Side Effect of Scant Consequence?

 I have to confess, to date, I've been free of significant side effects of my medication regimen. Even the classic problem of constipation, following opiate medication, troubles me, not at all.

Recently I was prescribed a new medication to add to the list: Amitriptyline. Amitriptyline belongs to a class of drug termed, tricyclic antidepressants and is prescribed for a variety of ailments. For instance, in low dosage it helps with sleep disturbance and promotes nocturnal rest. It is also used as a prophylactic in the prevention of severe migraines. At higher dosage it is prescribed as an antidepressant generally where other antidepressants have proved ineffective. In addition, it is used for the curtailment of nerve pain and has been shown to be effective as a treatment for children after significant head trauma, and as an adjunct in ADHD therapy. Thus, it seems Amitriptyline is a panacea for all that ails us; a drug for all seasons.

Like all medications, Amitriptyline has a number of known side effects. The majority of these  associated problems are relatively minor, such as: dry mouth, drowsiness, dizziness, constipation, and weight gain. On rare occasions more serious issues have been reported, specifically blurred vision, tremor, heart palpitations (tachycardia), dizziness, etc.......

This brings me to my sad story, to relate: I had been taking the medication for about a week (75mg/day). Twas a gorgeous Spring day and I was pottering about in my 'Man Shed/Emporium' engaged in a little light woodwork. At about 2pm in the afternoon I espied a dog wandering about on the property. The dog seemed friendly so I approached and checked the collar for an identification tag. There was none so I attached a piece of string to the collar in preparation to hawk said pooch to my immediate neighbours in hope of finding the owner. As I was leading the dog off the property my daughter approached and asked what I was up to. I explained the situation and afterward she looked as if I had gone stark raving mad. It transpires that I had placed a leash on my daughter's dog, Rocco. For context: my daughter, and the hound, had been living with us for the past two years! Of course, my daughter found the whole situation absolutely hilarious. I found the situation mildly disturbing. In all other respects I felt completely normal. And no, I hadn't been drinking or partaking of non-prescription medication. Curiouser and curiouser (not a real word -go tell it to the Caroll).  

I have never experienced this type of 'dissociation/dislocation from reality' before and I'm on my guard for similar episodes. Naturally I have ascribed this 'strange phenomenon' to the Amitriptyline. Of course, I could be wrong. I did consider stop taking the drug, but I do feel I'm getting some benefit from the medication. I've decided to continue, unabated, but not without increased vigilance. I'll keep note of any similar episodes and my family will also monitor my behaviour for anything odd or outside the normal, for me at least. I'm scheduled for a consult with my G.P. in just over two weeks and I'll certainly raise the matter with the good Dr Mugumbo.

My question/quest: Do any of my readership take said drug, and if so, have they experienced any side effects similar to mine? I would be grateful for any input that might shine a little light on my, rather disturbing experience.        

Flaxen Talking Bollocks

I'm sure that in the middle of the night you have contemplated the thorny problem of why the body's most sensitive organ, the testicles, are outside the protective carapace of the male chassis? Anyone who has received a football to the bollocks will testify to evolution's folly for not contemplating internal stowage. Only a mature male can experience the nagging, dragging, agonising pain that will inevitably transpire following contact with a hard unyielding object; transsexuals, take note. Upon impact there is the inevitable two second delay as the neural signal travels from the organ of contact/impact to the brain. The finale is a paroxysmal wave of agony experienced by the soma, (O deep joy). You might conclude that males would be better served by sequestering these sensitive glands deep inside the body cavity. The fact that this profoundly delicate male organ swings unfettered and free, awaiting the exquisite vicissitudes of life's slings and arrows, seems but a cruel joke of biology. Indeed, tis the most cogent argument for an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent deity being of the female persuasion. 

The testicles are enclosed in their own 'protective', yielding bag of skin. The rugeform and elastic scrotum encapsulates this valuable organic package and keeps it sequestered from the somatic mass of the main organism. It is has not gone without notice that the scrotal sac waxes and wains according to the ambient temperature. Its inherent properties of malleability, pliability, extensibility and thermal compliance are responsible for the propensity for extreme contraction and augmentation. 

