I thought I would pop into intensive care again, having missed – being given a thorough drubbing around the nether regions, – placed on a slope to try to get my blood pressure up from dangerously low to tolerably low, – monitored every 5 minutes by an exploding pressure cuff that would startle me awake every delirious sleeping-waking moment for what seemed an eternity and all the other technical treats ICU is waiting to throw at you to keep you alive. I was in ICU for 3 days and on 2 different day wards for one and a half days. In the Urology Ward, I was treated to a confused posh lady who screamed “Help me PLEASE” at the top of her voice for the whole of one tortuous night. She seemed to have concerns about her pants. At 3:00 am I was quite ready to stuff them down her throat.

It all started with three failed attempts by the district nurse to insert a new catheter. She tried inflating it which was agony then bloody. I was bleeding from the prostate quite badly so taken straight onto the surgical assessment ward from there the troubled faces told me there was more to come. One more attempt to get the catheter in by the traditional route got nowhere so a consultant was called and the procedure, via camera up the willy, went well and frankly compared to the ram jamming, pipe cleaning, musket loading technique dished out by the District Nurse was (scuse pun) a piece of piss. However once some time had passed and I was clearly not being patched up and prepped to go home and the the critical care nurses had installed themselves round the bed prodding and probing and getting nowhere in raising my blood pressure I knew the inevitable was upon me and sure enough at 3:00am (everything in hospital happens at 3:00 am) I was taken with the hopefully restorative drug (an artificial means of forcing blood pressure up) being pumped in already (to buy some time) they said ominously.

David pronounced da veed was wonderful. He sat near my bed all night administering reminders to keep both arms straight (an uncomfortable thing to do when you want to sleep). At one point they took 9 different samples of blood in one go. I had fluid and anti bios going in intravenously. My heart monitored via a profusion of wires going out. I had a pump administering the super drug via a special syringe I hadn’t seen before, also going in and David (from Gran Canaria btw) trying to get me to drink more water like an enthusiastic Spanish waiter doling out Sangria, another shortcut to improving blood pressure (copious amounts of water not Sangria). Suddenly it seemed to work and it shot up to most peoples normal levels, such that David spent the rest of the night juggling the highs and lows of my unruly blood pressure from a disastrous starting point of 55 with a pulse of 150 to something like a low normal of 100 odd with a pulse of 130.

I am home now. Punctured, battle weary and a bit breathless (a symptom of something I know not what). No more blood from the prostate -phew. My apetite has deserted me so I am back to retching on Complan. I have more pills to take than before which is a blow but they stop in a week. I didn’t lose all my strength like last time so that’s good but I am inclined to stay in bed all day. The semi hallucinations, which were quite unpleasant this time are fading and as you may observe I am compos mentis enough to go on my iPad – so I suppose I have dodged another bullet particularly as they confirmed it was Sepsis again, brought on by an infection brought on by the catheter issues – nipped in the bid I assume.

Both Arthur and Lisa have videos out this week and both are great. Lisa has been collaborating with a really great cinematographer Cassius Rayner. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wePS8LwvxuY

Arthur has been on tour with Jazz Sabbath in Germany and WDR televised the whole concert. Its gone out on their equivalent of a BBC Arts programme.

https://www.arte.tv/fr/videos/128862-007-A/jazz-sabbath

I fancied providing an update so here goes.

My physical health is more or less unchanged. Nausea is under control, numbness in the legs and hands still unpleasant. I am pretty much bedbound but can stagger from room to room with my zimmer. I feel pretty ill most of the time. Family continues to be fantastic.

My mental health is pretty good and I am getting stuff done.

George and I have compiled all my creative writing poetry and stories into one document (90,000 words). Yes it’s legacy making time. You will all be gifted a link in due course – look forward! I have included everything – all the dubious stuff is there to be mocked. For example this gem written for Avani and George’s wedding anniversary  acknowledges a previous poem that everyone mocked called ‘Panettone Cat’

The Panettone cat
would never ever forget
the A&Gshaadi
Lardi lardi dardi

The memories rung like dumplings
Across the summer somethings
Sing
Sweet party party A&Gshaadi
We love the love hearty lee.

So with singing will make fly
the moulting pussy fur of time.
Them again – like a year ago,
really, so, wow!

