Gods was a comedian

Gods was a comedian

By John Abbott 

Originally published in CRUSADER (Express Newspapers in-house magazine) DECEMBER 1993

Title:

I had imagined that God was a comedian …

 I struggled to lift my head. My neck and left shoulder muscles, or should I say my left deltoid, latissimus dorsi and pectoralis major strained as I shifted the weight of my torso.

My muscles were very much stronger now, much stronger than at any time earlier in my life.

As you can see, I now know much more about them and their movements than at any time in the past. In fact, if the truth was known, I had to accept that I had become mildly obsessed with my muscles and their parameters; in particular their limitations. 

After any length of time more than a few minutes, while laying on my back, my left arm and its scarred hand had a tendency to, I believe the correct expression is “go to sleep”.

The reasons are simple, but to have it described, it sounds anything but. A touch of thrombophlebitis and, unfortunately, quite a bit of arterial embolism, are the reasons why my arm likes its kip more than the remainder of my body.

As my left arm slowly awoke, I had a strange thought: it seemed to me to be not unlike some awakening dinosaur, almost like my brain had to write a letter to instruct my arm to move.

My arm now began to take part in my actions, my biceps and brachioradialis were both very strong and looked somewhat overlarge as I rotated slightly and bent my elbow. 

From this angle, I must have looked like a linebacker from gridiron football. Of course, that’s complete rubbish. I laughed, the only way you can would get that view , was if you were partially-sighted in one eye and had the other firmly shut. My arm ached, it often did: another problem I had to live with.

As I somehow managed to raise myself into a sitting position, I wobbled like some child’s toy, precariously teetering right, then left. The difference was, I had no central ball-bearing. 

Sweat quickly ran from my temples and I sucked in huge breaths to sustain my effort. “Christ”, it was tough just to get this far. As I allowed my breathing to slow and prepared myself for the next exertion, I gazed down at what little remained of my body. 

I was originally told that I was lucky, well, sod them! I certainly didn’t feel lucky. My left thigh was a rough, short stump, no more than six inches long, my right was slightly longer, ten or eleven inches maybe. I’ll never understand how my right thigh had survived at all, because I had sod-all else on the right side. 

Isn’t it strange how you grow up as a kid and you never imagine a life without anything? God knows, especially without some of the most important parts of your body. I had no right arm, all I had now was a messy reddened hollow where it should have been, the right side of my face was badly scarred and my ear was a misshapen lump.

This had only affected my hearing in a minimal fashion, but it had appeared to produce massive headaches which were way out of all proportion to the actual damage caused.

A couple of minor lumps were missing from my scalp, which seemed, if anything, to make me feel more intelligent... okay, maybe I lied, that’s not true... more introspective, that’s for sure.

My face had been generally scarred, but that didn’t matter much to me. Unfortunately, I had always been in the average class where looks were concerned. You know the type, not exactly Richard Gere, and not quite Quasimodo either.

My right shoulder blade, or scapula, if we’re being clinical, had been slightly shattered, whilst my left was intact.

My left arm looked strong, but the facts were a little different; both it and my hand were pock-marked and scarred. These were the outward signs of my arterial embolism and the thrombophlebitis.

I had already had seven operations on this arm, to recover the tiny splinters and to clear the hundreds of clots, but apparently they could do little more. I had been given some types of drugs to combat this minor problem… sorry, but take it from me, this is bloody minor compared to what I was putting up with in general.

Mostly anticoagulants and thrombolytic agents for which I have long since given up trying to remember all the names, and honestly I no longer give a damn whether they will have a long-term effect.

My torso was the bulk of my remaining body, and that too was tarnished. Nothing too upsetting on the outside, a few gouges here and there, but the major problem was pneumothorax - a lung collapse.

It occurred when a few splintered ribs had pierced my lung, and it had also happened since. Yes, you’ve guessed it, the right side again; it was, er, how can I put it, very badly damaged and of course it made breathing somewhat difficult at times. 

As for my manhood, well I’d always imagined God was a comedian. I had been blown to pieces in such a way that most women wouldn’t even talk to me, let alone look at me, and the only parts of me that hadn’t been touched by this violence were my sex organs. And people had the audacity to say that I was lucky… lucky? 

