Friday, August 29, 2008

Hung, Well Hung

Edit: for Despatie - see below, and here.

Our new piece of art arrived yesterday, and under my surpervision (I'm still in a little discomfort following yesterday's "procedure"), has been hung by Xfe.

Sidoli

It's called View from Southbank, by Louis Sidoli.

The drawing is printed onto glass, then hand panted. Because the glass tiles are fired to set the painting, they are bubbled and raised, so the light catches it at different angles.

DSC01420

The process makes each of the "prints" (they are an edition of 50) unique.

DSC01418
It's pretty heavy and we had to get 3 heavy duty picture hooks, requiring 6x10mm holes to be drilled to take wall plugs to accommodate 8mm screws. Probably we could have used 2 hooks, but the 3rd was for safety, just in case, though the hooks are pretty solid, I'm sure.

So, that's a job well hung.

Talking of which I thought I'd be excused showing this picture of Canadian Olympic diver Alexandre Despatie which is not as gratuitous as the picture suggests.

It seems to me that it rather fits in with the underlying theme of this posting...















Which finally takes me back to my experience yesterday with the flexi-cystoscopy.

I consider that I have a low pain threshold, and I was worried about uncomfortable the procedure might be.

I'd talked it over with mon C.

But I still had a rather sleepless night. So much so that I couldn't sleep and I decided to get up at 1.50am on Thursday morning. I did a little more research using the internet. But this time I decided to research the pleasure that some people take from the experience of having objects inside the shaft of your knob.

It didn't take me long before I discovered the world of sounding.

Sounds are instruments for probing and dilating passages within the body. The sexual pleasure is derived from inserting these into the external orifice of the urethra, from which urine is ejected during urination (ok, the piss-hole). Usually these are pushed down to the base of the shaft, but it seems other toys and items, such as catheters, may be introduced deeper (in some cases even into the bladder).

Some items may even be allowed to curl several times or expand within the bladder. This action in the male may be directly or indirectly associated with stimulation of the prostate gland and some types of bladder control.

Here's what the sounds look like, and believe me, these are just the tip (ahem) of the iceberg when it comes to size...

Apparently, most men can, without discomfort, take a much larger sound than you might imagine. One sexpert notes that an average guy can handle a 24Fr to 28Fr without trouble. That's between 7.2mm - 8.4mm. Almost one centimetre.

Anyway, it's easier to see the process in action rather than to describe it, and I'm sure you can work out as well as I where to go to see some sounding action. And to come to a view for yourself as to whether it stimulates...or not.

But, as far as I was concerned I wanted to be as positive about the discomfort. I wanted to rid myself of the negative associations of the pain and discomfort that I might experience, and tried to get myself into the mindset that it could be a sexually stimulating experience. Could in the sense of being for some people, not necessarily for me, and probably less so in the hospital. Though it also appears that the experience of subjecting oneself to a medical inspections is a whole other fetishist dream.

In the event, as positive as I tried to be, it was difficult to see how I could find the procedure stimulating when I:
  • saw the incontinence mat on the operating table that I was to lie on
  • met the two middle aged, matronly nurses, that would be assisting the surgeon
  • saw the thickness of the cystoscope (I just about cried)
Having the anaesthetic "injected" into the shaft of my penis was the most uncomfortable sensation. Fortunately no needle was involved, it was a syringe down my pee-hole. But it was injected hard, with force and made me flush (discomfort, not embarrassment).

The cystoscope was attached to some saline (I guess it was saline) which was pumped into my bladder. I constantly wanted to piss (and indeed saw after that I had). I had to cough, I'm guessing to get the cystoscope past my prostrate and into my bladder.

I felt the camera move around inside me, my bladder constantly filling.

Nope. I don't think bladder control as sex play is for me!

Still. Hung. Well hung. Job done.

Edit: for Despatie - see here.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

The Procedure

I'm not at work today. I have to go back to the hospital, following my recent stay there for a follow-up "procedure".

The internet is both a blessing and a curse. I can research exactly what this involves, though perhaps ignorance would have been preferred.

Now I know why I've been told it may be extremely uncomfortable.



I'm sure you don't need to be told how this finds its way inside me. Suffice to say that there might be some fetishists who would pay money for that sort of thing.

For any of you so inclined, you can read the gory detail of what is involved here.



