I am writing this in a Cologne internet cafe on the 29th Nov. No photos for a while, I guess. This is an account of what happened last Wednesday night (23rd Nov).

Friday, 25th November
I woke Thursday morning and the soft matter in my skull had crystallised into painful little shards of heat. Something was burning against the nerves on the back of my eyes. No, it was Mel knocking on the front door. My phone had rung out, she tells me as I let her in. I grunt and go back to bed, checking the phone on the pillow beside my head; yep - two missed calls.

As I lay there I began retracing my last day's path for signs of burned bridges.

The day begun as one of the best - taking three girls onto the London Eye (an enormous Ferris Wheel in the center of London that has a 45 minute round trip time.) Then, on the way to the Tattersails Pub - a permanently moored ferry on the Thames - we were accosted by a news reporter-looking guy to do some vox pops for the channel More 4. Having given answers to many questions about how terrified we all should be about the ever-present danger of asteroids, we continued on to the pub. This is where my recollection began to fragment.

The Tattersails was awesome. We got food and drunk. Then Mel and Honi left me, ostensibly to 'work'. I buried my disappointment in alcohol.

Myself and an American tourist I had promised a tour to continued from there up through Trafalgar Square, where I saw snow for the first time ever. It was basically a huge pile of ice being sprayed with water by a big bored dude.

We were at the Science Museum when my Scouser mate Kev rang and asked when I was going to be at the pub for our pre-arranged football viewing (Liverpool vs Someone). Oops, sorry Sonya, I gotta go to the pub instead of the National Gallery. OK, she said - and she came along, but thats the last clear memory I have of her presence. As my mind scanned the road ahead I began to understand why.

I rocked up at the pub. "What the fook is that?" Kev said. It's my new hat, and it makes me look distinguished.

"OK, well whats in those bags?"

What bags? Oh, I must have gone to the Borough Markets, I guess. (The bags contained a bunch of really expensive cheese and sausages from the food markets.)

The game, after 6 pints each, degenerated into Kev and I singong some Scouser song to the tune of "if you're happy and you know it clap you're hands" and ending with Kev picking some patron of the bar, staring him in the eye balefully and screaming "DO YOU FUCK!?"

I got a massage from a professional masseuse in the bar. The price was "whatever you feel it was worth," though when I started pulling out a 5 pound note the chick jumped in with "but most people pay 10 pounds." So I did, of course.

The train ride home was the painful part. Another song Kev was teaching me was sung to the tune of the Beatles' Ticket to Ride, though I only picked up a few lyrics at a time, and generally hummed the rest. For this reason, the subject matter didn't really hit me till much later.

A quick segue into a little story; theres a doctor called "Doctor Death" who operated in Manchester. He is known for killing (by accident or design I do not know) a bunch of old ladies in Manchester. The Liverpool people (who call themselves Scousers) do not like people from Manchester (who they call Manks.)

The song we were singing loudly on the train was actually a glorification of the work he did, praising him for what went down. With this realisation came not only a deep shame for what I'd been singing, but astonishment that we didn't get the crap beaten out of us at some stage.

On an up note, however, I did get home in time to see us on the news. Of the five or so minutes we were interviewed for, only one of us (me) got a single word in:
Reporter: What would you say if I told you that the Earth could be hit by an asteroid very soon?
Paul: Soon!?

Yesterday Mostyn and I visited the British Museum. This place is an imposing structure that we could not have possibly hoped to fully explore in a single day - my tourist book says I should pick any two rooms (of the hundreds) in which to spend all my time, else I'll be rushing around not taking anything in.

Anyway, we decided to coast through the Egyptian section taking in what we could. At closing time, in fact, we were probably about halfway through the Egyptian section, drifting through a room of Predynastic (about 3500 BC) artifacts.

Looking at a few wicker baskets and sharpened flint stones I heard a soft bump and 'ow' beside me. I turned to find Mostyn rubbing his forehead - a small forehead smudge on the glass.

I imagined my backpack sitting in a display cabinet 5000 years in the future, with a small sign above it proclaiming that 'in the Cechnerian period the ability to carry many things was a sign of virility.' Some hairless, large eyed and grey skinned evolved species of man meanders on by, kinda interested. He stops and unconciously leans forward to take in some detail, somehow surprised when his head impacts with the glass display cabinet.