The relationship between temperature and scrotal volume has been exhaustively researched, by myself, during a time when I eschewed medication. This involved placing said sac in water of varying thermal content. Fortuitously, the water itself also serves as a measure of volume due to the ancient principle of Archimedean water displacement. Overflow was conveniently collected in a strategically placed scientific grade measuring cylinder. The result confuted and confounded expectations, and belied simple analysis. And thus, it transpired that the correlation was not an equal, direct, correspondent, comparable, proportionate relationship. To my chagrin and vexation, my data revealed a binomial, sigmoidal relationship. This is counter to intuitive expectations. However, on reflection and further research, the result was found to be in perfect accord with the general properties of elastic materials as illustrated by Charles Law.  

Science Stuff

After the above preamble tis pertinent to address the fundamental question/quest as stated, cogently and with veritable aplomb, in the first paragraph of this esteemed post.   

Testicles have two main roles in the physiology of mammals. Firstly, they are responsible for the male hormone, testosterone, that defines masculinity, in all its manifold aspects. Formation and excretion of testosterone is not exclusive to the male gender and lesser amounts are secreted by the female of the species (don't ask). Secondly, the testes are the seat of sperm production. The development of male spermatozoa is a complex and interesting topic in itself. The average healthy male 'manufactures' 50-200 million spermatozoa per day and the average ejaculate contains, on average, 7 billion of the little, wriggling buggers.

In my professional capacity as a geneticist I have had the privilege to research and develop a diagnostic laboratory technique for sperm analysis. Specifically, the methodology was aimed at detecting genetically abnormal spermatozoa in the ejaculate of men carrying a known genetic anomaly. I posted a whimsical side swipe of the experience, here:  The Flaxen Saxon Chronicles: Search results for consummate professional

My interest in matters 'Scrotal' is not confined to my professional proclivities. Indeed, I'm an esteemed inventor of note and have used my talents, as an innovator, to combine my prodigious practical proficiency with my passion for the science of Bollockology, to engineer a mechanical device for the measurement of scrotal movement following a thermal insult. The Scrotometer (pat pending) and its practical deployment can be accessed using the following link:  The Flaxen Saxon Chronicles: Search results for scrotometer

For some reason, if you click on the links provided, the relevant posts will appear when you scroll down the page.  

Some say that I'm in line to receive the Nobel Prize for being a Smart Arse (Arse).

     

  

Latest Status Update

I retired three years ago and moved to rural New Zealand. About two years ago my old boss offered two days work a week on a series of six month contracts. To be honest, the commute has been gruelling, entailing three hours of travel by public transport- O deep joy. My current contract runs out in November and I had already decided that this was going to be the end of my employment. For the past two weeks I have been off work due to the latest COVID lockdown infesting NZ.  

On Monday evening, whilst contemplating my fate, I had an epiphany. I seriously asked myself the following question: do I need to work at this stage of my life? Of course not. I'm getting too old for 16 hour Mondays and sitting on cramped trains for hours next to an accountant from Carterton. 

As if on cue my boss phoned to discuss my status. I explained that I don't want to continue regardless of contractual obligations. I'm done. Work no more. My boss is an old friend from way back when we both worked together in England. He is sympathetic and understands my current medical status. And so after discussing the situation with the family and explaining my intention to the section leader, I irrevocably decided to resign and hand in my resignation without notice. 

As for the future. As my regulars know, I set up an archery business with my son (Saxon Archery). I envisaged the enterprise as an extension of my passion without any pretence of turning a profit. Obviously I didn't take into account my son's drive and business acumen. Although he has a demanding full time job he has managed to market the brand with deft ability. His effort and hard work have paid dividends  and orders have started to flood in. We have reached the break even stage and with further determination, and effort, we are on course to earn a modest profit. 