I was swivelled ever so slowly on my backside, using my arm to steady myself. Christ, my bum was sore, and as I shuffled across the bed at a snail’s pace, I thought what a bloody good job it was that I had a firm mattress, otherwise I would be rocking all over the place.

The remains of yesterday’s petroleum jelly and baby cream on my bottom made this journey a sticky and uncomfortable one. I shunted myself as close to the edge of the bed as I dare, being careful not to tilt my weight too far either forwards or backwards, for both had hazards.

Falling backwards onto the bed meant another struggle with my fast-tiring muscles, and forwards would propel me head-first off the bed with all the inherent risks and no doubt, massive efforts to recover.

I had to swivel again so that my nose was almost touching the bedside cabinet. I gazed hard at the small framed colour photograph on it. The photo was of a poignant moment. 

I didn’t have a chance of a proper honeymoon, so we simply had a couple of days together, then celebrated properly later, on our first holiday.

My wife, Joanne, was quite a catch. As I continued to look at the pictures, I discovered my face had become a mask of tears cascading down my cheeks.

Initially I suppose out of duty, Joanne had stayed around, giving all and sundry the impression of a caring, sensitive, dutiful wife. However, as the enormity of my problems began to dawn upon her, both my physical and mental problems, she simply distanced herself from me, and as my treatment continued and then evolved into something of a slightly difficult order, she became no more than a mere visitor.

My post-traumatic stress or any other fancy name you’d like to call it, was still with me and will stay with me, I dunno… forever?

As I forcibly steered my mind, and then my eyes, away from the pictures, I realised that I still loved her and missed her an awful lot.

It just happened, on that one particular occasion; she didn’t turn up, she didn’t phone either… I never heard from her again.

My visiting nurse, Susan, tried to find out what had happened, but she couldn’t seem to get any information out of the hospital or from the social services. I shouldn’t blame Joanne, I try not to, but Christ, I didn’t have anything else.

The tears were still coming, but I tried to concentrate on the job in hand. I managed to carefully position my body correctly, so that Could reach the drawer in the bedside cabinet.

I stretched out my arm and slowly opened the drawer, visibly shaking as I realised what I was doing.

I thought about all those people who were born like this, all those people who became similar to this because of disease, and most of all, I thought of all the people who continue to fight and carry on, no matter what the obstacles.

Christ, those people must be strong. No slopes for wheelchairs, no special transport or jobs. Joe Public squirming every time they cast a glance in their direction, and so many people treat these disabled like idiots. Christ, it’s so unfair!

I stared, for what seemed like an age, at the contents of the now open drawer. Finally, a subject I could feel comfortable with. I grasped the pistol and felt a pump of adrenalin, and brought it closer to me.

I had been a warrior… a soldier, you see. Queen and country, all that shit! And more.

I’d hammy life blown to pieces for some moist patch of tussock grasses in the South Atlantic. I remembered a friend once saying: “It’s all bullshit, you know that, don’t you?”

I had never realised exactly what he meant until now. I glanced down for the last time at my nakedness and what remained of my life. The preparation had been done yesterday. I had already made sure that a round was in the chamber.

I carefully brought the automatic pistol to my lips, making sure the angle was right for the bullet to enter the roof of my mouth.

My lips were very dry and for the first time ever, I tasted metal. My aching hand flicked the safety catch off, and ever so gently I squeezed the trigger… and became a statistic.

 

JOHN ABBOTT

 It’s Raining

Jane Goodhew

To say it is raining would be an understatement, more to the point when did it last stop.  As if in answer the clouds moved over and a glimpse of blue appeared, followed by that elusive yellow orb, the sun.   I could feel my lips turn upwards into a smile of appreciation for I so detested the milk a magnesia sky that had hung around for months and made the short days of winter seem even longer.

The English seem to relish discussing the weather probably because it is so variable unlike many countries where it is either baking in the sun or drowning in a monsoon.  Although for some time now the UK has had more than its far share of rain.  Floods due to rivers bursting their banks or high tides and the sea walls collapsing. Often as not because builders have paid no heed to flood plains and happily built on them.  Homes that have stood for decades are now being flooded as the water pours down the hill with nowhere to go until whoosh it enters your front door.  No one appears to take the blame or listen to warnings that they are heading for disaster.

