The media frequently misrepresent science stories. They pick up on an agenda and push it to further their own ends. There’s wifi madness which some cynics try to dismiss in spot on cartoons, but the clearest example of this is The Cancer Scare. Not a day goes by without another so called ‘tragedy’. Another child dead, another mother widowed. The papers grab on every downside of the disease – if you can call it that – because they know it sells papers.
It’s the house price of ailments.
You don’t have to go far to learn that cancer will kill your baby, sister or father. Like the reds under the beds, there’s always another cancer waiting to crawl into a body part like a sneaky Geordie burglar.
Don’t get down when you get diagnosed. Here’s some reasons why it’s not all bad:
1. Fewer bad hair days. It’s hard to imagine but I’ve had a bit of a hair crisis recently. Not something that happens to you after chemo.
2. Gets you out of sticky situations. Let’s say you just tried to Google your friends EMO Goth band ‘New Bile Children’ but had unfortunately misunderstood the name, and searched for it phonetically. Then you asked the office whether they knew where you could find ‘New Bile Children’ on the internet. Before you know it you’re engulfed in a shame cycle that a fast acting bone cancer, faster acting than a mob of pikeys with badly spelt signs, eould answer your paedo prayers.
3. Isn’t remembering birthdays shit? A death in the family replaces a forgettable birthday with a date you really can remember!
4. We’ve never had it so good, how can we enjoy life unless we’ve got another ever present nagging worry? Despite Islamist inconvenientists who occasionally blow up Tube trains there’s generally not much to worry about. Until you’ve survived cancer and they give you the all clear. My Mum was given the all clear. All clear actually means cancer could come back and kill your ass.
5. Many/few people long to have large alien lethal things in their bottom. Anal Cancer could be for you.
6. Savex on messy divorces. 1 in 3 marriages end in divorce. Divorce is a) a sin b) quite unhealthy for children. c) expensive. Imagine how pleased you’d be if you suddenly found your ex-paramour had a tumour inside them. I’m fairly sure you’d no longer go for the quickie split and quite often ‘lose’ documents that delayed the proceedings.
7. Gets rid of the weak. (Actually this isn’t true. It can strike pretty much anyone.)
8. Cancer can be a great ice-breaker. 1 in 3 people will get a cancer so you’re bound to find someone to share a story with. Here’s how you can work it:
Bob : Hi.
Dave : Hello.
*super awkward silence as Dave realises that Bob has no creases in his trousers*
Dave: There’s a lot of that cancer going round.
Bob: Aye.
Embarassment averted.
9. Faster swimming. There’s a reason Duncan Goodhew won so many medals.
10. Parents, ham up a non-fatal cancer to get your teeenagers back in line. It’s a truth commonly known that teenagers take pleasure in torturing their poor parents. If you do get a nice bit of skin cancer, ham it up, and let it knock the wind out of them. Get yourself in bed for weeks, shave your head, make the little buggers say ‘I wish I listened to you more’. Then stage a miraculous recovery, get yourself off washing up for years and the kids will tell you frequently that they love you, a la Rod Stewart.
If you’re not in total agreement with this list the Cancer Research UK are the people trying to save your family from domestic devastation.
Get on the Kill Cancer Death Rally and raise them some money.
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Arriving in Munich will feel great. I can remember when we pulled into Barcelona last year. I got all emotional because at last we’d made it and this great stupid adventure that I did for my mum had actually worked.
You’ll get much the same feeling elation, without the churning sense of loss, I hope. You’ll have been on the road four days. Met great people. Driven awesome cars. And raised a lot of money. On top of all that, and forgive for getting deep, there’ll be another emotion you can’t quite put your finger on. A feeling, that in England, you don’t get.
Let me tell you what that will be. It’s the feeling when you’re in the capital city of schuhplattler: the awesome Bavarian dance that involves slapping your shoes, thighs and hands together.
And this is just an excuse to show lots of clips of men in leather shorts slapping their thighs.
Lets begin with a conventional schuhplatter. Frickin’ hilarious.
This is discoplattler. The badass cousin of schuhplattler. As cool as Austrian breakdancing to Shakira can be. They have their own site, the never boring discoplattler.at. They are probably available for weddings and birthdays but less keen on barmitzvahs.
But Discoplattler has nothing on this jumpstyle remix of a schuhplattler video.
Jumpstyle is some Netherlandischer form of hard house. In the tube above some jumpers(?) have clearly thought it would be hilarious to compare jumpstyle dancing to schuhplattler. Yeah, because jumpstylin’ ain’t ridic’. Take it away JumpForce.
And just to show that lederhosen make everyone look a little cute here’s Hitler, in leather shorts.
On Friday we’ll be cruising down the lovely Rhine Valley. There are many reasons why the Rhine valley is a wonderful place mostly because it has been the site of many battles between the Germans and the French. That’s like brussel sprouts vs badly cooked liver – the rest of humanity is a winner. Here we can find wine, swimming opportunities and good food. If anyone can tell me a nice town to terrorise stay in, I’m sure fruitful cultural interchanges will occur.
So here is the first steps of the itinerary for getting to Bavaria and killing cancer along the way.
6.30 pm
Leave London and head for Folkestone.
8.30 pm
Arrive in Folkestone and go through the Eurotunnel to Calais. The price for taking the great metal worm under the sea is just 80 pounds. That is only 20 quid a person ie. pretty cheap.