Originally I was told I would have a general anaesthetic, but I'm assured it will be done with a local. Hmm. Not sure whether assured is the correct word to use...

Wedding Presents

When mon C and I got married we were given some money by way of wedding presents from my parents, one of my aunts and one of my cousins.

We decided to keep it until the moment was right, and we found something that we both liked, and wanted.

We found it today.

On South Molton Street there is an art gallery, where we saw this, by Louis Sidoli:



View From Southbank


Two of the most iconic landmarks in London. A very old one and a very new one: the converted Tate Modern and the Millennium Footbridge as viewed from the South Bank.

It's printed onto glass then hand painted, so although an edition of 50, each is unique. That aside it looks great.

The problem now, however, is finding a wall to hang it on.

Coincidentally, here's my version from the pic I took at night recently, and seen here. Though it's cropped and flipped, it's not too dissimilar. I guess you can work out why the Sidoli appealed to me.



Thanks, Mum & Dad, Aunt E. and S.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Is Bank Holiday Monday Gay?

It's the Autumn Bank Holiday, the sky is heavy and threatening rain.

Mon C and I are lying in bed, listening to radio 4, him reading Saturday morning's Guardian Weekend supplement and me pondering just how many of us are using the internet to find out who might be gay, and why (why we bother)?

As I've mentioned on more than one occasion, I'm perpetually puzzled by how many visitors arrive here because they have asked Google if Ben Whishaw is gay.

So, it being bank holiday Monday:

Is Ben Whishaw gay?



Well, according to a recent interview he gave to the Independent (4 July 2008), he did confess to having a "man of the moment" who he finds both "mystic" and a bit of a "whirling dervish".

However it turns out to be 12th-century Persian poet Rumi.

"I read his poems every day. They are teaching me how to live. "

However, he is an actor, and does seem to take a certain amount of pride in his hair.



Is David Tennant gay?

No. Absolutely not. He is Doctor Who.



But, "it’s ok to think Doctor Who is gay," said Tennant in a 2008 interview he gave to the Times.

And, in January 2006, readers of the British gay and lesbian newspaper The Pink Paper voted Tennant the "Sexiest Man in the Universe" over David Beckham and Brad Pitt.

Is John Barrowman gay?

Unfortunately, yes.

Is Michael Phelps gay?

Well, prior to the Olympics he was reported as saying that he did not have a girlfriend. He said that he was focusing on swimming and his college studies. He said he doesn't have a girlfriend and he leads a pretty quiet life. He said he hangs out with his friends like any other college guy and he's just focusing on the Olympics.

According to this source, the mainstream media is reporting that Phelps has a girlfriend who is in contact with him daily. But as "there is little evidence that they are a sexually active couple," this "begs the question if Michael Phelps is gay".

Hello! Given that in peak training phases Phelps will swim at least 80,000 meters a week, I'm not surprised he may not be sexually active. That's nearly 50 miles. Maybe the guy needs a rest?



Is US swimmer Ryan Lochte gay? Is Dutch gymnast Epke Zonderland gay?

Probably not. Still I thought it was excuse enough to salute these Olympians (well, to salute their bodies).


Epke, Lochte and Epke

Epke pics taken by Dutch photographer Ewoud Broeksma.

czechOUT Broeksma's “Original Olympics” site, featuring athletes who have competed in the Olympics, with information on buying Broeksma’s calendar featuring athletes (scroll down the page for the English translation).

Is Dame Elton John gay?

That one is a little less straight forward. It depends on when you ask.

Before he became a Dame, Sir Elton announced he was bisexual and so married German recording engineer Renate Blauel on Valentine's Day, 1984, in Sydney. But they divorced four years later. Lady Elton later renounced his bisexuality and came out as being gay instead.


Renate Blauel and David Furniture

In 2005 he married his partner, Canadian born advertising-salesman David Furniture.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

He Really Moved Me

Team GB's performance in Beijing has been inspiring - the perfect appetizer for London 2012.

I've been monitoring the Medals Table all week, proud (and I never thought I'd say it) of Team GB's performance, and actually not disappointed that we've been pipped at the post by Russia after 7 consecutive days in 3rd place* overall.

Of course, that chap's not part of Team GB, but he was equally inspiring and just goes to prove that even with those ears you can still be the fastest man in water ever.

