Pope Lonergan - Ill Die After Bingo: The Unlikely Story of My Decade as a Care Home Assistant

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First published by Ebury Press in 2022

Copyright Pope Lonergan 2022
Illustrations by Louie Coppolo

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover design by Dan Mogford
Cover photograph Getty Images

ISBN: 978-1-473-59034-2

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

To the 12 centimetres of my small intestine that were cut out of me in 2016. Because of you I won an argument with a girl I went on a date with. It was about whod had the most intestine removed. She only lost 9 centimetres. Pathetic.

The events described in this book are based on the experiences of the author. To preserve patient confidentiality and the privacy of individuals, details relating to places, locations and events have been changed as have the names and other identifying features of people. Any similarities are purely coincidental. This is because this is not a book about the individuals, places and events described but about what we can learn from them and how they shape our approach as carers of the elderly and of each other.

Theres a small stage, illuminated by a single spotlight and inside that circle is a wooden bar stool. Directly in front of the stool is a microphone in a stand. The cable snakes off into the surrounding black, and a thick black curtain provides the backdrop just behind the stage. If you look closely enough, youll notice the mud and the dust at the curtains frayed edges, a couple of shoe prints on the dusty wooden stage, and even a woodlouse scaling the steep vertical leg of the stool. This is what theatre director Peter Brook referred to as the rough space: informal, even dirty. An intimate environment that lends itself to honest, semi-pathological disclosure.

A man walks onto the stage. Hes six foot one with a shaved head and beaded sweat covering his scalp. He has an oval face, a slightly protruding Neanderthal brow, thick eyebrows, a structured nose, and small, deep-set eyes with long eyelashes. His angular jawline is covered by a patchy beard unkempt, unmaintained. He looks kind of old except when he smiles, tugging his sweatshirt so it doesnt cling to his protruding belly.

My dad says Ive finally caught up with my body dysmorphia, he says off-handedly, into the microphone.

He smiles again. A broad smile, revealing an open face, with apple cheeks and dimples, and white-ish teeth (though the bottom row is crooked and, on the top row, one of the incisors has a chip in it). The smile also causes one of his eyes to wince. And, for the first time, its apparent he has crows feet.

His torso is squat and barrel-shaped, with fat gathered on his belly, his hips and what were formerly his pectorals. Hes in a sweatshirt embroidered with a cartoon of two male clowns entertaining an audience of geriatrics (with walking frames to convey their age) seated in a crescent formation though one of the empty chairs has tipped onto its side. There are balloons and party banners. The text on one of the banners reads The Care Home Tour.

The sleeves of the sweatshirt are bunched up around his elbows, revealing thin forearms and glass wrists. Basketball shorts (black, with a white vertical stripe) show off his long, skinny legs (a curse of genetics). And these are partially covered by black socks, which have been pulled up to the bottom of his shins. The final item of clothing to make up this ensemble: black trainers, emblazoned with the same brand logo as the socks and the shorts.

Onstage, he stands upright, with a wide stance and his duck feet pointing outwards. (Hes extremely flat-footed.) The backs of his wrists press into his love handles, and his hands, replicating his feet, also point away from the body. Taken in its entirety, the posture is like that of a two-handled teapot.

He has a subtle lisp, a noticeable Essex accent, and a voice that sounds as if its been partially filtered through his nose. He describes it as a blobby, lumpy voice. A colleague a fellow comedian once said he was someone whos intelligent but sounds thick.

A subtle, barely audible hum emanates from the darkness and then stops. Like an old hard drive briefly returning to life. He pulls the microphone cable across the stage, sending up a small cloud of dust, and sits on the stool. He plants his right foot on the floor to stabilise his top-heavy body. The left leg is bent at the knee and his sole presses into the stools foot railing.

Again, he pinches his sweatshirt and pulls it away from his stomach.

So, there you go. Anyway, I should probably introduce myself

Im Pope Lonergan. Im a stand-up comedian, Quaker, (recovering) drug addict and lifelong Essex boy. (Apart from a small hiatus in Pompey.)

For nearly a decade Ive also worked as a care assistant, or support worker, or carer. (You can use these interchangeably.) There hasnt been a conscious passing of the occupational torch. But Mum, her sister and their mum have all worked as nurses, or demoted themselves to care assistant to balance the job with raising young children. And theyve done this their entire working lives.

The term wiping arses has become a stand-in for the entire field of social care especially elder care. Its one task of many performed on the job, but wiping an arse (wearing their haemorrhoid as a cufflink) seems to represent not only abjection and waste but also the status of the people who are carrying out these duties; the misconception (perpetuated, unfortunately, by other medical staff) that theyre unskilled, uncaring and unprofessional. Its mucky work. Grunts work. But work that just needs to be done And because this was/is the public image of the care profession, for me, it wasnt a calling merely a matter of convenience. (I needed a job and my cousin knew someone.)

Upon taking that first job and, later, others in the various care homes Ive worked in nationally, all full of elderly people with different levels of capacity I found out that, yes, there are slack, dishonoured bodies (and minds), theres bodily spillage, and somatic degradation incontinence pads swollen with piss, and iron-rich stools plugging up intestines but theres also tenderness, and love, and a delicacy of feeling. Ablution rituals that are tinged with a form of divinity. Compulsive repetition and lemniscate pathways that uncover some essential truth about the world. Brutal, pitch-black comedy and nutty absurdist theatre. Care ethics, cooperation, holistic humanism, interdependency people helping people.