Buy tickets online at the Eurotunnel website.
10 pm
You will be disgorged by the submarine/terranean train in the lovely Calais. From here we will head to a quiet village that is certainly not expecting a rally to turn up on its doorstep.
11 pm
Unpack cars and head to a bar. Or straight to bed if you’ve had a tiring day and simply too too too tired. Expect to be stabbed in your bed if you take the latter option.
And now we’re on the road.
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My, my, I have been a bad boy and totally not blogged for, like, ages. Tell you the truth I was quite glad to see the back of the Kill Cancer Death Rally after it took over my life for a few months. I’ve been chillaxing for a bit but, like a bull who’s just seen the little girl in a red coat in Schindler’s List, I’m ready to charge. Yes, the Kill Cancer Death Rally 2007 is on it’s way.
The first thing I have to do is to finish tidying up all the the loose ends from this summer’s fun. There’s still money to collect, thank you letters to sponsors to write and I need to do the mother of all blog posts for Stormhoek.
Stormhoek is the wine company that gave us a load of free booze for the party, which was also drunk on the way down to Barcelona by the drivers of El Presidente. This was great as their Pinotage proved to be delicious and it drank very well under the Channel. In return, I promised them that I’d make a video and get them some photos of the trip. I have not done this yet but this is all coming together.
To make up for this massive delay I’m going to give them some links.
Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine. Stormhoek is great wine.
Sorry guys.
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Just got some photos in and have to share them. Sweet.
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Driving down the motorway from Toulouse to Barcelona El Presidente, our trusty steed, approached the Crazy Golfmobile.
Little did they know that we’d bought two roast chickens, four baguettes, two bags of creamy pastries, a pot of mayonaise, various other assorted goodies, including a two day old festering bacon and vinaigrette piedmontaise salad.
It tasted like ammunition to me.
A one sided pitched battle ensued. We finally discovered the best way to get a hit was through the sun roof. Generallisimo Leo mounted El Presidente and did the honours.
Spaff!
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There’s that moment when you fall in love with someone and you want to tell the whole world about it. You want to stand on a roof top, on a podium, with a microphone attached to some huge speakers and announce to south London “Yes, I, Tom Shelley, am in love.”
You want to write songs to be sung at campfires, when the beer is kicking in and the stars are coming out.
Creation must know that henceforth love means Tom and [insert name here].
Then you remember that you’re a man. An English man no less. You slap yourself around the face, shove a pencil behind your ear and find some shelves to put up.
However, (don’t worry that “however” doesn’t mean I’m going to talk about love) if you go and have the most fun four days of your life, you are allowed to tell everyone. Which is just what I’m going to do.
I thought that I would enjoy myself on this rally. I never imagined in my wildest dreams it would be quite so good. From start to finish I’ve had the best time ever. And that is all down to the ralliers.
I don’t know what was put in the water in their home towns, or if they were born close to Sizewell B but, dear God, they were a cool bunch. Without you none of this would have been possible.
Thanks so much to the ralliers. Thanks so much to the sponsors. I think we’ve just done something amazing.
Where shall we go next year?
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Written on Commandante Ian Napier’s Blackberry on the road to Barcelona.
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We’re just about to hit Barcelona. Life doesn’t get much better than this. Four smelly generals cruising through Catalonia in the coolest car in the world. The polyester might be getting a little (by that I mean extremely) skanky but when you’re in El Presidente nothing matters.
I can’t say how good the trip has been. We’ve had so much fun it should be either illegal or compulsory. I know that pride is a sin, and all that, but I’ve got a nasty case of it. I’m just so happy that it has happened. An idea has left the pub and become a four day charity surreality.
Thanks everyone.
And mummy if you’re in heaven – which I don’t believe in but where you deserve to be – I fucking wish you were here. I love you so much. Thanks for everything.
I’ll have to stop writing now because all this emotion chokes me up, gives me hot flushes and makes me itchy in my sailor’s suit.
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When I bought El Presidente I felt slighty guilty throughout the “Just two lady owners…really reliable…shame I have to let it go…really love it” spiel. Kiwi Jo seemed really attached to the car. Proud that it ran so well and eager to show me gibberish sheets, that were in fact the MOT and past service checks : “Look it had a yada yada changed in January”.
My sheep bothering seller was delighted her car would raise money for charity, but genuinely upset that the poor thing would be crushed. Jo, worry no longer. The car is too cool to be destroyed. I don’t know how I’m going to get it back, but I will because it is a car transformed remember it used to look like this, before having an awesome turretite style thing attached to it like this.
The turretette was genuinely beautiful, but a swan has become a bird of paradise.
I) You can’t quite see the wanna-turret, but it is still a production Rover with wood on the top. Let’s get some paint involved.
II) Meet Chillax Max. He’s got long legs, tight white jeans, dodgy pencil moustache and is chillaxed to the max.
III) The left side is covered in awesome bubble letters and a freaky cyber cctv camera. “What does it mean?” you ask. It means it looks fucking cool.
IV) The rear. What you’ll be looking at on the autoroutes of France, if you travel in a low performance tractor.
V) “Ola Commandante”. Yes, El Presidente can talk and it says “Thank you my painter friends”.
Available on Ebay soon.
