The Superlative Milad Never To Visit Sheffield Again

Well, I am back in Sheffield to visit my son (but not the superlative Milad) and the good news is he is soon to leave this northern, English town for Spain or Singapore. (That’s what we hope but Rotterdam is also being bandied about!) It is my third day here and I am dying of Englishness. Outside, a drab drizzle misties down, the streets are full of zombies and security cameras, and the English are preparing for their bank holiday which is likely to be a wank holiday with beer, shrill laughter, rain, supercarbo, bad cholesterol pub grub, ugly clothes, unbeautiful bodies, and then exactly more of the same.Yesterday, a druggie squared up with a “friend” who defused the situation by sitting down on a pavement step. That’s in the middle of this grim city. These

people are being helped by the NHS to live undruggy lives. The NHS gives them their surrogate heroin free. From what I’ve seen in the middle of Sheffield, these guys and gals are still wildly disadvantaged despite the National Unhealth Service’s benevolence. I’ve heard the “f” word frequently and I am not convinced the UK is a world leader. Its citizens seem depressed, angry, routinely bored, and depressing. And it’s raining in real earnest now.

What has any of this to do with the superlative Milad? Well, he was here last year in my son’s flat and he grabbed a new saucepan and within seconds it was destroyed. He got a clean surface and within seconds it was unrecognisable. He grabbed the shower and left thick mats of hairy dirt. But he was superlatively intelligent and a keen good-looker. Could have been an Arabian prince. Hailing from Iran he knew the east and the west and he pulled off a successful PhD here at the university, then buggered off into mainland Europe, at last making the break with his English lady who cried for some days when she knew it was off. She it was who explained that Milad just couldn’t get his mind around cleanliness. Back home, I suppose mum did a lot for the guy but coming from the Middle East, surely he knew how happy insects and bacteria are when they meet a reckless intellectual like him. So, yes, that opening about the English has nothing whatsoever to do with my Iranian lad, but I needed to write it. Guess why? Because it does. Here, I’m suggesting that should Milad revisit Sheffield (by mistake), the NHS give him some methadone to help his cleanliness problem because he is a formidable liability in his undrugged state.

Now, to get Milad off my chest indirectly, too. I walked into a spotless flat, cleaned and shone up by son and live-in girlfriend, both intellectuals like Milad but neither in great need of methadone, neither with Milad’s inclination to have a go at the results of soap and Dettol, and certainly without Milad’s inclination to grab and destroy anything shiny and new that cooks things, in other words just a normal guy and gal in love with health research statistics. Ah, I sat down on a clean sofa in an organised sitting-room and marvelled. I went into the toilet and fainted. When I recovered I found myself with my head reclining against a clean toilet-seat, and the pleasant smell of lavatory-cleaner perfume wafted to my nostrils. I was indeed in paradise.

So, what I say is – long live Persian princes like Milad but they must live far away and never ever renew residence in my son’s Sheffield flat. Can’t get fairer than that, mate!

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