Hi I'm Sam, and I'm a diabetic...

Yes, it’s official. At about 9:15 this morning, I was diagnosed with type I diabetes. I also did other fun things today, like throw streamers around the room and dance to Proclaimers songs.

But what does having type I diabetes mean? Well, medically, I have very little idea except that it makes me thirsty a lot as well as having another dreaded symptom known as “polyuria” which, while sounding like the name of a sun-laden tropical island, is something altogether and entirely different and not quite as much fun.

Being diabetic though, also means other consequences for me. Firstly, the three basic food groups for me are no longer sugar, Manning chips and beer, and I have to learn new, frightening words like “wholegrain”, “complex carbohydrates” and “alpha glucosidase inhibitors”. Essentially I will be put on a diet that consists of two alfalfa sprouts every two hours, and if I feel like a snack I can have a drink of distilled water through an eyedropper. Secondly, since I am insulin-dependent (another one of those frightening biological terms that you always hear but don’t ever want to know what they actually are first-hand, like “enflamed sphincteral cancer”), I will soon be required – yes, required – to shoot up once or twice a day. While they are going to start me on an insulin program first, after a while I’m sure my cravings will get stronger and I’ll start desiring the more psychotropic opiates. It’s only natural, really. And of course, finally, I will be forced to give up my life as a sardonic English student and instead wander the countryside in rags with bells hanging off me, moaning “Unclean, unclean”

Of course, you all think I’m being a bit flippant about this, don’t you? It’s true, I am, I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s funny but I finally learned through this what it means to be in the ‘denial’ phase. I mean for months now I’ve been exhibiting these really strong symptoms, without knowing what they would mean. And then as soon as I’m told I’m diabetic I suddenly feel a bit pissed off and a bit down and wanting to laugh it off. I mean, obviously my reaction would be a lot worse if I were told I have terminal dysentery or something, but it’s just funny that I need to wait for a diagnosis before I actually get annoyed at being unwell. It’s like, I’d rather just have this bizarre constant dehydration for no medical reason at all than to have a reason and hence be ‘labelled’.

Which is another thing that troubles me. Now I know this, am I no longer ‘normal’? Does this mean I will no longer be able to point and laugh at lepers and plague victims? Instead will I need to be shipped off to Molokai and get electric needles stuck in me on a daily basis? Are people actually going to step back and pull a handkerchief over their mouth when I introduce myself? Yeah. I totally, absolutely, believe all these things are going to happen. (Nah - I’ll always be able to laugh at lepers and plague victims)

What’s horrible though, is that I’ve found out I basically have this illness (syndrome? disorder? What to call it?) because my great-grandfather, George, also had it. This is the same great-grandfather from whom my middle name comes. The middle name I never liked, to the point where I was really willing to change my name legally to Samuel J Fletcher. I’m just thinking, horrible middle name and diabetes. What a wonderful legacy this man has left…

“Son, now that you’re twenty-one I think you’re old enough for me to pass on this disease that makes you crave sugar and be constantly thirsty and tired. When I was your age my father gave it to me, and he got it from his father, and one day you’ll give it to your son…”

I mean still, the poor guy had to live with insulin dependence AND a horrible name so I should definitely give him a break. It’s certainly not his fault that I’m in a pathetic whiny mood, but it certainly is more fun to blame someone. So, to be fair to my great grandpappy George, I’ll instead blame Gandhi. He hasn’t been blamed for anything for a while…

Two Clockwork Oranges

Yes droogies, 'tis I, your humble narrator, back from a long hiatus of internet-inaccessibility. So much, O my brothers has happened since we last viddied one another but sadly since I can't like remember it all, it shan't be recounted.

However, as I oh-so-subtly alluded to in the previous paragraph by way of blatant plagiarism, one of the more recent things to have happened to me which I consider blog-worthy is my reading of Anthony Burgess' novel "A Clockwork Orange" about which I should like to share a few thoughts.

Firstly however, some comparatively boring background information. Not about the novel, but about me. As Clive James once said, unfortunately every line in my reviews is about me, and not the book. Now as most of my nearest and dearest know by now, for the past two weeks I have been employed by a textbook store chain called Texts in the City which has far greater success making puns on popular cultural references than I do when I try to write blog entries called "My Dinner with Gavin" which A has nothing to do with the film and B refers to a film which is not popular in any way. (Although in spite of this success they do have some shortcomings, in that everyone belives the shop is actually IN THE CITY, as the name may imply, whereas our particular branch of the corporate tree is nowhere near the city, well about as near as I myself am, which isn't nowhere near but is also not entirely in a state of being situated right-smack-fucking-BANG in the middle of)

Anyway, my exhausting and completely necessary work for this store involves standing behind a counter, being paid to read and eat chupa-chups all day. That is of course unless my employers ever read this blog, in which case the store is very very busy and I bend over backwards to completely facilitate the textbook-purchasing inquiries of every single one of my customers of which I have lots and lots and lots. However, in between this mad rush which seriously is driving me bananas, somehow, possibly with the aid of a tardis of which I conveniently erase any memory each time I visit it, I have managed to find time to read A Clockwork Orange.

For those with an advanced degree in Lumièrean history and no-one else at all, it will be a commonly held fact that said book was adapted into a film by the late great Stanley Kubrick in 1971, starring the not-quite-late but certainly great Malcolm McDowell. Certain individuals with an advanced degree in studies in Samuel Fletcher will know the further fact that said film is one of my all-time favourites, being not only wonderful as it is but also very sentimentally adored largely due to whoops I mean completely in spite of its heavy reliance on sex and violence.

