Category Archives: pain

It’s the final countdown

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Well, in ten hours time, I’ll be packing up my car and heading off to north Wales.  I have bought provisions; I have responsibility for coffee (instant and ground), but I’m also taking Coffeemate and sugar, without which I’ll be in a REALLY bad mood while I’m there.  I’ve also had the forsight to buy toilet paper and handsoap.

I don’t know whether I’m looking forward to it or not.  On the whole, not, I think.  I mean, come on, getting up early on a Sunday and driving for over 2 hours so I can spend two days with people from work, in a shared house, sharing a bedroom with somebody – would you?

I’ve been trying to think of a happy place that I can escape to in my head for if it gets really bad.  I can’t think of one off the top of my head.  Perhaps I could go for the eight hour  trip over the Cascades in Washington with April and her three year old?  “I want my daddy, I want my daddy, I want my daddy, I want my daddy.  Are we seeing daddy soon?  Can we see the boys tomorrow?  And then you saw me dead”.

Or perhaps I could relive the three months after Jo split up with me?

Maybe I could take myself back to the most excrutiating pain I’ve ever experienced.

Of course, such pain would either come from sickening stomach ache that once rendered me doubled-up in pain in bed for eight ours once, or the alternative is the back ache that cripples me on occasion.  Like today for instance.  It always gets me at the weekend.  I don’t know whether it’s related to having a couple of extra hours in bed on Saturday morning, or the fact that I’m not up and at them straight away like on school days, but always at the weekend  I find myself unable to walk because of back pain.

Today’s experience was made doubly worse because it coincided with a trip to the local Netto.  I’d only gone in there for a quick browse, but once inside, I realised that there was no escape without going through a till – the tills are only wide enough to get one person through at a time too.  Why do these horrible povvy shops trap their customers inside?  They have those stupid entry barriers that only open inwards into the shop and the only way out is through the till.   Fucking cunts.  Then again, my limping, groaning under my breath and grimmacing helped me fit in perfectly with the rest of the shoppers in there, all of whom were a pretty good representative cross-section of Rochdale’s finest citizens.

Returning home meant me crossing over the main road.  There isn’t a pedestrian crossing to use, so you just have to wait for a gap in the traffic and hope for the best.  I’d made it half way across to the safety of a hatched area of the carriageway when a kindly car driver slowed down and flashed his headlamps to indicate that I could go.  So as not to cause undue delay to him, I tried to run.  My left knee and lower back simultaneously emitted agonising thrusts of pain and I kind of ran, kind of lumbered forward a la Hunchback of Notre Dame, making it to the other side of the road, but almost unable to lift my foot onto the kerb.

I’m a wreck.

On the subject of scumbag supermarkets and scumbags in general, what about that Karen Matthews eh?  She’s the woman from Dewsbury in Yorkshire who arranged for her own daughter to be kidnapped so she could get a load of media attention and sell her story for £50,000 to whoever would pay.

You can have a look at Karen in this photostream from the Times online, but this particular image speaks a thousand words:

Karen Matthews shops at Asda

Karen Matthews shops at Asda

Just look at her, lugging her shopping back from Asda.  Typical of the sort of person you get at Asda.  And that’s exactly why I never shop there myself.

Big Brother

Depending on how things go in Wales, I might be tempted to audition for this summer’s Big Brother.  Imagine it, Sniffy trapped in a house for up to 12 weeks 10 or so other people, all of whom are utter freaks, their every moved covered on camera, broadcast to the nation on Channel 4.

Milk

I watched Milk this evening.  A very powerful film documenting the rise of San Francisco’s gay rights movement, led by Harvey Milk (Sean Penn).  Two words: watch it.

Au revoir, mes amis

So this is it for now.  I’m sure the next few days will fly by.  I will return with hopefully, nothing much to report.  Stuff to report will mean that I spent the duration in my happy place, whichever one I opt for.

