A drink to the fallen flier, and a brief return to childhood; Columnist.

Byline: David Banks

NAPPROPRIATE or what? IThe customer, grey as a ghost, is laid out on the pub carpet, Iain the Landlord is fitting him up with the defibrillator and the ambulancemen have just raced in.

Suddenly, Paul the barman's ex-guardsman voice booms out: "L-A-A-A-AST ORDERS' you 'orrible lot!" There is an unseemly rush toward the bar, fivers twitching in pleading, outstretched fingers as a dozen drinkers clamber carelessly over the patient lying at their feet in the recovery position.

Ken the Collapsed One looks terrified. A sympathetic customer, once safely served, pauses to reassure him: "S'alright, mate, he said 'last orders', not last rites."

Sadly, relief is but fleeting.

Someone has phoned A&E at Wansbeck "just in case". A head appears round the kitchen door, phone in hand. "Is he still breathing? Hospital wants to know."

At this, a wild-eyed Ken the Casualty starts fighting to get to his feet, to be finally felled by booming Paul's finale: "Time, gentlemen please!" The patient's enfeebled frame slumps, defeated. He allows himself to be tucked under a blanket and strapped into a wheelchair, content to be ferried to whatever fate awaits him.

Ken is back the following night, of course. A little thing like a suspected heart attack isn't enough to keep cloud crawlers like Ken - he's a pilot at Milfield Gliding Club - out of the action for long.

Diagnosis? A tablet he was taking reacted adversely with the numerous pints of Guinness glider pilots are apparently expected to consume after a hard day's flying. Still, he'll remember this Tale of Two Taverns for as long as his ticker holds out - the day he went for a drink at the Red Lion and ended up in the Paramedic's Arms!

PENSIONER that I am, this old codger may well be the oldest "kiddie" at Coldstream Health Centre wanting an MMR vaccination next week. Oh, and nurse, you might as well give me the pre-school booster against diphtheria, tetanus, whooping cough and polio while you're at it.

Why? Not because my mum boycotted the newly-founded NHS childhood vaccination programme back in the early Fifties: we had more sense (and too much respect for authority) to fall for medical scare stories in those days.

Wise mums "self-vaccinated" their infants by snuggling them up alongside playmates known to be suffering chickenpox or mumps or German measles, in keeping with the theory that it was best to get those nasties out of the way in childhood rather than face worse consequences in later life.

My problem dates back to 2003 when I was given a stem cell transplant to combat leukaemia. Doctors couldn't guarantee what immunities my donor brother's replacement cells carried; as a result, my medical age was reset to babyhood and I reverted to Day One on the childhood vaccination timetable, which makes me a mite overdue for pre-school boosters.

One question: do I still get a jelly baby if I don't cry? I MISSED the horse syndicate's outing to watch our nag One Million run at Perth yesterday.

Instead, I was jammed into a pew in St Paul's Church, Covent Garden, giving thanks for the life of my mate Fletch, who combined life as a sub-editor on The Sun with a career as a church organist, top-class wicket-keeper and all-round good fellow. Not what you expect to hear about a red-top tabloid journalist, is it? Naturally, my thoughts strayed occasionally to the track: The Lord's My Shepherd brought to mind Billy the Kid's latest lambing ordeals; a reading from Exodus recalling "a land flowing with milk and honey" also recalled the Byreman's excitable trackside antics; the sermon - "Repent, ye sinners!" - was an ideal warning to the Lawnmower Salesman.

I prayed hard for Fletch and for our nag, I really did, only to nip across to the bookies' to discover it had been withdrawn because the soft going didn't suit him. So it's Sedgefield next Thursday and not a memorial service in sight!

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Publication:	The Journal (Newcastle, England)
Date:	Apr 26, 2013
Words:	664
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