It would have been more appropriate to give him a 4 pack of Tennent's Super.

We're now the other side of Christmas, I never had time to write about the school Christmas assembly. Before we start. I don't 'get' school assemblies. I never have. In was at a large primary school, 14 classes of around 30 pupils, in a big hall, while Mr 'Jesus' Johnstone, the headteacher, strumming his acoustic guitar, which he would always tune up and tell us that it was out of tune because it had been sitting in the boot of his car. Sometimes he accompanied on piano and we all sang religious songs. It meant we weren't doing proper work, so I didn't mind going along to them. 

There would be a group of parents gathered around the edges of the hall watching on. I never felt particularly bothered if my mum turned up at the Christmas or end of term assemblies, if she did she'd smile and wave, but wasn't bothered if she was there or not. I didn't see the need for parents to turn up, at that age it seemed a bit weird.  

The school of Child #2 is a small village school, usually end of term assemblies are held in the local church two minutes walk from the school. This Christmas it wasn't the case due to the church being renovated, so we were all in the small school hall. Many parents were not in the seats, but along the edges, getting a better view of proceedings and in turn their children.

I on the other hand was sat cross legged at the back of the hall on top of a 3ft high piece of gym equipment with a large cushioned leather top. No one else has the sense to find the comfiest place, or perhaps their restrictive social graces that inhibit them? 

It is important to be comfortable sitting through and hour and a half of Christmas Assembly. As a step parent I don't have the emotional bond, most parents have to their offspring. Perhaps that's why I don't get the same feelings of pride and excitement that other parents do about attending such activities. Then again, as I said earlier, I, and several of my friends were never bothered if our parents attended our assemblies. 

In case you were wondering, I don't have any qualms with the content of the assembly, I more have a problem with being expected to sit through it, like it is some kind of special occasion that will somehow change my life forever.

The assembly itself was a combination of 3 Christmas songs for everyone to sing along to, the violin teacher coaxing about 6 six kids to play instrumental versions of carols without screeching, one of which had kids playing ukuleles along with it. There was also lines of Christmas stories and what the kids got up to, and the school choir signing along with their singing, which was really well performed and enjoyable.

One thing I've noticed is they don't teach people to shut the fuck up in assemblies any more. I felt sorry for the poor kids going up to a microphone and having most of their only line in the performance talked over by parents and other kids. It wasn't just people missing cues to be quiet, but no teachers stepped in to get that silence, so they could feel listened to. I wonder how many kids felt discouraged by that happening to them? I need to get around to buying that air horn for such occasions. 

I got told off for asking my wife, Which of the kids is that mutant that was attacking Child #2? Apparently this is not appropriate to ask slightly too loud near other parents. It was pointed out and the child didn't seem at a distance to have any features that said 'Danger! Sociopath'. I did however see the back of it's parent's heads, the bloke, a fat neck with a gold chain, the woman in an anorak. He has been filming the entire performance on his phone. I found it difficult to put prejudice aside and wondered what their home life would be like, it was only a few seconds before it took a League of Gentlemen-esque turn that I escaped from as I was distracted by the head teacher apologising for overrunning. A quick few words and for unfathomable reasons, local minister was allowed a platform during which my internal monologue had to be jailed, and he advertised his Christmas service at one of his churches.

I don't like the local minister. He took a dislike to me for having coloured hair, and took offense to me and my wife having a private joke, which he never heard, at a kids dance recital. He made passive aggressive comments at the end of it about some people being more grown up than others and glaring in our direction. Since then he can't look either myself or my wife in the eye, or glares from a distance. 

For a Christian he's one of the judgmental hypocrite types, one of those who give everyone else a bad name. If Jesus was around he would have told him they were going to see John the Baptist and thrown him in the Nile in a bag of bricks for his douchebaggery. Therefore I see any bile relating to him as perfectly excusable. Over the past year or so he's taking to dressing down quite a bit and has unkempt facial hair which makes him look like he's homeless. I'm not sure if this is down to the reducing popularity of the church generally so he has to make up funds by begging or if he's just a twat. Both options are equally likely.

Minister: Are we all looking forward to Father Christmas coming with our presents?

Everyone: YES!

Minister: Christmas is about the birth of Jesus!