My break from the daily grind will allow me to devote quality time for the business. At the moment I deal with selection, packaging and despatch. With more time on the my hands I hope to takeover some of the technical and marketing aspects of the business. The aim is shift some of the burden from my overworked but highly talented son.

I'm going to leave it there. There are several posts in the pipeline and September will prove to be a time of bounty. My intuitive creativity is bursting through the dura pouring forth unto an unsuspecting blank tableau. Arse.                          

What's in a Name?

                                                                  Go whiteys! 

I've commented many times on this blog concerning the toxicity of society's emerging 'woke culture' driven by a few left wing-nuts obsessing over censoring/cauterising the best we have in our Western culture. Time and time again, the 'wokey pokey' brigade are shown to be divorced from reality and the aspirations and opinions of the reasonable majority. The masses are starting to revolt and are expressing disaffection with forced attempts of societal engineering by 'voting with their feet'. In other words, withholding their endorsement (gelt) and expressing frank disdain. Just look at instances where companies think they are tapping into the buying population's minds (read=pockets) by producing excruciating and cringe worthy adverts supposedly pandering unto the 'woke mindset'. Ill thought out campaigns of this ilk have seriously backfired in nearly all occasions resulting in a serious loss in revenue. Check out the debacle at Gillette after airing a series of bewildering 'woke ads' for the Gillette razor. The ads were blatantly insulting to men, particularly white men, and strayed into other world lands. Who can forget where the father is teaching his trans son how to shave. The backlash was swift and severe ultimately costing the company 12 billion dollars in lost revenue, overall. Advertising execs with their lattes and pony tails are so blinkered, arrogant and out of touch with the population they are trying, so unsuccessfully, to influence it borders on the insane. 

The main narrative of today's post concentrates on New Zealand's sports governing body decision to seriously consider 'removing' the informal, unofficial name for the nation's football team, 'The All Whites'. This affectionate moniker is long standing and is in accord with Kiwi tradition where national sport teams have been colourised and branded with the likes of: 'Black Sticks' (Hockey); 'Black Caps' (Cricket); 'Silver Ferns' (Netball); 'All Blacks' (Rugby); and of course, the infamous and irrepressible/irascible 'Taupe Ferrets' (National Ferret wobbling Team).  

The NZ Football Chief, Andrew Pregnell, stated that discussions were ongoing with a view to change the name of the nation's footy team. He was quoted as saying: "we are on a journey around cultural inclusivity."  The implication, of course, is that the current name can be seen as excluding non-white ethnic groups. What a sensitive bunch of snowflakes we have become. When the name 'All Whites' was first introduced forty years ago it was seen as a slight whimsy to contrast with the more popular and more famous 'All Black' rugby team. Only a moron, or more to the point someone with a political agenda, could seriously impute racist connotations to this rather bland nickname.  

But let us expand the nature of the debate for the sake of consistency and inclusivity. Notable for its absence from the discussion is the mention or inclusion (what happened to inclusivity?) of the iconic, NZ rugby team, 'All Blacks'. Surely, this is racist, highly inflammatory and deeply offensive to melanin depleted folk. Mayhap we should raise a petition demanding a change in the derogatory appellation? I'm sure the good folk of New Zealand will prove highly receptive to a proposed name change.  After all, what's in a name?  

Let me know in the comments your suggested alternative designations. To get the ball rolling, I'll add a couple of suggestions of my own: 'The Fluffy Pink Bunny Rabbits'; 'The 18 decillion varieties of colours'. You can see the fans in the stands, shouting- "Go 18 followed by 33 zeros". And my personal favourite. 'The frolicking ferrets of indeterminate hue'. Go ferrets.    

    

 

Bugger!

O bugger. And so New Zealand joins the 'Merry Go Round' that is COVID. A single individual from Aus is responsible for the whole country being forced into lockdown with all its implications. For the past week we have wallowed at level 4 and the Auckland region will remain thusly for the next 7 days while the remainder of the country is so blessed until Friday, with the option for an extension.

