Always on My Mind: the relentless reality of life with T1D

It’s coming up to my diaversary: December 19^th 1997 was the day on which I went to my GP for a hurriedly-arranged end-of-day appointment to investigate a urinary infection following a very bad dose of ‘flu, only to be told that I had very high blood sugar levels, indicative of diabetes. Within a few weeks, I was inducted into the world of injections, testing and, well, you know the rest…

It’s a story I’ve told more than once before on this blog and on social media, not least at previous diaversaries, so a simple recycling of my diagnosis story is neither appropriate nor necessary here.

However, diaversaries always stimulate reflection, and over the months of reduced activity and increased thinking time brought on by the pandemic, I am increasingly drawn towards the far-from-original narrative that the worst thing about Type One Diabetes is the sheer permanence and omnipresence of it. For me, that means towards a quarter century - over one third of my entire life and over half of my adult life - now lived with the seldom severe, yet ever-present burden of the condition. Just because we don’t look unwell, and just because (in most cases) we don’t constantly go on about it, doesn’t mean that we are fine with it. I still occasionally come across people who think I have “got better” from my unfortunate illness back in 1997.

My T1D Footprint from JDRF

My thoughts on this aspect have been brought on in part by a growing sense of disappointment with the latest portrayal of diabetes in the media. Six months ago a character in the TV soap Coronation Street, 17-year-old Summer Spellman, played by Harriet Bibby was diagnosed with Type One in a story which gained much attention on diabetes social media, and which seemed at the time to be commendably well-researched by the scriptwriters and producers of the long-running soap. Much was made of the fact that the writers and actors had spoken with diabetes charities, medical experts and most importantly people living with Type One to ensure that the diagnosis story was told in a realistic and relatable manner. So far, so good, and well done to Harriet for representing the condition so well - the picture below captures what will be a familiar memory for many readers.

Summer Spellman in hospital after her diagnosis,
June 2021

As a longstanding Corrie fan, I was pleased to see that the scriptwriters had chosen to use diabetes as a storyline. However, whenever diabetes rears its head in this way, I always sense that the reality of living with T1D, and therefore of portraying it in a TV drama, is actually not interesting or dramatic enough in the longer term. The result is that scriptwriters either forget the story altogether, or use it as the basis for something more exciting, but frankly unlikely. Such is TV drama.

Summer is not the first Corrie character to develop T1D, and a previous storyline illustrates the above point rather well: back in 2003, another young woman in the soap, Katy Harris, was also diagnosed with Type One, and like many TV scriptwriters, the then Corrie team saw in our lifelong and potentially fatal condition the potential for good dramatic material, rather than simply demonstrating what thousands of ordinary people live with. Soon after her diagnosis, Katy embarked on an affair with her neighbour Martin Platt, a nurse 20 years her senior who was helping her come to terms with the burden of her condition, but took this help rather too far. As inevitably happens in soaps (where conception seems remarkably easy) she immediately became pregnant and in the mess that ensued she ended up killing her own father and then herself. As you do.

Corrie's previous T1D character, Katy Harris,
with her ill-advised love-interest, nurse Martin Platt

At the time of writing, I am increasingly fearful that Summer’s story is heading for melodrama rather than a less dramatic portrayal of the reality of life with Type One which might be more helpful in raising awareness, but wouldn’t generate viewing figures. Summer’s onset and diagnosis were accurately portrayed, and credit should go to the scriptwriters and to the actors involved for keeping it pretty real. However, at the time of writing (early December 2021), Summer has become the centre of a story about an alleged inappropriate relationship with her neighbour and English teacher Daniel Osbourne, with diabetes reduced to a bit part in the story (Mr Osbourne’s giving her an “energy bar” when her blood sugar was low being used as part of the evidence against him). An unfortunate echo of the Katy storyline, and certainly a distraction from any awareness-raising about diabetes.

Summer with her alleged ill-advised love-interest,
teacher Daniel Osbourne

I shall be interested to see where this one goes: there have been passing hints that Summer is having some concerns over apparent (to her) weight gain, which leaves the door open for a diabulimia storyline, so that may yet be part of the story, and would be a good line to pursue in many ways, given that diabulimia is a hidden and overlooked aspect of the condition, very much known to me because of the battles faced by a good friend of mine who lives with it.

However, what has again been overlooked is the opportunity to portray the often dull omnipresence of diabetes in our lives. I am very much at peace with my diabetes, but if anything ever threatens to drag me down, it is this relentlessness. Most of us, most of the time are not visibly unwell, nor apparently burdened. Yet we are burdened, and if we don’t respond to and deal with that burden every single day, we would very quickly become unwell and, well, die. Diabetes is, as the song says, Always on My Mind (there you go, that’s the title sorted!), and that’s a very difficult reality to portray to others without becoming a bore. It’s not dramatic, it’s seldom tragic, but it’s always there. The first and last thing that I have done every single day since Christmas 1997 is to check my blood sugar level, and in between times, every action, every event, every plan, is made with reference to its potential impact upon my BG level. And as I so often point out, the irony is that it’s the miracle drug to which we owe our survival - insulin - that presents the day-to-day threat to our wellbeing. That’s a very odd thing to have to live with. We don’t monitor and react to the condition as such, we monitor and react to the effects of the drug used to treat the condition. And the administration and monitoring of that miracle drug is entirely in our own hands, day in day out.

If Summer Spellman’s diabetes in 2021 was being accurately portrayed, she would have at least one device visibly attached to her body, she would be seen frequently checking a phone or reader, and either fiddling with a pump or administering an injection in a potentially undignified manner before every meal. She would also quite often be mildly unwell, possibly a little confused, and would need to sit down somewhere and eat jelly babies or similar. To describe all this in writing makes it sound more intrusive than it actually is, but it is the truth. As the Diabetes UK campaign says, diabetes is relentless.

