My annus horribilis, 2011 resolutions & a poem for you, Because I almost died.

It's been a bit of a shit year, to put it mildly, one month of it spent in hospital. Here's what happened:

January: Knackered, Winter, erectile dysfunction.

February: My 30th birthday funeral a success but exhausting despite my only having to lie there. Joined Archway gym to try and get back in shape. Migraines. A threesome fails to appeal. I think I have a chest infection.

March: More migraines, breathlessness, phleghm. Brain scan (negative). Turns out I had heart failure, blood clot on the heart and a chest infection.

April: In hospital for about three weeks in total. Almost died. Failed. You can read about it here: http://www.utterspokenword.com/news/?m=201004 Moved back home with parents for a bit. Mother... confused. Back on benefits.

May-June: In lots of pain walking. At least I lost lots of weight. Regained weight, in fat. Muscles flimsy. Phleghm creamy. Working on Free Fringe Spoken Word, of which I am Director, helps give me a reason for living.

July: Up all night hacking. Go to hospital. DO latitude festival despite being exhausted and in pain, after all, it might be my last chance. Pretty depressed, unable to cry. Looking at mobility scooters. In hospital (again) for three days. Put on new drugs. Begin to get a bit better.

August: 'Utter!' spoken word at Edinburgh Free Fringe. Manage to get through it, great audiences and performances with support of all involved, especially James McKay and Niall Spooner-Harvey. Housemate, flyering for us, which I was grateful for, is disappointed her peformance doesn't lead to instant fame and stops talking to me. Spoken word at the Fringe a great success, we don't lose money on the show. Full report here: http://www.freefringeforum.org/viewtopic.php?f=65&t=911

September: Erectile dysfunction ends. Failed love affair.

October: Unceremoniously booted out of houseshare. Housemates refuse to say what I'm supposed to have done, but housemate from Edinburgh accuses me of being 'homophobic' and 'sexist', which will come as a surprise to most of my friends, especially female and gay ones. Paranoia can be hurtful not just to those who suffer from it. Thankfully, echocardiogram reveals heart has shrunk and ejection fraction back up to 27%. Bought painting of an Indian chief executed by a retard.

November: Back at home. Becomes increasingly obvious my Mum's memory problems are much more than depression, arthritis, and bad eyesight, though she has these too.

Dad inadvertently reveals he has ankylosing spondylitis, degenerative back condition, which can be hereditary. He has known for all of my life and has never told me or my two sisters, or been to the doctor with it in that time. He doesn't even realise/accept there's anything wrong with this behaviour. If untreated the vertebrae of the spine actually fuse together, causing paralysis.

ICD goes off on dancefloor of The Planet nightclub, Wolverhampton. Two more days in hospital before I find out there's nothing (new) wrong with my heart. Was trying to impress girl who turns out to have boyfriend. I have bad ear wax.

December: Do fun workshop for Harringey Disability forum then go off on well-deserved holiday to Cyprus with parents. Winter sun welcome. Back at home, pipe bursts and house floods. Many books, walls, ceilings, destroyed. Turns out, after much fretting, that we do however have insurance. See in the New Year in a B&B in Wolverhampton.



It's a good job I'm on drugs which, by limiting my heartrate, also make it physically impossible to get stressed. Lucky there are these positive side-effects, as I'll be on these drugs for the rest of my life!

I have been reading quite a few self-coaching books to help me cope with all this shite, but I suspect that what I take to be a mature calm about things may also be a resignatory self-detachment in which nothing means anything.

But I have been trying to 'turn positives to negatives'. I've managed to condense this year of misery through the fractional distillation process of poetry into about fifty minutes of amusing philosophical material: my first one-person show 'Richard Tyrone Jones Has a Big Heart.'

And in a year like this you really find out who your true friends are. So thanks to all of you who've been so supportive, and stuck by me despite my being low. You know who you are. Those who haven't can continue to enjoy how their their petty small-mindedness limits their own lives.

