The tide was out

It was 2° and the tide was out.

I was well wrapped up so I wandered to the seas edge. It was wrapped in sunshine and looked warmer than the prom which was so sporadically shady.

The water's edge was superb. The tide was ensuring the sea was sliding further out and soon I'd be able to walk to Fife.

The snow on the Lomond peaks ensured such madness never came to pass and instead I sought sustenance and sanctuary in the Greek cafe.

These treats are delicious and after walking a bit I had the hunger. 

My steps hadn't been over 12000 since before Christmas so it was no surprise that I've been effortlessly sliding into ill health. Whether it's my high BP or just lethargy, I find quickly lack of activity leads to a lack of interest in anything. Running out of vitamin D put the tin lid on it as I started properly going out of my mind for about 24 hours. 

This time of year it's traditional to be stuck indoors and find a lack of resource to get moving. The weather can restrain you or a belief that lying in bed thinking a duvet day will be beneficial. I'm absolutely useless if I don't move, I really do sieze up. I know this but I have to work hard at it. It's like eating or drinking too much used to be but they've both gone.

I was also beating myself up over another foolish mistake with my meds. I misunderstood 'changing' as 'stopping' the mouthwashes. It was actually 'supplementing', if only my ears or eyes worked better. I only discovered this when I was looking through my paperwork and read the instructional advice again. I had only been using the green juice occasionally.

I was supposed to carry on using them all. I stopped before week 8 and was only really using the last one they prescribed. I restarted the bicarbonate of soda on Jan 3rd having not had any since October. My mouth is tingling now not stinging. I've been blaming the toothpaste, looking in the wrong direction at 'what provoked it', not what meds I was taking, or had stopped taking, to keep my mouth clean and aid it's recovery.

In my head I was trying to tidy up all the meds so we could get back to normal and all I've done is to create a new normal by delaying my recovery. Clearly another shambles from just assuming or guessing. It must be so hard for the staff to have to deal with patients who forget or ignore the advice.

With my mouth feeling better and exercise restored, I ate like a horse today. I even had mackerel and finished the pack. I say, "even", because I'd already had my stew leftovers, a huge plate which I most assuredly didn't offer to share. 

This is huge progress and a welcome return to the reiki/reflexology table had me bursting full of positivity all day today.

So a good day all round as Stu received his 9th radiotherapy session for the brain cancer. It's a tough gig after he has guided me through since May when I was starting out on my Camino Can'cerre. 

When I go in for my scan on Monday 13th he'll probably be on the recieving end of some painful cure as his treatment carries on.

It's the ingenious ways of keeping us alive which in the middle ages were probably used for torture, although I've yet to be offered the burning at a stake cure.

So this week I see the dentist with my crumbling ivories and next week it's the scan we hope that will say it looks to have gone. They'll never be able to say it won't come back and the nature of the beastly blighters is they like to party. I think I mentioned a few months ago how much cancer enjoys making a pest of itself so I don't think I'll have seen the last of it for sure. What I do hope for is that this will be the last of this particular visit. I need to keep my immune system in good order to keep the body fighting any unwelcome party goers and that's where my new found capacity for abstinence comes in really useful.

As a lifelong alcoholic I've dedicated myself to ensuring I can continue to drink. I've often been quite devious in ensuring I maximise the efficiency of my body to process as much drink, not least when I gave up spirits in my 20's. I knew I'd be dead before I was 30 so I figured I would be missing out on a lot of wine and beer in later life. 

It's true I probably drank about 30,000 pints in my 30's so giving up bottles of Pastis proved a wise thing to do. 

It was like the retreat from smoking in my 40's. Clearly I couldn't continue going through 50g of tobacco a day. 100 roll ups was the wrong number, but when I started getting the lift from the first to the second floor I knew the game was up.

Stopping drinking to ensure the staff had a reasonable chance of curing me so the only response when I got my diagnosis. Like all elderly people I probably was going to slow down my drinking anyway so to stop for treatment meant they could pump as much chemo or zap as much radiation as they felt. My liver and kidneys were largely thinking, you think this is bad, you want to see how we feel after 6 pints and 2 bottles of red. Worse still, I heard them shout, when he gets a box set and had to watch the next one, and the next one until it was 5am and he's down 3 bottles of red, 2 jars of olives and a big block of cheese.

Yes, I think it's why everyone thought I looked good on the treatment as I looked so shit when I was a fat smiling drunky monkey.

Either way, we are where we are and my relationship with drink has now changed. I'll continue drinking but I'm on the lookout for a past time that satisfies my thirst and doesn't involve just water. I did think about whisky or wine buff but not too sure it's my style. My palate isn't sophisticated enough for craft beers so I doubt it'll merit tasting sessions.

When we were last in Spain, half pints became the preferred option. We also ventured down the 0.5° beers as well. Some of the draft lose alcohol options worked really well but I think 12 half pints will be the new all day session. It's an old man thing and at 62 I'm going to play that card. My alcoholic old uncles never made it to 60 so I think I'm definitely an old man. I've made old bones as they say, although in this day and age 90 seems to be the new 60.

Enough of this nonsense. I think I'm only trying to capture my mood and contrast it to 36 hours ago. I am in such a good place and so grateful as the next steps grow closer.

I can feel the hosepipe, aka feeding tube, finally leaving my stomach.

The requirements of flushing daily finally finishing.

The long promised holiday, finally materialising.

The next portion of living finally arriving.

Yes the tide is finally retreating and with any luck there will be a decent period of respite before it returns.

The room will be so much bigger when that elephant leaves -What's shifting your dial - Camino Can'cerre final takes

This Camino Can'cerre will never end but I'm thinking the blogging on it must be close to the end.

Today I'm thinking about what shifts my dial. What gets me going at the dawn of the day. "Donuts" shouts Simon or Stu, a favourite morning supplement on the Camino to get fat Al finally moving.

"Drink" could also encourage me to speed up a lengthy meeting, moving it to closure in the time it took me to roll a fag. A cheeky device I used to upset those who saw it as their life's work to fillibuster a board meeting. I never knew how aggressive a play it was for some. Apparently I would roll the fag, smell it and be mesmerisingly intoxicated by it to such a degree that the idiot prolonging the meeting would lose their fillibustering skill. I was blissfully unaware I had such power, well, until I was told then I would use it injudiciously whenever I got board with certain idiots. I would frequently stare at them while smelling the roll up as if it was a joint or a cigar. In fact, the relish of those moments suggest to me its why I had to give up work when I stopped smoking. That fun, had had its time.

So what gets me up in the morning is still a moot point. The necessity of others is probably number one. On my own, there's very little that propels me but when walking on company my Camino pals will ensure I'm up and out. If on my own I'm usually last out the albergue with the hopitalero chasing me with his broom, while my washing is languishing on the line.

If we're going to the airport or going for a meal that can usually get me going. The meal isn't the attraction it used to be and drink is likewise a pretty lukewarm activity. I like it once I'm there but as the post treatment weeks have rolled by my habit of saying, "sorry, I'm staying in" has grown more habitual than my alcoholic habit of saying "that's me off to the pub".