My England '05 photos can be found in the gallery

This morning is washing morning. This means I am forced to stay home so that I don't have to walk around London naked, or wearing Mostyn's clothes (which, without sufficient duct tape, would probably amount to the same thing.)

So I get to sit down, contact some family, and write on my website. Quick summary in mathematical form: Liverpool > Manchester > Bangkok > The French.

I carry a notebook around with me, so I get to write diary entries if I am feeling up to it. Just to get everyone (i.e., my mum) up to speed on things, I'll transcribe some of them below:

2005-11-02: Hurtling at 550mph 40,000ft above the earth, somewhere between Perth and Bangkok

An immediate and horrid torture. It took the cunning ingenuity of the Thai to devise such a fate, expressed on my person for hours on end.

First, of course, the regular isolation of the corpus that is common to all airlines. Pressed into a small seat, hopelessly denied what refuge sleep might offer, I sit in stunned hopelessness watching the most horrific collection of god-awful movies. The 5-foot viewing screen is directly in front of me, and I can see the images through my closed eyelids.

The Butler: Brooke Sheilds and Tom Green. Yes, the headphones are 'optional', but you soon discover that no sound and all image is even worse. Two cheeky kids looking for a dad, too-busy working single mum (Shields) estranged from her cheeky children. Unorthodox butler (Green) with a heart of gold. Annoying French boyfriend the kids don't like but mum likes for some reason. Final scene, Sheilds running down a pier after Green, having realised she loves him after all, just before he leaves forever. This movie may have given me cancer.

Trying to sleep, I discovered that the most comfortable position was, curiously enough, the most difficult to describe in words.

2005-11-02: Stop-over in Bangkok

A quick guide to all you need to know about Bangkok for people not intending to leave the airport, but who must stay for 6 hours:

• Arrival on the 2nd floor, but you MUST go to the third floor, even though nobody will ever tell you this, and there are no signs to indicate this fact.
• Plane departure details are made up on the fly. This means that nobody will be able to tell you ahead of time where you need to go to depart. You have to keep checking the screens. Again, nobody will tell you this, they will just try to push you on to someone else.
• 30Baht=1AUD. For some reason though, I was charged £3 ($8)for a coffee. Lesson learned: I am a gullible twat.
• The Bangkok Cafe & Bar is actually a nice place to sit and wait for your plane. French people can ruin this however.

The wait was formidable, but kind of interesting. Lots of brown smog, very humid. Although not helpful, the people working in the airport are nice. For about $20 AUD you can get a 45 minute massage, but half the people massaging are guys, and I wasn't really up for that.

My French people experience: While waiting in the aforementioned bar, having snagged a nice set of couches to myself, three attractive French ladies came over and asked if they could join me (with many a 'tee hee hee'). Being a Nice Guy I said yes, calmly accepting the fact that my hours of lonely beer drinking and reading were to end. However, upon sitting down a couple of previously unnoticed French GUYS came over to the seat and joined them. I am certain that they hung back only because their group would be less likely to get the seats were they all present. I spent the next two hours being ignored by all the people sitting around me as they spoke in French. I asked if I could use their laptop to put some MP3s on my new iPod, and was met with a few seconds' blank silence then an incredulous 'no!'

2005-11-02: In the air again
For the long leg of the trip, I started feeling more like precious human cargo, tended carefully like so much well-paying cattle in our battery cages. Our troughs filled like clockwork, warm towels handed around to lessen the cattle stink and ostensibly satisfy our need for a modicum of hygiene.

Then the movie about a disillusioned alcoholic ex-baseball star who takes over as little league coach. Only catch is - these kids are really bad! I got the feeling his unorthodox teaching methods could be just the kick they need, and maybe he'll learn something about himself along the way.

"Motocross" is a movie about two brothers who are great at motocross racing. One brother gets badly injured, the other has to ride to avenge him against some bad guy motocross rider who wears all black and rides a black bike. Spoiler: the brother wins by a knuckle hair[1], in slow motion.