Like a panettone boxed and bowed
Miaow, miaow, miaow
Oh love and shadi like a horse and carriage
Limoncello, vanilla, almond and chocolatt
We lap it up like a panettone cat

Sing
Sweet party party A&Gshaadi
We love the love hearty lee.

There is a lot of worst stuff up there which does not have the virtue of silliness. I cite a poem called ‘A prayer for a long dead, gay catholic.’

Arthur and I in the meantime have been fixing loads of things and digitising old video materials. He also has some mastery over The Red Telephone Box That Talks A Bit Like Me. I built it from scratch in a totally heath robinson fashion which would defy anyone to figure out but one of my fantasies is for the voice from the machine to continue to talk after I am gone. The technology is fully documented here http://k6.gravityisahat.co.uk/technology/ but only the most dedicated restorer would be able to figure it out. Arthur is intent on uploading some new material so watch this space.

I have written a few stories and poems and have been responding to creative prompts from George. His prompt ‘waltz’ defeated me. The best I could do was

On not being able to develop George’s latest prompt

Walter collected

He was a famous collector

He collected almost anything that took his fancy

Big things like concrete mixers and small things like stamps

But he didn’t want to keep these things or even own them

Instead, he just collected them in his mind

Once collected by Walter the owner got a sticker

They could keep the sticker for ever

Or they could sell it on eBay

Some of the stickers were valuable

And people paid a lot to own them

Even though  all of them were exactly the same

And just said

Walt’s

Arthur has taken stewardship of my telephone and my lighter collection. He know how they work and how to fix them. I was troubled by the idea of them becoming unworkable and therefore uninteresting. I still love them but won’t be buying anymore.

Bass playing has stopped because of numb and weak fingers but then again I haven’t tried. Learning German has stopped. I really do think what’s the point – but I may change my mind I so adore the culture and I have a book on Melodrama in German I want to read I plan to do a homage to Tracy Emin of my own to let you se the ravages to my body which are quite shocking. Avani and I are doing a photo session.

https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2021/may/13/tracey-emin-on-beating-cancer-you-can-curl-up-and-die-or-you-can-get-on-with-it

Lisa has been ensuring that I eat some normal food by getting me to eat her type of stuff. I can eat in tiny quantities salt and vinegar chickpea crisps with Waitrose guacamole, lemon marinaded anchovies, kombucha to drink. I can also eat hot dog sausages boiled and frenchies mustard. I ordered from specialist suppliers sherbet dips, aniseed balls and licourice. I also drink original coke in glass bottles original recipe. Almost everything else including basics like bread will make me retch.

That’s all for now. Keep me updated on your activities but don’t expect a speedy response.

In case you haven’t been sent this by the proud husband in the frustratingly challenging digitisation process of my productions for MWO this gem featuring Maria emerged. Dig the white appliance set too

An update to this page is here https://gravityisahat.co.uk/index.php/media-page/

As I’m not going to experience an illness of this ilk again, I wanted to record what it’s like. I spend most of my day either asleep or with my eyes closed and awake. This includes when I’m talking to people, which obviously comes across as rather rude. It’s hard to explain other than I seem to have a finite capacity to absorb any kind of information, whether that be people talking, images, changes in the weather, new smells, cooking, cats meowing wanting attention. All of these seem to require some processing power that I don’t necessarily have.

The family has got used to this, and are very tolerant of what appears to be a kind of arrogant disdain for whatever it is they’re trying to say or communicate. And I am now unabashed, even with strangers, to shut my eyes while they’re talking.

I no longer have any grown-up food. In fact, I have no food for pleasure at all. The only thing I have to take, which is measured out in brutal doses, is Complan – milk flavour or banana flavour. This is carefully mixed up with ice cream to make it as cold as possible, and I take it with a sick bowl next to me, ready for the last retch. This is truly one of the most unpleasant aspects of this whole happening.

I can’t read, or, to put it another way, I could read without assimilating or absorbing or understanding. And I hope this explains why I fail to read any of your emails or WhatsApps. They remain for the most part unopened. I wish I could reacquire the capacity to engage through digital media, but at the moment this has evaporated.

I think it’s time to admit I am pretty much bedbound. Any visits to the toilet require one of my loved ones to push me through on a mobile commode, and then to take on the necessary thereafter. Bravo to them.

