Surf Nation

A nice bit of Cocaine Jane but otherwise no angles found

All that talk of being marooned on the moor very nearly came to pass. I'm just back from the village of Minions, high on Bodmin Moor, where we stayed last night after Harry's band's performance at the Eden Profect. The band, Wave7, were selected to appear as one of five of Cornwall's 'Bright Young Things' on the music front and despite being a bit raw in places did really well. Phenomenally well, in fact, when you consider that they're only 14. The other musos were all good and with the performances taking place in the Mediterranean biome this was a decent little jaunt for the day. (Check out Wave7's own song, Cocaine Jane. Yes, I know there's another song called 'Cocaine Jane' and so do they. No, they're not cokeheads. Or even Coneheads.)

Having stayed at the Cheesewring Hotel in Minions last night, it seemed rude not to walk to the Cheesewring. We made it there this morning and then down to the Hurlers, a collection of standing stones. Tremendously scenic and a nice change after three months of being marooned in West Penwith. Health-wise, all was well - no electric shocks and barely any pain, though the Lyme rash lurks and, what with the scar from ACDF, I'm not looking my best just now.

As for being marooned, the snow started to pelt down at about 11.30. We hit the road at midday with fresh snow everywhere and settling fast. But aside from a couple of slippery moments, fate smilled kindly on this outing and now here we are back in the far west.

Mind you, if only we had been marooned. I might have been able to capitalise (as I'm told a couple of friends allege, with no foundation whatsoever, is my wont) on an angle or two... Goddamnit, I might even have come up with a piece for the Sunday Telegraph!

Quest for Sunday Telegraph Byline Heads to Bodmin Moor

A quick note to the winners of the Bustin' comp, though anyone else who'd like to read it is very welcome because let's face it, confining a blog to three people who've won a competition certainly isn't the kind of tactic to get me published by the Sunday Telegraph. No, for this laudable aim I need a more inclusive approach, one which spans generations, builds bridges, crosses frontiers and acknowledges that while all is fair in love and war the fickle finger of fate can caress our inner thighs at any time, meaning that even if a watched pot never boils we should beware the temptress who, though she walks softly, carries a big stick (You will never get a piece away in the Sunday Telegraph. Ed.).

To the three winners, I say this: please bear with me. It's been a busy week and although I am now venturing beyond the city walls I have yet to make it to the post office. In all honesty, I won't get to one until Monday, for on Saturday I am pushing the boat out - not literally! - and heading to the Eden Project, where my lad Harry is playing a gig with his band. Then the Wade clan, with the addition of Harry's mate Mark, is heading to the village of Minions on Bodmin Moor. I'm researching something for the FT (Ha! Not the Sunday Telegraph then! Ed.) while there and what with snow forecast it is possible that we will be marooned there forever, making for a story which, it seems to me, the Sunday Telegraph might go for, along the following lines:

HOW I WAS MAROONED ON THE MOOR

That sounds good. But what about the strapline?

PROLIFIC FREELANCER ALEX WADE HAD WRITTEN FOR EVERYONE - EXCEPT US. HERE HE EXPLAINS HOW VANITY, SNOW AND IRREDUCIBLE STUPIDITY FINALLY SAW HIM GET A PIECE AWAY 

Look out for the Sunday Telegraph - but not this Sunday. Meanwhile, check out the Times 'Weekend' supplement for something about surfing. Once upon a time, it kept me sane.

My Battle to Write for the Sunday Telegraph

I woke up this morning dreaming of the Sunday Telegraph. An extraordinary subject for a dream, you will agree, but it was in my Gabapentin-filled mind because I'd gone to bed last night making a mental list of all the national newspapers I've written for. Among what used to be known as the broadsheets, they are:

The Times and Sunday Times.

The Guardian and Observer.

The Independent and Independent on Sunday.

The Financial Times.

The Daily Telegraph.

Among the tabloids, they are;

The Sun.

This last was an interesting piece. Rebekah Wade, then Sun editor but no relation, asked me to pen some words about Saddam Hussein's threat to sue the Sun for invasion of privacy. At the time I was moonlighting as a lawyer for the paper and its sister title, the News of the World. I was happy to oblige, Rebekah not being a lady one says 'no' to very readily, least of all when one is her newspaper's legal advisor, and you can read the piece here. Perhaps not surprisingly, it was picked up by a variety of sources, not least the Swindon Evening Advertiser (as it then was), which ran a front page story whose first line was: "Swindon boxer Alex Wade is preparing to take on his toughest opponent yet... Saddam Hussein."

That piece for the Sun is the only one I've written for the tabloids. However, as the broadsheet list reveals, I've written for all of them except... the Sunday Telegraph. 

