To have any chance of making sense of this continuation of my personal review of my year in 2010, please refer first to Twenty Ten (Part One): Hard Cheese.

My follow-up appointment with my psychiatrist was due mid-March. Scornfully following his advice to pull myself together and get a life in the month that had passed since our first (and to be last) meeting I had actually begun to feel quite a bit better in myself, but my ever decreasing lung capacity meant that even if I'd wanted to go, I wouldn't physically have been able to. I could barely walk to the corner shop and back.

Yak Shaving vs. Bureaucrazy

I had a letter from the psychiatrist's secretary inviting me to the meeting, so I thought I'd email her to let her know I wouldn't be going and why. Much easier than dragging myself out to the post box, I thought. Little did I realise then the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was to follow as I set about shaving this particular yak.

Although her email address wasn't included in the letter I knew from my work that the mental health trust, like most organisations, uses a standard email address format:

firtstname.secondname@nameoflondonborough.nhs.uk

No problem! Oh, wait. The email bounced. I tried again:

firstname.secondname@nameofmentalhealthtrust.nhs.uk

That bounced, too. I looked up the names of the team managers on the trust's website and emailed them, along with the 'communication team' asking for the secretary's email address and explaining that I preferred to email her because of my poor (physical) health.

Several auto-replies later told me that three of them had already resigned or otherwise left the trust's employment. Then another two came in saying the same thing. I went higher up the food chain and emailed their managers, one of whom - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for - copied in two more managers to ask them to contact me.

By this time I had received and answered an unwanted, unwelcome and totally unexpected call from none other than my psychiatrist. I asked why he was calling me. It turned out that the communications team had assumed that my 'poor health' meant that I might be in danger of killing myself (which actually wasn't far off the truth at this point) and so decided - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for - to place an emergency call to my psychiatrist, who then called me. He did, however, give me his secretary's email address (it turned out that she helpfully uses a shortened version of her first name for her email, unlike on her letters).

When I finished the call I went to email the secretary to confirm what I had told my psychiatrist, that I would not be attending any further meetings with him because, apart from providing me with her email address he had been no bloody help at all. One of the other managers had also now replied to me saying that he knew that my psychiatrist had just spoken with me and gave me the secretary's telephone number, which I had already - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for.

I decided to make a formal complaint, as that is what gets me off what I do here. Of course, five months later, the chief executive wrote to me to say how sorry she was that I felt that no one wanted to provide me with an email address, but not to uphold my complaint on the grounds that the team manager had emailed me to give me the phone number (that I already had) after being asked by someone else to give me the email address I asked for. Coincidentally, last week, I received information about who has accessed my patient record, when and why. Interestingly, the team manager and the person whose email I wanted both accessed my patient record shortly after I sent the first email and several hours before the team manager actually emailed me (the why is unclear as it's a coded reference).

Oliver! vs. Pickabook

Speaking of complaints, I also got into a bit of a pickle with Pickabook. After that musical romp I had a stiff neck, a bad back and was short of breath. Another x-ray or and a big fat needle in my back later I was feeling sick, sore and sapped.

Meanwhile, the price of cheese in the UK doubled, nightmares fell by 50% and (presumably due to a price-related cheese shortage) cheese rolling in the UK was outlawed.

Various doctors still hadn't been able to diagnose me with enough certainty to prescribe any treatment, so I headed off for a CT scan. The good news was that I didn't have anything really horrible and/or potentially deadly, the bad news was that they still didn't know what was wrong with my lung and that keyhole surgery would be necessary.

Turtles vs. Tortoise

To matters worse, much worse, United contrived to snatch a one goal victory and an aggregate draw (meaning defeat on the away goals rule) from the jaws of an assured three goal victory and safe passage through to the semi-finals of the European Champions League.

Self-styled football hooligan Luke Slater summed up the evening so perfectly that I had to beat him over the head with a baby turtle. So-called journalist and self-styled football expert Daniel Taylor, on the other hand, told Sir Alex that he needed to spend big if he wanted to bring further success to United.