This post is perhaps untypically negative for me, and I am not given to self-pity, so I must conclude on a positive note. I am fortunate, very fortunate: I am fortunate that I live in 2021, not 1921 or any earlier; I am fortunate that I live in a prosperous western country with a publicly funded healthcare system; I am fortunate that I did not endure diabetes as a child or adolescent, when it would have impacted far more upon what I wanted to do; I am fortunate that I am male, and therefore not burdened with the additional impact of monthly hormonal variations on blood sugar, nor the body image issues faced more by women than men; I am fortunate that the relentless march of diabetes technology is reducing the burden, notably of finger prick testing; and above all I am fortunate that I enjoy the support and friendship of the many people from the diabetes community whom I have met and worked with in recent years, both fellow patients and healthcare professionals.

So I’m doing fine with it, and to continue to do so well into old age is my realistic and achievable aim. But yes, diabetes is Always on My Mind, whether it shows or not.

There's always a good song title for any post, and with this one there are two standout versions to share: either the peerless Elvis from 1973 or the wonderful electro-pop reworking by the Pet Shop Boys which famously prevented Fairy Tale of New York from getting the Christmas Number One spot back in 1987. A great song, with two very different interpretations. Click on those links to enjoy either or both versions on Spotify.

Happy Diaversary to me when it comes, and Happy Christmas to everyone.

September ’21 (Oh What a Night!): ArT1st Live

I’ve never been particularly prolific on social media or as a blogger. I prefer to use fewer, more considered words rather than too many words in the real world and I am no different in the online one. Moreover, it's been an exceptionally busy few months for me, with various post-retirement involvements and responsibilities all bringing worthwhile, enjoyable yet time-consuming tasks my way since the end of summer. And with two members of my family near and far, as well as a best friend, unwell in recent days, that too has been more of a priority than shouting into the echo chamber of diabetes Twitter during this Diabetes Awareness Month.

I've looked on as November has brought the usual crop of posts, tweets and images, all aimed at raising awareness, especially in this centenary year of the discovery of insulin therapy. I’m a little bit concerned that it’s starting to become a bit dutiful and ritualistic, but I admire those who persist. There is a growing sense that it's all been said before, and the “awareness-raising” posts that crop up on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram during November in the run-up to World Diabetes Day on the 14th often seem increasingly contrived or recycled. I sometimes worry that awareness raising does nothing more than preach to the converted. Many who were previously prominent in the diabetes community have gone quiet, and it sometimes seems that they are the wise ones. I was very sad recently when I saw a post from one of them apologising for his lack of advocacy presence, or worse still another saying she had been accused of lack of advocacy activity - the lady concerned is more than a little busy raising two lovely pre-school children, amongst other things. Those just quietly getting on with their lives without telling the world all about it are in many ways my dia-heroes.

Having said that, I have read, this year as every year, some wonderful observations and stories which serve to remind us all that we are far from alone, and for those newly diagnosed that there is a long and fulfilling life to be lived despite the undoubted challenges of managing the condition. Such posts and stories encourage others, and encourage me to keep writing and sharing, and more importantly to enjoy the work of others.

I enjoy writing, and so if and when I find something worth saying, I shall say it. There's no point in just writing for my own pleasure, so I shall continue posting here and hope that some will enjoy it. However, as befits my long-held and oft-stated position, I have little expertise in diabetes, only experience of it, and limited enthusiasm for diabetes technology, so there's not much for me to write about in the field of diabetes. Heaven forbid that I should be thought of as a “diabetes blogger”.

So I am writing and posting this piece for Diabetes Awareness month, and for WDD on Saturday. It’s a long-overdue reflection on ArT1st Live, already fading into a distant memory, yet in many ways the proudest day of my 24 years living with diabetes, and a day which encapsulated so much about my attitude to the condition. It’s about diabetes, yet it isn’t. Just like me.

The  ArT1st Project - still very much current and future as well as past - came to a triumphant climax on Saturday 25^th September, with a gathering of around 150 people from across the UK and beyond at Drapers’ Hall in the City of London for a celebration of the creative and artistic talents of people living with Type One. 

The project had originally been the brainchild of Partha Kar back in 2019, and was supposed to be a one-off real-world event. He invited a group of enthusiastic community members - both HCPs and people with diabetes – to start planning an event, but it fell victim to the Covid-19 Pandemic and became an online event, which provided a much-needed distraction for organisers and contributors alike during the tough days of the first and severest lockdown in 2020. The website remains a wonderful reminder of what was achieved by so many, and will remain for the foreseeable future as a reminder of those difficult yet in some ways life-affirming days.

However, as soon as circumstances permitted, the organising team wanted to make the live event happen, and happen it did: perfectly timed in many ways, despite more than a few Covid scares, it proved for many of us to be a welcome return to real-world socialising, to the joys of dressing up, of eating and drinking together, which are such an essential part of what makes us human. The sense of excited anticipation that comes with getting dressed up, the “how do I look? feeling, the butterflies in the stomach, were forgotten yet precious emotions. And there was so much to enjoy about the evening:

The venue, Drapers’ Hall was simply perfect, and a source of real personal pride to me, having secured it thanks to an unlikely centuries-old connection between one of the City’s most prestigious guilds and a small-town school in Lancashire to which I devoted an entire working career. Everything about it was pitch-perfect, notably food and drink of the highest quality, discrete and attentive service by the catering team, and rooms which almost literally took the breath away of all seeing them for the first time.

The Livery Hall, Drapers' Hall

The attendees - people with diabetes, their families and NHS professionals who care for them - were a delightfully esoteric mix, bringing together some familiar names and faces from the world of diabetes care and advocacy yet also many more who had seldom, if ever, met or interacted with others from the diabetes world. That alone was a triumph, extending the reach of the community in a new way.

But above all, the performances and artwork to which we were treated were phenomenal, and gave us a powerful reminder that Type One Diabetes, that most random of afflictions, creates a community which is a random collection of individuals, impossible to categorise by age, gender, lifestyle, personality type, wealth or anything else. In this case, all they had in common other than T1D was a remarkable level of creative talent, and a wonderful willingness to share it.

And so we were treated to a wonderful celebration of life despite diabetes, not life with diabetes. After a brief history lesson from me, explaining how on earth we had all ended up in this wonderful building, my best friend and fellow organiser Ellie Huckle set the tone with a thoughtful take on the link between the imperfect delights of the arts and the imperfections of life with diabetes, and then we were able to forget the D-word and enjoy ourselves. First we had the edgy comedic genius of Ed Gamble, who captured perfectly the spirit of the event with some hilarious observational material, yet remained commendably clear that he was first and foremost a master of ceremonies rather than top of the bill. 