What to do about this? Deluge the paper with pitches? Do loads of research into what Sunday Telegraph readers want to read about? Start wearing tweed jackets or, if I'm in a nautical mood, blue blazers? Or am I wrong - has the paper moved with the times, thus demanding a sleeker, more contemporary look?

I don't know. In the great scheme of things my failure to write for every broadsheet in early 21st century Britain may not matter. But the word 'sleeker' prompts a hint of self-flagellation (only a hint, mind). For the truth, dear readers, is that having last surfed at the end of October and done nothing but walk the dogs (and not very far at that) since, I have put on half a stone. Where formerly I was as sleek as they come (That is not true. You had a gut. Ed.), now I have a gut (You had one before. It has just got bigger. Ed.). There appears to be little answer to this, for anything other than mild exercise is beyond me and starvation has never appealed. 

Perhaps, if I throw all my energy into getting a piece away for the Sunday Telegraph, I will lose weight? Come to think of it, is the fact that the only paper I haven't written for is the Sunday Telegraph worthy of a piece in its own right (You have just written it. You must be desperate. Ed.)? Perhaps I should pitch a piece to the Sunday Telegraph about the fact that I haven't yet written for the Sunday Telegraph? If they ran it, thus taking journalism into the realms of post-modernism or, depending on your point of view, absurdly narcissistic and pointless copy, what would the headline be? 

MY FAILURE TO WRITE FOR THE SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

That sounds good. But what about the strapline?

PROLIFIC FREELANCER ALEX WADE HAD WRITTEN FOR EVERYONE - EXCEPT US. READ ON FOR HIS BATTLE TO WRITE FOR THE SUNDAY TELEGRAPH. 

(I seriously hope you return to fitness soon and start surfing again. Ed.)

Image of me bravely skateboarding in the car park next to my old house, complete with excellent facial expression and with rifles brandished by sundry members of the Porthcurno Anti-Skateboarding Society trained on me, is courtesy of Ocean Image.

I WANT TO BE ROUTINE

To Truro first thing for an MRI scan. My post-ACDF neck did not enjoy this. The sound and reverberation penetrated to its core. Afterwards, as I always do (being an old hand on the MRI front), I asked the radiographers if there was anything to worry about. As they always do, they said they couldn't comment for to do so belonged squarely in the neurosurgeon's domain.

However, as I scrutinised their faces with the insightful glare of the recidivist lawyer it was impossible not to discern A LOOK OF CONCERN. I'm getting used to this, too. It happens when a highly trained medical person is confronted by a scan of my spine or the sight of my Lyme rash. Their expressions assume the "Hmmm, very interesting, very interesting indeed" look. In layman's terms, this means: "You have got something seriously wrong with you." This perception was amplified when one of the radiographers looked at me kindly and said: "We're sending the scans off for urgent reporting."

'Urgent reporting'! I don't want to be 'urgently reported'! I want to be ROUTINE. I want to have a scan that is greeted with boredom, tending effortlessly to withering contempt, the look that says: "Why have you wasted our time coming here and getting us to scan your spine when there's nothing wrong with you, you malingering fool?!"

I want to be routine. I want to be normal. I want to be boring. I want to be OF NO INTEREST TO THE MEDICAL PROFESSION.

After the MRI scan I made my way to West Cornwall hospital in Penzance. There I saw that all the nurses were wearing fake buttocks. Fleshy but plastic derrieres were everywhere, for it was Bowel Cancer Week. Wouldn't it be better if they wandered around half-naked, that's what I started asking myself as one particularly lithe behind sasshayed past me, but just then I was called in to see the neurologist.

"Good news," he said. "As far as we know, you have not got bowel cancer. However, this Lyme of yours is perplexing. The rash has faded, yes, but it's still there."

He went on to explain that this raised various possibilities. A nurse, whose bottom I did not see, came and took some blood. This is to be analysed for Lyme and another possible immune system problem. What it might be I no longer recall, blinded as I was by medical jargon and plastic posteriors. But the laboratory in Southampton find me interesting. "It's not often they get three blood tests showing positive for Lyme," said the neurologist. The upside is that when my latest sample arrives, they will leap upon it in a Dracula-esque frenzy and get the tests done super-pronto.

Back home I set about work with no other thought than that whatever happens, it has to be done. By lunchtime, however, as if to endorse the radiographers' look of concern, the electric shocks set in. I took some Gabapentin, a drug I dislike (it sorts your nerves out but messes up your mind), and fell asleep, managing to snooze through the appointed time for a telephone interview.

