The first noel

The other bloke at the hospital who has been on a VAD awaiting a heart transplant is a chap called Noel Tacey. Since late January, Noel and I have been the only people on VADs in Queensland.

Noel is a tall and lanky boilermaker, aged in his mid fifties. He runs his own business manufacturing water treatment plants. The business employs his two sons, who are also his best mates.

Noel is a classic Aussie larrikan. He is loud and cheeky and makes friends readily. He's a great story-teller, but not a reader. He likes motorbikes and rock music. He has no time for rules or politics. He's the sort of bloke that would frequent Moe's Tavern. He is good with tools and I suspect that he owns many guns. In the States, you'd call him him Alabama Man. In Britain, you'd call him Essex Man. In the context of this blog, I guess you could call him Bellbowrie Man.

Noel and I are polar opposites in both personality and appearance. You could not imagine two more different men. Yet we became firm friends and conversation has always flowed easily between us. We would walk around the hospital together with our VADs, looking like the two guys from Midnight Cowboy.

Noel calls me Norman Gunstan, because my VAD wounds tend to bleed. That's an in-joke for the older Australians amongst us. Those who remember the Seventies. I really cannot properly describe Norman Gunstan to those who have never seen him. Suffice to say, he is an intense mock-journalist who cuts himself shaving a lot, necessitating pieces of tissue being placed on his many shaving cuts. The joke was funny the first few times Noel told it. On the sixty seventh time, it was a little tired.

Noel and I have rooms close to each other and he often appears at the door, Kramer style, for a chat. There is a lot of Kramer in Noel. He even looks a little like him. Noel has a wonderful back catalogue of anecdotes which he is very adept at spinning. I suspect that some are true.

I am very fond of Noel, as are our nurses. He is decent, kind, and excellent company.

Noel has been enjoying this blog. A few days ago, I asked him whether I could buy his stories. I was conscious of the value in keeping my little rag fresh and interesting and was concerned that I would eventually run out of material.

I was not clever enough to come up with this idea myself. The genius behind the idea was Camilla's. She reminded me of the classic Seinfeld episode where Jay Peterman had bought Kramer's stories for use in his memoirs. I love Peterman. This was a chance to do something Peterman would do.

My erstwhile trainee lawyer, Anna, prepared a formal deed of assignment and Noel signed it. The intellectual property in and to his stories now belongs to my me, or more correctly a shelf company I acquired to hold the asset.

So in future blogs, you will read of how I visited East Timor as a young boilermaker and lifted a tribal chief onto my shoulders. You will read how I injured myself and the Impaler horseplaying with my sons. You will hear about my father being nicknamed Crowbar because he is short and dark and good in a fight. You will read about me dirtbiking through the scrub and welding in my workshop.

Yesterday, Noel received a new heart. He had been waiting in hospital for over six months, I think.  I am delighted for him and wish him the very best for his recovery.

So now it's just me and the Impaler. In the timeless words of Billy Bragg we are waiting for the great leap forwards. We can wait a little longer.


Until next time,