It's like losing so many of your fingers, toes and limbs this post treatment phase. On the plus side it doesn't bother me on the slightest. I'll go far further than that, nothing really bothers me. In fact, do I consider it a problem that nothing is shifting my dial? I'm feeling I've got to the end of life, looked back through the window and smiled. Yes that's another box I've ticked and the bucket list is complete.

This could just be a bit of PTSD, the perfect time for me to be approached by some religious zealot. It could on the other hand be a lovely piece of enlightenment. I can see clearly now and so many of the rainbow chasing moments of the past bring me a clarity I've never could see.

I've always been a stoic. It's never something that's troubled me. It's why I accepted so many of the ills without feeling they were mine to fight or defining some misguided idiot like Thatcher or Starmer. Worse still, the queue for raiding the cookie jar is now groaning under the weight as Nigel Farage has finally secured favouritism to become the next prime minister of the UK. He's fought a wonderful campaign learning many a trick from Gerry Adams and the host of terrorist tactical trump titans out there.

"The room would be so much bigger if that elephant left."

I needed a change of discussion and my tiny head always enjoys an abrupt end. I use that expression all the time now if the conversation slips into how you doing.

The truth is the elephant is in the room so until such time as it does leave, we need to factor it into every office move I do again. The last elephant I removed was our short-lived CEO at stocktrade in 2000. I can't remember if it was 1999 Christmas eve or 2000 but it was about 25 year ago.

It was just about the end of Stocktrade as we knew it. The dot-com bubble was bursting and in true style the end was nigh for those involved in the industry's execution only sector. We were more insulated than most by not going for the unsustainable growth opportunities that I fell out with a non-exec called Jervais over. I said 79% year on year for 3 years was good but he thought we were missing the huge growth others were seeing. In 2000 and even 10 years later, the Stocktrade name was still alive.

40 years on since the name was first coined there are people who have worked there their whole working life. That's good enough for me. Many people got their first start and went off and did other things, while many are still there. Job done for me. It was huge, the biggest thing in my life to help it get to where it did between 1994 and when I left. When I left I felt proud but genuinely moved on to care about something and someone else.

It as it should be. Grip it tight, then let it go. Love it while you hold it but left it go and grow.

I've never been articulate. I've been loquacious but rarely have the clarity I hear in others. I'm so envious and try hard when discussing the difference between tiredness and lethargy. I'm very good at discussing the difference between words, just lazy at choosing the right one first up. That's unlikely to change as I challenge cancer not to continue partying in my body. It's just an inevitable consequence of who I am. I love writing songs and playing them. I'm just hopelessluly incapable of playing in time or for more than 2 or 3 bars. I'm not even capable of practicing for more than 10 minutes. This isn't new, this is just me. I'm so stoic about who I am and who I've always been. Lethargic about changing and believing too strongly in staying true to my natural state. That should probably be nascent state, I do believe in development, I just struggle. I'm still in a developmental state. I joked 40,30,20 and 10 years ago about how my education ended in 1972 at the end of primary 4. We left for Maryland outside Washington DC, USA where my Dad was being a less than diplomatic attache. My mum was in her element, he sadly was miles away from his habitat.

I was clearly in the wrong place. The school, Darnestown elementary, was full of lovely people but it wasn't a place you learnt anything. Everything we got our weekly tests on were things I'd already learned. I had to introduce an extra column for the spelling test called normal spelling. The inerence being abnormal was USA spelling. It was like not standing up to pledge allegiance to a flag and a country I was merely visiting. I was 9 but I knew a few things and diplomacy clearly didn't run in the genes.

Camino Can'cerre is like that too. I feel like I spent my whole life providing accomodations or excuses for people's behaviour and now I'm offered the luxury of just acknowledging who are toxic to me and who I thrive with. Christmas with family and pals has been energising. Caitlin, Jackie and I have never been so busy doing next to nothing. From days out on the train to running in the meadows. 

I've even managed two trips to Easter Road courtesy of JJ and Murray's old man. What's even better is we won both.

While sitting in Murray's dad seat I thought I'd zoom in on Arnaldo and JJ who sit in the east stand. I think I probably need a better lens.

Especially as tickets were £5 to ensure a sellout 19265 crowd. Fair play to Kilmarnock for selling out their end as well. I say "end" but it was only a 1/4 of the Dunbar road end where Stu used to do his ball boy duties in the 1970's.

So it's of to Meggetland to see in the new year with Keith and Andy. Let's hope 2025 brings us more joy and happiness. More chance to see those opportunities and less distractions down rabbit holes. Fire starters might create distractions, they've always done it, our simple ambition is to accept they exist and concentrate on what we can change. 

That's enough to put a smile on my face.

The thought I'll finally get a shave in 2025 also helps.

Looking forward for the NHS

While the royals are thanking the hospitals and raising the profile of the homeless it's fantastic to see the new builds on the duchy's lands soaring while they start cutting the rents they charge to, among others, the NHS for lands they inherited, tax free, during the musical chairs of 16th century politics. I always love these old period films where someone gets handed bubonic Bob's land because Bob has sided with the old king and Maisie gets a new castle as she's the new queen's sister. 

Prince Peter meantime loses his head and his family get thrown in the moat while the new prince Paolo picks his peculiar shade of paint to coat his arms and walls.

Then in the greatest irony of all England welcome in their German cousins and rename themselves after a town. Some people are proud of their heritage and all the family names, others, like true grifters, will grab a new one from a graveyard or in our monarch's case a town, ideally one with a castle, it says, in the Grifters guide to the universe.

I don't care, if like the rest of us, they hand some of this wonderful booty back to help fund the fight on homelessness. If they use their lands to make villages where people can prosper and not have to head off to the big city to try to find a place to live. Keep the homeless at home, many don't want to leave town, they just can't stay under the same roof anymore.

It could be a cynical power play to make sure homelessness is kept off his land but the prince of paupers seems to be putting his money and his lands where his mouth is, or is he just keepings those hands in his pockets. Well that's not for me to know or guess, but I look forward to living long enough to see what happens next.

My weight took a downtime week as I ate less and less. I'd got up to 15/7 but after two weeks it's back down to 15/1. I've resorted to having a protein shake a day and it's helping. I've not lost anymore and I had enough energy to go for a 5 miles walk. 

I've just been exceptionally lazy at eating. Hard to describe for someone who spent a lot of time telling himself you don't need another sandwich. For 55 years all I remember is being hungry and greedy. I genuinely couldn't stuff enough food in. 

There were few foods I wouldn't devour. Few drinks I wouldn't consume and I was a nightmare at an all you can eat buffet. As a 17 year old, I once ate 5 consecutive 3 course meals in the halls of residence as a charity stunt. The chef gave me extra and I tucked them all away inside an hour. What was worse I went into town 3 hours later and got myself a baked tattie. So now what's new? I've got no idea but the mouth just doesn't hanker after anything as I don't really salivate. This is the kernel of a new diet plan. Suppression of the glands makes eating tough so you're properly chewing or masticating for ever. Ultimately you get tired and after weeks of this you finally capitulate and stop eating unless your forced.