I certainly come across as pretty miserable, particularly after a couple of nights ago I had what we think was a mini-stroke. My mouth drooped and my speech became slurred for about an hour. I was very troubled, and so were the family. But happily it bounced back very quickly, and I’ve been advised that this was just a warning shot, and I should be mindful to ensure the appropriate medication is applied.

Despite this, I have been able to enjoy several bouts of creativity, including – and Paul, you’ll be pleased about this – asking the boys to clean up the Dirty Tricks recording and listening to it more or less in full. I had always felt this was a missed masterpiece.

In addition, we’ve been working on collecting my poems and short stories, and I’ve been enjoying hearing them read to me by my five.

Speaking of which – and I feel very emotional when I recall this – my five family members, who are also semi-imprisoned here, lavish such unbelievable, unselfish care, that just this afternoon I found myself overwhelmed and blubbing. Fortunately, having so many people to help means that there are times when individuals can go and pursue their lives. I understand this causes some difficulty, as I’m happy to say people seem to want to be close to me all the time. Because of George’s career, he is the most able to be around all the time, poor chap. But the others contend with the duality that my precarious health presents to them. I am so flattered that they feel this way, but try to be insistent that they have no choice but to maintain their careers, and that I am in extremely safe hands.

So, for example, Avani has been awarded a residency on a writing retreat and is in Bulgaria. Arthur is able to get to most of his gigs, and will be in London tonight, and headlining the Brecon jazz festival in Wales later in the week, as well as playing for the wrap-up party for a Hollywood film in Leicester Square. Lisa is in full flight with gigs and her new album launch. And, fortunately, George is able to get on with his writing unimpaired by location.

I am delighted to say that, despite the circumstances, Maria retains Maria. She attends her garden, and the allotment, which has given fruit to the most abundant harvest of courgettes, tomatoes, and no doubt much more to be revealed later in the season. She maintains the workings of our environment meticulously, all the washing, shopping and ordering food, cleaning of the house, and the less pleasant jobs associated with either me or the cats. She’s incredibly busy all day. But actually I think that helps her, even though she gets worn out.

This is without doubt the strangest experience of my life. Although I can still sense that Chris is there, there seem to be a lot of conflicting forces that want to drain Chris away. Although it’s unsettling, it’s not frightening. It just seems slow and long, as I think in 24-hour bouts, rather than in terms of mornings, afternoons, and evenings. For example, my sleeping time I estimate to be between four and nine in the morning. The period immediately before that is a mish-mash of reflections, expectations, frustrations, and if I’m very unlucky, a bit of biliousness.

As I’ve said so many times before, I count myself as exceptionally lucky to have my five seemingly dedicated to giving me as best a time as they possibly can. I love them all so much.

I’m lying on a red settee which has a set of 5 inch blocks under it to raise it to a level from which I can get up without calling for one of my sons’ help. I’ve got a sheet over me, my feet are very cold, and my nails are turning back on themselves which I’ve just been told is perfectly normal but has never been the case before with mine. Everyday is pretty much like every other day; I spend a good part of it in my bed, which is fortunately extremely comfortable – much more comfortable than the hospital bed which I have to spend a certain amount of time in, in order to get washed and have my external plumbing modified. 

I may have talked about this before, but the act of being washed in bed after imagining it to be embarrassing and potentially humiliating is actually rather beautiful and I long for my care workers who are lovely people to take longer doing it. However, today we had a bath lift delivered so it’s possible that I will have my first bath, or shower, for 2 months. Can’t say I’m looking forward because at the moment even the exertion of putting my glasses on appears to need a recovery period. So the thought of a bath and all accompanying movement/towling/drying/washing hair/etc seems very unlikely. 

I’m not looking back at these blog posts and I’m dictating them to Arthur so inevitably I will repeat myself. One of the greater losses, sadly, is there is absolutely no food of any kind that I can consume other than space food. One flavour of banana stuff mixed with milk and ice cream given to me about 5 times a day like medicine. Each time I struggle to get it down without gagging. So sadly some of the most ordinary unambitious aspects of life – walking, eating, drinking, going to the toilet – are becoming quite difficult. However, because of the quality and generosity of love that I am surrounded by I can find pleasure in head-scratches, bits of creative dictation such as this, a few TV programmes, readings (nearly always of my own work), and just feeling part of something positive and forward looking. 