Ed Gamble

Ed was followed by Sophie Oliver, a student of ‘cello at the Royal Academy of Music, whose dignified yet joyful interpretation of familiar favourites from popular and classical music set the tone perfectly. 

Next came Anibal Miranda, a Spaniard living in London, with passionate interpretations of the musical theatre numbers that he loves so much.

Anibal Miranda

Then a scratch acappella ensemble called The Darling Buds of May put together and led by Pete Davies, with Nick Cahm, and Abi Ackerman, three stars of the GBDoc firmament, who blended perfectly with their supporting guest vocalists with a performance of the highest quality in a musical genre in which there is no hiding place.

The Darling Buds of May

After the interval came Abi Ackerman as a vocal soloist, her powerful voice and confident stage presence filling the Hall as only she could, including a self-penned song based around the thoughts of others living with T1D. 

Abigail Ackerman

She was followed by the wonderful Duke Al Durham, a Welsh rap poet who voices feelings familiar to all of us in his intensely personal writings. 

Duke Al Durham

Next came Siobhan Argyle, a T1D Glaswegian Victoria Wood, whose catchy, witty and engaging ditties of everyday life during the pandemic were delivered with a confidence which belied the fact that this was her first public performance.

Siobhan Argyle

And finally there was Sheku Kanneh-Mason: what can we say? Already a household name thanks to his appearances on BGT, Harry and Megan’s wedding, at the Proms and much more besides, he brought his cello to life in a manner which was, almost literally spellbinding. The fact that, before and after his performance, this delightfully self-effacing young celebrity just sat at a table with other guests, and that he duetted with Sophie Oliver with not a trace of self-importance speaks volumes about the man. Truly a superstar.

Sophie Oliver and Sheku Kanneh-Mason

So much else was good about the evening, most notably the chatter in small groups that is always one of the best things about any real-world get-together, but almost forgotten is the fact that the evening raised a much-needed £6000 for JDRFUK, whilst being pitched at a cost to attendees that made it accessible to all, thanks to the generosity of commercial sponsors Abbott, Novo Nordisk and Dexcom. An auction of artworks created by people with Type One raised almost £2000 thanks in no small part to Partha Kar’s persuasive mastery of a skill new to him.

Professor Partha Kar, OBE

But perhaps the best thing about Art1st as a project and ArT1st Live in particular is that Diabetes has been present, yet totally absent. Does that make sense? Of course it does! That, surely, is a realistic aim for all of us compelled to live with this fickle condition, and I have been fortunate enough to be able to live that out that aspiration over these past 24 years. 

Art1st Live was a gathering dominated by people who live with the condition, all of whom will have spent that evening discretely aware as always that their condition needed their attention, that the unusual circumstances of the evening, the unfamiliar food and drink, the late night, the excitement would all have to be borne in mind if they were to make it to the end with enjoyment and dignity unscathed. And yet all they did was enjoy themselves. Diabetes was there, but was largely unseen except for a lot of technology proudly on display because of sleeveless dresses. It was an evening of fun and friendship, about the people, not the diabetes, the ability not the disability.

As with all my posts, I like to find it a title from a song, and this one came to me as I sat alone in my hotel room after the event, unable to sleep yet enjoying the memories already. An exuberant celebration of a wonderful night out? What better than Franki Valli and the Four Seasons’ 1976 classic? Let’s just rename it with a revised full title: September ’21 (Oh What a Night!). What a night indeed, and one which, by popular demand, will surely be repeated before too long.

In conclusion, I must salute my fellow organisers: Agnieska Graja, Pete Davies, Partha Kar, Ros Gray, Lydia Parkhurst, Lis Warren, Sarah Ali Racanière, Jazz Sethi, Ellie Huckle, Kamil Armacki, Jess Broad and Danni Hitchins. As good a team as any I have ever had the pleasure to work with, and one linked by one thing: a life with, or caring for others with, Type One Diabetes. Patients, health professionals, a charity and three commercial companies working together. Take a bow:

Members of the organising team

ArT1st Live was sponsored by headline sponsors Abbott and Novo Nordisk, and supporting sponsor Dexcom, in order to allow all proceeds to go to JDRF UK.

All organisational work was carried out by community volunteers, supported by JDRF staff.

Photo credit - Max Turner Weddings

Twitter: @maxturnerphoto

Instagram: @maxturnerweddings

Website:  www.maxturnerweddings.co.uk

Testing, testing: Everything's Gonna be Alright

A quick and time-sensitive post, which I hope will serve to inform, reassure and possibly even persuade.

It's all about testing for Covid-19, and specifically about the oft-maligned lateral flow tests which have become so familiar to many of us. I felt moved to write up and share some thoughts here and on Facebook because I have today (18-08-21) done my twice-weekly lateral flow test with one of the new-style kits for the first time. 

I had heard that there was a new version coming soon, but hadn't realised they were being issued until I opened a new pack, received yesterday.

The new version is significantly different to the ones which have become so familiar, and a significant improvement from what I can see: 

• no need to swab in the mouth, which for me has always been the most uncomfortable bit. Just once in each nostril, twisting x5 each side.

• the extraction tube is pre-filled with the fluid, so no need to "decant". It has a peelable top, making it rather reminiscent of the insulin pen needles, so familiar to diabetes peeps.

• the swab is a bit shorter, more robust-feeling and was to me less irritating in the nose.

• the test cassette looks different, but has the same functionality (although on mine today, I couldn't get my phone's QR reader to recognise the code, so had to enter it manually).

• the extraction tube holder is a small, reusable plastic plinth, not the rather large and ungainly cardboard box.

• 4 drops not 2 on the cassette, then ready in 15 minutes, not 30.

So this morning's test felt like a re-learning experience, but once we get used to it, these will be very easy to do, and can become as much a part of daily routine as cleaning teeth, and just as easy.

