Bob Health Update...

Hello again everyone,

I'm Roberta, Bob's wife, just posting a quick update on the situation following Bob's collapse the other day. Well, the good news is he's out of hospital - in fact, he's sitting up in bed opposite me thumbing through an old Freeman's catalogue as I type! He's signing that he likes looking at the models wearing lingerie (at least, I *think* that's what that rapid shaking of his wrists signifies...) - so, you can tell he's on the mend!) We've also managed to get him back off the solids, which I'm sure you'll agree is a very positive sign.

There's still no real clue as to what triggered the episode in the first place, although it transpired that he had been watching the latest Kesha video on the laptop around the time and there were still traces of sequin-effect mascara on his lids when the paramedics finally managed to remove the Tesco's bag for life that he had over his head, attached with a belt around the neck, and taken the orange out of his mouth ...so your guess is as good as mine...



Obviously, it's still early days and he's prone to spending long parts of the day clawing helplessly at my rubber nurses' outfit - in fact, you can now barely see the painted on breast watch he's been playing with it so frantically. I'm also finding it very tiring playing nursemaid to him what with all the other work I've been having to do looking after his estate...erm, I mean, back catalogue. I did take the MacMillan nurses up on their very kind offer to come in and help with the caring duties, but that really didn't work out very well at all, I'm afraid, They'd just come in, change his bedpan, give him a quick once over with a flannel and then tell him he'd never had it so good...still, they're volunteers, so I suppose one shouldn't complain. Besides, at least it gave me a break. It's a small but vital respite to be able to remove one's 7 inch heeled slingbacks, put the old feet up with a nice hot mug of tea and watch someone else trying to rub Bob's semen off their skin-tight latex matron's outfit, I can tell you.

Oh, and Bob's been able to get a few words out. He's taken to yelling "turned out nice again!" at anyone who'll listen. Not that stimulating as conversations go, but it has at least stopped him from shouting out "OOOOHH MATRON!" at the top of his voice every time someone vaguely female wearing a uniform passes by. It's maybe a side-effect of having had his favourite George Formby CD playing on repeat. It seems to soothe him - when he's not trying to use his bedpan as a banjolele so he can pretend to be playing along, that is...

I'll be back over the next few days to keep you all posted. In the meantime, thanks to everyone for your well-wishes and support - it's made both of us very happy to know that so many of you are thinking of us at this difficult time.

xxx
'Berta

A Message From Roberta Swipe...

Hello everyone,

I'm Bob's wife Roberta - you probably kind of know me already from the picture of me Bob's been using as his avatar for the last few months. (And no - I *don't* get any royalties from him. How do you like *that*, eh??) Anyway, that's more than enough in the way of preliminaries.

Basically, I've borrowed Bob's password to come on here and pass onto you all the very sad news about my husband. Late last night, Bob was putting the finishing touches to the artwork for his next album, when I heard a strange thudding noise coming from his attic studio. At first, I thought nothing of it - I'm so used to the sound of his foundation mixer churning away at all hours that I kind of switch off when he's up there, to be honest. But then after about half an hour, I noticed that it seemed to have gone awfully quiet up there and, realising that he wasn't working with Brian Eno on this one, I thought I'd better keep an eye on him. I poked my head up only to find Bob slumped on the floor groaning pitifully. "You dirty old so-and-so!" I yelled, rounding on him, only to realise that he hadn't been masturbating after all, but had instead had, what turns out to have been, a minor stroke. (Which probably explains the velvet gloves he was wearing at the time...but I digress)

OK, cut a long story short, the bods in A&E say he'll be fine so long as he rests, which is a relief. But, obviously, this new regime will mean there'll be no blogging or musical activities for quite a while. Of course, it's not all good news - leastwise, not for little old me. I'll be playing nursemaid to Bob for quite some time into the forseeable - so it's handy I didn't bundle up that old rubber nurse's uniform with the rest of the jumble we sent to the Spastics Society a while back.

As to what triggered it all in the first place, it's hard to say. As far as I know, he hadn't been at the glue again - although there were a few half full airtex containers littering the studio which Bob claimed to use as some sort of percussion effect. Judging by the terrible racket coming out of the studio when he was playing, this is *entirely* plausible. Perhaps he'd fitted his corset too tightly again? You'll remember that time back in 1977 when he collapsed whilst putting the handclaps on at the end of 'The Secret Life of an Aran Jumper'? I know he'd had a lot on his mind of late, what with the new record and the bods from OffGenBend (the Transvestism regulator) were getting on at him about his falsies again - although, why on earth they wanted him to wear a pair when he already had a perfectly good set of breast implants is beyond me. Men, eh?

So, yes, it's all been a bit of a hoo-ha really. A shame for Bob as the new LP was sounding very interesting in places. It covered the usual themes - the ethics of stem cell research, identity loss, the tortured question of whether or not man has a soul - the usual crap, basically. Oh well, at least I'll get a little peace for a while...


xxx
'Berta

The Waiting Room...

When it comes, the moment you've been dreading all your life, it's curiously light and airy; not dark and heavy as you'd supposed it would be. As with most other tragedies, there's something of the absurd about it. In much the same way as the sight of that normal, everyday aircraft poised to connect with the tall tower of glass is so surreal it almost gouges out an involuntary laugh, so you now feel more inclined to laughter than tears. The effect is not dissimilar to looking at one of those Dada portraits; huge eyes and lips ballooning out of an otherwise well-proportioned face. In some ways, everything is pretty much the same as it was before. Only now, one detail looms and makes the rest of the components look so silly. Little has really changed, but somehow, suddenly everything is ugly.

So there you are, back in the waiting room. The results have been analysed and they have called you back. You thought that you were well but you are not well. You are no longer full of life. Or rather, you are full of too much life; you are being consumed by the very force that generates the flame within you. And so begins another inquest, this one your own into the root cause of this imminent extinction. Was it the fags? Or the booze? Or has nature just run its course with you? Perhaps some youthful indiscretion has caught up with you at last, is busy tearing down your barriers to disease. Whatever it is, your body is now a parody of itself just as that cut and pasted German collage makes mockery of a face.

They call you in, but this is one result you feel deep down you know already. No need for replays, and there will be no late night highlights show. This is it now; sudden death. Then you remember something Philip Larkin said and shudder. An interviwer had asked him what his problem was with death and he'd replied along the lines of "well, it's just the idea of my consciousness being completely extinguished for ever that I have a problem with, if you must know" and then you see it stark and clear. That is your problem too. Soon all that you knew will become black, as black as the charred remains of the match wood once its flame has been blown out. You, gone; your Universe gone and nothing left of you but a week or two of tears and so many darkened inky markings on a sheet.

So now they call your name, you hear it booming through the surgery. It's time for you to leave the waiting room and go into another room, this one tidy, sparse and panelled, and there you'll wait some more. But not for too long; the news is coming soon. They don't like to keep you waiting any longer than they need these days. They have so many more to see. Not long enough, at any rate, as far as you're concerned. Because you'd want to wait forever for this news.



L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

Hear Bob read extracts from his diary of the 2007-08 season, "The Road to Moscow"!!



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