And they were all wearing stockings

I was thinking of going out tonight, with the family, maybe to a chain-restaurant of some kind.  Maybe a Pizza place or an Italian – You know the sort of thing?  I was even going to go to the extent of searching GroupOn for a voucher, so that I can look all ‘Devil may care’ and extravagant in front of my family.

But then I thought, “Maybe not…”  You know why I thought that?  Well, yes, a lot of it had to do with the fact that I am as tight as a Moorhen’s special private area.  Mostly though it was be because they’ll all probably be full of people who’ve just received their ‘A’ level results.  I’m not going to discriminate between those who’ve passed or failed… I find people who’ve been given their first slurp of Asti Spumanti (and being told it’s Champagne) because they’ve got the results they need to go on and Study Marine Biology at Sheffield just as annoying as those that randomly cry into their Sloppy Giuseppe’s because their “Three Fs and a U” won’t get them into Norwich to do ‘Gender tropes in Black and White adverts from the 1970s and their impact on the theories of crop rotation.’

I’m not saying that having aspirations is bad, I’m not saying that the years and frankly obscene amounts of money that you will spend at University are a waste… They’re a valuable and enjoyable part of becoming a useful member of the human race.  If you want to be a scientist or a doctor or a teacher or… erm… something else academic that I can’t be bothered to think of at the moment, you won’t be able to do that with at least one Degree in some pertinent subject.  My dear Brother is a product of the British Higher Educational system, and he has now retired early and abandoned England to set up home inside a hollowed-out volcano in the middle of the Mediterranean (So maybe that wasn’t a 100% great example, but you get the drift)

“But Dandy,” I hear you shout, “I’m reliably informed that you have a degree, and that makes you a hypocrite!” – Well, yes I have, but I didn’t get it straight out of school. I went away and had a bit of a life, gained a little experience and decided what would really be of use to me at a later date.  Turns out that I was completely wrong and it didn’t do me any real good that I could put my finger on.  It might have done I suppose, if things had turned out differently – But you know, they didn’t… My life turned out like my life… Your life will probably turn out like your life – I’m so sure of that, that I’ll buy you a pony if it doesn’t.

I suppose what I’m really trying to say is that, to my knowledge, no-one has ever died because they haven’t gone to the University that they wanted to (I guess some people might have died because they didn’t get into the Universities their parents wanted them to get into – But probably only in the more medieval themed Asian countries)  You’re just as likely to have a great life if you go straight from Sixth Form to a job in retail or *gulp* service industries and then sort yourself out later – No-one needs to know the ins and outs of the mating cycle of a nudibranch to be happy (Unless their surname is Cousteau)

You don’t need to get all of your ‘Learnin’ done in one big splat – (Please note, I’m not advocating a gap year… If you take a gap year, one of three things will happen:)

1: You will spend it on the sofa, in your pants, watching Spongebob

2: You will become a social pariah, known by all around you as the one who starts every story with “Oh, yah! When I was on my gap year in Bali, we…”

3: You will be murdered – I Sh*t you not, read the news – it happens more than you think.  You will be alone, and frightened and no-one can help you… Just don’t do it kids

So, none of this is important enough for you to lock yourself in your room and cry over, none of it is important enough for you to have to issue ‘A cry for help’ over (If you know what I mean) – Everything’s going to be OK, really, believe me, I’ve lived through it.

-oOo-

And as I used to do, I’ll illustrate this point with a story from the good old days.  It’s about the part of my life that took place after I left school and didn’t go to University.

This was me in the mid-1980s – I know, I looked like the bastard son of Queen’s Brian May and a pipe-cleaner.  But I’d found myself a girlfriend who I just assumed was a bad judge of character at the time – She wised up a few years later though…

We’d gone on a pub-crawl – Now, I’m guessing every town has a ‘Golden Mile’, a row of pubs of indeterminate length that are close enough to each other to enable you to move from one to the other without getting tired if you’re young and not used to wearing high-heels, and that’s where we were. I’d arranged to meet her in the first pub, because I had no transport and we lived at opposite ends of the town (Plus we were still pretty much at the awkwardly holding hands stage) – So, when she walked through the door with two of her seventeen year old friends (Please note, I was also seventeen, this isn’t my ‘Oh yes, I was a paedophile’ story – Wait, no! – I don’t actually have an ‘Oh yes, I was a paedophile’ story - Have you ever wished you hadn’t started something?)

Anywho… So, we’ve got several, very slightly underage people in a pub, in the days before people started demanding ID, who were all clustered around a table thinking how sophisticated we were for drinking half-pints of imported lager.  The teenage boys were having impure thoughts about the teenage girls – The teenage girls were… Well, if I’m honest… I’m not sure what the teenage girls were thinking – Still don’t as it happens.  The night progressed pretty much as you’d expect – there was giggling and a few pretty half-hearted slaps as hands were suddenly found to be in inappropriate places.  Until the young ladies decided that it was time that they made their way home.  I offered to accompany them (to the other side of town remember) because I was a gentleman, and not because there were many dark alleys between where we were and where we needed to be.

