the Greeks with Zeus, the Romans with Jupiter or the Norse with Odin while today God and the baby Jesus seem to be the dominant mythology so there have been a lot of Gods and such deities lifted up to the heights and worshiped only to be dumped when a newer one cames along.
Many are sitting impotently in the history books but not all, some are in plain sight even if you don't know it which brings me neatly to me and Garden Gnomes.
The modern era looks pretty cool especially as most gardens have at least one Gnome plonked outside the front garden amongst the Rhododendron's and Hydrangea and catching imaginary sealife with fishing rods or holding a garden implement and are homage to a huge cocked Greek God, me.
I was a son of Aphrodite and a very minor Greek deity responsible for gardens and my thing (all Greek Gods have a thing) was that Zeus's Wife, Hera, in a fit of pique over losing a contest to my mother over an apple, cursed me with a massive penis which i once used to beat a donkey who cock blocked me with the goddess Hestia.
As with all religions, when the Roman's came to conjuring up their own religion they stole the Greek one and adopted me as their own and kept me in charge of gardens and as so, Romans had small statues built of me with my tremendously impressive penis and placed them in their gardens as tribute.
Roll forward a few centuries and while European knowledge of each other grew and expanded, the religions changed and absorbed bits and pieces from other religions to make up new ones, the small statue of me with the whacking great wang remained protecting and looking after even more gardens.
Over time, my penis shrank and withdrew into a pair of trousers as my appearance underwent a change to protect sensitive European eyes from the scary looking Greek/Roman God to cute Gnome although my hat, called the Phrygian cap, remained the same.
What this all means is that out of all the Gods and deities who have been around since man conjured up the idea of a creator, i am the one who has been around the longest and the one who we still pay homage to, even if you didn't know it.  
I can only thank Hera that her curse on me meant that over two millennium later, i am still having statues erected in my honour while the rest of her crowd are long forgotten and inadvertently making me the last deity from the Greek God era still standing.