I was determined not to let illness defeat me, even if it could kill me. So a few small pricks certainly haven't got me down. If my own heart couldn't finish me off, at least for the time being, next year will be all about getting around the country, doing gigs, earning money doing what I enjoy, and all the haters can fuck off. Life is literally too short. So here's my New Year's resolutions: if I fail, then at least I fail trying.

Health: Get back to normal walking speed & stamina. Walk daily to work up to finish the Offa's Dyke walk in Spring and walk Hadrian's Wall in August/Sept. Lose half a stone. Reward yourself by watching all of Twin Peaks.

Wealth: Go back to self-employment: tour show, do more workshops, tours etc. Aim to earn £10k next fiscal. Reward: one month's winter sun.

Personal: Find a nice girl, by fishing in the right pools, not just the poetry circuit: one show-off in a relationship is quite enough... Its own reward.

And learn to drive (possible as long as your ICD hasn't gone off again). Reward: Plan driving holiday for Spring 2012.


Here's to hoping we all have a Happier 2011 than my cunt of a 2010 has been.
Here's a poem for you from the show, which I'll be doing at 'Utter!' sickness on Feb 1st. http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=169035279801641. Please do give feedback!


Because I almost died

Now every tenner feels to me
as if it's worth a million
Now every song's a symphony
(except for Robby Williams).
Now every time I'm tired I think
'at least thank god I'm breathing!'
and every time I lose my breath,
at least my heart's still beating.

Thank goodness I can walk,
although I can't walk very fast,
for every step's a giant leap
because it's not my last.
Some folks say 'you've been really brave',
but the reason I've not cried
is that now my life has meaning
...because I almost died.



Now every price tag's ASDA price
every slum's a mansion
each poem I write's a masterpiece
despite its dodgy scansion.
Each B&B's the Marriott
each 'not to be''s a 'be'
Each poet I meet's a laureate
and Everyman is me.

Every splinter is a relic
every measure is a bottle
Every poem is an epic
Each short story is a novel
If life's a search for meaning
I think mine might have arrived
For now my life has a narrative arc –
because I almost died!


Now even the centre of Luton
seems a quaint historic town
All my clothes are Louis Vuitton –
because they're not medical gowns.
Now every open mic's a gig,
and every gig's a festival
and every meal's a gourmet one –
because it's not in hospital.

I thought I was going to be in pain
for the rest of a shortened life -
But as my health has been regained
every girl's a potential wife.
I've retarmac'ed my libidinous parking space
yes, I've got back my sex drive (groan)
but it's sacred now, to feel profane
...because I almost died



Each example is a paragon
Each pot noodle is a feast
Every stroll's a London marathon
Now the acute abdominal pain has ceased
There's a meal in every morsel -
every crisp a whole potater -
I feel practically immortal!
Due to my internal cardiac defibrillator.

Though I sometimes feel like an old man
I'm still too young to die,
I've been through the slough of despond, and
come out the other side.
When things got tough, I'd once get low,
hold thoughts of suicide –
but now I never shall, I know,
...because I almost died.



Yes, every pasty is a Ginster's
Every heckler's a mere wag
Every frog's a princess
and every car's a jag
Every dwarf's a BFG
Each lag's a loveable rogue
Every Summer love's Eurydice
each tramp's ...that bloke out the Pogues?
Every mountain is a molehill
Every puddle is a loch
every sunset makes my soul sing
every ham slice is a hock
The Bill's become The Wire
Every mullet is a mane
Each damp squib's a roaring fire
Every Plan 9's Citizen Kane.
And even if I lose my breath
Each gasp's a laugh in the face of death
I'm shit at chess, so screw you, death
Because I'm still alive.


Yes, If words were bullets I'd be a gatling gun
If hopes were bees I'd keep a hive
Though now it's time I stopped prattling on
about how I'm still alive,
because a lot of people who've had heart failure/been in my position...aren't.

THE END.


Thanks for reading all my moanings.