How exciting that, as of tomorrow, London becomes the Olympic Host City.

I have 4 tickets for the VISA 2012 Party at the Mall tomorrow afternoon, to celebrate the handover. Unfortunately we can't use them as we have to take the BP's to the airport.

Michael Phelps** will be there if he's your type...



Can anyone use them?

This Argentine gay website has the scoop of the Olympics - American swimmers Michael Phelps and (even better) Ryan Lochte are gay! Well maybe not.

Those rumours about Lochte were probably wishful thinking, though if truth be told, he did seem to adjust himself rather frequently. And it wasn't just me who noticed.



Yup, Ryan Lochte. Rather tasty. Olympic gay athlete hero 2008.

Though probably not gay. Unlike Australian gold medalist diver Matthew Mitcham, who is openly gay.



And seen here in (ouch), action-but not that kind of action. Go Matty, baby Daddy.


gay Matthew Mitcham olympic medalist
Top or bottom? What do you think?

Still, for me the sexiest Olympian ever was Alexi Nemov. Showing here...



*Official IOC ranking, not US ranking. And they say China manipulates reality...




Look how NBC (as also other American officialdom) ranks the US first. Human rights for the land of the free. Free press... Olympic 2008 cheats USA - shame on you!

**Perhaps he will answer those burgeoning questions such as have brought readers to my blog (why, I don't know):

Would you suck Michael Phelps penis if you thought it would give you a fraction of his skill?

How big is Michael Phelps penis?


Oh, and on that theme, lets never forget:

Is Ben Wishaw Ben Whishaw Ben Whisaw gay?

Friday, August 22, 2008

Beaux Parents

The beaux parents are in town again, and they have arrived with the most delicious of treats:




Cheese, sausage and (not shown), wine.

Following last weekend's exploits, and beyond, I've been taking it easy this week, working from the office most mornings and from home in the afternoon. This morning I'm on my blackberry (both a curse and a blessing) and mobile, and this afternoon it's a half-day carried forward from our anniversary when I had the day off, but had to deal with clients during the afternoon.

In effect I'm out all day with Xfe, belle mere and beaux pere. Such a nice way of referring to the in-laws don't you find?

My 10-year old nephew has been staying with my parents for a couple of weeks. I'm trying to harden his resolve as a Dr Who fan, and sent him 3 classic stories on DVD for those rainy days in the north-east of Scotland.

The result was a series of phone calls asking those akward questions my parents couldn't (or were to embarrassed to) deal with:

"Why are the Time Lords still alive?"

"When were the time-wars?"

"Why was the Doctor at the birth of the Daleks when he had met them before?"

Oh the intricacies of time travel.

Monday, August 18, 2008



David Sloman,
Chief Executive,
The Whittington Hospital NHS Trust,
Magdala Avenue,
London,
N19 5NF


Dear Mr Sloman

I wish to thank you for the attention I received as a patient at the Whittington Hospital over the weekend past. I realise that where thanks are due, they may rarely be given.

I was seen within 10 minutes of arriving at the A&E with the referral letter from my GP, which I presented on arrival. It mattered little that the nurse who first saw me could not read a word of it and I had to recount the reasons for my arrival. I struggle to understand my GP as well.

It was less than 15 minutes after before I saw a Doctor. I know it was a Doctor because he treated me, though an introduction would have been appreciated, at least for reassurance.

On admittance to the Victoria Ward I have to admit I was nervous. I had heard all about MRSA and the risk of infection at hospital. Finding myself in a surgical ward I was on “high alert”. I was reassured by the alcohol-gel to be found everywhere and the signs alerting staff, patients and visitors to the risks. Unfortunately, the filthy toilet and shower I found on my first visit to the facilities far from reassured me. I was welcomed by urine all over the floor, and a toilet splattered with excrement.

Staff were focussed on responsibility – lack of responsibility for my personal possessions. I was told twice about the forms that I would have to sign absolving them of responsibility. It was emphasised that I would be asked to check-in valuable possessions with security at the hospital, otherwise the hospital would disclaim responsibility. I was never once told about my admission to the ward, what I needed to do and what would/should happen, nor about clinical care.

Only when I went to bed after 1am was I “admitted” (in terms of having someone go through and filling forms with me). Ironically, although I had been “warned” about it on the side, even though I noticed that I was signing that I had been asked if I had valuables to leave with security, I was not in fact asked, nor was I given the option to do so.