There were two incidents during the trip that stick in my mind. (Well, there were three, but I’m only going to tell you about two of them)  

The first was when we were walking down the street.  I had done my best to put my arms simultaneously around all three young ladies, with varying degrees of success, when I noticed a couple coming towards us – Being a gentleman, I reluctantly broke up our ‘menage a’ quatre’ so that they could get past…

The gentleman remarked to his girlfriend, ‘Why has he got three and I’ve only got you?’

Her reply was a slap across the face so resounding that I very briefly saw his face do a complete circuit of his head before he started to sob uncontrollably and apologise.

The second involved a bridge spanning a dual-carriageway, and explains the title of this post (Which is the only reason that you’re reading this right? Be honest) – My seventeen year old then-girlfriend leant over and whispered ‘I’m wearing stockings and suspenders.’ to me. Of course, I responded in the only way open to someone who had received such a revelation, 

‘Prove it,’ I said, not believing her for a second.

So, she raised the hem of her skirt to her chin and did just that.

Her two friends turned around at this time and witnessed the act just perpetrated… Then fuelled by strong lager and a lack of passers-by, proceeded to prove that they were similarly equipped themselves – It is here that the 70’s guitar music would have started if this had been a fuzzy VHS video that you’d found in your Dad’s sock drawer.

What happened instead is that we climbed the steps up to the top of the bridge (I stayed ten or so steps behind the girls, because I was still seventeen myself and full of hormones) and I watched the three teenage girls flash their underwear at passing trucks and taxis for a (very) good five minutes.

Then we went for a Chinese at my girlfriend’s house and I got a taxi home, where I couldn’t sleep on my front for about an hour. (The walls at my Dad’s house were very thin.)

That’s the sort of thing you’d miss if you went straight to University.

Les Invalides (Pt2)

OK, this would have been the final part of this little story, but I got a bit carried away.  Part 3 should be on Monday, unless the muse takes me over the weekend, otherwise sit back, open a bottle of vodka, and start your weekend early with the crew of the Edward Teach.

-oOo-

'Cheek'

The assembled bridge crew turned slowly to look at the Captain. She looked at When, the corners of her mouth pointing upwards in a barely noticable smile.

'Dr When, you have something on your cheek and I pray to the Gods that it's lipstick.'

'Aye Ma'am I'll see to it, erm..' The first officer patted the pockets of his waistcoat until he found one containing a silk handkerchief, which he produced, furtively, and wiped away the waxy mark.

'When?'

'Yes Ma'am?'

'When did you start buying handkerchiefs with gussets and waistbands?'

The hirsute privateer looked down at the scrap of silk in his hand, noticed the embroidered cog on the front and realised that he must have picked it up accidentally in his hurry to retrieve his clothes in the whore-pit. He quickly stuffed it back into his pocket.

'Frobisher, connect to The Great Cloud and look for reports of our little shopping trip to Chandra, specifically anything about prisoners.'

'Working...' The lights on the bridge dimmed slightly, 'No mention of the raid on normal channels, boosting power to access the Company network.'

'Be careful, this doesn't feel right...'

'Lines secured and encrypted, I am invisible to their security measures Ma'am.'

'If only you were inaudble too,' The Captain whispered, in a strangely good mood for someone who had recently lost a valued crewmember.

Frobisher's head turned towards her, paused petulantly and said, 'I have a report of a single captive, found unconcious at the scene with minor burns. She has been taken to the secure hospital aboard the Company ship Hellingly, currently en route to Nukuoro'

'Cut the connection!'

The lights on the construct's metal face resumed their normal cycling and the captain took a deep breath. Nukuoro was just outside the juristiction of the Democratic People's Republic of Australasia, it was a Company supply base during the first trouble with the Spiders. She'd visited there once, a long time before she was Captain of the Edward Teach, on a resupply raid. It was a barren ring of rock and sand barely four miles across, a few buildings, a fuel dump, and strangely, a small school.

'Helm, plot an intercept course for the Hellingly, take us high and quiet.'

'Course set, range just over a thousand miles, less than three hours at best speed,' The helmsman barked the numbers at they appeared on his display.

'No, take us slow, three-quarter speed at 20,000 ft. Make us look as much like a cargo barge as you can.'

When took a deep breath, opened the Intercomm and barked out his standard string of orders, 'All hands, make ready to leave port. Secure all lines and hawsers, we will be breaking dock in 30 seconds, anyone still on board who's not on my roster'll be thrown over the side the second I find 'em, let me remind you that water's as solid as concrete from the height we'll be cruising at. All Doxies, Merchants and Pox-Doctors, off the ship now! Repeat - We are breaking dock in 25 seconds.'

The deck below them shifted as the docking cables were reeled in and the sudden release of pressure on the gasbags lifted her higher into the air. The station slowly receded into a small dot below them, as they reached 20,000 ft, the fusion engines started and the ship leaped forward like a scolded porpoise. Everyone waited for the traditional thundering crash from the Galley, but this time it seemed that the cook had finally learned his lesson.

'Blades out, make us look fat and non-threatening.' Called the Captain.

