Mobi’s Medical Mayhem!


I’m back home from my medical adventures in Bangkok, and today I devote my entire blog to a not too serious, hopefully slighty humorous account of my sojourn at Rajavithi.



Mobi’s Medical Mayhem

It seems that every time I go to Rajavithi hospital in Bangkok, the car park is always fuller than on the previous occasion; this despite the fact that each time we go, we arrive earlier and earlier.

Last Wednesday we left home on the dot of five a.m., and as the traffic was relatively light, we arrived the hospital multi storey car park at around 6.30 –which was at least 45 minutes earlier than on our previous visit. Yet the sections of the car park reserved for us erks and patients was already chock-a- block. The car park has ten floors, but around 7 of these floors are cordoned off for the use of ‘VIP’s’ – presumably doctors and…..???

Of course, you see very few vehicles parked in the cordoned off areas, but each floor has at least two guards who quickly wave you on if you so much as slow down to glance at the empty parking bays. They ‘shoo’ you right up to floors 9 and 10, where hopefully you may find a parking spot, but on the last two occasions, these floors have all been full, despite the early hour.

So I have then been directed back down to the 3rd floor whereupon on I am told to return to the higher floors, whereupon I am directed downwards yet again, and so on and so forth until eventually, all and sundry are dizzy and sick from all their endless  journey spirals.

When the guards are satisfied that if you weren’t ill when you arrived at the car park, you certainly are now, they will guide your vehicle to some previously marked ‘off limits’ area where you are told to double park in the main driving lane, but leave enough space to allow the privileged few to still drive into their reserved parking bays, when they arrive – if ever!

Noo asked the guard if we could leave the car there for 3 days, but he informed us that this was not allowed. However, for small consideration, he would be happy to find us a parking space in the main hospital grounds later that day, so she left him her phone number and off we went for the start of my three day adventure.

Again, I don’t know if it is my imagination, but there seemed to be at least twice as many people crowding around the hospital than  on my last visit. There were literally thousands of them: walking limping and sitting in every nook and cranny of the massive hospital.


There wasn’t a vacant seat anywhere, and there were so many people thronging the walkways that our progress through the hospital was painfully slow, especially when you suddenly had to jump out of the way to avoid being run down by a wayward bed containing skeletal patients who looked more like corpses than patients, being pushed along by family members who clearly had not passed their gurney driving tests. 

I was sporting my hospital instruction sheet attached to a load of forms, which listed, (in Thai), all the tests I had to undergo that day. Although I didn’t know it at the time, as my written Thai  is pretty abysmal, the tests were: Blood tests, chest x-ray and an EKG, plus the usual blood pressure, body temperature and weight checks.

On each form (one for each test) it was noted that I would pay cash. So our first stop was at the cashier’s window to pay in advance. Fortunately there was only a short queue and I was soon handing over a thousand odd Baht. The nice cashier lady printed off a sheet and handed it over. It contained a list of all the blood tests –in English – that I was to have.


The tests fees were all 60 Baht each except for the last one which was 250 Baht. Why was that one so expensive? I took a closer look. I might have guessed – it was an HIV AIDS test. Now, even Bumrungrad would never carry out an HIV test on a patient without  permission, but here, it was a matter of course. I didn’t mind, as if I did have HIV, I’d rather know than not, and frankly, I could hardly blame them for not asking permission. Can you imagine the chaos if they had to ask every one of these thousands of patients for permission before doing the test? It would all end in uproar.

There was quite a long wait for the blood tests, although they did have a ticket queue system, so at least you could follow your progress on a led screen, unlike in most hospitals I have been in – including all the private ones. They had a wonderful system; once your number came to the top of the screen, us vampire victims had to exchange our queue tickets for little plastic pots which contained our medical papers.

So Mobi joined a group of pot-toting, quivering Thais, (most Thais are terrified of needles), and was led into a room with about 6 nursing stations, where we waited for one to become free. We all jostled with each other to try and persuade the ones behind us to go first – we were all so polite. But I finally realised there was no way out of it, so I sat down in front of the prettiest nurse I could find who proceeded to fill a coterie of test tubes containing copious amounts of disease- ridden, Mobi-blood.


Drained of blood, I enquired where to go next.

‘Back to the cashier’, I was informed.

‘Why? I’ve already paid.’

‘Only for the blood tests. Now you must go back and pay for the x-ray.’

‘Why couldn’t I pay for everything at once?’