I'm not sure how widely available these new-style tests are - I always get mine by doing an online order via the NHS app, which is always a quick and flawless process, with next-day delivery, but if you haven't used a new style test yet, I hope this post gives you cause for some small optimism (I am far too easily excited by novelties).

And finally a bit of shameless pontificating: if you haven't been a regular LF test user, I am a firm believer and highly recommend it. They may not be 100% reliable, but are surely a whole lot better than not testing, and I find it reassuring to be told twice a week that I am unlikely to be infected as we all get out and mix more.

We keep being told that we are at or near a pivotal point in this pandemic, but I have to say that to me it really feels like it right now: The opening up and deregulation of a month ago has not led to the apocalyptic infection rates that so many keyboard warrior experts were all too quick to predict, and although the daily rate remains high and hospitalisation and death rates are still alarming, we appear at the moment to be getting tantalisingly close to striking the balance between hiding from and living with the virus. I am not convinced that New Zealand's much-vaunted "Zero-Covid" approach is sustainable in the longer term, and their decision yesterday to lock down the whole country for one confirmed case cannot go on forever if they want to remain part of the world's trading and tourism community. 

I am, and always have been, shamelessly rose-tinted in my view of life, so anything I say about the pandemic or anything else has to be seen through that filter, but I am keen to get on with my life. I shall remain cautious in my approach to what I do and where I go, but as I am not really a fan of crowded noisy places, there is not much that I want to do that is particularly risky. I am desperate to get along to the Unibol Stadium to watch the Mighty Wanderers again, and I have plans for visits to London for exciting events in the coming few weeks, which include rail travel and hotel stays, but I won't be found in a crowded nightclub or a busy bar. I shall continue to wear a face covering for the foreseeable future on trains and in shops, for my own and others' reassurance, but I refuse to live in fear, and shall not waste energy getting annoyed about those who choose not to wear a mask.

So - getting back to the purpose of this post - I hope that regular and easy testing will prove to be a small price to pay for the freedom to begin to live a little again.

And a song title for this post? How about a forgotten 90's classic Everything's Gonna Be Alright by Sweetbox, still one of the cleverest samplings of classical music in my opinion, and a great message for a vision of a post-pandemic life.

Sweet Caroline: How a minor hit from fifty years ago became a ubiquitous football anthem

 

Truly, we are, living in strange times. Strange days indeed - most peculiar, mama (kudos to any reader who can identify that song lyric without googling it)

With numbers testing positive for Covid-19 here in the UK surging, the government is nevertheless relaxing the restrictions with which we have been living for fifteen months. Cue joy and relief, but also much social media driven anger and condemnation, barrack-room expertise and prophecies of doom and gloom....Let’s wait and see.

Yet as the UK and its government once again risks being cast in the role of international pariah, the country is at the same time riding a wave of excitement and national pride whipped up by the performance of England's football team, guided and led by the admirably restrained, palpably decent, thoughtful and eloquent Gareth Southgate.

In 2018, the unexpected success of his young squad in reaching the Semi-Finals of the World Cup in Russia briefly diverted attention, lifted the mood and unified the nation at the height of the agonisingly long process of leaving the EU. Oh to be back in such simple, carefree days….

Three years later, an even younger squad has gone one step further in the delayed Euro 2020 Tournament and at the time of writing, the nation (well certainly its media) is in a state of heady excitement and euphoria at the tantalising prospect of the squad bringing to an end to the fifty-five year wait for a major tournament win in our national sport.

Southgate's squad are more than just a group of footballers more gifted than their predecessors of several generations past. They are a thoroughly admirable group of young men, schooled by their clubs and in no small part by their national coach in the appropriate behaviours, attitudes and responsibilities that come with their status as richly-remunerated national heroes. Gone, it seems, are the days of laddish “boys will be boys” behaviour, of responding to media questions with contemptuous clichés or even open hostility, and of hiding from the bigger issues in society.

The 2021 squad is a rainbow coalition in some ways reminiscent of France's golden generation which won the World Cup in 1998 and the Euros in 2000. It is a team of thoroughly modern English footballers, many with recent family origins from outside the country, yet every one of them proudly flaunts their patriotism and pride in wearing that shirt with its iconic three lions. The likes of Marcus Rashford, Tyrone Mings and Raheem Sterling have been unafraid to speak out against racial and social injustice, whilst Harry Kane, in some ways every inch the cockney diamond geezer of yesteryear, wears his LGBT+ armband with manifest comfort; men like him in the not-too-distant past would probably have exhibited the tribal homophobia and intolerance which was once endemic among the white working classes.

Rashford in particular has become a national treasure thanks to his off-the-field advocacy for children like he once was, and that he did so last year with steadfast politeness and respect for those in power was a remarkable achievement. He may be an angry young man from the wrong side of the tracks in Wythenshawe, but his anger at social injustice is nuanced and constructively channelled.

Other players, like Mason Mount, Declan Rice and Calvin Philips not only look like schoolboys living out their dream, but behave with the gratitude and humility that in the past was often lacking in those paid a fortune to do what most of us just have to do for fun. Win or lose against those stylish and talented Italians on Sunday night, these young men have done themselves and their manager proud, and I for one will be eternally grateful for the joy that they have brought us in this toughest of years.

And then there's the music...

Heady days need a soundtrack, as we have been so effectively reminded by all the nostalgia for the summer of ’96, but unlike in 1996, the 2021 soundtrack is strangely retrospective. In 1996, Britpop was at its height, producing some of the best new material that had been written in a generation, launching stellar careers for the likes of the Spice Girls and solo Robbie Williams, whilst David Baddiel, Frank Skinner and the under-rated Lightning Seeds created their singalong masterpiece, Three Lions. That song is everywhere right now, almost always murdered by a tuneless drunken chorus, but it is in my view truly a work of genius. It's wonderfully English, not triumphalist as many think, but rather a self-deprecating tale of repeated failures and near-misses, laced with the pride which we as a nation seem to take in plucky losers and the timid but very real longing for redemption.

Of course, Three Lions has been at the forefront of our giddy ride to the Final of Euro 2020, but it is being run close by Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline, which we have heard belted out by players and fans after every win, gleefully joining in with the “dah-dah-dah”.