What always springs to my mind are words of songs such as ‘it may as well rain until September’.  ‘It’s raining in my heart, ‘‘singing in the rain’ ‘rain drops keep falling on my head’ ‘Purple Rain’   The list is endless which is appropriate as so is the rain as yet more drops fall from the sky as if the world is crying at the complete and utter mess man has made of it.

Bombs are falling from the sky and raining down on the innocent who have done nothing but to be born in an area that seems to attract trouble due to man and his greed to control the people and the land.   The powerful nations fight to dominate and show their strength or is it their weakness at not being able to negotiate in a civilised manner?   Nature is now flooding areas with continual rain, forest fires from abnormally high temperatures, melting the icebergs with global warming, trees are still being cut down to make room for yet more concrete buildings or roads despite the warnings.  Man seems to have become deaf, dumb and blind.

I am trying to find something to be cheerful for and sadly it is that I am not a child born into this era when destruction man made or natural seems to be winning as yet another murder or bombing is on the news.  I turn the music up to drown out the negative thoughts and look at the bright yellow daffodils that are swaying gently in the breeze and the purple/blue hyacinth that nestles amongst the green.  Spring is showing itself as the trees display their pink or white blossoms like a ballerina from Swan Lake in her tutu.  Let us hope that nature wins and man learns to ow his head in shame for the suffering he has caused before it is too late for us all to sing and dance in the rain or sun and feel love and happiness again and watch the butterfly gracefully move from flower to flower in the warm sun of summer.

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

The Rains of Rayleigh

 The Rains of Rayleigh 

By Sis Unsworth 

I got caught in rain the other day, it really did come down,

cascading fast down London Hill, and across old Rayleigh Town.

The puddles full in Websters Way, were causing me to sigh,

as I got soaked, by constant spray, that cars made passing by.

St Georges park looked flooded beneath a dark grey cloud,

“Please let it stop and roll on spring,” someone said out loud.

This winter has had so much rain, I’m sure we all recall,

The water butts have overflowed, because they’re always full!

So when the summer does arrive, I hope it’s not their plan,

To say there’s empty reservoirs, so we’ll have a hosepipe ban

 

 The Changing Face of Comedy  (Limerick) 

By Sis Unsworth

Comedy today just passes me by

It was much more fun then, and I know why

Just fun was intended,

and few were offended,

So what's happened to humour, I sigh?

Sis

Riddles 33

 Riddles 33

By the Riddler 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today: 

No 1.  Which letter will complete the following sequence?     

            A F K P ?       (U S V or G?)

 

No 2. .  Which is the odd man out...? 

Brick, Cambrian, Postmark, Madam, Chalice, Gimmick 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

The Baby Boomers

 The Baby Boomers 

By Barbara Thomas 

 We have listened to the W Y. Z’d’s plus the Naughty Nineties generations so let’s share the life of the Baby Boomer generation.

 1938-1945 

 Well, that’s us. Most of us would still be a twinkle in our Dad’s eyes if it hadn’t been for Herr Adolf Hitler, (formally a house painter, soon to become one of the most hated and evil man of his time) unless of course you were a Frauline or a Heinz. 

 Well, let’s see: First came the phoney war, followed by what would later be referred to as: The Second World War. Our Fathers were drafted, seconded, and many enlisted. 

 Time was precious, very few weekend passes before embarkation. Girlfriend’s promising to be there (where ever that was) when their gallant men and women came marching home. 

 Rules were broken, the men in the forces explaining to their girl friends “Oh come on only once it won’t hurt, I’ll be careful, promise, it will be something to remember me by when I’m away fighting for King and Country”. 

 

 Oh! how many times those words were spoken? So off went our brave men leaving their wives, and girlfriends, crying at railway stations. 

 

 As the war gathered momentum, many civilians in the British Isles were either killed injured or made homeless through constant bombing, life was hard but harder still for the women who had succumbed to the passion of that moment. 

