This time last year I had a ruptured appendix which required surgery. Despite being wheeled into the hospital at 6am stating I had sudden cessation of agonising abdominal pain over McBurney’s point (a clear sign of ruptured appendix, which I pointed out) it took the NHS eight hours to give me a basic clinical examination, 15 hours to give me antibiotics, and 28 hours wait in A&E before I could get surgery. The extent of my condition only became clear after 2 hours of surgery: my appendix had ruptured by 50% at the base by the cecum, and wrapped tightly in the surrounding omentum which created a challenging clean up job. The surgeon said I would have died without the appendectomy, and had understandable concerns for my recovery. When a surgeon worries about your “recovery” that means your “survival”.
Weeks ensued of peritonitis, followed by a grumbling postoperative abscess. Given the standard of ‘care’ I had previously received, I decided to treat myself using herbal medicine. During my interminable A&E delay, I had started hallucinating as though I was looking out on the bleak ignorance of the world from inside a stagnating lime green fishbowl, with my internal organs churning in a dishwasher of their own faecal gravy. All around me was the madness and brutality of a medieval hell, which reminded me of the Hieronymus Bosch painting The Garden of Earthly Delights (1510). Completely unable to get through to the NHS staff the importance of getting immediate surgery, and in a private fishbowl of mortal torture, all I could do was elevate my consciousness above my broken body, and shine down compassion and unconditional love upon myself.
During my convalescence I compiled this album. I felt something creative was in order to say I am here, I am alive, I will be whole again. Fuck you NHS, I survived in spite of your murderous negligence. I won’t ever be inanely banging pots and pans on my front doorstep like a clapping seal to say thanks for all your bullshit hard work.