2005-11-02: 7:30PM arrival in Heathrow

Glad to be in, the immigration guy gave me shit about not knowing the exact address of the place I was staying, and said he could easily not let me into London. I suppose he was offering to put me up for a month. I told him as nicely as possible I had friends waiting for me in the reception area, but he kept saying "what if they're not there??? Eh? What happens then???" Well, I said, I'll call them. "What if you can't get hold of them???" Look, they're gonna be out there, stop stressing.

Anyway, they weren't there. I wandered around for about 40 minutes, and got onto a phone to call them. Neither of them were responding. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I'm gonna kill them sumbitches... as soon as I see them, I'm gonna start ripping holes in their skins, making me carry this fucking heavy bag around...

Then they turned up, and I was so glad to see them I forgot all about it, and we all went home happy. Mel bought me an Oyster pass, so I can travel anywhere I'll likely be going for free for a week. Al gave me a £5 phone away card so I could call Australia, and his girlfriend Lisa gave me a pre-pay mobile phone card, which I charged up the next day. These three things and a map of London are seriously all you need (plus money) to survive.

Events since then have been all good, but I'll summarise them some other time. My washing is finished, and I'm gonna head into the National Museum today, then into Covent Gardens markets for some good food and beer.

Next entry I'll talk about London: why Manchester sucks (an ode to Liverpool); wandering lost and in desperate need of a toilet in Trafalgar Square at 4am; and Leicester Square - my favourite tube stop.

Footnotes:
[1] the kind of knuckle hair you get on the second segment of your finger - really fine.

Scroop and I had a discussion that involved Bonnie Tyler's 80s hit Total Eclipse of the Heart. Since that time 4 days ago I have had that FUCKING song running stunt circles on its motorbike, inside the confined cage of my skull. The deafening roar dulls my other senses, and I just can't stop the plaintative whisper "turn around briiiiight eeeyes!" repeating like a broken MP3.

I think it's because the song doesn't ever end. Next time you have it playing in WinAmp or iTunes or whatever, or perhaps while you are watching the Video Hits clip in Media Player, keep an eye out for this. It was a very distinctive part of many 80s songs (Hangin' Tough by New Kids, for example.) After the incredibly intense climax, where the performer stands above the camera with fists clenched looking incredibly emotional towards the sky, with some unexplainable bright light directly behind them transforming their [fe]mullet into a stunning halo, the song naturally winds down to a simple piano tinkling over the singer's whispered spent passion. The singer slowly looks down at her fists before clutching them to her chest. At this moment take a glance at the progress bar - you'll notice the song is yet half way through... a false ending, if you will, that then proceeds to build up to another climax.

This is the problem. In the stormy depths of my mind a thin layer of conciousness floats directly on top of my subconcious like a rainbow-coloured oil-slick. It is here the song is trapped, looping indefinitely, and I have no direct control over its movements - the general process would involve my subconciousness pushing up another song after the completion of the current one, you see, which is often a happy arrangement. But every time it seems the song comes to an end, my subconciousness seems to mistake the ending for the false ending that comes halfway through the song, and pushes up the second climax!

Yes, this rant is a jumbled maelstrom. It is a reflection of my tumultuous mental state.

WARNING: this rant casts my lifestyle in a vaguely positive light. I must stress, children - do not try this at home! I am a trained professional!

Perhaps there is a template for survival - how a person should live day-to-day. I suspect this bible is available in chapters and impressed on us during our formative schooling years. But I generally snuck fantasy books into class and let the teacher's wisdom wash past me Charlie Brown-esque.

I have indicated in the past that I don't plan my life much, relying more on luck than purpose to get me from one interesting scenario to another. Funnily enough this seems to work out.

For example, many people consider on a daily, or perhaps a weekly basis which bills are due. This process may involve searching through carefully archived mail or something. This is probably why my friends answer the phone when I call them, and I can rely on them calling me if they need to talk about stuff.

My process is a little simpler, more direct, and doesn't involve much thought. If I try to make a call and my phone doesn't work, I pay the bill. Sometimes I have to call Optus and talk to an Indian guy who may or may not gruffly demand to know why I let my bills lapse, but I am a calm ocean of Buddhist Zen.