I don't think I'd ever thought I'd find myself saying I wouldn't want to eat every second of the day. All my life I've wanted to eat every second of the day, even when I was being pukey Mc'ewe, the bolemic Bambino who thought he could keep his weight down and hangovers away if he just emptied the contents of his stomach routinely.

So now I'm back on the protein shakes to keep the weight up. Cheese and chocolate, those Christmas catering cart horses can't help either. I normally gain a stone from them but I'm not liking them at all. It's so funny force feeding me chocolate. I'm opening the box but every chocolate tastes like a 90% cocoa solids one. My palate just thinks it's so bitter and not enjoyable. Worse still is it doesn't seem to concern me so if I get the all clear in the New Year I can see me getting down to 12 stone.

I'm sure that won't happen and the glands will improve along with the palate but it seems as faraway as ever. Quite simply I'm finding this the toughest part of the journey. My head is hurting today as well which I'm not sure if I banged it or I just am getting it from trying to eat something as challenging as spaghetti and meatballs. Whatever it is I'm in my bed at 8pm instead of being out partying on a Friday night. Yep, it's a pain alright.

Looking forward I'm starting to dream

Although I felt like I was hallucinating when I saw Alan Mackie's old neighbour's house lit up like a Christmas tree. How we would've laughed at his reaction when he first noticed it through his bleary blue eyes. Well I say blue, but I'm not sure as they were quite bloodshot a lot of the time too and bloodshot blue seems a bit harsh.

Unlike his likely reaction, which would've been spot on. Something subtle, like a baseball bat wrecking crew may have followed. It's always nice to have fond memories of fallen friends while getting on with living.

I mean, even for me, blue reindeer seems implausible. Reindeer are used to the cold, unlike me after the races at musselburgh. 

Stu made it out with us and we met Kev whose horse would win at 5/1. Not quite 18/1 as the pogues would tell us but there were no NYPD choir on show so we settled for 5/1.

It was one of our few winners but it was great just to get out for all of us. At this time of year the temptation to forget the under armour and slouch on the couch is far too real.

Making it to musselburgh brought the fresh air as well as good nonsensical chat. Usually about a line of form that someone had spotted, or which was the grey one.

I was just as cold at McDiarmid park where the 5 goal Saints thriller saw the Paisley team marching home with the 2-3 victory after a retaken VAR penalty in added on time. Double VAR was mental. Brilliant to meet up with Jim, Angus and Graham. Simon and I also got our steps in, so my highest since treatment finished felt like I really was putting my best foot forward.

Unfortunately the next day I had the return of the postural hypotension and the dizzys.  Luckily it was only a day.

I remember in my 40's as I was preparing to retire I had to do the calculations a few times before I finally felt able. It was all expenditure not income based. I didn't think how much do I need, it was more the case of how much did I not need.

The lifestyle changes people get gurus for were pretty simple for me. I could quit lunchtime drinking as I didn't need to run the office from the pub anymore. I don't think anyone ever asked me to run it from the pub, it was just my style. As a self confessed alcoholic it made it a lot easier to be decisive in dealing with idiots. It wasn't so much as Dutch courage it was just nice to be a tad less tolerant of whiny people. 

While it was great it also cost a fortune like my smoking. I'm not sure I could smoke today at those prices but then I suppose I would've found a way, like going back to work just so I could smoke. It's so funny looking back at the choices I made for me, never mind the consequences for Jackie and Caitlin. The idea of having me around the house sober from time to time was quite bizarre, as was driving the car so often. 

Within weeks of giving up work, or should I say receiving a handsome cheque to stop coming in, I realised I didn't know how I had the time to work. It was such a quick transition that my days were very full. I suppose being 46 helped and suddenly we were able to go wherever, whenever. There were no impediments owing to the latest halfwit crisis or fraudsters to hold us back. No trips to nonsense meetings and certainly no reason to explain why we needed to pay money back to people when we had accidentally stolen it.

I remember one of my last jobs was handing over a £500,000 fraud that we'd inadvertently perpetrated on our clients. It was only 2 years after finding the £600,000 fraud our dividends manager had done over the previous 11 years. Ours theft was 9 years ago when we forgot to pay some clients interest and they never noticed. Some got reimbursed before I left but many found their interest quietly retained, some compliance people just don't have a moral compass, it's a cultural thing. I was the wrong person for the city, not vice versa so it was no suprise when I applied for a job with our watchdog, the silence was deafening.

I'm sure I've bored on the subject many times about how it only took me 6 weeks to sort out the Newcastle office and finding the fraud was instrumental in this. Getting them new computers was instrumental in them finding the fraud. I always say it's about culture and who doesn't feel comfortable with a drink in their hand, well loads of people really. I laugh at that sentence now but it certainly enabled an openness for many to approach me direct and not feel obliged to go through some four or five layers of managerial chain. In the cafe, pub or on the football field, I'm just fat Al, a status free zone.

I hated bosses who needed to be involved. I always felt if they didn't trust their staff to bypass immediate or intermediate bosses and go to the top, they missed the point, which was the work. It's always been about the work for me. Anything else is ineffective, inefficient and lengthening the day.

When I handed over the fraud we'd perpetrated the guy was a halfwit. A total climber who said so nobody expects this money so there's no pressure on us to pay it out. Well, I mused to myself, my word is my bond clearly is a few decades ago. What's yours is mine was now vogue and the idea he'd disappoint bosses as he paid the money out clearly worried him more than any morality. I think between him and our compliance they slid the file into the bin. It took me seconds to realise leaving was a lucky escape. I left a poison pill to ensure they needed to check with me over one of the payments if they tried to make it. A month after I handed it over I still had no call so I left the message saying if you ever need any help just drop me an email. Of course it never happened.

Moving on from the Camino Can'cerre may not be quite as simple and partially because I think it's more life affirming to stay knowledgeable and possibly helpful. I'm jumping the gun as it's a while until the scan and then the results but learning how to live with a diagnosis was really well illustrated to me during these last few months. So many random thoughts, memories and even embarrassing moments where I thought you had to say "how you feeling", that's so squirmy even now.

I was reminded of the research professor from Vermont who I walked with in 2013. I met him about carrion de Los condes and chatted most of the way on the Meseta. I wanted to know how far fetched one of my story lines for Jose Archer's "Tommy turns cars". He put me straight. It was actually old hat and I laughed. The basic premis of Jose Archer's story involved her writing a sci fi book called the egg hatcher in the late 60's. It involved bible belt oil men who got women pregnant and then instead of abortion, stored fertilised eggs which meant the abortion issue was covered without upsetting the right to life nonsense. All about men's ingenuity, not. It was just the life was being delayed. 

Anyway Jose is in her 70's walking the Camino and meets Tommy who turns cars, yes he's a car turner. One of the twists is some idiot stalks Jose because he'd done his PHD on her book. She tries to plqcate him saying nobody read it 40 years ago and it's still never been in reprint. "Tommy turns cars" is just my hobby, of the last 20 years and as I found out in 2013 hopelessly already out of date. My prof pal was brilliant and we talked about all the cancer cures his research unit had initiated only to find drug companies or insurers in the USA were constantly stalling them in the courts. 