Thank you all very much, and I really mean this, for not bombarding us with too much – such that it becomes indigestible and something of a labour to keep saying ‘no, thank you we really don’t need visitors!’

As I dictate this I’m concerned that it may come across as gloomy and a bit self-indulgent, but I reassure everyone that I’m not gloomy, I have just been left without any of the means I’ve had in the past of functioning in a more positive forward looking way. I can only compare it to being completely empty of fuel but needing to go to the petrol station in order to keep going. 

I’m dictating this to Arthur who continues to occupy the Eric Fenby role. What a shame that I don’t have some early 20th century pastoral melodies to communicate to him, instead I will try to appease my guilt at the scarcity of communication with all my dear friends and family. 

It’s not that I don’t want you to visit, it’s that I really don’t want you to visit. And the reason is pathetic. For me to communicate effectively with someone for even a minute or so is exhausting and really unrewarding. Apparently this is not unusual in cases of cancer, in fact for those of you thinking that dying of cancer is about enduring pain it seems this is not the mainstream path off the planet. Instead it’s a painless sapping away of strength (at least that’s what I hope). 

I’ve decided to continue to be in what I hope was the spirit of the blog: brutally honest. So let me describe an average day – I can be fairly confident this is average because they are all very similar. 

Like Dad’s much prized gargoyles at the Guildhall, I wake up with the grumpiest face imaginable. I seem to be unable to twist my face into a smile, achieving at best a grim grimace. That is unimpeded by my front set of crowns that fell away before all this kicked off, so I look like a ummm I look like farmer bean from fantastic mr fox, designed to scare children to death. 

This demeanour is pretty well permanent all day, broken by some occasional nudging to find something smile-making that just occasionally hits the spot. The five people that surround me with love must grow so weary of this behuddled figure wrapped in blankets in what appears to be eternal misery. 

But there is a light shining, this appearance is much worse than its reality. I look dreadful but much of the time, when not under any pressure to exhibit positivity, I feel quite at ease, something I haven’t been able to communicate effectively to my beloved five who must believe me to be in permanent existential hell. The truth is I just look that way. 

Hence that is why I don’t want to see anyone – it’s certainly not I don’t love you all or care about your feelings, it’s just that I think you will go away with the impression that I am suffering much more than I really am. I was going to talk about the rest of the day but nothing much changes. I do battle with six small doses of Complan banana flavour, which are accompanied by six dips toward a reconstituted cardboard sick bowl. I’m encouraged to drink quite large amounts of liquid, I like lime cordial because bizarrely water tastes salty, other than that nothing edible or drinkable is currently getting past the cardboard gatekeeper. I watch a little TV. However undemanding the TV is I seem to find it demanding and can only concentrate for a short while. I don’t read more than a few headlines for reasons already stated, perhaps saddest of all my devoted ginger cat does not get the attention he craves as he makes me too hot.

The care team and the nurses are really doing their very best to see if they can break through the food, nausea, mood, sleep impasse, and I haven’t given up hope. So you never know I may be hosting a bumper party yet. But meanwhile I hope this puts your mind at rest that you’re not hated and abandoned just simply too tiring to contemplate having around. As ever I want to round off by saying if it wasn’t for my five, you wouldn’t be receiving this because I would have packed my bags and long since gone. I’m not strong, I’m not a cheeky chappie, I’m not funny, clever or philosophical – but thankfully I am loved (Maria just whispered ‘are you sure about that?’). 

Dearest everybody

I should start by saying there is some joyous news to be shared at the appropriate time, by the appropriate people, you will have to wait and see. For once it’s nothing to do with me or being ill, thank goodness.

I’m writing this sitting on the loggia, in bright sunshine, dictating to Arthur. I feel an awful lot like Delius in Ken Russells amazing film about the last few months of Delius’ life during which time he had Eric Fenby (coincidentally associated with Eyensford) as his amanuensis. At the time Delius was suffering from the end results of syphalis and was completely blind hence he dictated some of his last music directly to Fenby. If I can find the film on Netflix (highly unlikely) I might give it a watch. Cheery material eh? 