 

First came the sickness, then missed monthlies, then the reality that they were pregnant. Married women although not at all happy at their situation at least were in wedlock, the other poor wretches, in many cases, were disowned by family, thrown out and told not to return.  

 The maternity wards were full, especially during the months after the war began. Then the men would come on leave, and then off back to war with more pregnancies until the orphanages were busting at the seams. Although women shared the same goal, survival, some fell by the wayside, destitute.  

 Hitler did his worst on British cities, towns, and villages, but through all this the women grew stronger and more defiant. 

 Then single women were seconded to the land to carry out farm duties, work in factories, driving ambulances, buses even delivering planes. Princess Elizabeth (our future Queen) became an ambulace driver.

 They never complained they just got on with the job, more times than not with their children clinging on their mother’s skirts.  

 Mothers with several children were exempt, but they kept family and home together against amazing odds.  

 Today’s naughty nineties and X, Y, Z’s poke fun at the fashion that women wore then and the songs that were sung,  the elderly still calling the radio “the wireless”. (Where children would take the batteries on a pram down to the oil shop to be topped up) These people have no idea that most homes, in fact many homes had no electricity, hot water, no bathroom only the large tin bath hanging outside on the wall in the yard which everyone used and one bath a week down at the communal baths, where a pump outside would open up from a key outside, for the water to fill their baths.  

 This was the world we Baby Boomers grew up in, no fancy foods, the meal was put on the table and you ate what you were given. The music we listened to was our parents choice. We sat and listened to the Archers every night. My brothers used to listen to ‘Dick Barton Special Agent’, under the bedclothes, on a home made crystal set, the highlight of their day. By the time the men returned home after 6 long years the cast had been set, Mum’s word was law.  

 The War Babies, as I prefer to call them were brought up to respect others. Not all of them did I know, and those children become feral and unfortunately drifted into a life of crime. 

 Schools were full, with the children that had been born either at the start, middle and end of the War. Just a thought, many may not have existed had it not been for the war.

Barbara Thomas 3/03/2026

 

The Aldridge Family Tree

 The Aldridge Family Tree

Barbara Thomas 

Two people met and fell in love got married and sometime later had a baby girl. Her parents pride and joy. Then we were three. Growing up she gave us so much pleasure. We could hardly believe that between us we had made this beautiful creature.

Through out her childhood, adolescence, then adulthood, our love for her remained the same. 

 Then the time came when she had a serious boyfriend, an engagement followed later by the wedding, we looked on amazed at this woman who came from our love for each other. 

 Also recalling that the last time she wore a beautiful white dress and was at her 1st Communion, and here she was all grown up and getting married. 

 Several years later our daughter and son-in-law told us that we were going to be grandparents. We were ecstatic.

 Now we will be four. 

 Our 1st granddaughter was a delight. soon to be followed by another grandchild, once again a beautiful baby girl. Our family was expanding, 

 (not counting our son in law) We were now Five. 

 When our little girls were very young I thought my life had ended when my funny Peter Pan of a husband had a fatal heart attack at home and died in my arms. My Daughter and I were devastated. These little girls would never know how much their grandad had cared and loved them both.  

A few years later unfortunately our Daughter’s marriage broke down. (Funny word that “broke down”). It was a shock, but our daughter fell in love again and eventually married. 

 After several years my daughter and her second husband produced two more grandchildren. Our lovely grandsons, who once again sadly would never know their lovely grandad. 

 Then we were Seven. 

 The grandchildren were a delight to be with and through their kindergarten days schools, College and University, I revelled at their achievements.

Then one day I received a phone call from my eldest granddaughter, she was pregnant. I was going to be a Great grandmother. I received the news with joy and pain. I hid my thoughts from the family and had a few tears when I was on my own. 

I would talk to my deceased husband as if he was still with us. I told him the news that we would be having a great grandchild to add to our forever growing family.

 The baby arrived, a beautiful baby girl, I cried that only I would be seeing this child knowing that my late husband would have adored her.  

 Our little dynasty had become eight. 

 The fact that just two people who mattered so much to each other would eventually be connected to all these children with our blood circulating in their bodies. 

The family tree was growing. 

 

 Barbara Thomas 27/02/2026