Many of the cures gave an extra 5 years to life critical diagnosis and a lifetime to some with 3-5 year life limiting diagnosis. I found it all jaw dropping and incredibly frustrating. We as a society we're doing this to ourselves. We had a long chat across the Meseta over days on it as he explained he was working with people in Europe, specifically Lund which made me chuckle in that small world Camino way.

Looking forward, one day I'll try and edit it down from the 100k+ words but when it became a trilogy I just thought, it's clear I've no hope of ever writing a book, I don't even read them. I just like to waffle.

It's like my random reaction to everybody trying to expose who is lying. The problem with so much of that who's telling the truth comes back to how you perceive things. What is your natural bias. I sat watching the goalkeeper come off his line trying to save a penalty that had been given by VAR getting involved in the battle of the Saints. The Perth crowd groaned as they'd already been disappointed by the penalty being given. The percentage who agreed with the adjudicator was probably quite small from the home fans. This is a natural bias. How high was an arm raised in the first instance being a natural bias. No case to answer it's all fake news. Well sometimes it's is fake news and sometimes it's just perception. Nowadays it's like Mr Kipling, exceedingly tasty but not really a story.

There was one recently on the BBC. My interpretation of it was 'my truth is I am happy to see the back of you but as an employer it is best we try and manufacture a story let's say....'. 'Lets not say you were a pain because you didn't fit into what we're doing with where we we're taking the new show so I will say that you are taking a leave you can see what you like....'

My truth is I felt forced out so I feel already compromised by not saying too much but I didn't agree with that statement so therefore I will repudiate it by taking a job immediately....' both are telling their truth and both their soft whine because they signed a compromise agreement that got the person of the payroll, the other got a bung for leaving a job they liked doing the way it was and some management has changed the style. If that's news well it's not really useful, that's been happening for years but it happens every time there's a change of the managerial guard. Huge compensation agreements signed as if these people are journalistic guardians. Foxes arguing over which hen house they get to gorge on us what I see. I digress again from that happy banter.

I love how word association of what I see around leads me from a Sainsbury's bag blowing in the air to Ricky's paper clips in parking meters during the 80s. His car ashtray was full of them. They were inserted instead of coins just to break them and his handily placed, "Meter Broken" note on the dash. The linkage was a tenuous one but in those days a bag went over the meter to say it was broken and that's how my memory works.

It's a bizarre thing the memory. Nowadays we have video evidence for so much we've relegated remembering to pre phones. When people say phones are bad for you they meant some sci fi 5G airwaves but it's a lot simpler. We don't need to prepare, read a map or any number of functions. The phone has taken a lot of thinking away from us and I don't just mean storing phone numbers. The brain has evolved over the existence of the species but I think it will shrink now, never mind soduko or wordle. They're puzzles measuring your decline. I'm writing this on my phone for viewing on a phone or laptop. I think I need to contemplate a printer. To be fair, my excuse is, it is for my memory that I'm writing. Just to remind myself where I went on any given day or week.

I often moaned about how all those council houses were sold in the 80's and yet far from a good capitalist reinvesting the proceeds in more product it was the era of asset stripping. It's a strange thing that capitalism got confused and evolved into asset stripping. There are firms that invent, move from development into production and constantly evolve but our financial world is bereft of it. Quiet theft is how the financial world works, ably demonstrated during the banking crisis, hiding in plain sight during COVID and now with a workers prime minister at the helm, stealing from old women. First they binned the cold weather payment to try and initiate another COVID cull that even Boris wouldn't have had the brass neck for and now this theft from the women who were due this pension money. 

It seems the brass neck has never been stronger, and where there's brass there's cash. I can just see them toasting themselves in the Commons cut price bar. HOORAH!

A plague on us all. 

Like all journeys this life is eventful

Life can be exhilarating, exhausting and often extremely dull. This week has certainly had its fair share of all three.

The good stuff is what I've historically concentrated on, even the dull stuff I can draw some humour from but another pal's predicament is just painful and sad.

I'm too exhausted for words and it's not a journey you're wishing anyone else has to repeat but sadly the Camino Can'cerre invites us all back whether we want it or not. My tears of recognition are merely a moment of self indulgence. I know I'm not going on the journey, I'll hopefully be on the beach somewhere. It just makes me really sad. It's a regular word used in the cancer wards, a setback. Never has such a small two syllable word had such resonance. It clatters in it's onomatopoeiac way through the airwaves and into the soul.

Out of the floods of tears, wee Noah's appear and whether these nuggets are memories from a bygone age or a stolen moment chuckling during therapy, maintaining the enjoyment of life's journey is everything to me.

I strongly believe what we perceive and although we might not always believe what others perceive it's important you let it resonate a reasonable time. It's too easy to disregard what others believe as fanciful nonsense and the Camino Can'cerre has certainly banged that message home every single step of the way. Whatever works for you is the mantra. Whether patients or professionals the diverse community with a common cause keep you going. Like the Camino de Santiago we all feel we're going in the same direction and there are many ways to get there. 

I often felt really strongly when I was working it was my biggest job to make myself redundant. I would take my job and dismantle it until it took me less than an hour. Every step of the way I'd take more jobs on so I could fill the day but sometimes I would just move on. On the Camino Can'cerre you're reminded to move on all too loudly. Your body is explaining your mortality, nothing complicated, just simply there's a time to party and a time to sleep. 

I know we all confront mortality in our own way. Our perception of death is unique, just as living can be quite an abstract concept for some. When YOLO became a buzz-acronym I felt it was being used to justify bad behaviour and opportunistic nonsense. It felt like it was part of the "me first" movement, that generation after generations have tried their best to restrain. 

There's a balance, I would laugh, that says, if others might die because I can't be arsed about COVID, that's their look out. I think I was 57, fit and thought it's my responsibility not to risk others lives. Many people did not agree with the lockdown and that's when I realised how powerful those YOLO type lobbies could become. While I might characterise them as self centred idiots, they are part of my community, so I, like the rest of society need to recognise their worth too, as hard as it feels.

Happily today i am off to the dentist at the western to assess the damage. It's also a test to see how badly I fared doing what they asked.

It was a beautiful sunrise and let's hope the day is as good. I'm back up over the 200,000 steps and hopefully see 260,000 for December before repeating last January's 550,000.

back Issues - T - shirt

After moving the piano today to make room for a Christmas tree I'm going to contact Midlothian Physiotherapy about sponsoring my T-shirt.

It seems quite appropriate really. Choose a logo like theirs, or Swanys Bar then put some cheesy back issues on the back.

A bit of neuralgia, twisted nerve, damaged disc

I've got a 15 track CD that Gordon mixed from the masters of the 3 compilation tapes and I'll bet a few of those band members have back issues, not all bands can afford roadies, even after 40 years, but I'll bet they see their physios!