I’m writing to everybody to try and explain what’s happened to me. The Chris you knew prior to sepsis has effectively taken a holiday and the new Chris is not one I’m proud to be. The most significant change is my body craves 100% attention, day and night. I’m quite simply unable to read, write, think, about anything other than trying to get better. So all the efforts my beloved family make to find things to distract me eg. Why don’t you listen to this, you’ll love this, watch Wimbledon, etc have no effect on this single minded physical craving to focus on getting well. This leads to a somewhat monochrome existence in which I will spend most of my time asleep or nearly asleep, quite literally staring at the walls. Even my beloved ginger cat brings no relief. That said there is one bizzare extra feature to this recovery process; I have become addicted, and I mean addicted, to head rubs or scratches to the point that grandma’s Mason and Pearson hogs hair brush has never had such rigorous treatment. So my poor children and their beloved, and my wife, quite literally no exaggeration here might spend 30 minutes or longer simply massaging my scalp almost to the point of pain. 

Had I been able to plan all this I certainly would have planned it differently. It would have included at least a lot of creative thinking, if not making, but certainly reading and planning. The fact that it doesn’t and I can’t find the switch to turn it on is something I think I will have to resign myself to. 

Suffice to say there is still a tiny part of me that enjoys hearing your news, however chatty it may be, but the effect is partly almost indigestible. Not as indigestible as the Wittgenstein I was so enraptured by pre-sepsis. But I struggle to assimilate it even if it’s read by somebody else. 

Hopefully this has gone some way towards explaining my evaporation during the last few weeks, along with the psychological issues I’m fortunate not to have too many accompanying pain issues, just a complete absence of appetite. I am in fact a textbook example of someone recovering from sepsis. 

Hope the change in tone doesn’t mean I’ve become unrecognisable, but I always wanted in my blogs to tell the absolute truth and to be true to myself. This is me now. Yuck. 

Apologies to all those who have written to me in the last few months and have not heard back. The fact is I have been poorly and I mean *proper poorly* INTENSIVE CARE poorly. Anyway I am feeling better now but there have been consequences. My cancer has gone untreated and like a teenage boy left in charge of the family BMW it is “ripping up the streets”. And so it has come to pass leaving the treatment options at ….

Fill in the blank if you dare – that I have only days weeks or months left to enjoy all the great stuff that you guys have many days, months and years to enjoy. Make sure you do.

All the things you imagine writing in a message like this you can assume are in the section below

……….

so there is no need for me to write them again instead I will tell you what we intend to do in the next number of days.

1. Get fast track discharged

2. ⁠That means we can get 2 careworkers 4 times a day

3. ⁠+ all the gear we need including a hospital bed

4. ⁠Install me in said bed

5. ⁠Decide on next course of action and enjoy

Please don’t contemplate visits and whatnot. I would feel enormous pressure – it may be that during that time I do the odd face-time but I doubt it.

If you feel the need to do something then come the time for memorialisation I would like those of you who feel inclined to make some of your own art/music/poetry etc to go into an online album. Is that a good idea?

Grimm is full of random acts of brutality and bad luck- yep I can identify with that.

Grim describes a place that is dark and forbidding – yep I am in one of those.

Happily before getting into that I had a pleasant lucid hour writing to a neighbours granddaughter about Wittgenstein. She is super smart, only 13 and super interested in literary and philosophical theory and sent me a substantial paper on Wittgensteins theories in relation to a poem she was working on at Tad Grammar. Bizarrely I am in conversation with another bright family member female 19 who is similarly keen on Wittgenstein. Must be getting well taught in schools because it seems to capture the teenage imagination..

I had sent some well deserved praise to Grandma for her gradaughters whole approach which frankly was well above Ug general standard but when she asked for more I gave her some more personalised feedback, which I feel turned out quite well if tough because it made me try to explain my very naïve understanding of Wittgenstein being merely a fan not a reader or expert. To that end I got why it has become so central to my other work namely it reveals the mechanisms of absurdism which is currently my creed.

 I will leave it in italics so you can easily skip it and move onto to the next cancer treatment episode ie my daily frustrated vent.

