Sunday, 21 December 2008

Part 16 - Like A Balding Dome

Infuriatingly, a few weeks ago I titled one of my blog entries ‘Dancer, Prancer, Vomit and a Chest Infection’. It’s only now, when I’m desperately trying to think of another fun title which incorporates both the festive season and cancer, that it appears glaringly obvious that both Dancer and Prancer rhyme with cancer and that I inexplicably spurned this golden opportunity. This has left me with a pauper’s choice of pun options, so much so that at one point I had ‘Feeling Elfier’ in unjustifiably large, bold and proud lettering at the top of this page. So, after growing increasingly furious with my seemingly diminishing creative powers, I’ve decided to scrap a Christmas-themed blog for one with a more extensive scope for lexical horseplay.

Due to the last month being peppered with annoying infections and other minor illnesses, I’ve enforced a temporary reclusion upon myself. This is because I can’t receive my treatment when I’m ill which, in turn, drags it out longer than is strictly necessary - thus potentially ruining my social plans upon my recovery which have been meticulously calculated to coincide with the rebirth of my hair. However, luckily, two of these events are Bob Dylan concerts where a chromed head is somewhat of an expectation. The last time I saw him I honestly remember pointing out that I was one of the few audience members that wasn’t currently balding - an observation which has now taken on what is, in my opinion, an excessive amount of irony. My life is like a hilarious sitcom, except one where young men get potentially life-threatening diseases and do literally nothing remotely entertaining or interesting with their time.

Long-term Cancerous Capers readers might remember that my mother abused my illness to get two free VIP tickets for me and her to see Dylan Moran earlier in the year. This sparked off an absolute terror within me that I was going to be dragged backstage for a heart-warming local press photo opportunity where I’d probably have to vastly exaggerate how much I liked Dylan Moran, and he’d have to pretend he enjoys meeting ill people even though the vast majority of them are clearly intolerable. Bob Dylan is another matter altogether, however. I would down three undiluted pints of chemotherapy just to share one moment of eye contact with the man and, considering that merely typing that has just made me feel exceptionally ill, I do not say that lightly.

This leaves me in somewhat of a moral quandary. Is it acceptable for me to attempt to contact the man himself and inform him that his concerts will play a significant role in my reintegration to normal health, secretly harbouring the hope that he’ll bring me backstage to share drôle anecdotes and shower me with rare gifts like a big Jewish Santa Claus? I think he’d be quite pleased to know that he’s provided a bit of a light at the end of a young man’s cancerous tunnel, but it may also make my own personal hero think that I’m either an opportunistic little rascal or a man who has decided to lie about having cancer in a sinister plot to try trick him into a meeting.

There is also the risk that I may hate Bob Dylan at that point as chemotherapy has turned me against many of my absolute favourite things due to association. If I experience something such as a song or a foodstuff when I’m hooked up to my treatment it is likely that I will never be able to experience the same thing ever again without feeling exquisitely ill. These things so far include Terry Wogan‘s face, gammon steak and the works of Maryhill troubadour Donovan. If Bob Dylan were to fall into this list of things there is every chance that I could be sick right on his head if I were ever to actually meet him, which would probably be the low point in both of our lives.

However, despite these perils that I face, I think I’ll send an email and see what happens. Even if I just get a reply from someone who may or may not know Bob Dylan telling me to leave him alone I’d mark that down as a small honour and a personal victory.

By the way, ‘Like a Balding Dome’ sounds a bit like ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ - perhaps Dylan’s most well-known song - and from thence the humour arose. Do you see?

Anyway, merry Christmas cancer fans.

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