Attack of the Imaginary Toilet

Divers exiting the Inland Sea tunnel

Went back in the water yesterday. Even if it was only Lake Ellerton, it was wonderful. The diving instincts haven't rotted completely, the diving equipment hasn't stopped working, and I still love my drysuit. I'm sure that eventually the novelty of getting out of the water and being (mostly) dry and warm will wear off sometime, but not yet. I really, really, don't miss being cold and tired after my dives.

I also heard a funny story from one of my dive buddies, who's an instructor. We'll call him C. C was over in Malta some months ago with another instructor, D, and another diver taking the "Tec 50" course in deep diving with technical gear - we'll call him C2. C, D and C2 were planning to dive the Stubborn the following day, a WWII submarine that sits off the Maltese coast at around 55m. As such, it's well out of my range (40m max), but the three divers were planning to do this as a technical dive with decompression stops.

50m is regarded as the point at which pretty much everyone will have some level of nitrogen narcosis, although the extent varies from person to person. "The narks" are when the increased amount of nitrogen in your bloodstream from breathing compressed gas makes you feel as though you're drunk. Since you take in more gas at depth (the increased pressure at depth compresses the gas, so you're breathing more concentrated gas the deeper you go), narcosis is a risk for deeper dives. It's not actually harmful in itself, unless it causes you to do something stupid, but the effects vary from person to person, in much the same way that some drunks are Happy Drunks, others are Angry Drunks, and some people are Sad Drunks.

Because of this, C2 wanted to do a dive to 50m to see how the narcosis would affect him. They set out from the Inland Sea in Gozo towards the Azure Window, a dive where you swim through a natural tunnel in the rock, and come out over a seabed that drops down to about 50-60m. From there you turn to the side and swim along the coastline towards the Azure Window (see picture).

C, C2 & D completed the swim through and descended to about 50m. C checked his compass, pointed towards the right direction, and set off. After a minute, he looked around to check for the other two, and saw C2 swimming off fast in the opposite direction. C and D went after him, retrieved him, ascended to allow the effects of the narcosis to dissipate, then finished the dive.

When they were back on the surface, C2's first words were: "Did you see the toilet!"

"No."

"There was a toilet."

They looked at each other. It's not unknown for divers to encounter sunken toilets from shipwrecks, but this dive doesn't have one.

"No, there was no toilet."

"There was a toilet! It was chasing me and snapping its lid at me! That's why I swam away!"

It turned out that C2 had overdone it the night before, and spent a fair part of the previous night hugging the toilet bowl. Apparently this left a sufficiently deep impression on his psyche that, as soon as he hit 50m, he felt he was being attacked by an (imaginary) toilet. (Author's note: I wonder if he actually saw a moray eel? They swim around opening and closing their jaws, as it's how they breathe...)

The tale of the Savage Toilet is now passing into diving legend. When I'm in Malta in two weeks, I shall be checking to see if it's there.

Talking To The Depressed

Guidance on talking to the depressed, should you ever find yourself doing such a miserable task

1. Remember you’re talking to the depression, not the person: Ever seen the episode of “The Thick of It” where Malcolm Tucker rants that there IS no Malcolm Tucker, because his job has eaten him alive and is walking around wearing his skin? Depression is like that. The person you know is in there somewhere, but if the depression’s really bad, you’re talking to the illness, not the person. 
2. Expect negativity: Depressed people are negative. Relentlessly. Depression does this, because you need mental energy to be able to envision the world in an alternative way and right now they are completely mentally exhausted, their brain chemistry is haywire, and their brain is occupied by a demented voice screaming loudly that the world is awful and there is no hope. When your depressed person starts going on about how awful everything is, don’t try to reason them out of it. By all means point out that there are alternative ways of seeing the world, just don’t expect to be able to argue them into not being depressed.
3. Don’t expect to fix the problem: You may persuade a person with a mild case of the glooms to see the world in a slightly more cheerful way, but someone with serious depression can’t be fixed by a one-off talk, any more than you can fix a broken leg by talking at it. That’s not to say you shouldn’t try, or that the person won’t appreciate your efforts (though the appreciation may come a bit later when the depression starts to lift), but someone with depression probably needs sustained medical treatment. 
4. Don’t expect gratitude: Gratitude takes energy too. A common way for the conversation to go is for the non-depressed person to persistently try to reason the depressed person out of their depression, then look at them with a faintly expectant expression. You may quite reasonably feel that you’ve just given up your own time and energy to look after someone else and that you’d like a thank-you, but it may not happen. (I’ve encountered a couple of people where it was hard not to think that they were trying to help me so they could get the ego-boost of “fixed someone’s depression!” It doesn’t work like that. Don’t ask me to make you feel better when I’m feeling awful.) 
5. Don’t take it on yourself: Depression is their illness. If you walk away from the conversation feeling like you haven’t cheered them up and wondering what the point was, remember that it’s their depression, not yours. You did your best. 
6. Don’t try to fix everything: Even if they reel off a shopping list of woes, don’t try to suggest solutions for every one of them. Implementing lots of solutions needs lots of energy. Picking a small thing and suggesting a way to make it mildly better may work, but don’t push too hard. 
7. Don’t forget the small stuff: Have they eaten or drunk anything recently? Biscuit and a cup of tea will not fix depression, but it may help a bit. 
8. Try to gently dissuade them from anything drastic: Again, remember that they have an illness and unless you’re a doctor or therapist, you’re not responsible for curing it, or for the consequences of it. However, if they suggest doing anything drastic (Facebook rants about how dire the world is, quitting their course of study in a blaze of despair, breaking up with a partner), try to gently persuade them to sleep on it or put it off until they’re in a better frame of mind. 
9. Ask how they are, but don’t ask for a medical bulletin: Please do ask them how they are when you see them in future, and by all means ask if they’re feeling better, but don’t bring the depression up every single time you see them and ask for a detailed update – if for no other reason that the answer really may well be “same as last time, thanks” or “all right”.