But all is not lost. So far as I know, I do not have bowel cancer. The nurses at the West Cornwall hospital are doing a good job at raising awareness of what must be a very debilitating condition. I hope, meanwhile, that I'm doing something by way of raising awareness of cervical myelopathy and Lyme disease. My interviewee has forgiven me and in half an hour I shall be talking to her, refreshed and free, for now, of electric shocks. Our topic is coastal access for walkers, which, of course, dovetails neatly into coastal access for surfers, which ever so slightly makes me gutted to think that if I do need another op, it'll be sometime in 2011, not 2010, when I next paddle out.

But onward! I WANT TO BE ROUTINE. One day I will be ROUTINE again. One day I'll surf again. Meanwhile, thank God for work. Without it I think I might be posing a problem for the shrinks as well.

Why is the image above here? Bowel cancer. It's worth thinking about. Don't let it, and the likes of myelopathy and/or Lyme disease, beat you. (Below - me training in the old days. Well, about five years ago. I think this shot was taken at Walcot ABC in Swindon. I will never box again, in terms of sparring and/or fighting, but I will hit the heavy bag when all this is over. Hard.)

Sennen Cove, back in the day...

The image below wended its way to me from Graham Shephard. He said it'd make me smile and it sure does. Sennen Cove, back in the day... I do hope I can get better and get back to surfing there.

But meanwhile, the question is: which of the pictured crew recently won a copy of Bustin' Down the Door?

And the winners are...

Apologies for the delay. After rashly announcing to Karen on Friday that I'd turned a corner ("you know, I really think I'm finally on the mend", I said, because I really did feel as if I was, well, on the mend, or round a corner, or on the up, or perhaps even hurtling along the home straight, the wind in my dark and swarthy and OK, I admit it, slightly grey hair) I managed to jolt my neck on a gentle walk yesterday and take what is now becoming a habitual few backward steps. Today the pain continues but on Wednesday I have both an MRI scan and a blood test, thus advancing my quest for myelopathic/Lymish clarity in one fell swoop.

How many more cliches can I use in today's post? Why can't I just get on with it and name the winners of the Bustin' comp? After all, a stitch in time saves nine and he who hesitates is lost, never to be found again, not even by the best postman, or Kevin Costner, in the world.

So, here and with congratulations, are the winners:

1. Ben Ashfold

2. Simon Henkel

3. Adrian Wesley

These lucky three gents were the first to be drawn out of my QPR bobble hat. (Can all three of you please email your addresses to competition@surfnation.co.uk?)

There were a fair few entrants but a number of people have contacted me to say they were stymied by the last question. Ha! That's what I say! That degree in American and English Literature was good for something after all! (But not this quiz - Beckett was Irish. Ed.) Anyway, with even less ado than earlier, for the man who throws dirt loses ground and he who lives in a glass house should change in a shed, here are the answers. (Thanks to all for entering - hopefully I'll run another comp in due course.)

1. Who narrated Bustin' Down the Door? = Edward Norton

2. Aussie supremo Mark Richards features in the film, as stylish and mesmerising as ever. What was his nickname? = The Wounded Gull ('seagull' was acceptable)

3. In what year was Shaun Tomson crowned World Surfing Champion? = 1977

4. Who was runner-up to World Surfing Champion Mark Richards a record four years in a row? = Cheyne Horan

5. Who wrote Eddie Would Go? = Stuart Holmes Coleman

6. "All I really knew was that I had found the perfect place on a perfect wave, and I had remainded there endlessly. Forever." Said who? = Allan Weisbecker, in In Search of Captain Zero

7. "Here for what might have been six months he had eaten, drunk, slept, and put his clothes on and off, in a medium-sized cage of north-western aspect commanding an unbroken view of medium-sized cages of south-eastern aspect. Soon he would have to make other arrangements..." A fictional literary character with a Surfer mag namesake, but what was he or she called? = Murphy (cf. the Samuel Beckett novel and Rick Griffin's creation for Surfer).

Independence assured as Bustin' comp ends

Thanks to all who entered the Bustin' Down the Door comp. One of today's tasks is to print off all the emails with correct answers, find a large hat and put them in it. Sounds easy but my work doesn't stop there. Oh no. I then have to find a way of picking three winning entries which will ensure that I am immune from accusations of bias. I had planned to enlist one of my sons in this enterprise but they have both disqualified themselves, Harry because he said he'd only help if he was guaranteed a free DVD, Elliot because he insisted on being able to look at people's names and decide which he liked best. In terms of reliable family help I am left with Karen, my wife, but she says that she's been happy having nothing to remind her of surfing save my bad mood, imminent mental breakdown and constant wave-starved pyschosis for the past couple of months and would rather do the gardening. 

