See anything you recognise?

The year is 1956. It’s Monday morning in the New Cavendish Street offices of Associated London Graphical Artists Ltd. Roger, a promising young illustrator is perched beside his drawing board filling his pipe, when Frank Milward-Taylor, the Managing Director appears in the doorway.

“Roger, glad I caught you old boy, got a little job I’d rather like you to look at.”
“Of course, Sir.”
“It’s another one of those pictorial charts for the medical chaps down at Bristol.”
“Super.”
“Yes, indeed. What they want is a chart illustrating different kinds of stools.”
“Stools, Sir? I’m afraid I don’t quite follow?”
“Shits, Roger, shits.”
“So you’re asking me to draw—“
“Human, Roger, remember they must be human.”
“Human, right.”
“It shouldn’t take too long, the medical boys have provided all the words.”
“I’ll get my brown crayons out then, Sir.”

And here is what Roger produced that morning back in 1956. The fantastically titled Bristol Stool Chart. (I'm mostly a number 6, by the way.)

When I were a lad...

I don’t remember ‘doodlebugs’ and The Blitz or food rationing, I’ve never worn a gas mask, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ doesn’t move me to tears, I’ve never described anything as being ‘wizard’, a tin bath hanging on a rusty nail in the yard means nothing to me, I don’t remember a time when there was a cinema on every corner and I’ve never smoked a pack of Pall Mall’s. The sight of Winston Churchill doesn’t bring a lump to my throat and I wasn’t given driving lessons by ‘a chap’ called ‘Bomber’ McLean in a vehicle that had tracks and a gun turret. Nor would I know whether to boil, poach, scramble or snort powdered egg. I was born in 1972 see. So I have absolutely no right to be saying things like, “You’ll have to slow down, I don’t get about as quick as I used to.” But I have said those words. Those words do belong to me. And there’s plenty more where they came from. “Hang on a minute, I’ll just have to sit down for a bit.” Classic grandpa-speak coming out of my 35 year old mouth. “I’ll be alright once my legs get going.” I can’t seem to help myself though. My joints get a bit stiff, you see. They ache as well. Mostly the hips and lower back and round the knees. So it does take a little while for me to get up a good head of steam. A good head of steam! I’m making steam engine references! My god, this is worse than I thought. UC is turning me into an old man. And most people just think ulcerative colitis is some sort of weird pooing thing. Well just for the record I’d like to put things straight. Ulcerative colitis is a weird pooing thing, but it can also make you feel as rickety as a veteran of the D-Day landings. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll have to stop now because sitting at the computer is playing merry hell with my back.

Sign up! Sign up!

The people at Ulcerative Colitis UK are petitioning the Prime Minister to introduce free prescriptions for patients diagnosed with ulcerative colitis. If you’d like to add your signature, you can do it here (UK residents only). It’s really easy and quite interesting, because the place where you sign is on the official 10 Downing Street website. Yes, 10 Downing Street has a website. I don’t know why, but I felt a bit naughty being on there, like I was snooping round while Gordon Brown was eating his Coco-Pops in the other room. But after I’d signed the petition I couldn’t resist a quick shufty. So I slipped off my shoes so as not to make a noise and had a look around. There’s a lot of boring stuff, but I did manage to find some old historical news films of bygone Prime Ministers. One that caught my eye was called Mr Baldwin and “Old Berkeley”. My mind boggled. What or who was “Old Berkeley” ? And more to the point what business did the Prime Minister have with this so-called “Old Berkeley”? And to get caught on film! I could sniff scandal. This was the Conservatives, after all. My hunch was correct, take a look at the film for yourself, although I must warn you it’s not for the fainthearted. You will be viewing scenes of depravity involving the Prime Minister and animals. Frisky, clearly excited animals. At one point Mr Baldwin affectionately pats a horse on the bottom. Could this be “Old Berkeley” ? Later on the Prime Minister appears to snog a dog. Maybe this is “Old Berkeley” ? We may never know the answer, but one thing is for certain though, we know exactly where the government of 1926 stood on fox hunting.