This has set me thinking, as often happens with my musically addled brain: how is it that certain songs achieve iconic ubiquity years after what was initially a thoroughly underwhelming chart performance?

Sweet Caroline is a perfect example.

Neil Diamond was for some years a respected but unheralded songwriter, until he broke through in the UK with Cracklin’ Rosie in late 1970. He had written I'm a Believer for the Monkees and other successful songs, but his name was little known on this side of the Atlantic, and when he finally achieved modest success as a singer, he was to me and my teenage contemporaries the sort of singer that your granny liked, a crooner no less. Sweet Caroline had been written and released in 1969 in tribute to JFK's daughter Caroline Kennedy, and made no mark whatsoever on the UK charts. Two years later, it was released as a follow-up to Cracklin’ Rosie, and reached No 8 in our charts. For the next thirty years or so, it was largely forgotten, but then early in the 2000s it started popping up at the sort of disco that goes with every modern wedding reception - the sort where dad dances, granny kicks off her heels to reveal her true undignified self and ten-year-old boys do a knee slide across the floor. A similar thing happened to Can’t Take my Eyes Off You, another minor hit from the late 60s by an American crooner dressed in a pullover - Andy Williams.

Next, DJs responsible for after-match playlists caught on to it, and in no time everyone knew it, such that when your team pulled off an unlikely escape from relegation and the fans partied like they had won the League, Sweet Caroline, dah-dah-dah became a song of triumph and joy. Then as Wembley filled up this summer with fans for the first time in over a year, England started winning, and the rest is history. Neil Diamond’s accountants must be laughing all the way to the bank.

Many songs have had a similar trajectory; here’s a few more that were either unnoticed at the time of release, or in some cases derided:

Tony Christie’s Is this the Way to Amarillo, written by the wonderful Neil Sedaka and containing some of the cheesiest rhymes ever attempted (Dawning-Morning, Amarillo-Willow-Pillow, Marie-Me, Ringing-Singing, Maria-See her etc ) made it all the way to No 18 in 1971 (there’s something about that year!), then remained forgotten until Bolton’s comic genius Peter Kay imbued it with post-modern irony for 2005’s Comic Relief, such that it became a mass singalong song. I maintain that one of the happiest moments of my entire life was when I was one of 27 000 fans at the Reebok Stadium in  May 2005, celebrating as Sam Allardyce’s Bolton Wanderers team of misfits and has-beens secured European football to the tune of Christie’s Shala-la-la-la-la-la-la-la – Diouf-Diouf.

The Proclaimers’ 500 Miles made it to No 11 in 1988, then remained forgotten until revived years later, again by a combination of mobile DJs and football fans; likewise, Jeff Beck’s Hi Ho Silver Lining (No 14 in 1967, No17 in 1972) and even Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire, which has never even made the charts, yet achieved anthemic status after Liverpool’s 2005 Champions’ League win and the England Cricket Team’s Ashes win the same year.

Even Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now was a relatively modest UK No 9 on its first release in 1979 at a time when the now legendary band had passed their first wave of success and were seen by many music fans to be an example of outmoded, overblown and over-produced pomp-rock. Forty years on, it is everyone’s favourite singalong song.

The list could go on, and many will have their own favourites to add to this list. They all date from the days when singles chart position and longevity was very much the test of a song's success; since around the turn of the millennium, chart success has mattered little, indeed few of any age could name the current Number One at any given time. Yet despite failing that test at the time of their release, these songs have become enduring and ubiquitous. What do they have in common? Well not a lot really, other than that intangible thing called a damn good tune, often a brilliant hook and above all something we should just call singability.

Let’s just hope we’re still singing Sweet Caroline at 10pm on Sunday night, and that “good time never seemed so good” proves to be true. I think we all deserve that pleasure.

#ItsComingHome

"Walking on the Milky Way": some thoughts for Diabetes Awareness Week 2021

Some thoughts for Diabetes Awareness Week, to an extent recycling things which I have said before, but worth modifying and repeating, precisely in order to raise awareness. When talking about diabetes, I have always tried to strike the balance between melodramatic self-pity and “no big deal”. My talk at TAD back in 2017 attempted to put this across by portraying diabetes as “something and nothing” and four years on from that talk, and twenty three years on from diagnosis, that’s still my view. I genuinely find it hard to get annoyed by diabetes, or by others’ attitude to it; I am, however, very aware that for others this is not the case. I am sure that I would have found it far more of a burden if it had interfered with my carefree youth, or indeed if I hadn't had the benefit of the monitoring technology which we too easily take for granted. However, I am fortunate to be gifted with a temperament that doesn’t easily get annoyed, so for me diabetes remains a severe irritant rather than a burden. 

However, the one thing that consistently irks me in the perception of diabetes among those who don’t have experience of it is the widespread sense that Type One Diabetes is a condition that affects the young, which as I have written before, overlooks the fact that it can and does come on at any age, and that it stays with you for life.

I am resolutely anti-ageist: when I was young, I had many friends who were much older than me, and now that I am in my sixties, I have friends of all ages, including many in their twenties and thirties. I enjoy, but don’t crave, the company of others, and have always enjoyed most the company of people who are less than obviously like me. So I tend to find friends among those who have little in common with me, be it interests, occupation, tastes, gender or age. I believe that I am age and gender blind to a good extent, and I still feel no different mentally to the child, teenager or young adult that I once was.

However, in diabetes terms, I often feel compelled to draw attention to my age, given that persistent sense that the Type One Diabetes with which I live is often thought of as a young persons’ condition, whilst Type Two Diabetes is often associated with older age. Neither is true.

The theme for this year’s Diabetes Awareness Week is Diabetes Stories. Diabetes is a condition where there are as many stories as there are people living with it, but sharing stories is important, not least because others may read, recognise and draw comfort from similarities, and perhaps most importantly, because others may recognise symptoms and seek potentially life-saving help. My own story serves to remind others of the fact that Type One can strike at any age, and that once it does, it is there for life – a life which can and should be no shorter than anyone else’s. My story is a good illustration of the former, and I have every intention of ensuring that it proves to be a good illustration of the latter.

