Parkinson's Disease. A right laugh.

The tricky third album.

Well that was a laugh at work today. I've been having dizzy spells for at least a year now. They are always short-lived, maybe ten seconds or so. I can usually shake myself out of them or at worst a sit down brings me back to what you humans call normality. They seem to be brought on by bright light or colours and very close proximity to others. The latter part may be accounted for by the fact that I am a night owl who loathes all human contact. I'm waffling again, you may have noticed. If you hadn't noticed then bloody concentrate!

Anyhoo, this afternoon I was ushering the deaf kids into the assembly hall with its vivid, white hot lights (see what I did there? Painting a picture with my words, effortlessly delving you deeper into the intrigue. I'm a veritable Jeffrey Archer). I turned round to realise I was nose to nose with a colleague. My eyes tried to refocus and before I knew it, my senses overloaded and my balance decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. Next thing; double vision, panic and a sense of heading south.

Now you've probably already noticed that I'm a smart cookie, although not such a smart cookie as to know what the fuck a smart cookie is. Well, this intelligent biscuit promptly sat on the nearest thing available to sit on. This being an assembly hall, the nearest thing to sit on was of course a stack of plastic chairs. Now, perched up on my plastic umpire's chair I thought, 'this is the longest dizzy spell I've ever had'. Round about this time I also thought, 'Fuck me, Mother Earth seems to be hurtling towards me at a vast rate of knots'. At which point the heroic, giver of life, Sharon from Year 6 whom I can only assume lived a former life as a nightclub bouncer, intercepted me and gently but firmly guided me out into the hallway. There, Sharon stayed with me, plying me with chocolate until my listening room chums arrived to help and take the piss (quite correctly) in equal measure. The well intentioned Jack suggested some water and shot off to the staffroom only to return a whole FIVE MINUTES later to innocently say, “Sorry, I got chatting.” It's a good job you're good looking Jack!

Ten minutes later, I was okay but no little afraid. Double vision, babbling and a sort of out of body experience. That sort of thing normally cost forty quid down my local pub, The Horse and Bastard. Actually, I don't have a local pub because I don't go out because I don't like human contact. Remember? Seriously, try to keep up. By the way, I have no idea what the assembly was about. Probably God. Or snooker.

So that's something else I can add to the ailments that PD (the disease that just keeps on giving) has blessed me with. So far, in isolation they all seem pretty surmountable but add them together and they reveal what a frigging evil bastard PD is. Please, if you are ever tempted to think, 'He's up and about, laughing. He appears as well as anyone else'. Please understand most of the symptoms are either unseen or often mistaken for something else. Stumbling gait, blurry words, seeming confused – oh he must be pissed (drunk, American friends). Forgetful, clumsy, lost for words – pull yourself together man! Admittedly, a lot of these symptoms are also connected with being a fucking idiot so for me it's harder to differentiate but you get the drift.

Two other hilarious gifts from the good Doctor Parkinson are pissing and depression. American friends, this time piss means to urinate. Pissed can be urinated, annoyed or drunk. We also take the piss (ridicule) or something is a piece of piss (easy). We ran an empire using such a diverse lexicon. Anyway, pissing. I won't bore you with the details other than to say, the other day a doctor said it is either a PD thing or a prostate thing. So, you never know, play my cards right and he just might be sticking his finger up.... I've said too much. Colleagues, if you walk a little faster past me in the corridor tomorrow, I'll know you have read this.

Depression. Well, that's a fucking laugh too. I was first diagnosed as a teenager in the nineteenth century. I've tried all the coping mechanisms and they often work but sometimes you can feel it creeping up and even the most innocuous words said by someone and bang, you're gone. I remember years ago reading about Spike Milligan locking himself in his room for weeks with it. That's me, but often doing family tasks with a Stepford Wives smile on. American friends, Stepford Wives is English for Stepford Wives). Some people hide their depression and anxiety behind humour. I fucking hate those people.

It's always there (PD) like a brooding shadow. Every now and then you panic at the thought of shaking for twenty years. The other night I was on Boy Wonder's bed and we were talking about my impaired right arm. He said, “Is that the one that shakes?” Well, fuck me, that was like being punched in the stomach. We have told him about PD but I didn't realise he had noticed that! I hardly had. It left me blowing hard for some time. Young people, kids are awesome but they break your heart in a beat.

You look for silver linings and there are plenty. I should be around to see Boy Wonder grow up to be England's first openly gay Premier League footballer. Or a welder, whatever. I'm also glad I have been diagnosed now and not twenty or thirty years ago. I was a nervous, self-pitying, serious little fucker back then. Its nice when people say I don't seem to be letting it get to me but the truth is I often forget I have it. I forget loads of stuff. When I dream, I still have a full head of hair so when I wake up I have have to go through the whole mourning process again. Cheers God.

Incidentally, God won't be appearing in this post because (a) he is busy putting an end to all the world's strife; hunger, poverty, Trump, Noel Edmonds and (b) he doesn't exist. (Although, for someone who doesn't exist, I don't half talk to him a lot. Bloody Catholicism).

By far and away the most fun to be had with PD is the stretching exercises. I have a neck exercise where I simply move my head 90 degrees to one side, pause for five seconds then full 180 degrees to the other, then repeat. Basically, like watching a really slow tennis match. The fun bit is to do it at meetings, football matches, the theatre etcetera and always wearing a sinister grin. Just when the person next to you feels uncomfortable enough to speak out, say to them, “I have to do this. I have a certificate.”

I'm off to play on the motorway.

Tara for a bit.

Norris

If any of you have been affected by the issues in this post,

get a fucking grip.