Jock's Jocks

Pardon for the delay, but I've felt that before I did the latest guinea-pig update I should have a think about what I could take away from my three nights away; three nights confined big-brother style in essentially three rooms, a corridor and a bathroom.

From the outset, I have to say that I actually had fun. Seeing as though we only took one tablet for the duration, it was easy to forget why we were there in the first place. The thing that really interested me over my stay is how males interact when thrown together in a group.

I made some friends pretty early on, and I had a couple of loosely banded groups to choose from. There was the more sporty group who bowled tennis balls to each other in the hallway, and they were generally pretty cool but nice. The second group was the slightly nerdier group with all the usual geeky wisecracks and so forth. I gravitated toward the latter.

I guess no hospital scenario is complete without the obligatory hard ass nurse. Ours came in the form of an attractive middle aged woman. She seemed really nice; that was until I was waiting in my bed one morning for her to extract crimson from my arm and she stood at the foot of my bed and asked:

"So did you break your legs last night?"

To be honest I had no idea how to respond to that, as I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. I thought maybe she was commenting on the way my legs were bent in my almost too small bed. I didn't feel that was the most interesting observation in the world but alas no, she wasn't talking about my bent legs, but the fact that I hadn't got up to put some rubbish from the night before in the bin. My first thought was that she was a cow. However I realised the hard ass nurse syndrome is but just another way that nurses stay sane while they're working. Other nurses have a really quirky sense of humour, but the hard ass nurses' humour was just dark.

Three nights spent somewhere under one's own free will led to a feeling of claustrophobia. We persuaded a nurse to take us all to the local park. I can see why people in jail love their hours exercise everyday. Freedom was sweet while it lasted.

Apparently using oneself as a clinical triallist is really big in Europe. In England, some trials involve a full day of screening where the number of hopeful applicants exceeds the actual number of places in the trial. Therefore it is not unlike try-outs for a team where being looked over means to feelings of despondency and disappointment.

One interesting thing to note is the fact that we are not being paid for the risks associated with trialling these prototype drugs, but rather our time. We get paid by the hour, which is interesting as not being paid for the risks is something that the research co-ordinators made extremely clear to us at right from the outset.

Day Two

Oh how people can lie. We thought we were to be woken at six thirty, but no, the lights flickered on at five thirty. I was dismayed when I checked the time and immediately decided not to join the army, as if I were at boot camp I'd be running three kilometres with a log on my back at this time.
After showering and dressing, half of us were given a classically fatty bacon and eggs brekky, while the other half looked on in envy and disdain. Seeing as though we'd been fasting for about ten hours, we were all pretty hungry. Those who were eating were required to consume it over a half hour period. I don't think I've ever taken that long to eat breakfast. It was a great exercise in restraint and patience, two traits I need to work on. Anyway the doctor came around after breakfast and administered our doses. This was a big anti-climax as we took one tablet, and this was all we were to consume for our three night stay here. I thought I was going to get pumped full of drugs like a right little guinea pig so you can imagine my disappointment when informed of the depressingly small dosage.
The anaesthetist then came round and gave us some locals in our elbows and then inserted the cannula into our arm. I didn't know what one was until this morning, and it's essentially a tap that sits in a vein and everytime the nurses take a blood sample they just turn the tap on and blood comes out. Simple and not too scary. I wasn't tempted to turn into a vampire and pour myself a silver goblet of crimson, instead I stuck to water today.

Overall for the whole day we gave about ten blood samples, and the time periods between samples started off at fifteen minutes after taking the tablet to two hours by the end of the day.

I slept a lot, played tennis on the x-box and tried to read. After a while I got a bit restless so bonded with my fellow triallists and we shared some laughs over a few Monty Python episodes. We are treated really well here however I don't feel like I'm at my joking best so maybe I can put that down as a side-effect to RU-486 or whatever the stuff is called.

Maybe by the end of the weekend the instructions in the final public release will read something like:

Known Side Effects:

- may cause flirting with cute nurses
- may cause humour to drop to embarrassing levels
- may cause people to realise they are so bad at flirting they couldn't flirt with a barbie doll
- may cause hypochondria and imagine that my side hurts only to realise I'm lying on a remote control

I'm considering throwing away teaching as career and selling my body to pharmaceutical companies for the rest of my life, turning into a hideous freak and wearing a mysterious mask. Hopefully the mystery will still lure curious females to me after my face looks like a vertical plate of spaghetti.

I'm off to bed.

I'm going to do a small serial over the coming days. I'm currently sitting in a small room in a hospital located somewhere in Melbourne readying myself for my first night as a test subject in a clinical trial.
Tomorrow I'm to take a drug that will potentially be used to combat rheumatoid arthritis, and so will begin my not-so-secret life as a medical prostitute. Tonight I arrived with too much luggage, and a sense of adventure. Although any adventure will be limited to about three rooms. One giant room is full of hospital beds that are side by side to each other. We sleep in these. The room next to this has a telly, a DVD player and a pool table. The final room has computers and an X Box. It really is like a little holiday so far. We ate pizza and watched Futurama. I think all this fun stuff we've done so far is designed to take our minds off the fact that I and 19 other similar aged males are to be taking an unreleased medication and have lots of blood taken for testing.
The only annoying thing so far is the fact that I've forgotten my toothbrush so if anyone is in the area give me a buzz and if you bring a toothbrush and some toothpaste I will buy you dinner. Otherwise I'll have to brush my teeth with aftershave and fair degree of stupidity. I think I already have the latter as evidenced by my being here in the first place.