‘That’s not the way they do things here.’

So back to another queue to see another cashier and pay for my x-ray, before heading off, through the ever increasing masses of the sick, to the x-ray room.

The last time I had an x-ray at this hospital, I had to follow a long line of men into the x-ray room itself where we were x-rayed one at a time. The line then moved along and back out again. I recall that I was told to remove my shirt as I shuffled along inside the x-ray room, and I idly wondered if this was how it felt when the Nazis gently encouraged the holocaust victims to line up and enter the gas chambers.

However, this time, for some unfathomable reason, it was a bit different. (Maybe some hospital administrator had read my blog and discovered that we were all in danger of undue exposure to radiation?).


We sat in a packed waiting room for about an hour, during which time, a lady with a microphone kept yelling out at the top of her voice to the assembled multitude about the procedures they must follow to avoid having to pay for their x-rays. By the time my name was called, it was clear that I was the only person in the entire room who had been obliged to pay. But there again, I was the only farang!

Whether this had any bearing on my x-ray, I have no idea, but this time I was all alone in the room, and they even took my pic twice, as the first time I messed up when I thought they told me to breathe out, but they had actually wanted me to breathe in and hold my breath!

Next – yes, you’ve guessed it – back to yet another long cashier queue to pay for my EKG.

Remarkably, the EKG room was air-conditioned – I suppose on the principal that it is difficult to attach electrodes to a slimy, sweat-stained chest. While queuing for my EKG I was  I was asked my age, which was duly noted, although I did wonder why she had asked me for this information as it was clearly written in all my records, right next to my hospital number.

Upon conclusion, I was given my heart graph to take with me, and on my way back to the heart unit, noticed that I seemed to have suddenly experienced a dramatic loss in weight! Right there at the top of the graph sheet it stated, Age: 65, Weight: 65 kilos.  I had just lost 25 kilos…or had I?


Back at the heart unit, I handed over a large file of papers to the nurse in charge, and was told to sit down and wait. Wait for what, nobody told me. Noo was sent on errands to various points throughout the hospital but what she was doing or where she was going remains a total mystery.

After an hour or so, I discerned that I was waiting for an available bed so that I could be admitted, and I told Noo to enquire if there were any private rooms available. Poor thing was almost laughed out of court as it was explained to her that all the other people in the room were also waiting for beds and that private rooms were not on the agenda.

Oh well, that was that and I resigned myself to sharing a ward with dozens of other men. It might be a laugh, I grimly speculated.

Eventually, I was told that there would be no beds available in the heart centre but somebody had just died and they had found me a bed in the main part of the hospital and off we went to the third floor to seek out my bed, lately occupied by a fresh corpse.


Now I don’t wish to be overly critical, and during my many years in Thailand I have seen far worse hospital wards up-country, but the ward I was sent to was a bit of a nightmare. It was teeming with men of all ages and in various degrees of medical distress, along with their relatives and friends.

Amazingly, the very large room had air conditioning, (well it was over 40 degrees outside), but it was still pretty sticky, and for some reason, the whole scene reminded me of a grotesque cartoon depicting a Victorian scene in ‘bedlam’ – an institution for the insane. 

‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘this is going to be fun…’

We looked around and were greeted by a very nice ward sister who welcomed me to her little kingdom and led me to the only empty bed in the entire room, sandwiched tightly between a bed containing an extremely aged gentleman, being fed through a straw by his equally aged wife, and a middle aged man covered from head to foot in bandages and who looked more dead than alive.

I was given my hospital pyjamas and was told to get changed. ‘Where?’ I wondered; surely not in the middle of all these people? Noo told me to go to the bathroom, which  was when I first started to wonder if I could get through all this without going crazy. With all due the respect, the toilet block was terrible – in a very dilapidated and in bad state of repair, with just a single ‘wash’ cubicle containing a large bucket and a cracked water scoop.


The WC’s were, frankly, disgusting, and it was in one of these that I gingerly changed into my hospital garb. I don’t know if any of you have had the pleasure of trying to tie up hospital pyjamas in this part of the world, and if so, did you ever succeed in getting the trousers tight enough so that they don’t slip down to your ankles as soon as you stand up?

The problem is that the pyjamas are held up by a single, unbroken, cord and the idea is to try and tie a tight knot from a chord loop – in the front, a task which for this hapless farang, has always proved totally beyond my understanding and capability.

