Swine Flu, Hospital and Aching muscles

Apparently according to many news and television reports and even a leaflet that was pushed through my letter box we are all in danger of contracting swine flu from elevators and telephones. This is great news for me, I now have a genuine reason of not attending my office on the 12th floor and should I feel particularly athletic and bound up the many flights of stairs I then don’t have to answer the phone. My office has even sent out an email telling all members of staff that if possible they are advised to work from home until the danger passes. Wonderful. Now instead of having to drag my sorry arse out of bed at five o’clock in the morning, do the triple S of Sh*t, Shower and Shave and attempt to look somewhat respectable in a freshly ironed shirt and tie I can now lay in till a far more respectable time of seven o’clock, throw on any piece of clothing that is currently adorning my bedroom floor, partake in a freshly brewed cup of coffee with a couple of slices of toast and Marmalade and not worry about the nights growth on my chin.
I can then recline and sink into my luxurious leather sofa whilst Lorraine Kelly tells me what high heels I should be wearing and what pair of jeans would flatter my figure more. A second cup of coffee is brewed and a further round or two of toast before I amble over to my computer and press the power button. By now my ears are being assaulted by numerous Chavs shouting and screaming at each other whilst Mr Kyle endeavours to provoke further reaction whilst ascertaining who is the father of the lucky child brought into this affordable housing war zone. It’s not before Phil and Fern have updated me as to the latest goings on in Emmerdale and I have entered the ridiculously easy quiz that I actually log onto my computer and check my emails.
Other than the occasional phone call into my office, which nobody of course can answer, things progress along a similar vein for most of the day, I become very knowledgeable in antiques and their value, how to decorate my house badly in less than sixty minutes and how to purchase property in Spain.
Should Swine Flu ever really strike in this country to a serious degree of threat to kith and kin I will be fine, I can sell antiques to make enough money to leave this country and its pandemic behind whilst jetting off to sunnier climes in Europe and my newly decorated summer house all whilst looking magnificent in a pair of figure hugging jeans.



I have just recently, albeit reluctantly furthered my life by another year. Not that I want my life to end you understand but would just rather I didn’t have to count my progressing years anymore. I have never really celebrated my birthdays, at least not since my younger school days and as I have grown older it has become just another day. The problem is no matter how much you hide or try to shy away from your real age or your birthday someone is always there to remind you. On this occasion I was reminded when I received a letter in the post a week or two prior to the actual day. There is no hiding from the fact that you are getting older when on your birthday you receive a Colonoscopy as a present from your local hospital, this really is the kind of present to which you hope the receipt has been kept and you can happily exchange it at a later date. However it hadn’t and I was forced to attend and endure one of the more embarrassing procedures your doctor can inflict upon you.
Having not only starved myself the day before my system also had to be flushed clean of any “obstacles” so that the lengthy camera that will be inserted into my rectum will have an unobstructed view of my internal workings. So having spent the previous day sitting on the toilet experiencing something that can only be described as someone turning on a fire hose full blast and letting go of the end I was fairly eager to get this whole unpleasant day or two over with. I arrived on ward with plenty of time to spare hoping to get in and out as soon as possible, or should I say to get the camera in and out as soon as possible? But, alas this was not to be. I have no gripes about waiting to be seen, none whatsoever, in fact it’s a pet hate of mine to be sat in a waiting room and listen to other people complaining that they haven’t been seen yet. It’s called a waiting room for a reason. It’s where you wait; it’s not called a sit down and be seen straight away room. It’s one of the few things in this world that really erks me. I will never say a bad word about our NHS. They do a wonderful job in a difficult and sometimes dangerous environment. My praises will always go out to them; they have helped me a great deal including scrapping me off the tarmac on one occasion.

