The source of this perturbing moaning would sometimes get out of its bed and shuffle around in the semi darkness of this far end of the ward the rest of us seemed to be sharing. Like a bunch of David Attenboroughs, we became fascinated by the beast that had to be kept away from us. One afternoon, we all pissed ourselves - figuratively speaking - when the moaning became manic shrieking and the distant bed rocked in a frenzy. The nurses ran past us with hypodermics and stuck them in the bedclothes until the noise died down. This was too good to just ignore. We had to know what the hell was going on.
I don't know about you but I just love being in hospital. Not when I'm well of course. If I'm feeling great, a visit to the hospital is generally guaranteed to make me feel ill as soon as I push open the double doors and breathe in. No. But when you're feeling crap or broken, a hospital's the place to be. It's a chance to really take it easy and vomit to your heart's content. You can lie in your delirious stupor and know that if the shit hits the fan - or indeed the sheets - you are surrounded by fully trained staff with millions of pounds of specialised equipment at their disposal, ready for any eventuality. Cool. Long live the NHS!
At the time of writing I have been in hospital six times for overnighters. The first time I don't remember much about as it was during my birth. My dad was at work and left me and my mum to get on with it in the Monroe Devis Maternity Home in Tiddington down the bottom of the ominously named Dark Lane. Those were the days! I'm all for the father being present at the birth of their children, but a respectful distance should be maintained. After all, I wouldn't particularly want to witness my wife, partner, or otherwise having her appendix out or her womb removed, so why should it be expected of fathers to have to stand by and watch as their significant other's genitals are stretched and sliced beyond recognition? Do wives come along and hold their husband's hand when he's having his vasectomy? No. Standing there literally like a spare prick while your wife sweats and strains isn't going to halve the pain, share the burden, teach us a lesson for getting our dicks out in the first place. It hurts like fuck and, no matter who's standing next to you, you're on your own. The mother of my children had the right idea. After one too many pathetic jokes from yours truly, she told me to get the fuck out of there.
The second time I went into hospital, I was eight and I spent one week of a two week holiday on the Isle of White having my appendix removed. No-one watched, by the way.
Visit number three was when I was cruelly struck down by a light drizzle whilst riding my motorcycle the ten miles from New Southgate in the North to Norbury in the South during my time at the National, wearing nothing but jeans, t-shirt, a tasteful baseball jacket that had a frighteningly uncanny resemblance to the one worn by Michael Jackson in "Thriller" and offered absolutely no protection from the elements at all, and a pair of horribly pointy boots with cuban heels - a disastrous purchase I'd made hoping to look as cool as George Michael in the "Faith" video, but actually only succeeding in inviting sniggers from young girls on the tube.
After I'd got home, I sat by the fire for two weeks trying to get warm again. The doctor tried to help by offering antibiotics for me to swallow the size of horse suppositories but all to no avail and so it was I found myself back in the ward for a three day stay, two stones lighter, gibbering like an idiot, attached to a drip, fielding a steady stream of visitors and the questions about how the hell I'd developed pneumonia through exposing myself for an hour to a vaguely damp and mildly nippy Spring day...
Cruel indeed then that my motorcycle would put me back in there a mere five months later.
The ward was full of likely lads who'd buggered up their ankles, shins or knees playing football. We had all been shipped out, en masse, to Orpington on the Saturday afternoon. Orpington Hospital was not only in the middle of nowhere, it was old. We all felt we'd been dropped in some sort of time warp. Outside the ward windows, you could see neat rows of long, single-story huts like the ones you see in old prisoner of war films. Our ward felt distinctly past its 'sell-by' date. It was on its last legs - as indeed were a lot of its occupants. The pins and hinge they put in my leg were old stock, not used anymore, virtually pre-historic. The hospital had indeed a military history. It was built in 1916 for Canadian troops injured in the first world war. I think I got one of their cast offs. It weighed a ton and was used only for old guys with a limited amount of walking left to do.
Considering the distance from civilisation, I received a heartenly large amount of visitors. Every night, someone came to see me. To begin with, all I could do was lie there, doped up to the eyeballs, but, as soon as I started feeling myself again (and I've always believed that feeling oneself is a sure sign you're on the mend) I began to really appreciate the effort my friends made to get there. All day, though, me and the lads were left to our own devices and we really began to strike up a rapport with each other and, of course, the nurses.
The ward was long and we were all bunched up one end of it which only served to increase the impression that they were all waiting for us to hurry up and get better so they could get on with closing the place down. At the far end, however, a bed was being used. There were about thirty empty beds between us and this one, where moans and squeals could occasionally be heard from under the sheets. The source of this perturbing moaning would sometimes get out of its bed and shuffle around in the semi darkness of this far end of the ward the rest of us seemed to be sharing. Like a bunch of David Attenboroughs, we became fascinated by the beast that had to be kept away from us. One afternoon, we all pissed ourselves - figuratively speaking - when the moaning became manic shrieking and the distant bed rocked in a frenzy. The nurses ran past us with hypodermics and stuck them in the bedclothes until the noise died down. This was too good to just ignore. We had to know what the hell was going on.
It turned out that the wild animal was a fantastically obese fifteen year old called Gerald who had the mental age of a boy a fifth of his age. He usually lived in a home and had to be kept away from anything sweet as he would stuff his face until he vomited. We were warned to inform the nurses if he ever came anywhere near our Lucozades and grapes. He was in hospital because, tragically, he'd tried to kill himself back at the home by jumping out of a high window and damaged his foot so badly in the attempt, it had had to be amputated. Over the next week, Gerald would make repeated attempts to shuffle towards us along the floor of the ward. We shouted and laughed, "Gerald...Gerald! No, Gerald. No! Bugger off, Gerald. Nurse! Nurse! Gerald's at it again." All the while, Gerald continued dragging himself along the floor at the foot of our beds until the nurses came out of their office. Seeing them, he'd turn tail and scamper back to his end of the ward like a frightened animal. Most days, he'd have a huge fit and we'd all shout and laugh our heads off - still speaking figuratively - while the nurses rushed past us to calm him down with injections. A vague sense of sympathy silenced us for a while after Gerald's parents visited him each day. They looked very old and care-worn, it was hard not to acknowledge the pathetic desperation of their situation.
A couple of hours later, though, that soon wore off and we shouted and laughed as much as before.
The classic was when one of our broken-legged band, Nev, a junior football coach, had a visit from his family and decided to get out of the ward for a while and meet them in the visitors' room. His bedside table and drawer were brimming with fruit and sweeties. A few minutes after he'd gone, Gerald's fat, Wildean head popped out of the bed-clothes. Sensing an opportunity too good to miss, Gerald flopped onto the floor and began to make his way down the middle of the ward towards us without anyone noticing. He didn't do too badly actually and he was only a couple of feet from Neville's vacant bedside before we saw him.
Torn between telling someone or letting things develop, we went for the much more fun option and watched with glee as he opened the drawer of Nev's bed-side table. He went berserk! He snuffled through the contents like some truffle pig. We couldn't contain ourselves any longer and burst out laughing, watching with joyous horror, unable to intervene, attached to our beds by drips or harnesses. By the time the nurses got to him, Gerald was attempting to push an entire swiss roll into his mouth lengthwise! This became a bit of a running gag between Claire and I and, if ever Claire felt she was pigging it a bit, she'd mime Gerald frantically trying to shove in that entire swiss roll before the nurses grabbed it off him.
I spent two weeks there in total. I felt a bit cheated, I must admit, as I'd spent Christmas Day on the ward and didn't even get to meet Jimmy Saville...