So I hobbled back to my bed, grasping my pyjama bottoms for all I was worth, terrified that I would let them slip and inadvertently become the comical high point of the day for the assembled masses.

Sitting on my bed, feeling a bit down about it all, Noo valiantly offered to check again if there were any private rooms available. I really don’t know what I would do without her. She had already been knocked back once, but was willing to try again. A minute later she was in deep conversation with the nice ward sister, and my hopes started to rise.


The sister had said something to Noo in Thai which has no direct translation into English, but means something along the lines of ‘ So this is all completely beyond the limits of his toleration is it?’ although in Thai it is but a single word. The sister said she would check to see if there were any rooms available, and I thanked her and politely told her that if not, I would just try to grin and bear it. After all, I didn’t want to make an enemy of her, in case I was obliged to stay there.

To cut a long story short, there was one room available on the next floor up, which just happened to be the VIP floor, but when I was shown the room for approval, I was advised that the window curtain was broken and couldn’t be closed, so when I slept, I would be exposed to the night sky. The stars and angels would be watching over me, whether I liked it or not.

Choosing between having to put up with a non-closing curtain in a cool, fully equipped private room with all mod cons and being stuck in a steamy bedlam, with filthy toilets and dozens of disease ridden patients, was a bit of a hard choice to make; but in the end, I gritted my teeth and resolved to suffer the terrors of the dysfunctional curtain. In other words I couldn’t wait to get signed in.

The room was everything the other room wasn’t. TV, fridge, electric power shower and all the usual equipment and personal supplies you would expect in an Asian private hospital. I must say, it was a bit of a sad indictment of the culture, as I became aware of  the respect and how charming everyone is when they discover that you have money; but it as something I was reluctantly prepared to tolerate. Money still means everything – particularly when you are surrounded by people with far less, and the treatment I received in the hospital from then on in was almost as though Noo and I were minor royalty.


I was treated far better than in all the other private hospitals I have ever been in. In private hospitals, the patients are all the same; you all have money – and you are one of many, and do not merit special treatment.

But in a government hospital where most of the patients don’t have two ha’pennies to rub together, anyone with money is on a different planet, and they let you know it. I was fussed with and tended by dozens of beautifully groomed nurses; from the moment I entered the room to the moment I departed, 2 days later.

The main event of the afternoon was the ritual shaving of Mobi’s pubic hair by the most delectable nurse I had ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes on. Believe me, it was an effort to stop myself from becoming embarrassed. She was so pretty that I even kept smiling when her blade went astray and drew blood.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, with a look of concern. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No…no…’ I replied, still smiling but inwardly smarting from the pain.


In spite of all the privacy and comfort, I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep and only succeeded in getting about 3 hours sleep before I was woken at some ungodly hour and two hours later I was back in the heart centre to await my angiogram.

I was separated from my beloved Noo and parked on a gurney in a corridor  near the O.R., so she took off to Chatuchak market to spend the family jewels and I was left to wait, and wait and wait…

Two hours later I was still waiting, feeling thoroughly bored and unable to move due to being connected to an intravenous drip. Another hour and Noo returned but I was still lying there. It was just my luck; there had been an emergency with the patient ahead of me who had needed a stent to be inserted in his artery, and so everything was delayed.

At long last I was wheeled in to the enormous O.R. and manhandled onto the operating table. Although I had experienced a ‘conscious’ angiogram many years ago in the UK, I could not recall anything approaching the events that followed.

Except for the fact that I was required to have my legs flat on the table, for all the world, I could have been a woman being placed in the delivery position. I had to put my hands up behind my head and grip onto a metal bar, and my legs were spread wide apart and my manhood was revealed for all to admire – well at least to the attendees in the OR, of which there seemed to be dozens.


The procedure then commenced and the doc opened up the artery in my groin and injected some dye, and then he followed up with a micro camera which travelled up my artery and around my heart. Above me, all manner of large pieces of equipment on hydraulic dolly’s were whizzing round and lowered within millimetres of my heart – sometimes even touching my body –  and there was much commentary and chattering in the background.

The whole thing lasted about an hour, and finally I was lifted back onto a waiting gurney and wheeled back to the corridor. The doc followed me out and proceeded to close up the wound in my groin. This proved difficult as the bleeding stubbornly refused to stop, and he had to continually apply pressure to the wound for almost another hour before – in his own words – ‘coagulation was achieved’. I guess being a thirty year plus diabetic and taking a daily aspirin to thin my blood, (although I had stopped it for 4 days), hadn’t helped the ‘coagulation process’ too much.