Pain

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So I’ve finally switched over the NEW blogger. There’s not much of a difference, but it has some utilities that are handy.

It changed my profile to one that was already in existence for a new blogger blog, but that’s OK, I quite like that photo of me, although I need to get that Philip Larkin text back.

Anyway, that’s all irrelevant.

Last night I was talking with Trump about pain and the different types of pain you can experience, particularly pain that results from hurting yourself, rather than things like headaches and the like.

Here is my top ten of personal injury resulting in agony:

  1. Ankle sprain: absolute stomach churning agony. After the initial shock and paralysis, the adrenaline rush kicks in that kind of turns your stomach and internal organs to a mush. You nearly shit yourself. Almost immediately, the affect area swells and bruises and the pain radiates rapidly from your ankle up your leg. It fucking hurts. And then you can’t walk for days.
  2. Eye poke: this REALLY hurts. It’s a common injury that occurs when you pull the duvet up to your face with your thumb inadvertently sticking out. OUCH!
  3. Toe stub: fucker! This is another one where you’re rendered useless by adrenal activity. Everything goes really hot afterwards.
  4. Cold finger bash: you know the thing, it’s a really cold day and you’ve forgotten your gloves; your fingers are icy cold and you knock the back of them against something hard. That soon warms them up.
  5. Door walking: you pull a door open, but it doesn’t clear your foot that is in its way. Of course, you’re already moving forwards to go through the anticipated opening and SMACK! Door in your forehead. This one is for total twats.
  6. Phantom spot squeeze: you know those sore areas on your skin that feel like a spot is brewing? There’s a slight lump and you just know that if you get it at the right point, it’ll explode at high velocity and splatter up the bathroom mirror. You award yourself imaginary points for splatter height and diffusion. So you give it a squeeze, and another, then another. The pain is really bad, but you’re determined that there’s something there – right on the end of your nose or chin. Alas, without success, you are left with watering eyes and a second (or third) chin.
  7. Tongue bite: Bloody hell, this is a really bad one that makes you feel like somebody is pulling your brain out through your belly button. So easily avoidable – unless you’re Jamie Oliver.
  8. Foo-fah on crossbar: You only need to do this once to know that falling heavily, fanny-first onto the crossbar of a bike is a real eye-waterer and to avoid bicycles for the rest of your life.
  9. Pube pull: Even the tidiest pubes sometimes get caught in your knicker leg. It usually takes you by surprise as you try to stand from your desk at work. How do you explain the sudden scream and ferriting about in your pants to your colleagues?
  10. Fingernail bend-back: The fingernails of my right hand used to get quite long when I played the guitar. I have no idea how this particularly injury occurs, but one of the worse feelings in the world is bending your fingernail back. It fucking hurts.

So those are ten things you can do to yourself to see whether your adrenal glands work. I wouldn’t recommend them to anybody, but inflicted the pube pull on an unsuspecting partner can be a right old laugh! Can’t it, Trump?

I’ve had a mouth ulcer on my bottom lip for four days. They REALLY hurt. What the hell are they?

Leave my feet a-fucking-lone!
The Trump Family Trumpamon have a family pet. This pet is a juvenile Staffordshire Bull Terrorist that goes by the name of Jazz. It actually goes by the name “BEHAVE, GET IN YOUR BED… JAZZ!“. It is a fucking nuisance. It looks and sounds rather menacing… eventually, but it doesn’t usually bother growling or barking at you until you’ve been in the house for 15 minutes.

During the summer, when I was staying at Trump Towers, I had the privilege of helping Trump look after the “Menace under the kitchen table”. This hound has a foot fetish and, it being summer, I found myself sockless in a variety of summer footwear. The dog would greet me by frenzied sequential licking of the toes on both my feet before jumping up at me. Oh how I loved getting back into my shoes in the autumn.

She still has year-round fun sniffing my arse crack with her wet nose every time I bend down to look in a kitchen cupboard, but at least my feet are safe for now.

Hooligan.