I was diagnosed at the end 1997, at the age of precisely 40. Until then, I had lived a life with minimal contact with the health service. I had the standard childhood illnesses, with the associated spells off school before the age of 10; I then managed an entire secondary school career without a single day's absence through illness. I fell off my bike at the age of 13 and suffered a straightforward arm fracture, which mended in the standard six-week time frame. And that was about it. Prior to my diagnosis with diabetes in 1997, I had worked for 17 years as a teacher with a total of about four days off sick (two lots of two). My doctor's surgery was a place unfamiliar to me.

Moreover, I was a slim, healthy and active person: as a child I had walked or cycled to school, played football as a recreation and spent holidays fell-walking with my family. As an adult I cycled to work, tended an extensive garden and walked from my home to the local shops rather than driving. And I still do.

Then, at the age of 40, I had a very bad case of 'flu - real ‘flu -  in the week running up to the Christmas break at school. A week's absence off work the first time ever, but no real cause for alarm: there was a big epidemic that winter (1997-98) and a number of colleagues were off at the same time. Then, on the day after I had started to feel better again, my condition took a nosedive, and I went to my GP, alarmed at this apparent recurrence of an illness from which I had just recovered. I felt tired, thirsty and run-down, but just thought it was a hangover from my first real illness in years. A routine urine test revealed very high blood sugar, and an alarmed GP informed me that she was pretty sure that it was diabetes, referring me to her colleague at the practice who was the specialist in diabetes. I was briefly thought to be Type Two, but with symptoms persisting and getting worse, it soon became clear that I was Type One, and my over-riding emotion was one of relief, not fear. I had found the cause of what, with hindsight, had been a malaise which had crept up on me through that autumn, with a battery of symptoms, all of which had been quite easy to explain away.

Foremost among these symptoms was the raging thirst. I had always been a thirsty individual, so the feeling of extreme thirst on hot days, after exercise, or after a meal was a familiar one. On a number of occasions that autumn, I therefore explained away extreme thirst by circumstances such as a salty snack, or a dash for a train on a warm afternoon. Moreover, it was in the late nineties that the sensible but now overstated and ubiquitous obsession with hydration really took hold. Not that many years ago, we didn’t all walk around clutching a bottle of water, and footballers played a full 90 minutes in the sunshine without taking hydration breaks. So if it doesn’t sound daft, thirst became fashionable in the late 90s, and I subconsciously bought into that fashion.

Another creeping symptom that autumn was extreme tiredness, but back in those days, my autumn working life was absurdly busy. As a Head of Sixth Form, it was the season of university applications which used to be submitted by an immoveable December 15^th deadline, and with 100 or so applications needing detailed references, no administrative support and little timetable remission I did most of that work in my spare time before school, after school and through very long evenings. It was exhausting, so any possibility of it being exacerbated by a medical condition didn’t cross my mind.

And then there was weight loss. I was never overweight, but had like most people gained a bit as middle age encroached. But then I started to notice a bit of looseness in trousers, requiring one notch tighter on the belt, or shirt collars feeling a bit loose. Fair enough, I thought. Losing a few pounds around the 40^th birthday was a welcome bonus, I thought, to being very busy and physically active, often with barely time for lunch or snacks.

Looking back, I was ignoring symptoms that should have rung alarm bells, but it took that dose of flu to bring it to a head. I assume that my diabetes came on gradually over those weeks, but that week’s illness gave it the boost that made it impossible to ignore. My HbA1c on the day of initial diagnosis was 22.1, and rose to 33.1 a couple of weeks later - just before I started on insulin. (I love that I can now look up those numbers on my NHS records)

The fateful numbers

Once the insulin started to have an effect (and that effect comes on almost instantly, as anyone with Type One will tell you), I was soon back to normal. By the Easter four months after diagnosis, I led my annual residential school trip to France with about forty pupils and five colleagues. I continued to do this every year whilst it remained part of my role at the school. By the June six months after diagnosis I was planning, setting up, organising and running the end-of-exams Ball for 200 Sixth Formers, a demanding job I undertook every year. In day-to-day terms over the remaining twenty years of my working life, I continued to take on all that life and work throw at me, with an unblemished attendance record in a very stressful job. I never missed a day due to illness through all that time.

But let's not pretend it's easy. Living with Type One Diabetes is a 24/7 challenge that we face on top of all as that we do in life, whatever that may be. You can never forget or overlook it for more than a few minutes. Every action, every piece of food or drink, every event needs to be thought through. Any departure from routine is potentially risky. Most infuriatingly, insulin - the treatment that you self-administer every day in order to preserve your life - is precisely what threatens to bring you down in day-to-day terms. I think is fair to say we have a love-hate relationship with it!

And please, if you're reading this and someone of any age whom  you know or love is showing diabetes symptoms - often now called the “Four T's” (thirst, tired, toilet, thinner) – do consider the possibility of Type One Diabetes. It is not at all related to lifestyle, diet or condition. It can strike at literally any age, not just in childhood and adolescence. And above all, it should hold no fears for the person diagnosed or their family. It will be a lifelong nuisance, which is fully controllable thanks to the wonders of insulin, increasing availability of sophisticated ways to administer it and very clever ways of monitoring blood sugar. And it won't stop you doing anything, eating anything or living a long, healthy and happy life.

If you are familiar with my blog, you will know that all my posts are given an appropriate song title, with a link to the appropriate song. My title is a song from my DiabetesPlaylist which I think is one of the most under-rated singles of the past few decades. OMD’s Walking on the Milky Way just about qualifies as a diabetes song in terms of referencing a chocolate treat which is NOT off limits for people with Type One, but for me it is a bitter-sweet recollection of lost youth tinged with dignified acceptance of the passing of time and creeping old age. It is melancholy yet triumphant, and this summer celebrates the 25^th anniversary of its release in the iconic summer of 1996. A brilliant introduction, a fabulous bridge, a soaring chorus and an outro that sounds like a recessional organ voluntary. If you're old enough, it'll take you back to the summer of '96. And if you're not, a chance to get to know a fine song that you missed.