The Tales We Keep Telling, 3: Got Thrown Out Of My Office By The Army

Tough luck. This one doesn't get told until I actually leave the office in question.

The Tales We Keep Telling, 2: Audience of Psychopaths

So I went to see Laura Marling at the Sage the other day (my life is a whirlwind of fun and excitement, except for the three-day bouts of depression and the knowledge that it will not be 13 people leaving my team of 33 people in September next year – it will be 15). It was a good night, despite the fact that Ms Marling was battling the forces of illness and failing musical equipment. 

It is a tribute to her musicianship that she played an entire one and a half hour set entirely on her own whilst having to make up the set list pretty much as she went along, since her main guitar wasn’t working. She was also suffering from the after-effects of the incompetence of whatever restaurant she’d eaten lunch at – she has coeliac disease and, as she put it “They glutened me, the bastards!”

Nick Mulvay, the support act was pretty good too, although I couldn’t help fondly remembering the support act last time around, Timber Timbre. This was basically one guy and a guitar, and I (perhaps unfairly) remember one thing about his act. You have to imagine a man, sitting on a stool at the front of the Sage’s Hall One stage, spot lit, strumming a guitar and singing a romantic ditty…

Timber Timbre, tunefully: “I’m coming to Paris… to kill you…”

Audience laughs, musician stops singing and playing and looks around thoughtfully.

Timber Timbre, matter of factly: “I have an audience of psychopaths”.

(Begins singing again) “I’m coming to Paris … to kill you…”

We Are the Motherfucking Eels (at the O2 Academy)

So, taking a break from Glastonbury, I went to see the Eels on 4 September, and they were good. Here's where I owe my friend A a big vote of thanks. Had it not been for him, I'd never have really got into Eels, so top marks to A for lending me their entire back catalogue, and also buying the tickest.

There's a really good review of the gig here, which saves me having to do any musical criticism. Instead, I can just say that I enjoyed the gig, apart from the O2's famously awfully-high prices for awful beer. (Thank God for hip-flasks; you didn't read that here.) The support act had listened to a lot of Laura Marling, though it could have been worse; it could have been Kei$ha.

Eels themselves were excellent. I'd forgotten how much a band can ROCK when they play live, or maybe I've just been listening to "Blinking Lights" a lot recently. "Tremendous Dynamite" was awesome, although I must admit to a slight twinge of disappointment that there was "Last Stop: This Town". Also, it is very cool when people play guitars and sing when wearing sunglasses indoors, and always will be.

I also got to see an unusual sight. Eels had a bit of a theatrical thing going on at the end of the show, with a (I'm guessing) fake tour manager who kept doing the "one more song and NO MORE" routine. This happened, we assumed the encore was over, the house lights came up, people starting heading out of the doors.. and then Eels stepped back on stage for one final song. I really wished I'd had my video out and pointing forward, because the sight of people streaming back into the fully-lit O23 arena at the end of a gig was memorably surreal.

It was a good gig. Next: Laura Marling.

Glastonbury 2013, Day One, Part the Second: Keeping Up the Proud Traditions of Arriving at Glastonbury

The coach limped into the service station and wheezed to a stop. We got off, got and settled onto the grassy verge to await the arrival of a coach with a non-broken battery. Fortunately it was quite a nice day.