I'm not sure when the turning point for using my body as a physical tool to make money, however it could prove to be a popular fad amongst Australian uni students.

Let the trial begin!

There is something about celebrities I can’t quite put a finger on. There are those with such horrible plastic surgery I don’t even want to put a finger on. Plastic surgery or not, they seem strange and seem so far removed from our own personal world that when they enter ours it’s a pretty big thing.

We stick their posters up on our bedroom walls, put their photos in our wallets/purses (sometimes instead of a significant other), and generally go gaga when we see them in real life. Sometimes I pretend that I don’t care when I see them on the street, but I’m secretly jealous of them. They set trends, however sometimes the things that they do, actually don’t turn into a trend. I didn’t have much need to go and do some lines after seeing Kate Moss get caught, nor did I want to go and make myself shorter after watching Lord of the Rings. I didn’t put on Harry Potter glasses as they were all too small, nor did I go and take countless photos of myself and then spam all of my friends’ email accounts. See, my last name isn’t Hasselhoff, so I can’t “Hoff” anyone, I’d have to “Jock” them.

“Hey guess what Nancy, I got Jocked again, and this time he was wearing nothing but a Christmas stocking and a cheeky smile. I wonder what theme it’ll be next.”

What I find really interesting however is that when we do see a celebrity, we don’t know what to do. I once met someone who danced alongside a Chemical Brother guy in a club, another person who saw Guy Pearce at a book reading, and someone who once saw me at the fish and chip shop buying a hamburger. Once I saw a comedian down at the shops and as he walked past I tried to say something funny to my friend so he’d turn around and say “Hey that was really funny, can I get your number and take you under my wing?” Instead he kept walking, so I’m hoping that he didn’t hear.

It can be that big once-in-a-lifetime moment for someone to talk to the person they’ve idolized for so long, however chances are they won’t do anything, as they have absolutely no idea what to do. What do you say to someone famous? When people find themselves standing shoulder to shoulder with someone who is known the world over, they either clam up or say something obvious like “Hey aren’t you (insert name here)?” If I was a celebrity and someone asked me if I was who I was supposed to be I’d tell them I wasn’t and to piss off. It’s like someone seeing me and asking “Hey are they jeans your wearing,” or “wow it’s pretty bad weather today isn’t it?” That would be met with another piss off I think.

Basically, we want to avoid having celebrities tell us to piss off and actually engage them in a meaningful conversation. Here are a few strategies to set you on your way.

Situation One: The Takeaway shop.

When you realize that they are in the same fried food purveyor as you, don’t wet your pants. Just relax, breathe slowly, and let your mind and body become one. The trick is to get to the famous person’s level, so you don’t look like some slathering, sub-human idiot. There are few different openers you can start off with, adjusting them to the food genre with which the take-away shop is engaged. Turn to them and say:

“I can’t believe this place doesn’t put pineapple in their burgers (if in a roast chicken shop, you could comment on the price of chicken nuggets).” If all goes to plan they’ll say “Yeah I definitely agree, although I reckon a bit of beetroot is pretty tops too.” This is perfect if you’re a guy because it’s a chance to relate to them. “Ha ha, for sure. You can root a beet, but you can’t beet a root (Russell Crowe might like that one).”

After seizing the opportunity to tell that crap-but-funny joke, you can go on to talk about sex, become good mates and then before you know it you’ll know a famous person. All you did was make an appropriately crap sexual joke and they were putty in your hands.

Situation Two: In their home.

You may be sorting through their rubbish, climbing over their security fence or hiding under their bed while they sleep. These aren’t the most favourable situations to bump into your favorite celebrity, however with some quick thinking and good old-fashioned acting, you’ll be sharing a coffee and a biscuit and swapping stories in no time.

There is a good probability that when you’re going through their rubbish before you know it, a pair of legs will appear in front of you, and as you look up it turns out be the celebrity your actually stalking. It’s make or break here, as in three months you could either be in jail, or in their bed. You look up and say “Oh hi (insert first name here).” Say it in a familiar tone, as if you’ve been friends for ages. Disarm them with a reassuring smile while your working out what to say next. “Excuse me, what the hell are you doing going through my rubbish you freak?” Things are on a knife’s edge right now, so be careful.

“I’m sorry (insert first name here), I’m new to the neighborhood and trying to work out what day rubbish goes out, but obviously it’s not today.” If they’re thick enough, they’ll invite you into their kitchen and check the local councils’ rubbish pick-up calendar that’s stuck on their fridge. Then they’ll hopefully ask you if you would like a coffee, and the rest they say, is a mystery.