However… The only thing I will say is are hospital gowns really necessary? I’m sure we can come up with a slightly less degrading option. Now it may be different for women and certain Celtic men on two counts, but I believe they are an inside joke to help pass the time for the nurses. Firstly I do not own any item of clothing that fastens at the back, so I have no experience of doing this. Not once have I managed to find all the straps or tie them to the correct opposite strap, I either miss out straps altogether or have the top tied to the bottom. I always end up spinning in circles like a dog chasing his tail trying to find them. Would a strip of Velcro down the back not be easier? Secondly how are you meant to sit down once you have to a degree fastened the back without showing off all that God gave you? Again I do not own any skirts and have no idea how to sit down in one in a dignified manner. Women cross their legs differently to men. Women cross their legs at the knee whilst men place one ankle on the opposite knee. This obviously is not appropriate when your meat and two veg are on display like a raw chicken hung in a butcher’s window. So you end up sitting there fidgeting until the doctor or nurse comes to see how you are getting on and finds you kicking your legs about like a once famous Kenny Everet character “In the best possible taste”.
Having found a comfortable position to sit in, and by comfortable I mean both feet on the floor, legs tightly clasped together and both hands trying to pull down the edge of the gown between your legs. I sit and listen to the doctor explain the procedure to me. I am then walked into the operating theatre, my bare arse hanging out of the badly fastened gown. My feelings of humiliation were soon replaced by something far worse as within seconds of climbing onto the operating table my gown was swung up around my neck until I was wearing it more as Superman would wear his cape. I take my mind of it all by rambling incoherent nonsense to the nurse attending to my gas and air desperately trying to forget the fact that I am lying naked on a table with three strangers busying themselves around me. Very soon the invasion begins, as what feels like a BBC war correspondence team venturing into an area that isn’t discussed in polite conversation. Luckily for me and my awkward discomfort I am able to remove myself form the situation and watch it all take place on TV as if it’s happening to somebody else and not me at all. This didn’t last long. The camera crew exploring my every internal crevice had reached what appeared to be a difficult corner to navigate and needed some external assistance. One of the nurses then began to lean on my stomach and manually assist the camera through the difficult colon chicane. My groans and grunting brought calming words from the nurse looking after me however this didn’t alleviate the thoughts that at any moment something was going to burst through my stomach wall. After various changes in position the camera crew reached their final destination and started the return journey. Thankfully this is a lot quicker although did make me feel like a drain that Dyno Rod were busy working on. Trying in vain to transport myself out of my current predicament I focus back on the TV screen and watch the journey my food takes on a daily basis.
Eventually after much prodding, poking and worst of all inserting I am wheeled back onto ward to recover for a few minutes, given a nice hot cup of tea and a sandwich and then sent on my merry way, walking out of the hospital as if I had been riding a horse for the last week.


I have been having trouble with my back for a few weeks having twisted my spine a couple of months back and the built up accumulation of many years of ill treatment, overworked lifting and shifting and incorrect posture, having been to see a physiotherapist I thought that I would book myself in for a sports massage to ease out any further knots. I have never had a professional massage before and was quite looking forward to it. I am welcomed into the centre with a nice cup of tea and asked a few routine health questions and if I had had any recent injuries. Very soon I was lying face down on the table with my face in a hole. As I think I have mentioned before I am not great at small talk, this is hindered even further when I have my face through a hole in a table, am half naked and a woman I have only met five minutes previously is pummelling my back. There I am staring at her parquet flooring and trying to discuss the weather and holidays etc. Before my hair rebelled on me and started disappearing and I actually went to hairdressers I always went to the same chap, we had an understanding, we would exchange pleasantries and then just shut up. None of this where are you going for your holidays rubbish. This is something I am going to have to instil on my masseuse should I go back again which I think I probably will. So there I am studying the floor, listening to the plinky music in the background and making the odd remark about the rain. You cannot have any intimacy issues if you intend to go for a massage, although primarily aimed at my back and neck apparently it was also necessary to attack my gluteus maximus, thankfully it had been a couple of weeks since my earlier experiences with the doctors or we could be telling a whole other story.
I have discovered that a sports massage is very different to a regular massage. A regular massage is designed to relax you, to send you off into a pleasant dream world leaving all your troubles behind. This was not. This was designed to loosen stiff overworked muscles, releasing the body toxins and realigning that which is out of place and considering that I have never had a massage before over the years my muscles had become very stiff and tight. Not being able to see a great deal other than floor I had no idea what she was doing and at times I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had climbed up onto my back and frog marched up and down my spine. She really did throw her whole being into the massage, twisting, bending, pummelling, stroking, rubbing and digging into my back. I could physically feel my muscles separating and moving around. At one point with my arm being pulled over my head my Lats clunked quite satisfyingly back into place. All in all it was very satisfying, albeit at times slightly uncomfortable re-manoeuvring muscles back into place, my back feels good, my small talk techniques have been exercised and I have a new intimate knowledge of parquet flooring. I do however feel it necessary to go for a relaxation type massage for comparison purposes only of course; however there is a small part of me that thinks this would result in me worrying about wrinkles and grey hairs, before you know it I’d be buying moisturisers and hair dye. A sports massage can be cunningly disguised as a medical procedure and not a treatment reserved for WAGS and pretty boys.
And yet it dawns on me that now having watched so much daytime telly, had a colonic irrigation and now a massage I may have unforeseeably slipped onto the downward spiral of male grooming…



I fear the worst.