I like to think of this as 'event-driven survival', where I don't even consider doing something until events make it necessary. The most obvious questions: what is an event? and what is necessary? Answers: an event is not receiving mail informing me that I should pay a bill, and necessary is when continuing without taking action will adversely and immediately affect my lifestyle.

Recently I have found myself in a situation that will test the limits of my age-old system. I plan to go overseas in just over a month, and this requires me to have a passport, plane ticket and money.

First, events drove me to purchase a ticket today. The event was Carla faithfully sending me links to cheap tickets and the necessity was my inability to go on looking into her eyes without at least putting as much effort as she does into getting me out of the country.

Second, events drove me to finally apply for a passport. The event was that it seems I need a passport to navigate the flight ticket-purchasing system, the necessity was the afore-mentioned need to buy a ticket immediately.

Next is the money. This is more problematic, of course, but I'll explain how the system falls into place. This explanation will hopefully go a long ways to describing why things often seem to come together nicely for me right when I need them to.

It turns out it costs $150 to get a 10 year passport. This was unexpected, but only because I am in some ways quite stupid. This surprise expense has become another straw in my already burgeoning straw-supply on my trembly-kneed camel's back, and I realised that I stand in danger of getting to the UK unacceptably impoverished if I don't act soon.

Considering this new dilemma caused me to think for the first time about the various assets surrounding me, where I may be able to draw money from, which gullible old ladies I know of that do not have current encyclopaedia collections - that kind of thing. I realised that I could possibly be rescued by an aspect of event-driven survival that many would consider a disadvantage.

See an event-driven purist, a person who truly only does things that he or she really needs to, doesn't often pull in loose debts. I, for example, have in the past thrown out fallow fields of uncashed cheques, gift vouchers and free rides. This is bad, right? Fortunately, someone who understands their inner nature like I do creates inbuilt protection measures against losing vital documentations that they understand on some lower level will probably prove important at some later date. No, of course I don't file it anywhere - this manifests itself as a massive pile of partly-indispensable paperwork that gathers on my desk.

So I get to work, my mind on money, and start the trawling process. Yes! of course! I haven't done my tax in over 4 years now, and surely I'll get something back... of course it would mean an end to my Paul-vs-Taxman tournament (Paul 4, Taxman 0, by the way) but it may provide a small windfall taking into account business expenses (I'm a programmer, computers are expensive.)

Then there's medical bills. I have gone through a few decent operations in the recent past, and still have the various bills, overdue-bill notices and collection-agency kneecap payment plans lying around. Yes, it became necessary to pay the bills. No, I didn't go to Medicare or HBF to collect my winnings. Cash for Paul.

This is how it usually works: one action leads to several others in a chain-reaction of smoothing out the wrinkly skin of my too-long-in-the-bath unorganised self. The system is by no means perfect: sometimes things don't ever seem to become necessary. Paying car registration, for example, has always been tricky when the damn Police refuse to vigilantly check your registration sticker.

So I may keep you updated on how things go, if I have to.

The only good is knowledge, and the only evil is ignorance. - Herodotus

Intelligent Design is at the center of some steaming controversies in the U.S. (and no doubt soon in Australia) at the moment[1], and I think it's probably because people are less intellectually equipped to fend off the quasi-theologists.

Beginning

In summary: certain Christian groups claim that schools should recognise Creationism (the theory that humans are a result of an intelligent designer's intervention) as an alternative to the popular Darwinist theory of evolution.

The truth is that science and theology are not necessarily conflicting schools of thought. In fact, science and theology aren't even in the same playing field. In particular, the argument for natural selection doesn't preclude the existence of God. You'll find A Brief History of Time sprinkled very liberally with Hawking's assurances that God can exist alongside the theories espoused therein, and further, how theology and science have no business elbowing each other at all[3].

Middle
What is interesting is what seems to be a revisitation of anti-Darwinism, in the form of the 'controversies' surrounding Intelligent Design. ID proponents claim that the controversies are that ID is not represented in the schooling system. Modern scientists claim that ID is not a science at all[4] (and therefore there is no controversy), and that the supposed controversy is a veiled attempt to put God (one God in particular) back into the school agenda.