I was given the good news that no bi-pass would be necessary and that now I had to await a call from the hospital to advise the operation date to replace my aortic valve. I was told it might be in anything from 1 – 3 months’ time.

Despite the doctor’s best efforts to have me transferred to his heart ward, it turned out the ward was still full up and it was with much relief that I was returned to my ‘home from home’ in the VIP wing.


I was not allowed to move my leg for a total of 8 hours, so, for the first time in my long and chequered medical career, I was obliged to use a bed urinal to relieve myself. I actually had doubts whether I would be able to go, but with young Noo holding the accoutrement in place – it was a like pissing in the wind…well almost!

(In case you may be wondering, in all previous occasions when I have been bed bound in hospital , I have had a catheter attached to the offending piece of Mobi-anatomy which obviated the need to use the dreaded bed urinal.)

I had two further visits from the doc, one that evening, and another the following morning – to check on the wound and give me the all clear to go home. This was supplemented by continuous visits by sisters and nurses who checked my vital signs and the condition of the wound. Or maybe they just wanted to have a look at a farang’s manhood….

One particularly diligent young  lady decided to clean up the wound and re-dress it, but somehow succeeded in getting her cleaning alcohol swab  onto my right testicle! I almost jumped out of my skin – to the the vast amusement of about 4 nurses who had gathered around in fascination.

The overall treatment, the attention to detail and the follow up for possible side effects was far and away above anything I have experienced during my 3 previous angiogram procedures, and although I concede that some of these benefits may have been due to me having a private room, by and away the majority of the care would have been given regardless of where my bed was located.


All this wonderful treatment and care has given me considerable reassurance about what to expect when I go back for the major operation and it has taught me that whatever the extra cost, I must make ensure that a private room is available for my post op recuperation.

The cost of the room is around 3,300 Baht a day, including 3 meals and as far as I’m concerned, it was well worth every Baht. If I had been in a general ward, it would have cost me at least 1,000 Baht to pay for a room outside for Noo to stay overnight, whereas having the private room meant that she was able to sleep on the sofa and provide me with 24 hour care.

Sure, the unbelievable bureaucracy and constant waiting around can be annoying and frustrating, but I do not believe it detracted from the overall patient care, and is probably not much different to the bureaucracy and delays that are experienced in most if not all  state healthcare hospitals in the west.

So here endeth my marathon report on my 3 day stay in hospital. Hope it wasn’t tooooo boring.


BUTT…BUTT…BUTT…I don’t give a hoot!…



Et Tu…Einstein?

Mobi – Babble

I’m slowly getting back to normal after my horrendous chest infection. I’ve resumed my late afternoon walks, but find that I get tired quite quickly, so I am limiting them in both duration and pace. I am not sure if my fatigue is due to the after effects of the infection, or my heart valve problem, so I will take it easy for a week or so and see how things go.

I am also sleeping a lot – ‘cat napping’ in the late afternoon or evening, and come 10.30 at night, I can hardly keep my eyes awake, invariably sleeping for up to 10 hours. I guess my body is telling me something after all the recent punishment it has been through.

I will now await my follow-up visit to Rajavithi hospital on 4th April when I will be assessed by the surgeon and his team before they make a final decision on whether to operate.


As regards the conflicting opinions between the ‘private’ and ‘public’ sector; well, my medical advisor has told me that there is no way a government hospital would recommend operating if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, as they always have a huge backlog of patients. She also said that if I wait for my symptoms to become more manifest, then I will only increase the risks when I do finally have it done. Anyway, I’ll just take it easy, and see what transpires on 4th April.

On other fronts, I can report that I am still very happy with my little Noo and the longer she stays with me, the more I realise that I have been so lucky to find her. She really is a veritable gem of a lady and she looks after me like no other lady has ever done in my entire life.

It is many months since I wrote about my ‘sex addiction’ and my propensity for stopping by girlie bars and indulging in a bit of instant gratification. This is because, save a couple of trips – which in themselves were quite a while ago – I have completely ceased these activities.


I had intended to write about those two last forays when they happened, but for one reason or another, I didn’t get around to it. All I will say is that I derived little or no enjoyment from either of those visits, and realised that I finally seemed to have moved on.