Trial and errorgghh! (Or why having UC is kind of like being a caveman)

You’re a sort of early primitive man; a heavy set, hairy backed, lowbrow kind of creature. Not quite the full shilling in the brain department, but it’s early days and you’re slowly evolving in your own time. Well, you’re sitting there in your cave entrance minding your own business, picking at a toenail and thinking how best to cover your naked body to keep out the cold. You’re thinking something along the lines of a skirt – but not a skirt – kind of like a skirt but longer and sewn up down the middle – trousers you could call them. You’re just wondering whether leghuggies might be a catchier name than trousers when you hear one of the elders wheezing up the beaten track towards you. At the great age of 24 the elder is known all around for his wisdom. Personally you think he’s a bit full of himself, but who’s going to listen to you, a mere chimplet of 11? Oh-oh, what’s this the elder is carrying? Not more berries surely. The elder does this from time to time. He finds stuff out in the forest and then he brings it back and makes you eat a bit to see if it’s alright. He’ll give you one berry, then he’ll sit and look at you with those beady, wizened eyes, waiting to see if you change colour or you’re sick or have to run off to the lavatory bush for a runny poo. If you don’t suffer any ill effects, he’ll give you two or three berries. The elder repeats this over and over, increasing the amount of berries each time, until you either die or he decides the berries are edible. He uses the youngsters as guinea pigs because they’re usually more resilient. That and they’re less likely to tell him to eff off. As luck would have it, everything he’s given you so far has turned out to be okay. Cousin Carl wasn’t so fortunate. The elder gave him a mushroom, which made his lips swell up like sausages. It would have been fine, but sadly when Carl invented fire he sat to close to it and his lips burst. If only he had pricked them first. The elder is now kneeling before you motioning for you to open wide. No sense in stalling, so you flash him your tonsils and he pops a berry on your tongue. Here goes then. You start to chew, the sour juice hits your taste buds and you feel your cheeks pinch…one…two…three…swallow. Now all you have to do is wait and see what happens.

Now lets take a Kubrick style leap into the future. The date is 25th October, 2007. A man sits at a table staring at a tin of sweetcorn. He opens the tin and with a fork digs out a tiny mound of the plump yellow kernels. He empties the fork into his mouth. He begins to chew. It tastes good. One…two…three…he swallows. Now all he has to do is wait and see what happens.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.5

You know what, I've been thinking. I should just call this The Groundhog Day Diaries.

Wednesday 24th October:
9am Loose stool
10.50am Loose stool
1pm Loose stool
7pm Loose stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Phil! Phil Connors! I thought that was you!

My German History

My German teacher at school was Mr Buxton. A ruddy faced schoolmaster of the old fashioned tweedy variety that became extinct with wooden pencil boxes, inkwells and caning. Our nickname for this relic in tan Clarks shoes was Cabbage. The reason we called him Cabbage is far too cruel to go into here. But let’s remember children can be cruel. And anyway when it came to cruelty we had an extremely good teacher: Cabbage himself. If you’ll excuse my French, my German teacher was a right bastard. His favourite trick was to pull you out of your seat by your hair. If you failed to hand in your homework on time he would physically throw you around the classroom. (Back then bouncing 13-year-old boys off walls was regarded as a legitimate teaching method.) Cabbage also had an obsession with the colour of our socks. If he caught us wearing white socks, which in 1985 was very cool, Buxton would make us take them off and put them in the waste paper bin. We wouldn’t get them back at the end of the lesson either, so we had to spend the rest of the day with no socks on. This was not so cool. In fact it was a bit chilly. German then, wasn’t exactly my favourite subject and I dropped it as soon as I could. As a result my grasp of the language is pretty rudimentary. Though thanks to a youth spent watching Saturday afternoon war films, if ever I find myself in a WWII German prisoner of war camp I have gleaned enough German to scrounge important travel documents from gullible guards called Fritz. But now I have 37 minutes 7 seconds a day to dedicate to learning German once and for all. 37 minutes 7 seconds. That was the result of my experiment last Tuesday when I timed how long I spent on the toilet. That’s not bad, is it? Plenty of time to get to grips with a few verbs or whatever. And this time round I’ll be able to study German without having to worry about being yanked by my hair or having my socks confiscated. Compared to Cabbage’s lessons, it should be a breeze. Alles Gute!

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.4

Look, no Pred! Now what? Is this it? What's supposed to happen next? I'm still going to the toilet four or five times a day. Never a solid stool. Blood from time to time, though not a lot. What are you meant to do when your normal isn't normal?

Wednesday 17th October:
6.20am Loose stool
8.40am Loose stool
1.40pm Loose stool
4.45pm Loose stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Very tired in the evenings, which in turn is very boring.