Out and about with the bus pass, an alcoholic's passage to recovery

Week 12 is about getting more active. Energy levels rise when you start to exercise. It sounds counter intuitive as, with exercise, you should feel tired but that's the whole point. There's been so much muscle wastage you need to build it back up. You are tired after a mile or two so the trick is stop, recover and go again. Remember the couch to 5k manuals, the marathon training form the 1980's. Stopping of course, is famously an alcoholic's past time.

This we did effortlessly. 

With the pensioner bus passes Jimmy and I headed out to Melville castle and took the high route through the forest.

Then we passed under the road, admiring the graffiti, round the back of Dobbies and on to what we christened the Tyre bar during COVID. 

It's a little jump for horses made of tyres which you can sit on. We forgot to bring a Kerry oot, so we walked on. In years gone by we've sat there and enjoyed a modest libation, shooting the breeze about fresh air and untouched snow.

From there we carried on to the Kings Acre golf club bar. It's a lovely location with friendly folk serving. Being active and putting weight on, back to alcohol and huge energy from all the sugar. What's not to like.

We stop there whenever it's open. It's been a lovely slow pace of 2km in half an hour, stopping for photos and knowing we've not got a clock on us today.

The next stop seems a bit soon but surprisingly it's another 2km. It's just along the driveway as it meanders through the course, down to the main road and then down the busy road. Again a couple of stops for the views, letting the cars go by and chat about random things like the deer on the fairways or not raking their hoof prints in the bunkers. 

The Laird and Dog serves  Hever Lee and it's still light as Jimmy and I enter.  It's starting to get darker  outside by the time we've sat down. Half way through the pint it's pitch black outside. Loanhead or Roslin can wait for another day. The bus is due on 10 mins so we finish up and head out.

By the time I get home it's saying 13500 steps and it's the most I've done for 8 weeks, or Sunday October 3rd to be precise. The last time I played golf. What pleased me was it was continuing with the 2000-3000 steps rest pattern throughout the day.

I woke up on Wednesday early and felt pretty good. Today it's Portobello and a prom walk with Simon.

It took us a bit of time to find each other as I came down bridge street while he wandered down bath street and bumped into an old guitariat from the band 35 years ago.

I never miss a photo here.

It's not San Sebastian but it's ours and the views to the bass rock are phenomenal. It's not the best photographer or camera, but trust me, it's really clear if you just look.

I stared for ages until eventually Simon appeared and said what you looking at.

Selfie taken we could walk on. Today's plan was nothing to fancy. Walk down until the bladder tells us to head to the Ormilee. 

Have a pint and then circle round and walk back to bridge Street and a pint at Doctor Kelly's aka the Forrester. 

There's always the chance to get a few extra steps by getting baclava at the Greek place next door. That's what days to porty are all about. A wee stroll, couple of pints and baclava. 

Stopping at Swanys is a given as the #12 is door to door from Dr Kelly's. Then I get the easy walk home and steps are done.

Thursday is another Reflexology day this week so walking there and then along the Libby Dams to Mortonhall for lunch got me to 10,000 by 1pm. I kept the drink at bay until the sun set and then didn't waste too much time in getting going. 

The engines started with a Hever Lee in the Hermitage. It's quite an easy stop on the road down from the golf club. There's a couple of bus stops for the emergency departure but on general it's an easy walk to most places.

I chose a #5 and headed for the last Thursday meet at the Cask and Barrel. The heart's game in Belgium reminded me of Iain and I in Brussels. A mental time with great craic as we left the hobs fans and headed off piste for a great night of darts in some bar. At some stage we were in a car but I've no idea where to or where from. I just remember thinking if this is it, that's ok too, it's been a great night. The next day was the match and the ET worldy that beat Goram from 44 yards.

I still like Belgium beer but won't approach their police again at a game. That was a drunken folly.

I left the cask by 8.30 and was home a wee bit more drunk than expected. The alcohol is a bit like radiotherapy, it wears you down. I've been on it for 4 days now, properly on the batter, relatively speaking. My worry over 5 pints and not having 6, tonight would prove prophetic in the morning.

Yes, first hangover where sleep not Musselburgh racing appealed. I'm glad I made it through the shower, tube turn, flush and other such nonsense, before getting out the house before 11. It's so important to leave the house in daylight as I've mentioned endlessly and even though I didn't fancy it, I'm glad I went.

I walked along too late for the bus down to Porty that leaves outside my mum's old family house on Mayfield road so carried on to get the #30 in Dalkeith Road. I laughed to myself about how much my stories revolve along the lines of sorry I'm late I missed the bus. My life revolves around not driving and I resist the car at every turn. It's strange, but apart from a brief flirtatious moment thinking about a Jag I pretty much don't believe in cars. I think they were a capitalist conspiracy to make us think we could dictate our futures. They were the first major decision that gave us choice or the trappings of wealth. The first time we could stomp on the scum or as the USA would say, introducing jay walking as a crime. How can a person walking ever be guilty. Oh, m'lord, "he was walking in a built up area with long hair and dark skin," springs to mind. Or, she was walking in a dimly lit area m'lord so I thought I'd offer her a lift home". These kind of defences work in a court of law but sadly are just a reminder that the wealth required to kill people is a low bar.

I arrived on the bus and walked down the uninspiring road. There's a path which is set back from the road for a wee stretch so it's not too deafening for the puir wee boy with the tinnitus.

At the bottom you join the main Edinburgh musselburgh road and stroll through the side streets, across the river where Dad took us to see Albert and his crew in some mad flotilla.

I got my £43 ticket with the free drink, fish supper and programme. I only call it a bargain because I wouldn't pay £15 for a fish supper normally and have no choice at £6 a pint. This makes the programme and entry fee a bargain.

I bet very little and reminded myself 5/7 winners are favourites so I guessed correctly which one wouldn't win but not the 5 winners. Foolish past time but there was loads of money every time for the favourites that won and lost, such is the reliability of money at the track.

Stevie and Simon certainly were doing better than me by the time Dr Shirrcco straightened me out. Unfortunately that was my the last of my green shoots of recovery. The best result I could hope for was a low alcohol afternoon and having a coffee had aided that. 3 pints of Guinness seems quite abstemious for me but of course there would be more.

Waiting at the bus stop in the high street clearly had my number. I just feel ridiculously strongly that after an event you don't wait on a bus, they're busy. You have 2 pints and then you get a bus when it's quiet. My feeding tube eventually revolted as I saw the queue fill an empty bus never mind the full one I anticipated. I beat the standard retreat and headed to Staggs, aka the volunteers arms. I thought I'll get a #30 or whatever hit my back is now agony with all this standing around, it needs me walking. I then ordered a pint and stood at the bar. When a seat became available, I ordered another and sat at the bar. I was 15/4 this morning and I know I'm hitting 15/5 no problem. I might be overdoing the alcohol but my weight passes the scrutiny I should've received next week. They were right, I do feel like I'm finished with treatment even if I forget I've still got recovery.