“The Land of Make Believe” – in which the late Shirley Williams became PM

 

I hesitate to write about politics here, but I have long since realised that the bubbles in which we live -  both real world and online - are very small, meaning that my posts are read largely by people of remarkably similar mind-set. I have therefore concluded that there is little risk of causing offence by breaking the traditional “no politics, no religion” rule. And in any case, there is only so much that can be said about diabetes without repeating oneself or others, so I have always taken opportunities to write about other topics, if only for the enjoyment I derive from gathering and expressing thoughts.

So here’s a piece about Shirley Williams, a politician whom I greatly admired, who died this last Monday, April 12^th 2021 at the age of 90. One reason to write about her is that I have been forcefully reminded of the passing of the years by my recent Ruby Anniversary, which inevitably brought reflections on the world of 1981 and what has changed since then, so her death 40 years after her greatest fame was somewhat more poignant for me. Given that you have to be over 50 years old to have any clear direct memory of Shirley Williams in her prime, I hope that those who do not remember the events of the early ‘80s will be interested to read my perspective on those interesting days, particularly as I also had an indirect personal connection to her which may be of interest.

Deaths of the famous rightly provoke much reflection and retrospection; this week of all weeks in particular, as the passing of Prince Philip gave us a foretaste in “Operation Forth Bridge” of what will happen when we finally get to “Operation London Bridge”. On the whole I have appreciated and enjoyed the way in which Philip’s death has been marked, and whilst the haters have been rather too visible on social media, I think the vast majority of us recognise and understand that a remarkable man who achieved a great deal in an enormously difficult role deserved to be the subject of such attention, respect and even love.

But the less well documented death of Baroness Shirley Williams perhaps deserved greater attention. It reminded me that she was a politician whose contribution to recent history could perhaps have been much greater. The fact that I was obliquely connected to her through a mutual friend who was her mentor has given her death added significance for me.

She is certainly one of several “might have been” figures of recent political history, notably on the centre left, taking her place alongside Tony Crossland, John Smith, Alan Johnson, David Milliband and Ed Balls as people who had more to offer than political circumstances allowed, and who might perhaps have steered the country on a different course had they had the opportunity to become Prime Minister. Obituaries such as the one linked to her name above, or this from the Guardian rightly drew attention to her self-confessed shortcomings, but there is no doubt that she was for some years considered to be a potential Prime Minister.

So what was my connection to Shirley Williams? Well she was a close friend and protégée of my late family friend Margaret Higginson, who was Headmistress of Bolton School (Girls’ Division) from my mother’s time as a teacher there. Margaret was one of the leading educationalists of her time, a mildly eccentric, lovable spinster, a “schoolma’am” whom my mother had befriended back in the seventies by including her in many of our family events and outings, recognising that being an unmarried headmistress of such a prestigious school was in fact a lonely job, especially in the holidays. My mother popped her head round the door of the Head’s study on the last day of term and found the normally stoical Miss Higginson looking tearful, and when my mother asked if she was OK, she admitted that holidays were a lonely time for her. Mother invited her for tea a couple of days later, and she gladly accepted. Thereafter she became to me and my brother Chris an aunt-like figure, a frequent visitor to our home, an extra on family outings and a guest at our respective weddings. She loved serious conversation, and I remember her talking proudly of an ex-pupil named Shirley from her time teaching in London, who had become a Labour MP. Despite leading a traditional grammar school, which under her headship became an independent school rather than turning comprehensive, Margaret was a socialist intellectual, whose headship of Bolton School was characterised by constant reminders to the girls in her care that they were privileged to be at the school, and therefore morally obliged to give back to society both whilst at school and in their lives beyond it.

As Shirley Williams rose to prominence, becoming a Cabinet Minister under Harold Wilson’s third administration in 1974, I was always aware of her connection to Miss Higginson and I followed her rise to prominence with not only that personal interest but also with admiration for her manifest authenticity, her ability to connect to people and her espousal of moderate socialism.

Sadly, her cabinet career proved to be short-lived: a few years after her joining the Cabinet, the country had moved on in a contrary direction. Harold Wilson resigned out of the blue in March 1976, provoking enduring conspiracy theories, and his successor Jim Callaghan fell victim, like another unelected Labour PM Gordon Brown 30 years later, to a sense that he was a weak leader without the full authority of an electoral mandate. A badly-judged response by his government to public sector strikes in what became known as the “winter of discontent” of 1978-79 allowed the Tories under their new leader Margaret Thatcher to portray Labour as being in the pockets of over-powerful trade unions, and to perpetuate a narrative which has persisted to this day that the late 70s were a period of chaos and decline. My own memories of the period, and to a good extent economic, social and political data, beg to differ.

Nevertheless Thatcher was elected, and whilst the event was rightly heralded as a step forward for women’s rights, it was already clear that Mrs T was, as Spitting Image so cuttingly portrayed her, more like a ruthless, ideologically driven man in women’s clothing. I was living in France at the time, and on more than one occasion I had cause to caution ill-informed female French feminist friends who were excited by Britain’s taking a leap forward for gender equality by electing a woman Prime Minister. “Attention - du point de vue politique, c’est un homme” are words I recall uttering more than once to bemused observers.

I don’t think that history has proved me wrong, but for a brief period early in Thatcher’s reign, a very different woman, Shirley Williams, offered a tantalising glimpse of what a less dogmatic female leader could offer the country. In early 1981, with the country reeling under the effects of the first doses “Thatcherism”, by which what was now very clearly a radical right-wing government was seeking to roll back the power of the Trade Unions and the State with a degree of ruthlessness which, however justifiable some of her aims, was proving difficult for many - including me - to stomach. Unfortunately, the Labour opposition was doing what losing parties often do in response to heavy defeats, namely shifting to its own extremes under the worthy, admirable but unelectable Michael Foot. Interestingly, history repeated itself, as it always does in politics, when Labour under the equally unelectable Jeremy Corbyn handed Boris Johnson and Brexit victory on a plate in 2019.