My Mind: No it's not it's about squeezing the birth a of religious figure who was born in 4 B.C.E. probably in June over the top of the existing Midwinter festivals because of religious wankers who didn't like that their religion wasn't as important and wanted integrate and wipe out the existing religious festivities. You prick.

Minster is handed a bag of gifts from the headteacher.

Minister: Oh what wonderful gift have I been given?

Rummages in the bag and pulls out a glass jar with a flip top lid.

Minster: Lovely sprout and onion chutney!

Me to my wife: It would have been more appropriate to give him a 4 pack of Tennent's Super.

Wife punches me in the arm. 

Wife: Will you shut up!

As it turned out the man stood next to us has particularly strong religious beliefs and my wife was mortified he might have heard. 

What have we learned:

• I'm not the same as you.
• I don't like sitting through assemblies. Even if the content is good, I'm selfish and think about what I could be using that time for.
• I don't understand why other people sit through assemblies, I don't get the need to turn up and film the thing on a mobile phone. 
• I can see why they might want to turn up the first time, or if their kid is doing something particularly special. 
• I don't get the emotional need to turn up, 'I'm a parent therefore I must attend.' Not turning up will not scar your child for life.
• I get why kids like assemblies. It's fun for them, they don't have to do boring things instead. I can understand why they enjoy performing to an audience and why they might want their parents to be there. 
• I think differently from others when it comes to seating arrangements. The rest of you are just lacking in problem solving abilities, this is why you get into fights with your families.
• I need to own an air horn to silence people and carry it everywhere with me.
• I desire to express my views even if it may be upsetting or embarrassing, partly because I was far too much influenced by sarcastic characters in sitcoms when growing up, but also because hiding it behind anxiety doesn't do anyone any favours. I do need to learn to express discontent in a more 'socially acceptable' manner, but would be the fun in that?

Anxiety 7 : It's not the end, but another chapter.

In the past I've been told directly and read about people taking anti-depressants feeling "zombified". I never really properly understood what this meant until recently. I've been slowly tapering off the Fluoxtine and I think I know where this description comes from.

My head has had a break from itself for just over two years now, the anxiety is still there, it always is but it's given me the distance and from that the ability to spot it easier and not let it affect me. One of the things for me with anxiety was bottling up annoyances and not letting them out, and the medication gave me the ability to learn to express such annoyances and for them to be less irritating and for me to be able not to focus on them. Not letting go of things was one of the issues that used to be one of the core manifestations of my anxiety. Why would stupid things bug me? In some way make me feel like I was some how responsible, that I'd somehow blamed for it? Looking back it seems completely ludicrous but that's what was happening to me.

Cutting down on the medication has brought back something I never realised was missing, it stopped me getting annoyed, made me feel calmer and allowed me to take a step back from how I felt, I started accepting things for how they were. I might still be annoyed by something but I didn't hold on to it, I let it go. Learning that a lot of who I am, and how I react to situations are linked, but are not my fault, are not down to things that I have done, it's been down to past experiences that have shaped me in unhelpful ways and it's time to rebuild. 

I've had enough of a break from how I used to be that I now need to if someone annoys me, work out how to politely express that annoyance, so it doesn't bug me, prey on my mind and unhelpfully bottle up. Also I need to do it in a constructive way, so I feel I've explained myself without doing something that may cause myself unnecessary grief.

As for being zombified? The mischievous, devilish part of me has been buried for a while, and is finding it's way back, my wife has noticed and I think she believes it's a good thing. I think when people take medication and feel like they're not themselves, it is a side effect of the medication, it calms a part of people that is closely entwined with stress, anxiety and depression. I can understand how some people would see that they feel that a core part of their personality has been chloroformed. I notice now I feel more strongly about what we might perceive as injustices, as opposed to just shrugging my shoulders and saying "Shit happens!". To be fair, shit does indeed happen, but we can always do something about it. That space I got from myself from the past two years worked for me, it might not work for others, it's also allowed me to see where I need to make changes to how I deal with things. For me it's a bit like Catchphrase "Say what you see!"

Old Dougie isn't back, upgraded Dougie is here and he's going to make mistakes, probably misguided attempts at humour. Right now I've got an excess of good moods and motivation, that's not always going to be the case, but I've you've got to work with what you have. Onwards and Upwards!

Xmas List

Dear Santa,

Can I haz plz?