[15:48, 24/05/2025] Chris Newell: L’s work is remarkable !! There are things in there I need to study – she is truly insightful as well as intuitive – I will read it properly and do my homework but I think she’s covered every point I would have tried to make – what did R make of it?

[19:49, 24/05/2025] +44 7367 061711: This is L. Thank you Chris I’m pleased you liked it. I would like to know if you agree with what I thought about Wittgensteins theory.

[04:12, 25/05/2025] Chris Newell: Ok L.

It 3:00 o’clock in the morning. I don’t have your paper with me in bed to respond to all your points but I will do my best to remember some of them

I agree that in order for our society to function we need common languages. That’s a very practical point and even Wittgenstein would have agreed after all how could he have done his job as a school teacher. Although I think he once refused to agree, there wasn’t a rino in the room (something like that). That would fit in with his Language Game idea.

I don’t agree with the way you draw Wittgensteins ideas into an analysis of the poem. It’s a completely valid point and very eloquently made but I think your point is really a poetic one and aside from Wittgenstein I have very strong ideas about the purpose of poetry so of course I am not going to agree with you.

Let’s suppose that rather than thinking practically he was thinking philosophically ie. not what was useful or sensible or practical, but what was true. Now you can probably already see a problem in my definition of the problem, namely the word “true” may not defineable and therefore cannot be true in any meaningful way –  but let’s leave that for now.  By the way if you want to make grandpa mad, this way of talking is post modernist thought and grandpa does not like it.

A word that can name something by showing it, like a table or a shoe is useful but I think you go on to suggest that the use of words in the poem to make emotions, feelings, memories, connections are as useful or important. At least without your paper in front of me I think you did.

He said: would suggest that Wittgenstein would not accept that and nor would I.

“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” L. Wittgenstein

Grandma and I often talk about religion and we have very strong opposing views that we enjoy discussing. I would not wish to set out her ideas but I am not a believer in any god or follower of any religion.

I think we both get frustrated when discussing the topic by falling into the language game way of trying to find agreement. We will both present words or phrases to each other in an effort to win the argument. The sort of words that might appear would be  –

God, faith, hope, love, belief but also words like pragmatic, verifiable, mathematical, statistically significant and of course the word true. These sort of words are miles away from words that simply show what something is.

These words are loaded with our own experiences, even the word ‘chain’ as in your poem can mean multiple contradictory things to different people of even the same person in a different situation. You might use the same word to mean completely things in different situations or to make a different point. So if we were to use as an example of a expression from Christian philosophy, say, “god is love” then you can see that expression is meaningless, just as the expression “then you can see that expression is meaningless,” is also meaningless the argument turns upon itself and can reach no conclusion. It’s a word game.

Wittgenstein believed at the end of his life that philophical debate was a word game. He probably believed a lot of other contradictory things as well but I haven’t studied them.

Here are a few popular quotes you can find on wikis – I find them fun and helpful

                  •               “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” 

                  •               “Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language.” 

                  •               “If a lion could talk, we could not understand him.” 

I will study you paper again to see if I have misunderstood anything – ok?

It’s now 3.57 night night.

So back to my venting literally and metaphorically.

The one thing you don’t expect, is the number of different chemotherapy drugs that can be applied to your condition. I spoke to nurse Ebi last night in the middle of the night when I became a bit desperate with the nausea and she ran through a list of different chemotherapy approaches that I could be undergoing. It seems the systematic chemotherapy I’m going through at the moment has a tendency to make you sick and my body has decided, while not making me very sick to make me continuously nauious. The nausea has a partner in crime namely, diarrhoea which is now  occurring about every 30 minutes. My body is doing its best I believe, to throw out all the nonsense that its keeps having thrown into it. Trouble is it has no discretion as to how to do it or when to do it,  so I’m like a lemon chocolate water fountain constantly on tap. Not the most sociably  desirable asset in the household particularly as I haven’t eaten for about 3 days so I’m very weak and Maria has to deal with me. Somehow I can’t think of any witty things to lighten this  script that doesn’t insult Maria’s incredible   grit.

Instead I will tap into my other obsession with grimm and imagine this benign creature with the sweetist face bearing benign tools that just hint at a grim purpose bearing incomprehensible labels. She is visiting me at night knocking politely on my tree bark door.  She is calling “Nurse” I am looking completely knackered a little scared but grateful.