This is where the chuckle about my drinking this week. I've not had any for so long that I've sneaked from 1 a day, 2 a day to 7 a day effortlessly. It's a chorus I sing in my Christmas ear worm song. It's not quite as funny as I think, but it is undoubtedly true. I know I celebrate my alcoholism like I do my cancer, never mind my music career, but if I don't, who would. I love writing and performing songs to largely myself these days but it doesn't diminish my enjoyment. I subscribed to the theory that a 40 year career in rock n roll would be 4 years of fun and 36 years of hanging around, getting drunk in hotel rooms and listening while people did a sound check, a long time ago. My ego loved performance and not practicing. I loved song writing and jamming, but not tuning up or worse still unloading the gear and plugging everything in. I could do unplugging happily and it always finished with the pub but certainly not loading. If anyone didn't fancy a pint I was so upset. We need to discuss the practice, talk about the set list, get more gigs and drink more beer.

I wasn't even 24 when I hung up the microphone. I'd drink too much, sang too badly and generally was ready for another of my scrap heaps. Yes time to move on. From frying pan to fire as it turned out. Deadbeat and Life Support were binned as I drank more, smoked less drugs and work consumed too much time. 

The start of the black period would be at an unfortunate marriage ceremony, my own, the one I don't remember, or choose to forget.

The point of this story was to slide effortlessly into 1990 lying on the floor of the Oxford Bar. Readers of the blog may also call this my latest epiphany. Yes my life is a constant barrage of awakenings. Sliding between bouts of sobriety and benders that lasted decades. I don't know why I never moved to France permanently in that period but I guess it's because I was in another sliding doors moment. 

I'd been over to France, bringing back lots of tobacco and drink. I'd been to Hong Kong too and brought back a little chair. It's still with me. It's probably for a six year old but I found it perfect for sitting on the platform on my way to work in London the day I flew back. When colleagues asked why I wasn't jet lagged I explained I was still pissed. I also said this work is easier if your not sober. Those, would be professionals, in the city hated me calling it out back then. I couldn't help it as I felt most of them were fairly or really stupid. They liked to talk and being in a meeting meant they should talk. If you brought in consultants then you could talk even more as they wanted to, no needed to, understand the problem, the business, the reason you'd invited them in. This then ensured most of the employees stopped doing work and taught these numpties everything they knew about the problem, the business and how they didn't know the answer. This time honoured tradition of asking those who had failed to explain the problem so that the consultants could understand their failure always found favour with me. I thought their business model was flawless. 

The consultants role is to find a company in a mess and charge a high rate xfor quick resolution followed by a reduced rate when the first fortnightly findings deliver a difficult management message. As Consultants you've presented your report fully aware of the strategy. You play the circus game of painting the grim picture, while having your conclusions written in your original submission for work.

At the end of week 2 you deliver the meeting they all crave. The latte is poured, the sparkling water fizzing in the glasses.

You've asked the players who got us relegated why we are so bad. You've explained why this person passes the ball too hard for you to control and how this player will drift off to sleep often so their winger goes by. You've found out about the left handed clerk who was given a right handed desk and for 38 of their 40 minutes heard them explain that they couldn't adjust their screen because the wires weren't long enough.

As you peer around the table, you gently explain this is the minutae they miss, all the time knowing that it's the people at the table who are the problem.

You smile and fill their glasses with more of the intricate detail about their professionals in whom they trust the future of their business. You send off a few sparks and let them start a little fire with he's always complaining to IT about the wires, yes she's always talking about him invading her desk space, they've been going out for years but just split up, I didn't know they'd split up.

You let them rumble on for another 20 minutes then interrupt them gently with, look team, you've brought me in to do a job so I'm conscious of time here', before gently sparking up and letting them talk out your last 30 minutes and you arrange to reconvene having done nothing, except pass a little bit of time, drink a latte and collect another 2 weeks pay. 

It's worked for 1000's of years and it's proof that if it ain't broke, they won't fix it, but they know someone who'll talk about it. 

So I slipped past those sliding doors and I even worked out it it was time to leave before I collected anymore. Truth is, I wish I had learned from it but I still believe strongly in stopping these idiots and cutting to the chase. Sadly society still enjoys it and is far from satiated.

There's so many ongoing debates that aren't debates, like Jesus resurrected from the myths to time. Ok, I'm going too far strolling into religion but really, does anyone believe a dead dude, I wanted to say a Deadbeat, long haired hippy dude with a beard, got up on day 3 and pushed away the stone, jogged off, then flew up in a UFO. No witnesses except his pals who were guilty only of stealing his corpse to split it up and sell it for golf to set up a charity for the poor, aka a charity for the rich to take over from the poor.

I digress away from my debates, but monologues from abortion or trans rights have grown in the slogan shouting space of these three words. None of it ever focused on the individuals who matter the most. The people who are pregnant and merely want some help and advice. The people with a mental health issue regarding their gender. Whether we make these things worse with our Lawyers or not we certainly don't help themselves individuals with our self satisfied smugness that our concerns must be heard. 

I worry that as we bring the fire starters into the debate we are not doing anything about the real things we are united on. That if we stick enough pins into each other we will never have enough common interest to work together again.

That would be the final nail in our democracy dream. The dream is tarnished, in fact, there can be little debate, the dream about democracy has long since gone. It's like the #12 during the 5:30-6pm post rush hour from Portobello.

I was quite smug being timetable man on the way back from musselburgh. I got a #44 and it looked like I had 8 minutes if I got off and walked up towards my old school, Holyrood at Duddingston Kirk. This I did then the bus disappeared off to craigentinny, no it's not a train, Joppa, yes, Joppa. For Swedish readers it's true, there's a place in Edinburgh called Joppa. It's also true that when drivers finish their shift and take the bus back it drops off the timetable so I walked another stop and got back to blogging.

These consultants are dictating our debates nowadays and remind me of teams playing it out from the back. From youth football onwards it fine as you're building a skill set, you're at school. If you're a professional and you only have one foot, you can't play out of defence because the opposition know you can only pass it the way you're facing. This is why teams pressing you take the ball off you and score as easily as the consultants do when they enter the work place. You can spot the real consultants just like the real footballers with their first touch. If they sit down,check their watch, pull out a laptop and get comfy you know they've got their best interests at heart. If they dump their bag and say let's walk and talk you know they want to work.

The #12 arrived and it was off to Swanys. I'm glad I didn't want to walk back through the park. It was dark and the idea of a pint in the Sheep Heid for auld times didn't ring true. If already recalled the time we went up to witness Brendan Murphy's destructive power with the taller John MacFarlane. He might have given away over 2 stone and 8" but this was no fight. I'm not sure why I was there, probably holding a coat, no idea, was I a witness to the perceived grievance that resulted in this ceremony of an after school square go. It was short and brutal. John dazed and destroyed on the grass, Brendan shouting at him to get up. Luckily for John, Brendan was a boxer, he didn't need to kick the fuck out of the corpse John now felt like.