This is NZ's second COVID wave after the prompt implementation of control measures (level 4 implemented 25th May 2020) which effectively eradicated the virus, give or take a couple of cases. This all changed just over week ago after a visitor from Australia was shown to be positive for the highly contagious delta variant. COVID started to disseminate in the Auckland community and to date (24th August) 148 people have tested positive. With alarmist predictions suggesting that this outbreak might culminate with a 1000 cases, the country, once again, is in the grip of draconian measures. It appears that the majority of Kiwis are in accord with the swift government action however, there have been dissenting opinions. Many business owners and in particular, restaurants/cafes, are struggling with this second lockdown with the attendant loss in revenue. And of course, the average New Zealander, denied work, and in spite of government subsidies, will experience varying degrees of hardship.      

The main criticism levelled at the government concerns the 'open borders' policy with Australia, especially after the recent outbreak of the delta variant in New South Wales. Of course, economic factors determined our exchange with our closest neighbour. This has to be balanced against current losses within the economy estimated to run into billions of groats, er dollars. To be fair, hindsight is a delightful distraction of absolutely no help in our current dilemma. 

On a sobering note, it appears that supermarkets are starting to run out of beer. What a cruel virus, indeed. It robs us of our health and the best anodyne for treatment. How can folk believe in a benevolent deity under such heinous restraints? Makes my heart bleed.   

Oscar Wild

 

Let's be honest, the Oscars this year were a travesty and completely pointless. And yes, I'm well aware that I'm a little late in my critical appraisal, as the Oscars were screened in April- did anyone notice?

Not only the Oscars, but other 'Entertainment Extravaganzas', such as the Golden Globes, are starting to merge into a political rally for the far left. Privileged, often white actors, seize their opportunity onstage to rail against the establishment and white male societal dominance. What formally used to be light entertainment has now become a rallying event for the 'Woke Brigade'. The only glimmer of hope was last year's Golden Globe awards hosted by the irrepressible Ricky Gervaise. He pulled no punches and gave the self absorbed, self important celebs, a right royal roasting. His caustic invective caused verbal ripples and consternation among the stars. They were none too pleased to have their egos viciously pricked; he was relentless and totally merciless. And the viewing public loved it. Sadly, as Mr Gervoise predicted, it is unlikely that he will be allowed to run rampant at an awards ceremony, ever again, which is a bloody shame.

Gone are the days when award ceremonies were perceived as entertainment watched by the masses. Over recent years the 'events' have become an arena for highly paid, so called stars, to berate the audience for a host of perceived ills in society. Folks at home are not impressed and expressed their disenchantment by tuning out. They argue: what right have a bunch of 'lovies' to lecture the public? Why should we listen to a gaggle/rabble of millionaires who have found fame and fortune on the basis of good looks and luck. How are they qualified to berate the populous concerning complex issues of which they have absolutely no understanding? As Mr Gervoise so wisely expostulated: “why don't you shut the fuck up and get pissed”. Wise words indeed.

Disaffection with this year's Oscars was palpable. In 2015, the Oscars pulled in over 37 million viewing punters. This in itself was a major decline from the 1990s, when the Oscars were watched by 58 million. This year not so much. Only 9.5 million folk could be bothered to tune in. Some of the smarter celebs are seeing the 'way of the wind' and express disdain with the proceedings by not showing up to the debacle. Sir Anthony Hopkins, although receiving the Oscar for, 'Actor in a Leading Role' category, for his performance in 'The Father' couldn't be arsed to show up. Apparently, Sir Anthony's agent stated that his esteemed client was fast asleep at home.

The ceremonies have trailed away from their prime directive and are no more than a sounding board and a finger wagging exercise for a bunch of twats totally out of tune with the viewing public that they are supposed to serve. Award events have become increasingly irrelevant over recent years and deserve to wither away as befits their futile status. Will anyone notice? Gone are the days when celebs could command public awe and unjustified adoration. Our critical age has revealed their true worth. No one gives a shit. So called celebs and screen stars need to adapt to their new found, lowly status and take on board a good dose of well deserved humility, if they can. Arse.

