Hello,
I’ve got piles.
Talk about the agony and the ecstasy.
Proper Grapes Of Wrath they are. I am taking them as a sign of faith in my new religion of Potestantism. My very own stigmata if you will.
Dear old Ma On The Pot warned me that sitting on cold surfaces would bring on the Johnny Giles. I always laughed as I I sank into the freezer to mitigate the effects of the previous night’s Vindaloo. Not exactly haute cuisine from the Bowel of Bengal. Mind you the gallon or two of premium Moluccan Lager I gulped down with me delicately spiced slop may have been a contributory factor.
I have to be very careful when my alimentary canal comes a calling. I read in my lovely wife Shirley’s copy of Cosmo, that men who suffer from piles make the best lovers. I pondered this as my stool began its long journey to the Atlantic, rather like a spawning salmon.
I asked Shirley if she agreed with this point of view. “Twat,” came her jokey reply. I rinsed off the carefully applied Throb aftershave, put the Sacha Distel Singalongalove album back in its cover and limped off to the Whimpering Stoat for a restorative pint or two. I’ll have to woo her.
Chicken and Mushroom Pie and Chips on the way home it is then……..and some curry sauce, which is going to play havoc with my piles. But what price love?
Laters.
Bob