I enjoy a pint in the Sheep Heid. It reminds me of drinking there at lunchtime during the school day. I always went on my own. My solitude seeking solace as usual was never masking my alcoholism. I met Des Brogan my form teacher who advised me I shouldn't be there. I smugly said neither should you, sir. He knew I never fitted in that place, I don't know if he felt he fitted but my brother told me he does ghost tours now so fantastic that he no longer has to endure the borstal work that looked so tough from this pupil's pulpit.

It was too dark to walk home and Swanys is also a bit warmer. A couple of pints and I lasted until 8:30 with Jimmy and the boys before heading home. Job done I'm over 200,000 steps and I've got tomorrow to finish the month.

Saturday felt like a day of rest. It was. I did a lot of gambling and no drinking until I discovered a tin in the fridge. Old habits die hard and the tin was enjoyed before we watched Joy" a movie I'd recommend as a counter culture drug to the world of today. This was all about the first child born through IVF a procedure they proudly advertised after the movie had created 12m humans. I won't dwell on those who it sadly failed for as why would you. For some people it moved the world forward and as I looked at the cast during the film a celebration in my head produced a tear in my eye. It's hard to believe but I was delivering newspapers with headlines about test tube babies. I remember it well although I don't know my opinion. If I find it in my diary you will see a picture. Actually, now I've found my diary from July 26th 1978, you'll see all I was interested in recording was a party for the Germans from the Pollock Halls. They'd been staying there and wanted a party so when it was blown out I contacted the priest and took my turntable up to the church hall and played DJ. It was a great night, unless you enjoyed dancing, ha ha. I really enjoyed being a DJ but at 15 never knew it was a job. I loved organising it all at the drop of a hat and superb that I got the keys from the priest and all I had to do was lock up. Hard to believe how some of their priests were somewhat less than good. I was lucky and got a function hall for free.

I was so religious then, I would happily have died for the cause, whatever it was.

Like Saturday, I woke up on Sunday thinking December deserves to be recognised in all it's laziness. I'm 62 this week so getting pissed is more than a past time in December. We usually gamble like mad, eat too much and exercise later.

Tonight's tea summed it up for me. Lots of veg and a desperate Dan plate. Two hours later I'm still eating it.

Tomorrow is week 13, so it's time I leaned back and enjoyed the fact I still have a pulse.

Thank you for reading, I am so grateful for every day now. 

On Wednesday it's my birthday and I hope to go to Cafe Gallo for coffee and coffee beans, before heading down to Tapa for a bottle of red Mencia wine and a celebration. My nephew James is 40 this year and if my abacus is working I'll have another celebration at the weekend!

Still burrowing down the rabbit holes

So many people talk about the post treatment journey, the camino you do on your own. It's like me continuing to dig when I'm already in need of a longer ladder, but it can't be helped. 

You need to keep going and, dare I be so brave as to say, you need to take responsibility for yourself. At 61, this is now your time to shine. To own your own mistakes, your shameful moments as well as those little glorious memories you've garnished, you've glossed, you've greatly embellished. Oh... yes, did I mention sleeping on the maternity room floor while Jackie screamed "No more" before Caitlin was born, or even Deadbeat, over time, these memories have been transformed.

Today, as I start week 12, I liken this part of the journey to the meseta, Burgos to Leon, because this is the more meditative part of the Camino Frances. It is part reflection, mostly recognition. It properly ignores the chronological order you might do the Camino in, unless you bus the Meseta first time and go back after Santiago to see what you missed.

If I look back to the beginning the analogy works for me as the start of any journey is in the pubs in the months before.

You've long since talked about doing the Camino, like when you randomly start the conversation that there's a lump in your neck. When the doc phoned and says "the cancer is real, here's your letter for the scan", well to me it is so like when you book your flights to Biarritz. It's clearly happening now you have cancer, you will be treated. You have a flight, yes, you're walking into the unknown.

When you get your scan it's like being in a long metal container, yes, a Ryanair flight. They are expensive equipment, scanners and planes but they don't have much elbow room. Both are taking you on joyous journeys but you've no idea what rabbit you're releasing out of your hat.

Next up is the tonsils as both them and your teeth are wheeked out. The treatment plan, yes the mask preparation, another scan, it's all crazy. It all happens so quickly you feel like you've spent more time floating above yourself watching it, like a voyeuristic looking while another part of your split personality has it happen.

You've done some of the hard stuff getting to St Gien pied du Porte. Who knew that by crossing the Pyrenees that by the time you reach Pamplona your body is prepared. The Camino Can'cerre is so aligned like the stars you follow on the Camino Frances.

The next stage of the Camino Frances is like the treatment phase on the Camino Can'cerre. You lump along to Logroño laughing one minute while complaining the next, how tough the Pyrenees was. You discuss with your new best friends how many aches and pilgrim pains you have. You all reach Logroño, have a pilgrim party in the tapas bars of Calle Laurel. You wonder why you signed up for this, while all the time knowing this is what you needed, physically, spiritually and emotionally. The end of week one on both the Camino Can'cerre and Camino Frances are beautiful. You encounter so many perfect people, who consider themselves normal yet all you see is their absolute perfection.

Next day the only thing you feel is your head. Your legs are on auto pilot and that's how I felt after week one chemo and radiotherapy. Week 2 was autopilot for sure. Get used to this, eat, eat, treat, repeat. 

Some days it would be Sleep eat, sleep, eat, sleep, treat, sleep, repeat. It was as this blog diary demonstrates a busy repetitive cycle and like the journey from Logroño to Burgos it becomes your pace of life.

Pilgrims, like the water flowing through Rioja, all moving together with regular bumps, always moving in a single natural direction, together. The odd fish moves upstream, we just all flow with nature, aided by the vino tinto, the red Rioja. 

As you approach Navarette you see a town on a hill. It looks magnificent and you stop to take photos. You don't appreciate the descent into the valley until you're out of breath climbing back up again. You've wandered through stage 3 of the wine production phase as the pickers pick the purple grapes. You've nicked a few and eaten them like you'd bite an apple. Like me going for ice cream every day to Cafe Gallo. I've got to eat more to keep my weight on, I'd laugh. Who knew the Camino Can'cerre could give me so much joy. Treat upon treat after every treatment. 

After a while I couldn't taste it was a treat but my head knew it was, so of course I said, "two scoops please", one would seem so slimming and this is all about maintaining weight, right?

As you travel through Rioja reaching Najera then Azofra, you arrive at a large 4 storey albergue with no dorms, just twin room dorms. You get allocated the next bed and it's single sex floors until the stragglers arrive and the last floors fill. I felt that way whenever I had an overnight stay at the Western, it was always great basic accomodation.

From Azofra you travel to Santo Domingo de las Calzadas and on to Belorado. I love the stretch after to Villaranca des Montes des Oca. Like week 2 and 3 on the Camino Can'cerre this is a fantastic rolling party. Some days feel so much easier than you were expecting. You realise you've been prepared better than you had thought. The NHS professionals have done a fantastic number on you. Add it to your family, friends, background research, intuitive nonsense and general living, you're feeling great. You climb the mountains, pass monuments to the 36-39 war, you reach St Juan de Ortega, you can stay there, at Ages, Atapuerca or do another hill and arrive at the peerless Santa Fe in Cardenuela Rio Pico before Burgos.