Sex addiction – or addiction to ‘girlie bars’ is in many ways much like any other addiction.  Every day, you get the ‘urge’ to go and seek out some lovely young thing, and sometimes the urge is so strong that you might go to extraordinary lengths to satisfy yourself. Some of you may recall that in my ‘hay day’, I would think nothing of taking in half a dozen short time bars on a single day.

But just like fags and booze, the longer you abstain, the more these urges start to fade from your consciousness. But additionally, with my sex addiction, the mere fact that I have everything I could possible hope for from my gorgeous and highly sexed lady at home, means that my sexual exploits in bars were proving less and less exciting.


Even a short time ago, I couldn’t pass one of my regular girlie establishments, without a sudden desire to enter and see if there were any new, nubile young ladies around for the taking. But now, I can honestly say that the thought simply doesn’t cross my mind.

I can’t put my hand on my heart and swear that I will never go into such places again, but I think it is extremely doubtful. If I do, it will probably only be with someone who wants me to ‘show him around’.

And before you say that it’s just a sign of me getting old and sick, well I can assure you that despite all my ails and pains, my sexual appetite has shown no signs of waning, and apart for a few days when I really was extremely sick, Noo and I still enjoy close encounters of the sexual kind on a more or less daily basis – and this is after being together now for nearly 18 months.


You may have noticed that I have taken yet another break from my novel writing. Well, the break was more or less enforced due to my illness, and I decided that if I was going to do any writing at all, it was better to try and keep my blog going, and not disappoint my regular readers.

As the ‘break’ was initially forced on me, I have decided prolong the hiatus so that I may get up to date on a few other matters before returning to my novel. So this week I have been sorting out all my external hard disk storage files, updating my music collection and burning some more MP3 disks to play in the new auto. Next, I will update and sort my photo collection, before returning to my novel, either next week or the week after at the very latest.

However, my eldest daughter and her husband are coming on 2nd April for 2weeks, so it is unlikely that I will do much writing during that period. Never mind…plenty of time. My target is to have it finished by the end of August, so once my daughter has gone home, I will start the big push.


The Bounty of Sport.

I have railed against the obscene amount of money in most professional sports on a number of occasions in these blogs. But I have always had a love of sport and follow almost every sport imaginable, with one or two significant exceptions.

The main exceptions, which I think I have written about before, are sports which I pretty much detest: horse racing and motor racing. I guess it no coincidence that  both sports are as much to do with very expensive, ‘non-human factors’ as with the skills of the sportsmen or women involved. Without the best horse or the latest car, the ‘sportsman’, with all the skills in the world, are nothing.

I particularly abhor the  gambling culture which, let’s face it, is the Reason d’etre for all forms of horse racing and which has led to so many criminal scandals I would hardly know where to begin to enumerate them.


Motor racing, which in most of its forms, is just a boring farce, and only ever becomes exciting when there is a crash or one of the teams changes the tyres too slowly, involves such unbelievable amounts of money – quite possibly into the billions of dollars annually – that I cannot personally see by any reasonable criteria of definition, it can be called a sport.

Even my beloved football, (soccer to you Yanks), which I have supported since I was a young lad, has changed so much through the years, that these days my enthusiasm is at such a low level that I hardly have any desire to watch a live game.

It was the terrible hooliganism which swept through the sport in the 80’s and led to some terrible tragedies which first turned me off, and later it was the incredibly huge amounts of money, which has turned it from a sport into a cynical, no holds barred, business. First Chelsea, and soon, no doubt,  Manchester City, have/will buy themselves  Premier League titles, utilising riches so enormous that they could underwrite a small nation’s economy.


It is such a shame that whereas once, in my youth, we had a whole range of sports in which individuals or teams pitted their skills against like-minded individuals or teams and whoever won, we could enjoy and applaud both winners and losers. We knew they had all given their all, and had been proper ‘sportsmen’ in the truest sense of the word.

But these days, from the billions upon  billions of dollars ploughed into just about every world sport, to the unbelievably open corruption in Blatter’s FIFA, to the almost criminal plans to stage – yet again – a Formula One Race in Bahrain – a country which rapes, tortures and jails its citizens without trial – to the increasingly corrupt practices in cricket emanating from the sub-continent, to the countless drug cheats in every imaginable sport, we have to face the fact that sport is no longer really sport.


It is, purely and simply, a series of businesses controlled and abused by businessmen to feather their own nests and to revel in the hubris derived from being regarded as some perverted kind of a ‘winner’.