O Dear, Auntie Beeb is Donald Ducked,

 O How The Mighty Have Fallen! And Woe To The Woke

The BBC, the once mighty bastion of Britain's televisual greatness is sadly no more. The deplorable decline has occurred over a relatively short time span, and no longer is the BBC the byword, or the benchmark, for superb and quality telecasting.

A recent BBC report has noted a decline in the number of British households willing to relinquish the princely sum of £159 per year for the mandatory license fee. Apparently, 700,000 disillusioned viewers, have decided to withdraw their 'paid membership' this year. As the license fee is mandated in law, could it be that non-paying miscreants are at risk of  falling foul of the law? This is not an easy question to answer in our wondrous, modern technological age. In times past the tele was the sole (visual) entertainment medium to be enjoyed from the comfort of home. These days the choice is staggering and no longer are we a slave to flaccid terrestrial tele. Therefore, the licencing legislation has changed to reflect this nonchalant, non-dependence on analogue tele and has embraced the digital world with alacrity and gusto. Thus, if you livestream a Netflix programme and watch during the process you require a licence, but if you record and watch later, no licence is required. It matters not a jot whether you have a tele, any electronic device is deemed sufficient to incur the fee. 

This introductive preamble is but a prelude for the main thrust of this post: 'The Sad Decline of this Once Mighty Monolith.'  Historically, BBC programming was the envy of the world. Lavishly funded, and independent from advertising revenue, the BBC could concentrate on expensive but superlative productions. In 'The Golden Age' a whole slew of top quality series, documentaries, drama and comedy held the British viewing population, enthralled. How can we forget such masterpieces, as: Monty Python; Planet Earth; I Claudius; Yes Minister and Doctor Who. Quality programming is never going to come cheap and in theory, every household in the UK, is required to own a licence, paid annually and in perpetuity.  

Of course, public disillusionment in the BBC does not have a single cause and there are undoubtedly several factors involved. In this post I will comment on the two key components, that in my opinion, have played a major part in the BBC's precipitous decline in popularity. Most obviously, choice. There are a slew of digital services available, for a fee. Netflix, is one of the most popular streaming services and in the UK, the Standard Plan works out as £10 per month- a saving of £39 per year in comparison to the good old, Beeb. Now this might not be a huge saving and let's be honest, there's a lot of shit on Netflix. But at least there is no element of coercion to subscribe and you get to choose what you want to watch.

We live in an increasingly, cynical and weary/wary world. The internet makes 'bamboozlement' of the public by the controlling elites a fraught endeavour, indeed. The British Brainwashing Corporation is living in some sort of alternative universe and seems to think that its major role is to control and influence how the British public thinks and acts. We see 'repurposing' of classics, such as A Christmas Carol, where the Cratchit family is mixed race. Viewers find this sort of manipulative 'wokeness', irritating, jarring and frankly sinister. There are many such examples of the 'woke agenda' being rammed down the viewing public's throat. Humour is many things, but at least it ought to be genuinely funny. The BBC's repeated attempt at so-called woke humour illustrates the problem with stark abandon. A whole comedy genre based on the premise: 'White middle-class males, bad' is not only unfunny to its core (canned laughter notwithstanding), it is also deeply offensive to a huge swathe of viewing public and dare I say, racist. It is seen for what it is: a toxic vehicle for the dissemination of extreme, left wing ideology.   

The majority of the British public don't want to be subjected to 'woke madness' and certainly don't want to be exposed to Marxist ideology, differently wrapped. You might be asking: but Flaxen, of the flowing mane, of spun gold, with a hint of silver thread, what care you? You buggered off 20 years ago to live the life of idle/idyll, in Nuzzyland. This is all true. However, I lived my formative years in the UK when the BBC was at its peak, producing programmes, such as, Monty Python; Planet Earth; I Claudius; Yes Minister and Doctor Who....... Sadly, the like of which, will never be seen, again.

                                                            Flaxen rests his case. Arse.