This speaks poorly of the level of education in schools, I think. In its most honest form, this is a group of people saying that Darwinism is an unlikely theory that is propagated by scientists because they have no better answers to Creationism. In essence, it is supposed to be a global scientific conspiracy. The fluff about schooling not providing an ample platter of scientific alternatives is merely a sugary coating that makes this pill easier for the central-American populace to swallow.

My thesis here is basically that this 'controversy' is a by-product of the general public (at least in the U.S.) getting less educated. The more confounding Darwin's theory is to the general population, the easier it will be for ID proponents to put forth their 'scientific conspiracy' theories. How many people will be taken by this idea, for example, when 20% of U.S. adults think the Sun revolves around the Earth, and fewer than a third know that heredity involves DNA[5]?

I'm sure there has always been body of people trying to get God incorporated into schools' agenda. The ID debate is merely these people taking advantage of a canny populace to dishonestly progress their agenda by attempting to discredit Darwin's theory of evolution. It is, in effect, a contrived debate; even if the theory of evolution was unlikely, it is still the prevailing scientific theory, and as such merits a place in the science class.

End
So here's the question: New revolutionary theories can be expected to be denounced by reigning powers that have an interest in maintaining the status quo. But what exactly does it mean when old skepticisms come back? Is it due to a lower rate of education, or could it be a rise in religious fundamentalism? Who's going to be next to try to seize the opportunity afforded by a dumber population?

Or has it already happened? The scientific community still seems to be at odds with a large portion of the general populace over the issue of whether human pollutants have lead to global warming; this skepticism must be coming from somewhere. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that the countries most receptive to the "ID in schools" proponents provide the surest footholds for compromised conservative critics of global warming[6], or perhaps those who believe that middle-eastern nations are inherently more inclined towards terrorism.

Update 2005-09-30 - Controversy! Pennsylvania parents take their school to court for including ID in the science curriculum.

Footnotes:
[1] Controversy? Anti-evolution stickers on schoolbooks removed, Bush's endorsement, and Australia follows?!?
[2] Pastafarianism has gained followers as a result of this debate. Visit http://www.venganza.org/index.htm for more information/merchandise.
[3] Hawking explains that if there were a perfect creator who, for whatever reason, provided us with scientific evidence that allowed us to arrive at these conclusions (e.g., Darwinism) scientifically, one could not use science to prove that God exists, as his observed evidence is by definition infallible. Similarly, theologists cannot expect to disprove prevailent scientific theories.
[4] See http://www.edge.org/documents/archive/edge166.html for an essay on why ID is not a legitimate school of science.
[5] New York Times - Scientific Savvy? In U.S., Not Much
[6] This Boston Globe article not only links Hurricane Katrina with Global Warming, but outlines how much energy companies have spent to de-educate people to these links.

Some people have the great fortune of living a movie. The chick from Gorillas in the Mist lived in a movie, as did Lawrence of Arabia. OK, these are bad examples of people who have great fortune living in movies, but I hope I didn't lead you too far astray of the thesis of my introduction - that some people know what it was like to be there...

Brother Matty and Bob, in happier times...

Recently I've had the feeling that I've been living some self-referential movie, or a documentary. I'm living a documentary about the making of a movie, that itself may or may not be becoming a thin allegory of a particular person's life. Or perhaps I'm watching a preview release of that documentary. Anyway I won't tell you who that person is, other than to say it is Director Bob.

Bob is making a movie about a girl who I feel reflects his own inner hip chick. She's a kinda op-shoppy suburbanite; a cartoon drawer with awesome chubby and weird friends. She's a little estranged of her (eccentric) dad, and likes men. She once meets a computer programmer named Paul, who decides he doesn't like her. I'll let you decide which of these aspects reflect the warm glow of Bob's personality, and which are polished reflections of his hopes, fears and relationships.

I've always imagined that perhaps writing a novel, or any creative fiction, would involve sitting outside myself, shoehorning an aspect that isn't a part of me into an imaginary entity that doesn't exist. Bob has shown me that such a creation can be a result of experimenting with personal expression, when even the characters you don't have in you are defined by relationships in your life.