Orphans - Aphex Twin

Aphex Twin - Orphaned Deejay Selek CD

'Together As One' - Dinosaur

DMT: The Spirit Molecule: A Doctor's Revolutionary Research into the Biology of Near-Death and Mystical Experiences

Primus - 'The Saturating Seven CD

Primus and the Chocolate Factor with the Fungi Ensemble CD

'Utopia' - Björk

Anxiety 6: Dial it back up

I like my medication, occasionally I'd get a bit of a manic rush for a couple of hours where I was full of great ideas and enthusiasm, only for it to drift off later. I liked that state, it was like a window to achieve something and feel happy about things. The side effects are forgetfulness and being a bit fuzzy and demotivated most of the time. 

I'm cutting down on the medication. I've been told I seem more like my old self. This does include a less pleasant side of being grumpier and less tolerant. I feel more likely to react to things, which itself isn't a bad thing. I am in a space where I am more relaxed and can more easily spot anxiety driven actions, so I can re-learn to deal with events in a better manner.

Lowering the medication highlights that while it smoothed over the cracks, the issues were still there. An example might be dealing with people over something negative, I might be less anxious about coming forward and pointing it out, but I'm not learning a useful way of dealing with it, so when I lower the medication, I need to train my brain to deal to think about it differently. I've seen it work, now I need to make it work for myself. I need to learn to put the anxiety to one side and work out how to approach it from a more calm view point, since the anxiety generally dispels the calm and has an urge to get to the point and spit it out bluntly.

In an ideal world I'd win enough money to live on in a lone cottage by the sea and none of this would be an issue.

Disorganart

We've all seen art we think is terrible, we all remember our high school art teachers! We've all seen art we like. 

I made something ages ago, I'm working on two new different things now. 

Unique, quirky, one off items,  for... the sake of art. It's not about making money, it's about creating. Bringing into existence, those deep subconcious thoughts in a meaningful and humorous way.

I present you with Disorganart!

Abba-ttoir

Here's a clue to what today's podcast is about... yes that's right you've guessed it an abattoir! *pause* What do you mean you didn't like that joke?  

In my work I occasionally have to visit an abattoir, when I took this job, I was really unsure about about having to do so often to go to there. Before we go this isn't pro or anti beef, this is where beef, leather and pet food come from. I feel people need to know this, we are so used to pre-packaging, it's so bad I notice Tesco are selling frozen omelettes. Though in this case, I'd like to think it's for people who aren't capable make an omelette on their own and not some cynical ploy for making extra cash.

It's important to not stress the cattle. It causes the meat to become tough and lose flavour. This means as short a journey as possible to the abattoir to ensure the minimal amount of stress. The next part is from memory, so I may get a couple of steps the wrong way round.

A cow goes in to what is known as the kill box, is rendered brain dead by a bolt between the eyes, it's then hung up by the back legs, throat slit and the blood is drained. Once this process is complete the numerous stages of dismantling the carcass begins. Horns and hooves are removed, the heads chopped off and intestines and other organs are taken out, here the line split into two, one processing the carcass the other sorting out the organs. The hides are removed and then the tail is taken out. There are platforms that move up and down, one allows staff to cut the carcass in half, with what resembles a giant hacksaw. On another platform there is excess fat some of the fat is cut off by hand. In a distance of about 30 metres, it goes from being a recognisable animal to two large, hanging pieces of meat. In the kill hall there is the is the odd spurt of blood up the side of the white plastic walls, like some cheesy horror film.

Wandering around in white overalls, through the kill hall or walking through chills of half carcasses, it's impossible not to come out with them having stained by something red. Elsewhere there's more dismantling, flanks, bones and offal appear. Tripe disturbs me, the hexagonal looking structure of it, reminds me of a plant or a leaf, but it's not. It's white, and looks like a load of mis-shapen fancy bath mats hanging up to dry.

Outside is where the particularly bad smells are, especially on a warm day. Here is where the other bits come out from the kill line, the literal shit, fat and other material. A lot of this is classed as Category 3; not suitable for human consumption. Here is where your pets come in, Category 3 material can be be used in cat and dog food. Nothing is wasted, even the bones and blood find a use, they can sold off to be made into fertiliser.

