Thursday, 3 December 2015


Life has its little ups and downs, and while they are a pain in the arse, one has no option other than to endure them, which is what I am doing at the moment with saintly resignation. Recently I suffered a heart attack, which surprised me as the consensus of opinion held that all I had in my chest was a swinging brick but now I have medical evidence this is not true. If there is a plus to this situation it is that I have now officially joined the ranks of the middle classes, you can not be a member of the middle ranks of society unless you have suffered a heart attack, a small price to pay for admittance to the ranks of the posh lot. So, let us start at the beginning. There was no indication that anything was untoward, one moment walking down the passage, the next, laid out on the floor in agony. In the fall I had broken my collar bone. I lay there unable to move for three hours, bemused and in agony, the only thing I could be sure of was that I had not over indulged, after all, ten AM would have been a little early even by my standards. Eventually an ambulance arrived and ferried me over to the Royal London, that’s when the fun started, laugh? I nearly died. The first thing you notice on admission to hospital is the obsession of the staff with one’s intestinal transition, putting it crudely, when did you last have a crap? Of course the question was never posited in so crude a manner, have you opened your bowels? being the preferred avenue of inquirery. I never did work out the correlation between my arse and my heart, but, mine not to wonder why. I lay on a hospital bed wired up to some infernal contraption which played irritating tunes every time I moved, the cables had a life of their own and displayed a determination to truss me up like a pig on it’s way to market. Now it came to pass that I needed a jimmy riddle,which meant a nurse had to unplug me when I needed the bathroom, every time I wanted to pee I had to be unplugged, personal dignity has no place in the national health service. The following day they shipped me over to Bart’s, the receptionist expressed surprise that I was man, which unless I had mislaid something on the journey across the Capital, I certainly was. This did not go very far to boosting my confidence, as if they could not get my sex right what else might they overlook, or worse, discard, would I leave the premises all heart and no balls? The next couple of hours I spent drinking water as this was essential to the procedure to be performed on me. Eventually they wheeled me into the theatre, I lay on the slab surrounded by strangers, more wires, but at least they did not pester me with questions about my bowels. Now as I have said, I had been made to consume copious quantities of liquid, the outcome being inevitable, I indicated my need to go to the bathroom, nothing so civilised came my way, a complete stranger grabs my family inheritance and stuffs it into a container. Now I freely admit that I adore being the centre of attention, but having a strange geezer stuffing my cock into a cardboard tube while a crowed of strangers gazed on, is ramming the issue home to a point beyond parody, at least the audience did not clap which was something to be thankful for. After a five hour wait for an ambulance I was back in the London, arriving at eleven thirty at night only to face another barrage of questions concerning the state of my bowels, had they nothing better with which to occupy their minds? Thursday had dawned and I felt a mite peckish, the medical staff were wonderful, the chef should have been indicted on a charge of crimes against humanity, were you to give a dog the mush that man dished up the mutt would bite you. I decided to make a break for freedom. There are lots of fast food joints on Whitechapel Road and I determined one of them deserved my patronage. I snuck out of the hospital. So, there I was, hobbling down the road dressed only in my jim jams, one arm in working order, resembling nothing so much as Quasimodo auditioning for a slot on Strictly Come Dancing. Disaster. I encountered some friends who insisted on escorting me back from whence I had come, escorting? Try frogmarching. The staff were awaiting me, the bastards had sounded the alarm, why? All I wanted was a cheese toastie and a packet of fags, surely that was no reason to put the rozzers onto me. At least all this took their minds off my bowels momentarily. From this point onwards they were watching me, no chance of doing a runner. Monday morning and the ward sister breezes into my room, here she comes thinks I, the bowel queen of Whitechapel, but this was different. The state of my guts had escaped her mind, I was being discharged, I could go home. Oh joy, oh rapture, I was so happy I nearly shit myself.

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