I need to stop for a moment and plug one of my favourite Albergues on the Camino. It has ensuite double rooms, twins, also, 5 and 6 bed, dorms. It's been my favourite since 2013 when I kicked the ball across the Camino. The wee laddie, son of the hopitalero Miriam, was probably aged 8 at the time and so insisted I play football not bask in the sunshine with my beer. That day we had so much fun passing a ball back and forth across a the lawn and patio. Simple pleasures of miscontrolling a ball with boots on, kicking the table with your beer glass, never mind kicking it into the Rio Pico and watching it float downstream. The communal pilgrims meal was superb, I had taken the double room, my sleep was divine. I would recall this moment later on when I was given one of the ensuite rooms reserved for the younger people with cancer at the Western. It was one of the rooms funded by the Teenage Cancer trust, a fantastic charity I'm always happy donating to. When I was admitted and there was no room on the ward I was given this room.

 It made me feel like I'd just paid €70 on the Camino treating myself to a little bit of luxury.

You wake up with a wonderful feeling. You go forward with a jaunty little step on your journey. On the Camino Frances that's a nice easy flat walk into Burgos for another night of tapas in several of the bars, not least Jackie's favourite restaurant. On the Camino Can'cerre it's towards the end of week 4 when the treatment starts to rack up.

In comparing the two caminos I'd say this is when you take a stumble in Burgos and twist your ankle. On the Camino Can'cerre week 5 sees the radiotherapy start to really bite and you have another overnight with the chemo. This was the night I stayed in the Teenage Cancer trust room with my fluid drip in all night. It was a great night but it was the start of the toughest and unknown to me the roughest part. Looking back now it's definitely something you can be prepared for in your head but still not ready for it. 

I won't bore you all again with the tales of weeks 5-8 as they are the tough ones and now I'm at week 12. My taste buds are returning while my weight is being maintained. I've never been under 100kg since my smoking habit went into remission along with the smoking ban. My love of the Camino has stopped me getting too obese, but I've rarely dipped below 110kg since 2006 except that glorious first Camino in 2007 when my waist went from 43" to 34".

Today though I'm puzzling like you do on the Camino or often after it, about what just happened. You try to relive moments along those physical, spiritual and humbling navel gazing experiences to understand what just happened. You know you achieved something you didn't think possible but it not particularly tangible so there's an element of ticking a box to say done it, whilst also saying how good you felt doing what at times felt brutal. Exestentialists would probably articulate better than I how that grotesque painting of Guernica is so beautiful in all it's brutality or maybe not. 

I do feel when I look back at moments on the Portuguese way when we stopped in Porto, how crossing a bridge with my vertigo was so nerve jangling and yet now I've had a free 6 week training course with a mask on receiving radiotherapy. 

I remember climbing the curvy bridge in Ourense when we did a section of the winter route from Ponferrade. I got so far before my legs went and I had to retreat.

I knew looking up was bad enough, but now as a consequence of the Camino Can'cerre I've improved. 

More details to follow later but I'll post this now and add the rest later.

I just realised that I've never mentioned the rabbit hole that I'd just disappeared down owing to a podcast. Alison Moyet has always made me chuckle at how superbly articulate she and her lyrics are. There's the thing about what pub conversation do you want to be invited into and the answer is the one where she is talking ten to the dozen. She's so full of wisdom, articulate and humble beyond belief. She has no obvious filter and happily lets rip in any direction but mostly in relation to her experiences. There was a stack of observations I loved but the one when in her solo career the record company just wanted more of the same please as she wanted to develop her range had me rolling in the aisles had I been in a supermarket.

I may be paraphrasing but she said I didn't realise I'd planted a flag and now I had to dance around it. That phrase will love a whole with me and was my experience of the A & R community in London during Deadbeat days. I remember taking the tape down and one guy saying we're looking for this sound as he played me the latest chart #1. I said yeah, Ive seen TOTP and there are a few bands like that I've seen in Scotland. In my world they're yesterday's sound. I was horrified but then I realised as it was on my bus back to Edinburgh that this was a money making racket not an Artistic and radical movement. It was unashamedly about making money that kept these boys and expense budgets in place.

My naivety in thinking this was about giving a leg up, producing a platform for performers to make the world a better place was wholly misplaced. The last thing I would encourage was going a deal with these people. The main thing would be to get a trustworthy manager to help you navigate it. 

Slowly, I lost interest in this aspect of life although being a Hibs supporter we persevered with putting the fanzine out, it just seemed to slowly grind to a halt. Something about the foundation feeling like a castle built on sand to borrow from The Only Ones remains springing to mind. With hindsight I do wonder whether they wanted the album out or whether some greedy greasy record company guiser saw an opportunity to milk one last drop out of the classic band.

Alison Moyet is such good value and her newest stuff is straight out of the same influences as Bowie had when doing his Low album to these ears. Her you tube channel had me down that rabbit hole for ages. I also had to relisten to "invisible" to understand why she wouldn't sing it anymore. Wow, it really was so derivative and must've been during that going around the flag again period. She had some great early solo stuff and I liked the Yazoo days but I hadn't heard this song for a long long time. It's not quite the birdie song but it's one I'd certainly keep buried when you have so many more worthwhile songs from the past and present.

week 11 - Like Hibs blog runs out of steam, unlike Scotland in Warsaw

It's funny but normal service is resuming. Monday is all about changing the water in my feeding tube balloon. I hasten to add the balloon with the feeding tube is doing ok at these technical challenges but making sure you have two 5ml not 2ml syringes will ensure a more successful change. Especially as I'm off into town today to see the sights.

After a flush I was ready to go. Not quite ready to go on the whirly gig but I was ready to venture through the tack of the Christmas market. I stared at the £7 for a pint of mines and gunn a touch too long. I knew it was too long as I was asked if I'd like a pint. Yes, several but not at the price your quoting was internal dialogue.

I walked down to the low level which was less busy and allowed me to enjoy the ambience from a safe distance. Unlike the beached whale impersonation that masks the fact I've lost so much weight. It's not a good look but I promised myself I'd include warts and all embarrassing photos. This one is bad but at least I've not got vertigo.

The big wheel definitely brings that on. I was early so popped into Avalanche in the Waverley market to buy a Deadbeat t- shirt. Still the only retailer stocking them.

Simon and I met Rich off the train and wandered down to the cask in Broughton. A Guinness awaited me along with some water before we headed to the Baillie. They regaled me with stories to match their pictures from the Camino Norte and I'm well up for a visit next year all being well.

Nothing like an early night and at 5pm it seems appropriate that I should warm up for Scotland's winner take all game in Warsaw.

It's more like loser loses everything but it's not got the same ring.

Thankfully we won for a change in the last minute and our 1973 (the last time I had a 34" waist) sibling selves did headstands to celebrate.

Let hope Hibs can start doing likewise and start scoring with the last kick of the ball. Here I am doing my finest Alex Cropley impersonation.

I loved a selfie back in the 70's, who didn't 😘