My sour mood was lifted somewhat the following day thanks to Marvin Preuss who slapped me around the ears with a gigantic tortoise:

Tommy Steele vs. Chris the Crafty Cockerney

Five days later I was told to attend the Heart Hospital in London in three days time for surgery on my lung, prompting a lovely conversation on Identi.ca covering a whole range of medical complaints and procedures including diarrhoea, halitosis, Tommy Steele, anaesthetics, hypnosis, funerals, cirrhosis and, of course, cheese.

I'm pleased to say everything went well and the price of matured dairy products fell as freshly-plucked cheese flooded the market. Although rather than keyhole surgery, I had a regular thoracotomy, which would extend the recovery time - something which escaped my Dad, who a week after visiting me in hospital, phoned to ask if I was going back to work the following week. No Dad. I'm having my stitches taken out tomorrow.

With hindsight, of course, I do wish I'd followed the sage Andy C's advice to take six months off work to recover fully, but at the time it just felt impossible. Especially as the doctors still hadn't been able to rule out that I might have (latent) tuberculosis.

Everything is permissible.

Rather than just sit idly by from the comfort of my western sofa (made in China?) and passively watch world events unfold on my computer screen (made in Taiwan), I decided to do something. I was also rather worried about standing accused of not doing my bit by Jan Wildeboer (seemingly made backwards in Holland like the cheese).

So, with my brain (made in the UK), my authentic fake Harmony Sovereign acoustic guitar (made in Korea), my Samson microphone (made in the USA?) and the lovely free software Audacity I decided last night to re-write Billy Bragg's lyrics to Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards (as Bragg often does himself to reflect current times) and this morning I recorded my version of his classic song, which is a long-time favourite of mine. I've been privately playing and singing my own version of it for several years, so you'd think I'd be better at it by now. But in mitigation, I wasn't allowed to learn to play the violin when I was eight years old because I was told I was tone deaf and when I was fifteen my then headmaster at school refused to allow me to sing The Streets Of London in assembly because I was singing flat. I also have a disability when it comes to remembering song lyrics and I almost always fall to pieces when confronted with a microphone and a the prospect of an audience. My version is also a little slower (and therefore longer) than the original. So you have been warned!

So here's my rendition:

We’re not going on our Winter holidays in the sun, cries crony Blair ‘Cos on the Sixth of October highway leading on to Tahrir Square BJ Clinton’s missus spies a rich friend who's crying Over Luxor's disappointments so she talks over and she's trying To sympathise with him But she thinks that she should warn him That the USA can't stop this revolution

In the Middle Eastern states the citizens demand To know why they're still the target of Strategic Air Command And they shake their fists in anger And respectfully suggest That we fuck off and let them sell their own oil instead

The Iraq War now is over, but the death toll keeps getting higher I'm scared to death of suicide bombers and frightened of friendly fire And I don't believe we can ever win An endless War of Terror While our politicians are arms dealers

From folk protest to popular product*, I wonder what my use is I text a friend, my homeopath and my antipodean masseuses While looking undercover For anyone who might be listening I'm looking for a News of the World reporter

Music sales are hijacked by pirates that have posted Even after closing Wikileaks their website is re-hosted You can be active with the activists or Get bed bugs with the Tweeters I'm waiting for the great leap forwards

One leap forwards, two leaps back Will Facebook get me in the sack? Waiting for the great leap forwards

Well, here comes the future and you can't change it If you've got a blacklist I don't wanna be on it Waiting for the great leap forwards

It's a mighty long way from rock and roll Singing songs in your bedroom while signing on the dole Waiting for the great leap forwards

If no one out there understands Just walk like an Egyptian and fill out the claim forms Waiting for the great leap forwards

In a perfect world we'd all sing in tune But this is virtual reality, we just use auto-tune Waiting for the great leap forwards

So join the struggle while you may The revolution is just a podcast away Waiting for the great leap forwards

*Line ripped from the title of my old mate and bass master Aaron's dissertation on popular music, culture and ideology 'From Protest To Product'.

Special thanks must go to Tone Deaf Music without whose brilliant customer service in replacing my broken bridge pins none of this would have been possible. They also do a fabulous range of Spongebob Squarepants guitars, so when the revolution is over and you've finished watching The Story Of Stuff to find out where all your stuff comes from and goes (and at what cost), you can go out an treat yourself.

P.S.