I've watched the sometimes funny, sometimes sad and sometimes uplifting saga of his movie rise and fall, harden him as his personal trial by fire as I would watch simple strokes on a once blank canvas resolve into a thrilling work of art.

I need an easy friend...
I'd say Bob would have had this character brewing in him for a long time now, as none of his creations so far have approached the richness and depth she flaunts. Anyone who needs convincing of Bob's feelings towards his young light need only read his web site.

She turned her head when Director Teja walked into Bob's life, smiling as she smiled and cutely assuming new mannerisms and hair styles. She accepted this new lady by reflecting Bob's vision of her.

Bob brings her round some times for a script reading, and in many ways this has become our chance to have a talk. We interact with her through Bob, making suggestions and pointing out inconsistencies or whatever. Bob gives her a chance to interact with us through other characters in the script. And many of us are in the script in one way or another. It's a fascinating thing to ruminate on.

Other than that I don't really feel qualified to commentate on the creative experience. While we often offer advice and plot ideas, our cool new characters and twists usually get gently set aside, as they are often stupid.

You hang me out to dry...
An important part of making a film is realising which responsibilities are yours and which must be delegated to others. Problems became apparent when the delegation went awry and one wily 'producer' gets the idea that producing involves telling people how important you are at parties, and nothing much else. A recent conversation after a successful public script reading went something like:

'Producer' Gesturing expansively and breathing wetly in Paul's face
See this pub? Those benches? That big fucking sign over there? I could make this anywhere. You need this somewhere, tomorrow, I'd make it for you! Man! I'm going to fly to Melbourne next weekend to start making two more movies! I'm gonna make so many movies!
Paul quickly finishing his beer, looking at his watch, grabbing his girlfriend's attention
wow...
'P' Hey! You know... you... you know I got a fine the other day! At the university! What fucking bollocks!
P I see... what did you do?
'P' I rang them up! You have no fucking idea who you are dealing with do you! I said. I'm never working with your university again! Not even if you come crawling back to me on your hands and knees! I said... Then she called me back five minutes later all like: s... s... sorry sir! It was my fault! We are giving you a free lifetime pass to our parking lots!
P That'll teach them to inspect their parking lots...
'P' You're fucking right! Fucked if I'm paying a $25 parking ticket!

Subscribers to Bob's blog will know that this 'Producer' is assuming the rights to the script Bob wrote, and wants to get another director. The injustice is plain, theres not much more to be said about that. There are recourses and possibilities - Bob will never give up, and every new corner both uncovers new promise and closes open doors.

But anyone can tell why Bob's really worried - he brought his Lady into this mess, and now he's starting to think she's not going to be there to help him move on. But the truth is that Director Bob will always have his Lady with him. One way or another I get the feeling that she will always be in his movies in some form.

I can see you every night...
It is one thing to have your creation taken from you by some Machiavellian plot planned ahead by some cunning cold-blooded strategist. It is quite another for your own naïveté to place it into the hands of a bumbling egotist. It seems from my standing point that Bob makes the large (curiously warm) section of the talent pool in his production team. The chances of someone like Inept Producer pulling a worthy name as director are slim, and I'm sure a less worthy name will soon have the rest of the production team sidling over to Bob's corner with platitudes and Free Cake.

Let's not let this get out of perspective; let's let our faith lie where the talent is.

I wrote this entry on the 24th June, 2005. Subsequent events (documented herein) prompted me to forget to post it. I'm posting now to fill a gap while I compose a horrifying account of recent events... startling!

As a computer geek, I have a mandatory video game persona. I explored this fully before and during my university years, but wantonly smothered it in the middle of the night just before I entered the workforce. The kind of late-night self abuse one subjects oneself to is just not viable if one must maintain steady working hours.

A unique opportunity arose a few weeks ago when I learned that I would be bedridden for a few weeks due to some head-altering surgery. I knew I'd have some serious me time ahead of me because I'd probably have bloodied bandages wrapped around my battered cranium, and would probably be on all types of perscribed drugs.