All over the hull, molecule-thin carbon-fibre sheets flowed out from between the hull plates, they billowed briefly, then caught the wind and took on the impression of solidity, what had once looked like a traditional buccaneer's ship now looked like a bloated, unarmed cargo barge, painted in an independant haulier's colours.

They sailed westwards for nearly four hours without incident until suddenly the Helmsman called that they were approaching the position where the Hellingly should be.

'All stop!' Called When, 'Scan for the big shiny bitch.'

'Nothing on scanners sir, nothing for 200 miles.'

'Sky's empty Captain, she must have changed course, we've lost her.'

The Captain stood, reached under her chair for her respirator, looked at When and said, 'Get your mask, we're going on deck.'

The air rushing from the pressurised door helped the reluctant Doctor out onto the deck and the cold atmosphere caused condensation to form on the outside of his brass respirator. He stayed well away from the guardrail as heights were his least favourite thing, next to sobriety, celibacy and hunger.

'Out of the way you bloody Jellyfish', called the Captain, her voice sounding muffled through her mask, 'Pass me the Glass!'

When passed her the magnifier, and she put it to her eye, the view was slightly blurred through the fabric of the blades, but she could see well enough to spot the Hellingly, two thousand feet below them and floating in the sunshine as bold as a halibut.

'Sky's empty?' Asked the Captain, 'Weren't those your exact words?'

'Aye... Well... Maybe the scanners need an overhaul?'

'Maybe you're lucky and they're cloaked or maybe we're being jammed.'

'Why would a hospital ship be cloaked?'

The Captain shrugged, 'I have no idea, but I mean to find out, let's get below before we have to insulate ourselves with layers of your stolen underwear.'

The Doctor's face reddened and he quickly made his way back below deck. The Captain paused to take a long look at the large silver airship below them.

'Hold on, we're coming for you...'

Back on the bridge, the Captain settled back into her chair, cracked her knuckles and opened a communications channel.

'Company Airship, this is the Cargo Ship... ah...' The Captain looked desperately at When,

'Tydirium?' Suggested When with a shrug,

'Tydirium. We have a minor medical emergency and request succour.'

There was no reply.

'Company Airship, I repeat, this is the...'

'Tydirium, this is the Company Hospital Ship Hellingly, we received your transmission but are unable to assist.'

'Hellingly, we have a crewman effected with what we believe to be an unknown toxin, we require immediate assistance as per Company regulations, Book thirty-six, subsection eighty-seven..'

'I know the regulations Captain! Hold for further instructions...'

The Captain muted the channel and turned to her first officer.

'When, you need to start acting sick, well, sicker...'

If I should die, think only this...

　
If anyone ever asks you, it's big and black, it looks like it's been burned, put out with dragon urine, burned again, lovingly sanded and repainted a rather fetching Baby Blue, then burned, with burning dragon urine and put out with a meat tenderising mallet. it has skulls and spikes, batwings and buckles and other, assorted things that you might find in a particularly interesting Goth girl's 'special' underwear drawer.

What am I describing? my current location of course - Death's door... I have been laid low by that most virulent of mortal agues, Columbian non returnable suppurating man-flu. I am officially dead, I am dictating today's Blog from beyond what you mere readers, would describe as 'The Grave' to a small medium (can you have a Small medium? are all mediums by their very nature, medium? - That would explain why they all wear such similar clothes.) called Gracie who just happened to be wandering past Dandy Towers as I was in the final throes of putrefaction.

Every time I cough, my lungs actually swap places.

When'ere I sneeze, I have to reel my eyes back into my skull with a handle on the side of my head, mounted for just that purpose.

To describe the inside of my head as 'Wooly' would not do justice to the 1.8 million sheep, all called Francoise, who are currently in residence within my metacortex.

If I lie down, there is a very real chance that I will drown in my own filthy, undulating ichor.

If I stand up for more than a few seconds, I feel as if I am about to fall, poleaxed, like an AT-AT that has been tripped by a virus-laden tow cable.

My eyes relay the world to me as a series of disjointed, abstract flashes of colour and brightness that I can only make sense of by looking at them through closed eyelids.

You may mock, especially if you are of the female persuasion. But it is a serious illness to which more NHS research budget should be diverted... Possibly away from things like 'Having a bit of a tummy ache' and 'Finding out why people sometimes cry uncontrollably when they're drunk'

I suggest that an entirely new branch of medicinal research should be instigated, purely to provide ways of dealing with the symptoms of this insidious virulence. There should be clinics full of nurses who would be trained to make sure that the infectee was never without those really soft tissues that men are too manly to buy, but are really nice on your nose. They should have something approaching a Utility Belt that contains various curatives, both medicinal and otherwise, such as medicated sweets and hand-held games consoles.

(Hang on, just need a second to work out the Nurse's Uniform / Batsuit combo)

...

(Nope)

...

(Gonna need another couple of minutes)

...

Anywho, enough of my problems, I'm trying to soldier on, stiff upper lip and all that, mustn't grumble. Although now that I come to mention it, I am a little short of breath... Beads of sweat forming the outline of a hang-gliding lion on my forehead... Vision... Fading... Ears... Ringing...

Nurse!