I am in a most foul temperament. My back has gone right fucked, I’m using my fucking walking stick again and I’m in bloody agony in any given position -save lying down on my side in a half foetal position with a pillow between my knees and another stuffed into the small of my fucking useless back. This isn’t a good position for the office. The only alternative is to gently adopt a position that most effectively bypasses the contentious area so I’m bolt upright in my chair like a Victorian Civil Servant wincing everytime I so much as blink.
I suspected it was going to do this, the warning signs have been in evidence since last week but instead of taking some extra time to do the strengthening exercises… I didn’t. I spurned the exercises like they were Argos receipts for Tupperware, I laughed in their goddamnn faces with my eyes glowing with fucking hate, me, I did… but now I pay.
The upshot is time consuming, costly and of course, the other thing, er, oh yes, more painful than having a roasted angle grinder dropped onto your genitals from the top of K2. No more gentle-massaging osteopath for me, it’s chiropractor time, the fucking back cracker, the clicker, the snapper, the angel of death.
Last night, after a couple of pints with Frank up the road, I returned home. Dimly aware that the spot of alcohol I’d consumed was having little effect on my spine, I made some supper and watched some of Tribe (I don’t know why I bother. Every week it’s the same; Bruce Parry meets some indigenous people, gets fucked out of his skull and vomits copiously. Surely it’s cheaper to just send the cunt to Blackpool on Friday night?) but I was partially saved by The Wire, I say ‘partially’ because the dawning realisation that I couldn’t sit with honking was pissing me off.
I’ve made an appointment to see the doctor this afternoon. Only my moustache can save me now.
No youtube today, it hurts too much to look for something.