However, in 1981, things suddenly got very interesting. Despairing at Labour’s lurch to the left, a new “Centre Party” was formed by a group of four ex-Labour ministers, David Owen, Shirley Williams, Roy Jenkins and Bill Rogers, who left their party and formed a new group, the Social Democratic Party. I was delighted: the SDP was a natural home for me, having long called myself a social democrat, not least because of my admiration for what social democracy had achieved in post-war West Germany. I was newly-married and by two coincidences the SDP story became entwined in our lives in a manner which was briefly exhilarating and exciting: Firstly, in autumn 1981 Shirley Williams bravely announced that she would fight the safe Conservative seat of Crosby, North Liverpool in a by-election caused by the death of the sitting MP. The newly-retired Miss Higginson - or “Higgy” as she was always known to us -  announced that she would campaign for her protégée, indulging her own lifelong moderate socialism, free of the need to supress her true political colours. Moreover, in her famously and lovably insensitive manner, she invited herself to stay with us in Southport, having realised that she could commute with my wife to Crosby throughout the final week of a campaign which was by then making national and international headline news.

Shirley Williams campaigning in Crosby, Autumn 1981,
flanked by Bill Rogers & David Owen

Then there was a second coincidence: a colleague of my wife’s, a young maths teacher named John Backhouse, was standing as the Labour candidate in the by- election. Backhouse was typical of the Merseyside Labour Party of the time, extreme left and with little grasp of the realities of life in Thatcherite Britain, but it quickly became apparent that Shirley Williams was a real contender, thanks to her erudite, eloquent, pragmatic and moderate policies and her engaging and caring manner. My wife’s school was very much a centre of activity during the campaign, and as Higgy came home every day with tales from the doorsteps of Crosby, we felt genuinely connected to a story that was causing so much attention. On the eve of the election, with a sense of a political earthquake in the air, we attended an SDP rally, accompanied by Higgy, addressed by all four of the now famous “Gang of Four”. It was a truly exhilarating event, with the feeling of a new political beginning very real. Shirley Williams duly won a decisive victory in what had been a rock solid Tory seat and for a few months, with unemployment soaring and Margaret Thatcher proving to be divisive and inflexible, it really looked as if this centrist force could consign Thatcherism to history as a short, failed experiment.

But then in April 1982, General Galtieri’s Argentinian Junta took the fateful decision to invade the Falkland Islands, giving Thatcher the opportunity to transform herself almost overnight into a latter-day war leader, dispatching a task force to an ultimately successful old-fashioned war with a frankly incompetent and ill-equipped enemy. The political tide turned, Thatcher won two more elections, transforming the UK forever, and the SDP died a long and lingering death. I had joined the party and done a bit of door-knocking and leafletting for the May 1982 local elections in Southport, but it was immediately apparent, even on the doorsteps of Birkdale, that Galtieri had unwittingly saved Thatcher.

Shirley Williams lost her seat at the next General Election, and remained a public figure of significant influence, as the many tributes paid to her have acknowledged, but never came anywhere near power again. As a peer, she exemplified exactly what members of the House of Lords should be, namely a wise old head and a mentor and advisor to younger, less experienced politicians of all persuasions. She was a frequent guest on shows like BBC’s Question Time, often as a nuanced voice of opposition to prevailing trends, and her lifelong pro-European views came to the fore during the grim years of national infighting over Brexit.

Meanwhile, centenary commemorations of the First World War brought fresh attention to her mother Vera Brittan’s wonderful book “Testament of Youth”, as powerful a telling of the impact of that conflict on those left behind as I have ever read.

I met Shirley again relatively late in her life when she was a speaker at the memorial service to Miss Higginson, held at Bolton School in 2010. It was a difficult day for me, as my brother and I took our mother, who was at the time displaying rapidly worsening symptoms of the Alzheimer’s Disease which was about to consume her, and in the event that was the last time she attended any sort of public social event. Shirley Williams was eloquent and generous in her tribute to Higgy, and was every bit the sharply attentive conversationalist that her public persona suggested.

Her death leaves me reflecting, not for the first time, that politics at the highest level is not really a game for those who display the most authentically human, or should I say humane, qualities. My own fifty-plus years of keen interest in politics tells me that almost all of the most appealing characters - from all parties - are those who never sought, or were overlooked for, high office: Alan Johnson, Sir Peter Bottomley, Sir Gerald Kaufman, Harriet Harman, Ed Balls, Alan Duncan and many more. Conversely, the most successful Prime Ministers of modern times - Churchill, Wilson, Thatcher, even Blair were successful despite very apparent character defects which made them less than attractive to many, yet eminently electable, highly successful, and indeed admired by many. I cannot help but speculate that history may add Johnson to that list. 

I don’t believe this "nice guys don't win" thing to be confined to politics: in many walks of life, the toughness required to be a successful leader is difficult to find in “nice” people, and certainly in high-profile management roles, most obviously football management, the ruthless streak required is commonly found to be an essential prerequisite for success. It is no coincidence that I, a pragmatist, conciliator and conflict-avoider, never sought seriously to climb the greasy pole of school management.

A depressing conclusion? Well perhaps it is, but then again, I do believe that it “takes all sorts”, and among the many things that the past year or so has taught us is to value authentic human values such as kindness and generosity, and to look for true heroism among the unsung heroes like nurses and research scientists, and to value those who say less and do more. The relative silence emanating from the White House since January has been a refreshing pleasure after the incessant nasty “noise” generated by its previous occupant. The meek may not inherit the earth, but the earth is a better place because of them, and thankfully they are in the majority.

It’s my blog, so it needs a song title: how about The Land of Make Believe by Bucks Fizz? A UK No1 from the heyday of Shirley Williams and the SDP in early 1982, a song derided at the time but now rightly lauded as an overlooked classic. The “land of make believe” is the one where the UK elects a modest, gentle, conciliatory Prime Minister, but by a nice coincidence, the writer of that song claims, somewhat spuriously I have to say, that it was an anti-Thatcher song. Really? 

Something nasty in your garden's waiting 

Patiently, till it can have your heart

Try to go but it won't let you 

Don't you know it's out to get you running 

Keep on running 

They're running after you babe..

Maybe it is an anti-Thatcher song. Either way, enjoy it here, and think of an alternative reality from 1982 onwards in which Galtieri hadn't invaded the Falklands, Thatcher had only lasted one term, and Shirley Williams had risen to high office, even PM. 

Now that is, truly, a Land of Make Believe.