There you have it, a trip round an abattoir, I'm always disappointed when I visit because I've still not seen any 70s popstars in their brightly coloured jumpsuits there.

As the legendary Keith Top Of The Pops & His Minor UK Indie Celebrity All-Start Backing Band once sang... Morrissey Will Never Forgive Me.

!

Whisper Words of Wisdom

The room at the hotel has an outside bathroom, 6 or 7 foot high walls for privacy. white tiles on the walls and floor. The toilet and shower are in the half of the bathroom with the covered roof, opposite there is an 18 inch high wall housing a raised flower bed that is pretty much just mud with some unhealthy looking plants that look like they've had too much sun. 

It's 2002 and I'm in the middle of the Indian Ocean on the island of Meerufenfushi, I'd ran away on a last minute two week holiday to get peace to de-stress from dealing with my nitpicking manager who was bullying me at work. I'm nearly at the end of my holiday, it's been amazing, me, the sunshine a couple of trips and sitting reading books in the sun while listening to my Walkman.

If you don't know what a Walkman is, it plays cassettes, it's like a more portable version of a record player that you need headphones for. 

It's about 11pm. I can't sleep, I don't feel too good. Today I know I got a bit too much sun so am feeling a little dehydrated. I'm trying to drink water, but I feel sick. I spend the next few hours not able to concentrate on reading. The fish curry from the buffet clearly didn't agree with me. I end up on the porcelain telephone talking to Huey, Huey and Ralph. The other end isn't happy either, I keep swapping ends on the toilet. 

I feel so wretched, I just want to be better, the previous night I slept badly and got only about two or three hours sleep. I'm exhausted, it's half 2 in the morning, I fly home in 12 hours. I've been listening music because I can think of nothing else to do. I'm sat on the floor of the bathroom watching little green geckos only a few inches in length running along the walls. I say sat, more propped up against. My stomach churns, throwing up leaves me with a minute of feeling on top of the world before the nausea comes flooding back. Part of me is red raw, too ill to sleep, too tired to move. I'm in a horrible elevated mental state where I can't think clearly and I just want to sleep to make it all go away, but I can't and I'm already agitated. Sunstroke and food poisoning, what a combination!

Plonk plonk, plonk plonk... on comes Let It Be by The Beatles. I focus on the music to try and distract myself. Delirium is kicking in, the song feels like a blanket, it makes feel warm and loved, the lyrics start, I start to feel the words make sense to me. I suddenly understand. The whole song, everything makes sense, I start crying uncontrollably, all the time I've got a sensation that I understand! Understand what exactly I couldn't tell you. The song finishes, I play the song a few more times, still crying  feeling wretched and everything in the world makes sense. 

12 hours later I'm on the plane home, 10 hours to London, it's after midnight, my flight to Edinburgh is 7:30am. In the past 48 hours, I've had about 4 hours of sleep, I'm staying awake and hang about in the airport until my flight is due to leave. I am due in at work at 08:30. My twisted sense of having to be reliable and turn up because it's the done thing is in overdrive. Not only is plane an hour late, the airline screw up my and other passengers luggage.  Walk into work at half 9, dressed in the same shorts and t-shirt I'd left the Maldives in, ready to work! The wanky manager isn't happy, the Managing Director is up today and wanky boss is worried that how I'm dressed will reflect badly on him and asks me to go home and get changed. I try and ignore him, go on a wander to catch up workwise, end up talking to the MD and another director who seem amused I actually came into work. Wanky boss walks in says "Ah, excellent, you're going to go home and get changed like I asked" and scurries off. The directors look at each other and laugh at wanky boss. They couldn't give a toss about how I was dressed.

What lessons can we learn from this? 

Holidays are important, nay essential!

Being delirious is great fun on hindsight and at the time.

Do what you think is the right thing at the time, it's better than regretting not doing it.

Don't give in to wanky bosses that pick on you due to their own insecurities. He took me to the pub that night, tired to get me drunk, I had about 5 or 6 drinks, then claimed he had a bottle of vodka, wen to his flat he tried to hide the fact he'd poured me a half glass of vodka and juice to get me really fucked, I cottoned on and poured it into a plant pot. The next day he had a dreadful hangover, I was fine, yet he had a dig at me that I had "Better not be hungover!" 

I got the last laugh though, he eventually got made redundant. WANKER!