Which I think sets the record for the most amount of pointless crap that has nothing to do with the topic however much I pretend it does I have ever inserted into my blog.

So, to the point already. I knew well in advance of reading this that Burgess wasn't himself a huge fan of Kubrick's vision of the film. He also wasn't too thrilled with the idea of his sole contribution to the world as having fathered Kubrick's vision, which would go on to become far more remembered and revered than the original work. And of course, slavering over Kubrick's corpse as I do, I approached this novel with a certain level of trepidation. After all, anyone who disagrees with Kubrickean philosophy must be an absolutely talentless buffoon, must they not?

Well, firstly, I disagree with myself in that last paragraph. What a silly statement to make, me in that last paragraph. The novel is of course written with anything but lack of talent. And the film of course would lose so much of its appeal if it hadn't actually been based on the book, because it wouldn't have two of its key elements, most of the dialogue, and the plot, which are fairly useful tools for any film to use.

Secondly, as most of the film-obsessed nerds I converse with on the IMDb frequently tell me, with any film adaptation of a book, reading the book before or after viewing the film will always add insight to said film. And this is obviously the case with ACO. Having said that though, the biggest omission from the film is any sort of explanation of what the buggery-bollocks "A Clockwork Orange" means, and I had already been told that this insight is actually entered into in the book. What it is, both apart and furthermore from being the book being written by Mr. Alexander when Alex and his droogs break into his house and rape his wife, is an allusion to the idea of government oppression of the masses. As the prison chaplain frequently repeats and gets paraphrased by Sam, "when a man loses the ability to choose, he ceases to become a man", becoming instead... *Sam holds the microphone out to the audience for them to yell what is so obviously supposed to go into this space*... which presumably gets wound up by the government and then just randomly does and goes where they want it to go until they're finished with it.

There was also speculation, which I read before I read the book, on exactly why an orange? One theory, and coincidentally, the only theory I remember, was that 'orange' is a corruption of the archaic 'ourang' from whence we get the term orang-u-tan for example, and which basically means 'man'. I have no idea how much truth there is to that, or how much accuracy there was in my retelling, but that's just the theory I remember. Also, I don't know if it's something I read in the same discussion or my own theory, but I wondered as I was reading it if it was at all an allusion to Death of a Salesman and the line "You can't just eat the orange and throw the peel away - a man's not a piece of fruit" which, having not read that play, I can't substantiate at all, but anyway I thought it was interesting.

But yes, all this was just a roundabout, long-winded way of saying this is one thing I liked about the book. It was mentioned only several times throughout the book so it worked well as a recurring theme. Naturally though, I don't know how they would have included this in the film and of course no reference to it makes it open to interpretation.

The main quibble I have with the book is the last chapter, and something tells me this may be a very commonly-held view from people who watched the film first. The film, as we all know, ends with Alex shaking the minister of the inferior's hand in front of lotza photographers, then cuts to a dream shot of Alex holding a knife and having rampant sex with a 'devotchka' with the voice-over "I was cured, alright" which looks very bizarre and non-sensical when you don't have the explanation of his mind being 'fixed' so he enjoys sex and violence again (which is in the book). Anyway, this is the conclusion of the second-last chapter of the book. Now, I won't renarrate the plot of the final part for you, since you've either read it, in which case you don't need me to, or you haven't read it, in which case I would ruin it for you like all those blasted Potter fans have already ruined the latest book for me by telling me that it's Harry who dies, but suffice to say, well it's tantamount to rubbish. The last chapter, I mean.

Now I decided long ago, but it was really hammered home when I saw Peter Jackson's interpretation of Return of the King that I'm not a big fan of resolution in stories. There is a very fine line, I believe, between a goodly amount of resolution, and ramming a huge load of triumphant, post-battle euphoria up my ass and sticking a cork in. And as Mr. Jackson did in the afore-given example, so too did Mr. Burgess in the predominant subject of this post. Well not quite, since he didn't ham it up to anywhere near the extent, but it was, I think, a very supercilious (is that tortological? Hmmm... I'll think about that next time I'm entering my PIN number into an ATM machine) end to what is at its heart a very deep, interesting and thought-provoking novel. There's a lot that makes your mind tick and makes you wonder, a lot of questions raised about human nature all throughout the novel, and then right at the end it's like *LARGE SPOILER IN THE NEXT FEW WORDS* Oh, I did it all just because I'm young, and now I've grown up, no more violence for me *END SPOILER. SORRY, HAD TO SPEW IT OUT*. Anyway it wasn't that badly done in the book, in fact I quite enjoyed it as I was reading it... But looking back on it now, it just strikes me as one of the interpretations you could give to the plot as it stands, and the fact that it is explained and spelled out in full just ruins the enigmatic effect that a book which is renowned for being enigmatic can have.

But let's stop. I'm not angry with Anthony Burgess, nor did I dislike the novel at all. But overall, it certainly hasn't quelled or diminished my love of the film, and given that one little quibble, chances are I might side with Kubrick in the nude jelly-wrestle to decide whose version of the story was better. But naturally, Burgess did a great job. It's not often you can know everything that's going to happen, and still enjoy the book. I guess that's what's slowing me down in reading Harry Potter. I mean, what's the point when I know Harry's going to die? Stupid Potterphiles... If anyone wants me I'll be in the Angry Dome.