Back in the late seventies, when I was living in Thailand, I became quite a fan of American football, as a full length match was shown on Channel 3 live every Sunday, and I could listen to the English (American) soundtrack on a specially designated FM radio frequency.

My favourite teams were the Pittsburgh Steelers and the New York Giants, but I had a sneaking respect for many others, including the Dallas Cowboys, (what a great bunch of Cheerleaders!), The Denver Broncos and the New England Patriots.

Then, when I returned to live in the UK in the early 80’s, Channel 4 decided to promote coverage of the sport so I was able to continue my interest. These days, I just take a passing interest in reading who has progressed to the play-offs, as there is little or no TV coverage, although I did luck out this year when I found the Super bowl was being carried live on my local cable TV station. And of course, as those who follow this sport will know, the underdogs, my New York Giants, had a famous victory.


American Football, like all major world sports, is awash with huge amounts of money, and while I understand that an essential element of the sport, like rugby, is the underlying violence, I was truly amazed to read a few days back about the scandal of ‘bounty payments’ in the NFL.

It came to light from an announcement made by the NFL, (National Football League), that New Orleans Saints defensive players were paid for “big hits” that took opponents out of play.

“Knockouts” were worth $1,500 and “cart-offs” $1,000, with payments doubled or tripled for the NFL play-offs. If this wasn’t bad enough, reports have now emerged in the national press concerning similar bounty programs that have been in place at the Washington Redskins, Buffalo Bills and Tennessee Titans.

I have no doubt that as time goes on we shall learn of yet more teams involved in this kind of reprehensible practise. It has probably been endemic for years.

Is this a new low in the world of sport, or am I just a silly old, naïve fuddy duddy?


Et Tu…Einstein?

Albert, we placed our trust in you, but the vile stench of betrayal has been wafting in our nostrils for several months now.

Yes folks, it was with great astonishment, and not a little distress suffered by a whole gamut of Nobel prize winners , that the world of science was told last September that subatomic particles, known as neutrinos, can exceed the speed of light.

It goes without saying that this announcement, made by a team of Italians known as the ‘Opera Group’, was met with scepticism, as it would – in one fell Italian swoop – throw Einstein’s theory of relativity into complete disarray.

Just imagine it; the theory upon which almost every scientific discovery and development has been made during the past century, and the theory that every student of physics throughout the world based the foundation of his learning, was now open to question. First and foremost, Einstein  stated categorically that nothing in the universe could go faster than the speed of light. The Speed of light, without any shadow of Einstein’s doubt, was the Universe’s absolute speed limit.

Oh woe was me….were we undone?

Now, after months of hand wringing and uncertainty, another team, known as the ‘Icarus Group’, based at the same laboratory, has weighed in, having already cast some doubt on the original Opera claim. In November, the Icarus group showed in a paper posted on-line that in their view, the neutrinos displayed no such naughty behaviour.


However, they have now supplemented that ‘indirect’ opinion with a test, just like the one carried out by the Opera team. The Icarus experiment used 600 tonnes – 430,000 litres – of liquid argon to detect the arrival of neutrinos sent through 730km of rock from the Cern laboratory in Switzerland to the Gran Sasso underground laboratory in Italy.

The result was amazing! They concluded that the neutrinos do indeed travel at the same speed as light.

“We are completely compatible with the speed of light that we learn at school,” said a spokesman for the Icarus collaboration, in perfect Italian English. “Now we are 100% sure that the speed of light is the speed of neutrinos.”

Phew! Don’t you feel so much better now? At long last we can sleep in peace, in the safe knowledge that the opera-loving, spaghetti eating scientists got it wrong, and that after all, poor, maligned Einstein was right all along.


Apparently, it took the strangely named Icaruses so long to verify their results because they were missing some crucial information from Cern.  What was that information? you may ask. And well you might.  The answer, ladies and gents – and believe me I am not making this up – yes, the vital information that took 4 more months to obtain was…. the precise departure time of the neutrinos…

Maybe they should have asked them what time they departed when they arrived at Grand Central station – oh so sorry, at Grand Sasso, and saved us all this terrible anguish!

As for the opera Group, well maybe they should stick to opera, or maybe they should put themselves under house arrest, like their infamous fellow Italian whose speciality is entertaining Moldovan whores and sinking ocean liners.


BUTT…BUTT…BUTT… I don’t give a hoot…