We Care a Lot

Or 

Stories Behind the Ice Bucket Challenge

Or

The Blog That Gets a Bit Scatological Towards the End

Not Very Pheasant at All

It was early morning when the old van parked at a quiet layby next to a large field.  The van was packed with tools for the purpose of fixing windows into new buildings at a construction site, and it also held three people whose purpose was to use those tools.  That morning the driver of the van, a man in his 50s with craggy features, turned round to two younger men who accompanied him, and were still shaking off the effects of sleep.  "There's always dead pheasants in this field," he told them, "Wait here!"

The young man who sat next to the driver was less than convinced this was a good idea. "Leave it Dad!" he responded irritably, "Let's just get to work." But his lack of enthusiasm was not noted, and the elder man opened the door to the old van and stepped out into the cold morning air.  The third member of the party, Another young man with scruffy hair, continued to doze on the back seat.  Soon his colleague joined him, and for a time the all was quiet in the little van, the only sound to be heard being the light snoring of the two manual labourers.

The man in the front passengar's seat was called Matthew. He leaned against the window of the van, getting more comfortable and falling deeper into rest.  He was abruptly shaken from that rest by a knock at the window against which he supported his head. Drowsily, Matthew turned round.

And met the faces of two dead pheasents that were pressed into the other side of the glass. Between the two dead animals, Matt's father grinned at him, with an expression that said "what about these then?"

Matthew's shocked scream echoed through the little van.

Followed shortly by the helpless laughter of his friend who sat at the back of the van.

The guy who was laughing was me. The guy that was in shock was my friend Matthew. And the guy with the pheasents was his father, Desmond. This is my favourite story about him, though far from the only one.

Des Hall was what you could be termed a bloke about town.  What we in Britain would term a "geezer". He liked a beer or two; he liked to have a bet. He was always ready with a joke, and everybody knew and liked him. Des owned his own window fixing business that I sometimes did some labouring for, and while Matthew and me toiled, Des could usually be found in the bookies. But we didn't complain.  Hold on, what am I talking about?!  We complained vociferously, our long rants peppered with swear words! But it made little difference, and looking back I hold no bitterness; just happy memories.

It was all this that made it very difficult when Des left us.  Because he was diagnosed with Motor Neuron Disease: and over the space of a year or two, Desmond's wife, and son, and everyone else he knew watched helplessly as this disease ravaged his body.  And I was there to offer what crumbs of comfort I could to Matthew the night he watched his Father pass away.

The Best Thing About this Is...

I thought it would be appropriate to share this story, now, as we are in the back end of the craze of the "ice bucket challenge".  The merits of the challenge itself, and the charities that it was promoting, have been discussed at length. And I do think it is good to add stories like these - stories of the victims of the disease that the Ice Bucket Challenge is ostensibly aiding in the fight against. Indeed, I will happily say that the best thing about this phenomenon (to me) is that it has given me the opportunity to talk about Des, and remember him in a blog.

I have seen lots of cynicism accompany this craze, and I don't know whether the the cynical view is the correct one, because none of us ultimately know how much good will have been done by the money raised. Will it speed our way to a cure? If a cure is found, will we be able to quantify how much the Ice Bucket Challenge contributed towards it?  I don't know. What is certain is that this time next year there will be a different craze, a different gimmick, to have an opinion about. A different charity craze tumbleweed will be blowing through the social media streets of our Global Village, and we'll either be joining in with, or complaining about that one instead. It goes on.

Sailing in a Sea of ...

An argument that is often raised whenever someobody makes a stand, or joins in with a stand someone else is making, or some other people are making, is "why this cause.  Why do you campaign for Palestine/raise money for A.L.M. charities/support wind energy/want to see Charles Bronson released from prison?  Why that cause and not this one?  Or this one?  Or all these others?"  And it is a question that bugs you if you can't find a ready answer.  It's like you're sailing in the sea of shit that is life.  And though this shitty sea is endless, you've found yourself looking down, and declaring "I don't like this particular turd!  This turd offends me!"  Now explain yourself.

Perhaps the best generalised explanation that can be given is this: that is it only by standing for something that we can stop the waters of that 'sea' from closing above our heads.  Life is too big to combat all the wrongs that are contained within it: Corruptions of justice, and harm that is done to people and animals everywhere during every minute of every day.  So somewhere at some point we have to take a stand - or we surrender to apathy and cynicism - the twin horsemen of shitness.  And then we might as well just stop living.

In conclusion - it's good to find your own offensive turd.

Or if you can multi-task, you may have offensive turds!  Marvellous.