Learn First Aid
Because we’re not going to be bystanders.
Every year millions of people are killed or seriously injured in everyday accidents, incidents, mishaps and medical scrapes. Some of them, statistically, are total bastards, but many of them are decent people who could be saved if first aiders stepped in to help. First aid is a vital skill, a solid bit of do-gooding, and incredibly dull to talk about. It’s got the whiff of St John’s Fogies about it, all bunting and marquees and crepe bandages and cups of tea. Let’s make it exciting to the youth:
Word. Me and my homie Nigel was just chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool and shooting some b-ball outside of the church where we go every Tuesday and Thursday nights for Bible study. Nigel started getting static off this nobody mofo, fronting in our hood like he’s all that. It turned nasty, yo, and Nigel got stabbed with an iPod up his You Tube. The mofo booked, by which I mean he left the scene of the crime, and I went all Wonka on my duds, by which I mean I soiled myself. I elevated Nigel’s Tube and applied pressure to the wound, Instagramming for an ambulance on my moby, keeping him warm by wrapping my duds around him, and keeping an eye on his vital signs and shizzle. The po-pos showed with those snitch-ass ambulance muthas but I said nothing cuz I don’t squeal for bacon and I’ll settle this my way, old school. I mean at school. I’ll tell a teacher. Point is, if I hadn’t learnt first aid Nigel would be deader than MySpace and his girl would be raising one of her six children without one of its two dads.
I assume the above effort worked, and first aid is now as popular among children and young people as cigarettes and alcohol. It’s good stuff, first aid. You see a car crash and you’re able to help. Or you find someone passed out on the street and can put them in the recovery position. Or a kid falls out of a tree and breaks his arm and you can put it in a sling. Or someone chokes and you know how to give an abdominal thrust. Or someone collapses and you know the difference between a faint, a stroke and a heart attack. Or someone stops breathing and you know how to give CPR. You save a life and live the rest of your life knowing there’s a life that you kept here, and grief that could have been and wasn’t.
St John’s Ambulance in England and Wales, St Andrew’s Ambulance in Scotland or the Red Cross throughout the Queen’s realm and rebellious former outposts all teach first aid. What with us being extraordinary humans we might be tempted to go for the Red Cross because of their all-round good-deeding. Visiting their website, finding our nearest branch and asking about first aid are the steps we’ll take immediately after reading the end of this sentence which is ending right now, somewhere around the full stop. There it was. On you go.
Learn first aid
You’ll be able to help when people need you
You might actually save an actual life
Related Blog Posts
Bottle bricks/Dolphins drownin’ slowly
Like most of you, when I first saw WALL-E I assumed it was a documentary and was relieved to find we had at last discovered a solution to the madness of short-term landfillery. However, on attempting to contact and marry EVA, Pixar security guards informed me not just that I would be charged with breach of the peace but also that the film was a work of speculative fiction.
Putting the draising in fundraising
Devoted as you are to yer man The Zero, and as closely as you monitor my good works, you’ll be aware I do the odd bit of fundraising in spite of hating it almost completely. The past few years I’ve been meddling with Yaknak Projects, a small charity set up by a few friends to run two children’s home in Nepal. They need £16,000 a year to keep the homes running, a delightful spot of constant pressure that cheers them greatly.
Nappies: let’s not be rash
As you’d expect from a man in my position, I have literally thousands of children. The groupies that gather at the foot of Zero Towers are as fertile as they are up for it, and the rise of my master race is progressing nicely. Sadly, due to the sheer size of my collective progeny, all of whom are disabled rad-fems, I am unable to support any of them financially or emotionally, thus creating twice as many social problems as I was hoping to solve.
David Cronenberg was lying: this experience did nothing for me
So there I was a few weekends back, minding me own business, spending a reasonably pleasant day in the company of friends, or at least people paid to be friendly towards me on account of how my fame prevents anyone getting too close, when I witnessed what can only be described as a road traffic accident, being as how it was an accident involving traffic that took place on a road. I won’t lie to you: it was full on proper scary.
Usain in da membrane (Usain in da brain)
With the Olympics all done with and the Paralympics prepping itself for interest considerably less feigned than usual, it’s time to reflect on the heroes at whom we marvel, the champions who capture our hearts, the icons who inspire a generation. Jessica Ennis. Usain Bolt. Me.
Man admits to teaching them well, lets them lead the way
That whooshing sound round the back of your head was February going past us and past me and past this blog in particular. Being as how I’m spending my days chained to the desk writing essays and my nights chained to the desk drooling on them, the old do-gooding has taken a back seat of late. Unless you count the social work. Which no one does. Tell people you want to be a social worker, they make like you’ve offered them a glass of cancer flavoured piss.
Apologies for the delay, I was being completely ineffective
The problem with this social work lark is although I’m getting stuck in to solid gold do-gooding on a daily basis, the confidential nature of it all means it ain’t worth shit for blogging. I go out, I do good, I come home, I write essays, I use every drop of energy and I’ve got on non-blogging activities and meanwhile this place gets neglected and cobwebbed and dusty and forgotten, going all potty and Miss Havisham and playing bridge with Buster Keaton.
Crime and also punishment
You’ll recall how last year I finally worked up enough balls to give up a safe job in the middle of recession and go back to uni. And how I’m now training as a social worker, taking my meddler status from amateur to professional. You’ll recall all of this because you are, in the act of reading this blog, engaging in the last legal form of stalking. You’re watching me from afar, waiting for the right moment to ask for an autograph, tell me you’re my biggest fan, or take me to your underground den of torture and have me as your bride.
Man’s latest actions inspire several M People songs
They say the word ‘hero’ is overused these days, applied to anyone who kicks a ball into a net or resists the metric system or rescues orphans from a burning paedophile ring. But I’d argue in some cases the word ‘hero’ is not used enough. I’m thinking particularly here in the case of me.