So I decided to coax my little gamer child out of his dark closet. I went down to EB and purchased World of Warcraft. I knew perfectly well how addictive this game could be, and I knew that it would totally consume me in a way that was only safe in an environment where I could hermit myself for weeks on end.

Little did I realise how much pain I would be subjected to post-op, however. After sleeping a good 40 or so hours straight (though annoyingly enough being woken for drugs and checkups every hour) I managed to drift off home somehow and found myself in my own bed at home. But if I forgot to take my pain-killers every three hours I'd be subjected to the kinds of cranial torment you would only expect those 'Whack-a-Moles' to suffer.

I struggled into the computer seat and hooked myself up where I knew I needed to go. I connected and started playing. And now I constantly find myself losing all track of time... yes, I am subjected to a weird kind of masochism where I immerse myself until my head fells me, when I go and take drugs and suffer for the next 45 minutes until they kick in, whereby I jump back onto the machine and start the cycle all over again.

I dance around in a semi-lucid state, mumbling to the various well wishers that come around and try to suck them into my Warcraft world. So far Director Bob and my two brothers have acquiesced.

My character is buff, and my ear is killing me.

My treacherous body has put me through a lot in the last few years. I've had bits removed, sewn together, broken off and malfunctioning. I've paid for synthetic bits. I've been on long and strong courses of anti-biotics to combat chemicals my body has seen fit to course through its various ducts. I'm more machine now than man.

Furthermore, I've had friends with various serious illnesses that have forced them to seek professional help so that they may deal with the abuse their body puts them through.

So I feel fairly comfortable in saying that I'm familiar with our medical system, and doctors in particular. I'm equally sure I'm breaking no new ground when I say they both suck.

'But what about our Oooorgaaaans!?' I hear you wail; 'Doctors protect our precious internals!' And you may reasonably believe you have some statistical data to back that shit up. Why else would we have an aging population of people scrounging for every second of longevity that modern science can provide? Why don't people drop off from plagues or whooping cough any more? If we lost all our doctors, would we not descend into third-world conditions?

Sure, these all may seem like fairly obvious justifications for the existence of this lofty profession of Doctor, but anyone who has been churned through the health system, been left hanging at the end of an expensive line for months in expensive waiting lists only to end up with an expensive bill and no real explanation for their malady will probably have this same lurking suspicion that they just don't know what they're doing. That's right - we have no real way of challenging their diagnosis, and they have no real incentive to ensure we get the best treatment that will ensure we never need to come back and line their pockets again. Perhaps if the Medical Board wasn't run by a bunch of back-scratching doctors they'd feel some professional inclination towards observing their duty of care more closely.

This is why the last ten years or so have led me by the nose to the conclusion that most doctors -- expensive specialists included -- are nothing more than overpaid anti-biotics dispensers. If I were bold enough to liken myself to a house with severe structural integrity problems, manifesting in long crumbling cracks along my (attractive) supporting walls, a series of visits to a specialist I subjected myself to a few years ago resulted in: an expensive series of rock-band posters covering said cracks; and renewed gold-plating on my doctor's toilet-roll dispenser. In other words, five visits to one specialist at over $100 per visit, plus pathology expenses, and the result was a strong course of anti-biotics: precisely the same as a free visit to a bulk billing doctor.

Dentists are no better - they too seem to have backed us up into a cul-de-sac where we have no recourse. When I visited a dentist on the subject of a broken tooth, and happened to mention that I hadn't had my teeth looked at by a 'professional' since I was a kid, he had to have a little quiet time. His eyes widened and I swear he started whispering prayers of thanks under his breath. From that moment on, I was his best friend. He still calls me from time to time (well, his secretary does) to warn me of the assured DOOM waiting around the corner should I miss another six month appointment.

So this coming Monday I am subjecting my broken frame again to the tender mercies of some guy I've only met a few times, who I trust is worth his pay check, who I hope feels some inclination to excel at his chosen profession. He seems nice enough, but one stranger looks pretty much the same as any other when you are at the sharp end of the scalpel...

But I'll survive as long as I retain one hand for jammin', one eye for reading and half a brain for conversing with Scroop.