In the name of Freedom, here is the song in Ogg format: Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards (alternative version)

Yesterday was my third official paid day back at work since my 22 week absence due to depression. I work with people who are recovering from mental illness, most of whom would like to return to work, too.

Thanks to the combined efforts of our friendly local neighbours and council, we were recently able to downsize from the premises we worked on and in for six years. Although the house that we occupied was perfect for our needs, we felt it was for the greater good to move into two small rooms in separate areas and store all of the equipment we used in three different locations.

There are several upsides to this move: 

On Wednesdays, in order to access the internet, we have to pay a visit to our friendly local pub where they have decent pub food and a wide selection of real ales all at reasonable prices, as well as free wifi. We could go to the library, of course, but it doesn't have a bar.

The ten minute walk along the canal-side and all the rich people's houses to and from the Wednesday room and the bus is beautiful. How the other half lives!

We are now within walking distance of our friendly local Jobcentre Plus, which, if things carry on as they are, we will all be required to make use of in the not too distant future.

What is the purpose of your visit to JCP today?

She smiled.

The purpose of my visit is to exercise my right as a taxpayer to come and have a look around.

She looked around for Security.

I'm with the Ment Ill Mob. Here's my card. We'd like to conduct business with you. We promise not to misbehave much. Do you know [Name Drop], who is basically your boss?

Ah, yes. How wonderful! Please come in.

We'd like to see your Disability Employment Advisors as we are all disabled according to the Disability Discrimination Act and on Employment and Support Allowance.

The DEAs only work with people on JSA. But there's a DEA based at [Rich CEO's private employment agency] somewhere else who works with people on ESA.

Oh. Can we have a look around anyway?

Sure, go right ahead. The DEAs are on the second floor. The longer it is people have been out of work, the higher up the floor is. Have a nice day.

It's hot in here, isn't it?

We ascended the stairs to the second floor where we were greeted at the Welcome Desk by a young woman wearing a Jobcentre Plus uniform with holes in the sides for her arms who I was sure I'd seen earlier the same afternoon. I wiped the sweat from my brow.

We'd like to see your DEAs as we are all disabled and on ESA.

The DEAs only work with people on JSA. But there's a DEA based at [Rich CEO's private employment agency] somewhere else who works with people on ESA.

We ascended more stairs to the third floor where we were greeted at the Welcome Desk by a young woman wearing a 1950s bathing suit and a placard advertising automobile services who I was sure I'd seen on a Google images search result for "swimsuit placard" just now. The heat was starting to get to me.

So this is where people come when they're desperate for help after years of unemployment?

Yes.

Presumably, if you aren't able to push people into an unsuitable low-paid job here on the third floor you ask them to ascend to the roof where they can then jump off benefits voluntarily?

Titters

We wanted to see your DEAs as we are all disabled and on ESA, but the young woman downstairs told us that the DEAs only work with people on JSA. But there's a DEA based at [Rich CEO's private employment agency] somewhere else who works with people on ESA.

Who told you the DEA's only work with people on JSA? That's rubbish, of course they work with people on ESA. And the DEA based at [Rich CEO's private employment agency] somewhere else who works with people on ESA, but only lone parents. BTW, isn't it nice and quiet in here? And so plush, too.

Why is it so hot in here?

We descended to the second floor where we were greeted at the Welcome Desk by a young woman who I was sure I'd seen earlier the same morning wearing a placard made from an oversized Domino's Pizza box with holes in the sides for her arms. The sticky wetness that had been my clothes on entering the building was making me think about the cool, fresh air I suspected was likely to be found on the roof of the building.

We'd like to see the DEA, please.

I'm sorry, she's not here today.

Isn't that her over there?

Oh, yes.

Hi, long time no see!

I'm sorry, do you have an appointment. I finish at four. Who told you we only work with people on JSA? That's rubbish, of course we work with people on ESA. But you have to go to see the DEA based at [Rich CEO's private employment agency] somewhere else who works with people on ESA, not only lone parents. Take some information leaflets explaining how we can help you.

We descended to the ground floor, the few of our group who had survived the journey holding up our pants due to weight loss caused by the tropical conditions. Slimmer, fitter and suffering from the mind-bending effects of dehydration and altitude. No nearer to finding work, but starvingly hungry and too tired to cook anything.