Still at after 1am it was not my priority, nor that of the nurse obviously. Perhaps the security service is only available at more social hours.

I was distressed about my personal security given the state of certain other patients wandering around the ward. Nothing was explained to me. Nevertheless I suspect that the anxiety I felt about my security was inconsequential all factors considered and I would still have drifted to sleep after 3.30am anyway, being a light sleeper.

It was comforting to have to give all my details again-including those of my GP that I’d given to the receptionist on first arrival. Working with computers all day I know how frustrating it is when detail does not transfer between sysytems. It is unfortunate that the time the receptionist at A&E took inputting all the detail from my GP referral letter including GP details (I know because she asked me to confirm them) did not survive the computer communication and they were unknown to the nurse on the ward. Technology, huh!

What humour. Your technology (or human inputting error) even transposed my forename and surname. On the ward, despite my telling them, I was Mr Scotland MadeIn (and I noticed the only one on the board with their name back to front). When the consultant greeted me as Mr Scotland I felt like I was back at school and my polite history teacher was calling on me.

Thankfully the junior Doctor who accompanied him came back to ask if my first name was actually MadeIn rather than Scotland. [personal detail removed here].

I had heard of the horror stories of NHS patients getting the wrong treatment, having the wrong limb removed. I can understand why now, when despite correcting various personnel, my name was always given back to front. A detail, only a small detail, but I can now see why other important details get lost in translation.

That said, my own care was as I expected.

I suspect that was why I was alert to everything that was asked or said of me in my presence. I noted, for example, when the junior Doctor was told I was to have a CPU scan and she repeated back a different kind of scan, the Consultant corrected her, and repeated that I was to have a CPU scan.

Imagine then how I reacted when the same junior Doctor came back and told me that the ultrasound scan I had was clear.

I did tune in some 2 hours previously my name and discussion being had about my scan, though I have to admit I was only party to one side of the telephone conversation between the junior Doctor and the other. I suspect it was CPU vs. ultrasound, and I am guessing that is why I ended up staying in your hospital longer than I needed to.

While writing, there is one issue I would like to raise. Something on which I would appreciate your feedback, on my first experience of staying in hospital in London.

I woke up at 6am on the Saturday morning. In bed 11, diagonally opposite me, patient “John” woke up an hour later, asking if the nurses if they could help him. If they could clean him. He had soiled his bed. Not only could I smell it, but also I could see it. 30 minutes later he was still lying in his filth, having asked 5 times (I counted them) for a nurse to help him, to change him.

At that point I had to go to the toilet. Not to use it, but to cry. Call me sensitive, but I felt this patient deserved his dignity. He may have had problems, but he was aware enough to know that he was lying in filth. Not only uncomfortable, it was probably cold. The smell was overwhelming.

It could have been my mother, my father. It could be me. He couldn’t help himself and nor, it seemed, could any of your nurses, at least for the time being.

50 minutes later (pedant, I know, but I couldn’t help but count them) he was still asking for help. A Doctor, tactfully, said she couldn’t help him that the nurses had to tend to him.

I did hear one nurse (or perhaps she was an auxiliary) report to someone that John was soiled. Still, he had to wait. Another nurse, considerate of the rest of our needs, came round with air freshener and sprayed it around the ward apologising for the smell. Possibly covering the smell was more urgent than changing the patient. The greater good, eh? Mind you it would have taken only a couple of minutes more to clean him and change his bed.

At 8.10am I left the ward to go to the shop. John was still lying in his filth. When I came back at 8.30am he and his bed had been cleaned.

For his dignity, for my own whenever I find myself in that situation when I cannot help myself. For that of my parents if ever they are in a similar situation, or indeed that of your own parents, partner or children. What is the policy of your hospital in relation to leaving patients lying in their own piss before cleaning them up?

Is leaving them, asking politely for help, for over an hour within the relevant target? What is the target for giving back a patient's dignity?

During my stay I was heartened to see the radio people come visit the ward and inspect for purposes of customer service. I never once saw a hospital manager. Mind you it was the weekend, and I can imagine the last thing they wanted to have to think about was their hospital’s patients, whether lying in their bed in their filth for over an hour or otherwise.