One hour and several frantic messages to the people waiting in the Clowne Tesco’s car park later, the coach arrived, we loaded ourselves and our gear onto it, and set off to retrieve the Clowne people. I retrieved the Magic Piece of Paper (in whose powers I was rapidly losing face), and waited to tick people onto the coach.

One stop in Clowne and several apologies to the people who’d been forced to wait in the Tesco’s car park later, we were on our way! The coach rolled past the familiar landmarks, I explained some of the history of Glastonbury to the new guys on the team, and we tried to take photos of the Glastonbury signs out of the windows.

Soon, we were stuck in another Glastonbury landmark; the queue to get onsite. The coach drivers looked increasingly annoyed, as their hours of work were running out and they needed to get back to Leeds. Alas, things were not to get better, as the stewards at the festival had no idea where to send us. Despite my best explanations, and several frantic phone calls to the WBC staff, it took another hour before we were in the right place and had been given our wristbands by the management staff. I handed over the Magic Piece of Paper, and my work was done.

Now all I had to do was lead my team to the campsite, get our ID badges, and get the tents put up in the dark. Fortunately, I’m not unfamiliar with this, having had to do it a few times at Glastonbury, including one memorable occasion in 2009 when we arrived at the site at 2.30am. This time around things were better, because a) having learned from bitter experience, I’d insisted we eat something at the service station on the way down, and b) the bar was still open. Half an hour later, the tents were up and the beer was poured. We toasted our safe arrival, toasted the festival, and awaited our first day on site.

First, though, we had to get through the night…

Glastonbury 2013, Day One, Part the First: Coaches and Mayhem

There is an old saying that stress is what happens when your instincts shout "NO" and your mouth says "YES I'D BE GLAD TO". I should have remembered that when I agreed to count people onto the coach to the Glastonbury festival from Leeds.

Yet again, a troupe of trusty Newcastle volunteers were travelling south to volunteer for our union with the Workers Beer Company at the Glastonbury Festival. We'd got six places, I was one of them, and despite a minor hiccup over a railcard on the train, all was well. The sun was shining, and we were waiting on the grass near Mecca Bingo, over the road from Leeds Bus Station, listening to the alcoholics fighting.

I can only assume there's a wet hostel nearby, because they were there three years ago (possibly not the same people, but who knows), the last time I was waiting for a coach to Glastonbury from Leeds - next time we'll sit in the bus station. I'd already had to go in there and get first aid assistance for someone who'd collapsed. I get the feeling this may be a regular occurance, as the security guards took their time getting the first aid kit and wandering on out. By the time they'd got out there, the ambulance had arrived, unlike our coach, and half the people I was expecting to be on it.

At 1.30pm, we had a false positive as a coach drove past us without stopping. As it got round to 1.50pm, I started muttering words in my head that I wouldn't use in front of my mother*, told everyone I was off over the road to check if it was waiting for us in the coach station part of the bus station. It wasn't, but I did find all the other volunteers. Still not quite as many as I had listed on the magic piece of paper with the list of people I was supposed to count on, but it was a start.

Even better, as I started to lead the way over to the grass, the coach we'd seen 20 minutes earlier pulled in haphazardly at a bus stop outside the station. I waved frantically and ran over to ask the driver if this was the WBC coach to Glastonbury. It was. I signalled my volunteers and began counting people on.

I'd been assured that the magic piece of paper was up to date. I should have remembered that where festivals are involved, this can actually mean "four people decided at the last minute to drive down, and there are two people who aren't on the magic piece of paper". There was no way I was telling people they weren't going to Glastonbury, so I let the two people on, reassured them it would be fine, and prayed very hard that I hadn't just booked them a one-way ticket to the outside of the Glastonbury festival wall.

As the coach headed out of Leeds, I got a phone call back from the WBC to confirm that the two people were indeed registered volunteers, and would be allowed in. I leaned back in my seat, mentally thanked God that my team were all reliable, calm people who had loaded my gear on the coach for me, and exhaled for the first time in about two hours. We were running a bit late, so I texted the people we were due to meet in a Tesco's car park in Clowne (coach pick-up points are always such glamourous locations), and told them we'd be a bit late but not to worry.

It really shouldn't have surprised me when, 10 minutes later, the driver turned round and, in tones of deepest gloom, informed us: "Sorry, the coach is broken - we're going to have to stop at the next service station and wait for a replacement".


* mostly from the family of the word "Fuck".