"I knew she was a classy lady because all her tattoos were spelt correctly"

I wish I had said those words but no, they belong to an Irish ex-Eurovision winner. If that's the case, I wonder what he thinks of "Heroe's" Hayden Panettiere. According to some very reliable sources (namely 'New Idea' and 'Entertainment Tonight'), she intended to have “Vivere senza rimpianti” tattooed down her side. This translates as "Live without regrets” in Italian. Unfortunately, the tattooist spelt threw in a few too many i's - resulting in a mispelt"rimipianti"! Poor girl.

But I do believe she still got off lucky. When I was travelling through Africa, I met up with this guy who had been in the navy many, many years ago. While they were touring through Egypt, one of his follow sailors earnt himself the nickname Blossums. (Courtesy of a drunken night out, of course.) After their Egyptian escapade, his friends used this nickname to great advantage whenever he got himself a new girlfriend. If they dropped the name Blossums and got a blank stare from the lady, they knew he had not taken the relationship into the bedroom just yet. If she giggled sheepishly, his mates knew the relationship was serious.

Why?

Well the drunken night in question involved a visit to the local tattoo parlour. Apparently Egypt is a little more relaxed when it comes to tattoos and drunkenness. The poor soul - who can't remember anything from that night - was persuaded by his mates to get one that was a little more risque. The next morning the sailor awoke to find his groin in a great deal of pain, his manhood wrapped in bandages. Now when his soldier stands to attention, five pink petals are revealed on the inside of his foreskin!

Hence, the nickname Blossums!

When I returned home from Africa I noticed my local florist has the motto "a flower for every occasion" scrawled across their front door. Given this florally endowed man is (after 30 more years) still single, I'm tempted to question the validity of their boast.

May I introduce you to my child, Epilepsy

A friend was telling me that her husband makes a terrible wailing noise when he's having a tonic-clonic seizure.

In the past, whenever I've envisaged this type of seizure I've been bombarded with the same plethora of images that I believe most people experience: of neurons declaring war with the body on pretty much every front. And her description of this sound he makes really threw me. I realised that for all these years, my imaginings of a tonic-clonic have been set on mute. 

The conversation popped up after I posted my last epilepsy blog. As she was telling me about this, I realised there was a whole other issue that I'd never fully appreciated... that it's not simply the epileptic who is affected by the epilepsy, not simply the epileptic who suffers when they have a seizure, but also the loved ones who live with them, who also have to cope with that misbehaving child I call 'Epilepsy'.

So I'm dedicating this blog to all those silent Sebastian's out there who stand by and support us when things go askew and Epilepsy throws a temper tantrum.

For me, I guess it's my folks. I don't think I've ever appreciated how much of a nightmare my first seizure must have been for them. I was only eleven at the time and completely ignorant to the full implications of what had happened. Once I'd recovered from the initial after-effects, I was actually having a real ball at the hospital: working my way through all their computer games, toying mischievously with the doctors and nurses while they did innumerable medical tests, and watching more television that my parents ever allowed - all while skipping school. Fun stuff for a pre-pubescent kid!

I was totally ignorant to the adults' fears: that I may have (amongst many other possibilities) a brain tumour.

And for many years after, I still dismissed my mum's frets about 'late nights' and 'too much alcohol' as her just acting the part of a mother. 

But a couple of years ago - when I still lived at home and enjoyed university life more than I should have, I was in the process of recovering from a 'big night out.' A mate had crashed at my place and we were watching a bit of TV when I had my first (and only) tonic-clonic seizure. 

Epilepsy had reared his ugly head. There was no frothing, no loss of bodily functions. There was, however, a whole heap of twitching... and the next thing I remember is regaining consciousness in the ambulance with some over-enthusiastic ambo trying to force an oxygen mask over my face. This little trip to the hospital wasn't quite as fun as the first time; they refused to let me play any computer games. Bastards! That and I pulled most of the muscles in my back. 

I've often asked my mate what thoughts went through his mind while I was having that seizure. His answer was always, 

"Shit, I better get his mum."  

And I could suddenly sympathise with my mother's over-protective instincts. For fourteen years she'd seen me have countless seizures... and finally witnessed the one she'd always feared. And she had been unable to do anything to stop it.

More recently I went through a less severe - though equally intimidating patch. I'd have my usual petit mal and then, after regaining consciousness, I'd start twitching. I'd still be able to talk, to walk, to converse - but it did freak people out. One fit I remember fondly was when there was a colleague who had been giving me a really hard time at work. Later that day he scored a front-row seat to one of these twitching fits. My fellow employee was so thrown by Epilepsy spitting his dummy that he blurted out,

"Was it because of what I said earlier?"

The two events had absolutely no connection whatsoever, but I couldn't resist exercising some poetic justice.

"Yep."

A simple response that proved very effective. We've been best buddies ever since. Well, maybe not quite best buddies.     

Now seizures generally look much worse than they actually are, but I realise that doesn't make them any easier to watch. In the case of my less-than-friendly work-mate, I think his cracking point was the fact that we were having a completely coherent conversation; all while my pupils were darting about - playing a rabid game of hide-and-seek. It's been five years since that seizure and I sometimes think he still looks at me, remembering (with a degree of trepidation) that little encounter we shared. And this is five years later!

So you could imagine how it must be for those loved ones who have to watch us do these things, suffer these involuntary muscle contractions, experience these sensations, make these weird-ass sounds on a regular basis. I sometimes think they endure just as much - if not more - than we do.

If only more protagonists were worms

I'm not suggesting that Dan Brown replace Robert Langdon with a spineless creature that aerates soil with its trail of poop. Nor am I suggesting that he try to adapt a computer game into a book for his next blockbuster. 

I do, however, suggest he try something my friend, Nathan, successfully implemented. 

Nathan recently got his first novel, "Chicken Stu" published. Not only is it a wonderfully witty tale with some strong characters, but just when I thought 'this is the climax; the denouement's coming soon', he'd up the ante. And he kept upping the ante. Again and again. And every time the novel reached that new dramatic cliff edge - that moment when I assumed he would throw (what I call) a 'Rowling' at Stu, I was proven wrong. It was brilliant. 

Now before I explain what a 'Rowling' is, let me warn you there are Harry Pothead spoilers to follow. 

In my books, throwing a 'Rowling' translates as giving the main character an easy escape. Exhibit A: "The Philosopher's Stone". In the final climax of the novel, there he was: the boy-who-lived, at the hands of Voldemort, when what saves him? His mother's love!

WTF! What a cop-out! Pothead won that battle on a mere technicality.

On the other hand, Nathan's main character, Stu, didn't have his dead mum there to help him out. Nor was there some ancient magic folklore that kicked in to rescue his hairy arse. All he had were his wits, strength and stubbornness. Nathan treated his protagonist just like a worm: he never once let Stu off the hook. He just kept Stu dangling there in front of all those dangerously hungry fish.

It's a shame there are so few unsympathetic fishermen like Nathan out there, so few authors out there who are willing to REALLY test their  characters. It could be a much better (fictional) world if they did.