Yours sincerely





cc. The Right Honourable Alan Johnson MP

The Right Honourable Gordon Brown MP

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Home Time

Dear Readers,

Thanks for all the comments. I'm back home, and looking forward to a delicious dinner tonight!

Sorry about all he horrendous typos. I was blogging from my mobile, and it uses predictive texting.

More later on the NHS experience.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Clinging On To Dear Life


My phone battery that is. So if you have been following my hospital saga it comes to an abrupt real time end here as phone will die overnight. Pretty much as I did when I saw this, Saturday night's dinner. Yum.

Night Two


Just settling in. No Piaf for me afterall.

Scan


I have to have a CTU scan. If that goes well and other stuff looks ok i might get out today and in time to see Piaf.

Eyes Wide Open


It's 7.35am. I had to get up from bed and in to the toilet and cry. Why? Because the man in the bed opposite has asked 5 times in the last 30 minutes to be cleaned. He has obviously wet the bed. I can see and smell it. No one has come to change the bed. He is lying in his filth. The nurses know. He's left in it. The solution? A male nurse comes with air freshener and sprays, apologising for the smell. Oh god what have we come to? This lies ahead for us all. Frailty, the need for help. I just want to cry some more for him because he cant help himself and no one else is.

Night 1


It's 6am. As you can imagine I slept pretty badly. At first I was worried for my security. I am not convinced as to how mentally stable some of these people in the ward are. And that's just the staff. Joke, though I mean it re patients. The noises of moaning and machinery put paid to the last vestiges of rest. I have no desire to use the facilities for fear of leaving with more wrong than i came in with. As to why i am here - see He Had It Coming below. Didn't quite come off as well as i thought! And dear readers you are still the only ones who know i am in hospital. No point telling mon C when he is so far away. He will only worry. And so for the first time you have am advantage over him. Oh and if liam reads this in time maybe he can email the list apologising to those waiting to hear back on my offer of ticket for piaf tonight explaining i never got back because i ended up in hospital.

Friday, August 15, 2008

First Night In Hospital


Oh my god. In the surgical ward. Not pleasant surroundings. The only people who know i am in hospital are the people reading this. Not even mon C. He's in singapore. No point worrying him. It looks like the kicking did some internal harm. Tomorrow they will look...

Ouch


I hate needles so this is hell.

Hospital Watch


See me live in hospital. Seems the kick on lower back did damage to my inside.

Had It Coming


Well now at hospital maybe not so winning.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

He Had It Coming

I wasn't sure that I would blog about this, but for the moment I'm defiant.

Last Thursday night I was on my way home after a few glasses of fizz in the office. The occasion was the qualification of 3 of my trainees as solicitors.

So, about 8pm, I was en route home. North of Old Street, taking a shortcut through a park I happened upon a group of guys. At first I thought it was some kind of sport. But as I drew closer I realised it was something different.

There was a group of guys mouthing (well, let me not mince my words), abusing some little guy. (Another note, he wasn't that small, but in the context he appeared so).

The verbal abuse became physical. They pushed him and then he fell and they started kicking.

I think he was being mugged originally but now was being beat-up.

Then I thought it could be me. Then I thought it could be mon C.

The moment I realised that, despite my better education, the fear of knives, Boris' advice, I had to help.

If it was me, then I'd cope, I think (see revised opinion below). But mon C? Please would someone help mon C, if it was him and I wasn't there to protect him?

My thoughts. This guy must be loved, if not by a partner, by his mother.

Help him.

It's all about love. If you love someone, then you know why I had to do something against my better judgment.

I thought about my eyes. Protecting my eyes. My first thought was my eyes, they still needed to be protected. I'd not even let a drop of water fall into them. I was still in the month of my laser surgery.

But that thought was just in passing.

Long and short, I intervened and I got a fcuking kicking, and I am sore. But I made a difference I think. I helped, we managed, both to get out. They gave up.

Would I, should I? Yes, no.

But, just ask yourself. If it was the one you loved, wouldn't you want someone to help?





Still, I managed to keep all my teeth, and I still have better than 20/20 vision. So, I figure we won...

p.s. In memorium, I've added a new tune to my i-Pod selection. If you find they don't play, click on the one you want, then click on play. If it still doesn't then forward and the track will play. Then click back, and your original choice surely will.

Just play around. It works for me!

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