Chronologically disadvantaged
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"Aaaargh, Jeesus! Gaaaargh! Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. Call a doctor. Call a doctor." (But I'm getting ahead of myself). Cast your mind back, dear reader, to March of 2004. In what was a rather embarrassing little accident involving a dustbin, a stolen Sainsburys Savacentre shopping trolley and one too many glasses of Rioja, your beloved narrator managed to royally fuck up his back. Since that inauspicious day, my spine has chosen to play merry hell on the slightest of pretexts - though happily it's never been anything that some Voltarol and a few whiskies couldn't sort out. Let us return to the present day. It is a Sunday, and Lucy and I have decided to hop in the Morgan for a groon around the countryside in order to make the most of the autumn sunshine. This isn't our only motivation. Our little flat is still in a terrifying state of disrepair, and thus we are still the houseguests of Marxist Jim. Nobody is happy about this situation. He is almost maniacally houseproud; my ability to create mess has lead people to liken me to Pig Pen from the Peanuts comics; Lucy is, well, Lucy. We are all somewhat on edge. And the stress seems to have taken up residence in my upper back, crouching in the muscle and occasionally delivering me a rabbit punch when I'm least expecting it. Still, I grit my teeth against the pain, fold myself into the Morgan's passenger seat and off we roar. A few hours and a pub lunch later, it is with sinking hearts that we arrive back chez Marxist Jim. Lucy parks up outside my employer's scarily neat semi and hops out of the car; I attempt to follow suit, but my back has other ideas. This is the point at which we came in. "Aaaargh, Jeesus! Gaaaargh! Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. Call a doctor. Call a doctor." Lucy calmly points out that, this being a Sunday, all the doctors are out playing golf. I say a series of very bad words, then go quiet for a bit, save for a few whimpers. I am breathing like a woman in heavy labour. "I could call Doctor Robert," Lucy suggests. "I don't think... oh, oh, Jesus-shitting-Christ... I don't think Beatles songs can help me right now, Lucy." "No, my friend Doctor Robert. He'll sort you out." She makes the call, while I do some more pitiful moaning. "He's coming right over." "That's amazing. A doctor who does housecalls on a Sunday." "Well, technically he's not actually a doctor..." "Oh God." An hour passes, during which I am trapped in the passenger seat of a 1978 Morgan like a pretzel made of purest pain. Finally, Doctor Robert rocks up on his mountain bike. His appearance is not one which is designed to inspire confidence in a patient. Too many tattoos and piercings and not enough teeth. A sudden thought occurs to me. "Um, is he another ex-boyfriend?" I whisper to Lucy, who answers in the affirmative. Why am I not surprised? Doctor Robert slides into the driver's seat beside me and flashes a gap-toothed smile. He has a mouth like a row of broken tombstones. "Hey pal, I'm Doctor Robert. What seems to be the problem?" (At least, that's what I think he is saying. It is hard to tell, as his Glaswegian accent is proving a slight barrier to communication). I explain that my back has decided to go on some sort of wildcat strike with my latimus dorsi in the Arthur Scargill role, and is violently resisting any attempt to get it working again. (At least, that's what I attempt to say. It actually comes out more as "Argh... back hurting... stop the pain, dear God please stop the pain." All very dignified.) Doctor Robert prods my back a bit, then sits back and lights a Lucky Strike. "Yer back's gone into spasm, pal. Have ye been under any stress at all?" I nod, then quickly decide that's a bad idea. After I've stopped whimpering, I explain that the roof of my flat fell in and that I'm currently living with my boss, who is a card-carrying misanthropist with anger-management issues. "Aye, that'd do it." Doctor Robert roots around in his bag for a bit and finally pulls out a bottle of pills. "Here ya go. Take one tablet three times a day. You should really stay off the sauce while you're taking 'em, but fuck it, yer only young once eh?" I eye the bottle with a mixture of hope and doubt. "What are they?" "Diazepam. Should sort out the spasming, yeah?" Hope wins out over doubt. "How much?" "Six pounds sixty-five." I look at him in astonishment. He stares back defiantly. "Hey, I'm no going to undercut the NHS. They do a fuckin' good job." I take the pills, and Doctor Robert whizzes off on his bike. An hour or so later, I am able to shuffle crabwise out of the car. An hour after that, thanks to a bottle of vino relaxo and a massage from Lucy, my back is virtually pain-free. My regular G.P. is never this efficient. And he doesn't cycle to my house, either. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Finca Las Moras Tannat Reserva 2004 (Argentina). A full-bodied red with hints of chocolate and berries and a lingering vanilla finish. A wine with real backbone (you see what I did there?) that's a full 16 pence cheaper than the NHS prescription charge. Bargain. £6.49
Get Back
2.11.06 15:02
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cathexist / Website (2.11.06 15:38) Disturbingly my first thought when I read "Doctor Robert" was this chap from the Blow Monkeys: http://www.drrobert.net/biography.htm Skipping lightly over what this says about my taste in music, the BM's "It Doesn't Have To Be This Way" would surely be a perfect theme song for the renegade Glaswegian pseudo-medic. He could have it blaring from speakers on his bike as he cycled to the aid of his next hapless invalid. |
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Tired Dad / Website (15.11.06 21:02) More my good man. MORE. |
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(19.2.07 19:10) All right mate we need more. |
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mike (22.3.07 21:46) Where'd you go? |
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pierre (24.4.07 11:35) M.I.A. ???? |
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fishboy / Website (2.7.07 09:37) Ok, this is getting ridiculous. Quit faking. |
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Cheesed (4.9.07 02:00) Okay this is taking "late" to stupid levels. At least get on here and tell us why you're not blogging any more, you useless cnut. |
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(12.11.07 02:10) Let's go, fucker. |
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(24.12.07 04:39) Late, mate, hurry the fuck up or I'll beat you shitless. |
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(13.4.08 18:33) Time for an update... |