I am forced, therefore, to roam the streets, leather cowboy hat bursting with emails in hand, eyes peeled for a suitably independent and willing assistant. But fear not. Loads of people got the questions right and the three winners will emerge soon. Who, after all, can resist a man with a dodgy left leg, Lyme disease and cowboy hat?

Bustin' Quiz - up in flames? Or do you know the answers?

OK, here we are at the end of the Bustin' Down the Door comp. It's been a good day, with not too much pain and a decent walk with my excellent dogs, Rio and Maya. I fancy they miss Murphy, Stef Harkon's hound, but there you go. Let's get on with the business. The last question of the comp appears below, with its forerunners. Just get 'em all right, email the answers to competition@surfnation.co.uk by midnight (GMT) on Friday 22 January 2010  and the first three correct emails out of Jean-Paul Sartre's pseudo-satchel will be looking very tidy indeed for a free Bustin' DVD.

There's just one thing... Owing to complaints about how easy the quiz has been so far, the last question is slightly more tricky...

7. "Here for what might have been six months he had eaten, drunk, slept, and put his clothes on and off, in a medium-sized cage of north-western aspect commanding an unbroken view of medium-sized cages of south-eastern aspect. Soon he would have to make other arrangements..." A fictional literary character with a Surfer mag namesake, but what was he or she called?

There might - or there might not - be a clue somewhere in this post. Here are all the questions in full:

1. Who narrated Bustin' Down the Door?

2. Aussie supremo Mark Richards features in the film, as stylish and mesmerising as ever. What was his nickname?

3. In what year was Shaun Tomson crowned World Surfing Champion?

4. Who was runner-up to World Surfing Champion Mark Richards a record four years in a row?

5. Who wrote Eddie Would Go?

6. "All I really knew was that I had found the perfect place on a perfect wave, and I had remainded there endlessly. Forever." Said who?

7. "Here for what might have been six months he had eaten, drunk, slept, and put his clothes on and off, in a medium-sized cage of north-western aspect commanding an unbroken view of medium-sized cages of south-eastern aspect. Soon he would have to make other arrangements..." A fictional literary character with a Surfer mag namesake, but what was he or she called?

Image of my mate Stef courtesy of Stef's mate Darren.

Sombrero Fallout? Not yet. Instead, qu.6 in Bustin' Quiz...

Who knows whether today will bring neurological mayhem and peace and equanimity? And who knows the answer to the following question, the 6th and penultimate in the Bustin' Down the Door quiz:

6. "All I really knew was that I had found the perfect place on a perfect wave, and I had remainded there endlessly. Forever." Said who?

Check out this blog tomorrow morning, when all the Bustin' questions will be published. Email your answers to competition@surfnation.co.uk by midnight tomorrow night (i.e. Friday 22 January). The first three correct emails to fall out of the sombrero win a Bustin' Down the Door DVD.

Angry Post about a Spastic Left Leg

What a strange day. Glorious weather, a gentle morning and some unexpected but very welcome news at lunchtime. The afternoon continued at a slow but pain-free pace as I interviewed a local hotelier. And then, towards the end of our chat, a sneaky little electric shock arrived in my left hand. Soon enough a few more turned up and I called time on the interview. As I walked the 400 yards back home everything went awry. My left leg was rubbish, dragging on the floor and spastic (I use the term in its technical sense), as the shocks continued. They weren't as agonising as Saturday's but they were there, gnawing away. By the time I got home my mind was befuddled and my mood as dark they come. Why the hell has my left leg gone wrong again? I wouldn't say it's been perfect post-op - it's felt ever so slightly off, but has been better than it was pre-op - and then, this afternoon, it goes spastic again. Why?

Once home I did some serious barking at my nearest and dearest before lying on the bed in darkness for an hour. Pain has this effect - you feel like shouting at people. It's not a good one.

Now, as equanimity reigns, I will go and apologise. It wasn't the pain so much as the stupid left leg. I don't want to have a stupid left leg. I thought it was all but better and it does my head in to think that no, something's wrong, something's causing nerve compression all over again, the stupid left leg is back. How the hell will I ever surf again with a leg like this?

The immediate post-op aftermath was never going to be a bed of roses and I accept that I may not have helped my cause by doing too much too soon. What I did wasn't much, but I accept that ACDF is the kind of op that necessitates pretty much total inactivity for quite some time, to the extent that even writing might be too onerous. However, this week I have done virtually nothing. I have looked after myself. And yet I have a stupid left leg again.

I am going to crack open a bottle of red wine, be nice to the clan and remember the first half of the day. If I don't move, I might even forget about the leg. Or, in a while, be pissed enough to confuse my symptoms with being drunk.

Then again, I probably shouldn't drink with all the pills I'm taking. Bloody hell, I can't even get pissed by way of letting off steam.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!