Flushed With Success....... And Copious Amounts Of Loo Roll

Despite being markedly closer to death than birth, I have until recently managed to avoid any of life's more debilitating and embarrassing ailments that invariably see you regarded as 'over the hill and under the doctor' as my gran would say.

That all changed the other day when I developed a variety of symptoms more commonly associated with grazing herds of cattle and flatulent hippopotamus.

 This in itself would once have been highly amusing but my stomach also seemed to forget when and how often potty time was. You could say that it was 'driving me round the bend' if you really wanted to tell a CRAP joke,..................

................Anyway I thought it prudent to visit my local physician.

To say I was not overly looking forward to this experience would be a major under-statement as I feared a thorough cross examination of the intimate details of my malady coupled with some kind of poking and prodding. 

It would be weird if you didn't feel a certain amount of dread as you wait for your 10 minute slot in the medics consulting room but this, I should stress is not something that should be allowed to get in the way of getting the expert help and advice you need.
Men in particular seem reluctant to admit they may need to 'have it looked at' when it comes to anything amiss between the waist and the knees.

To be frank, I think the average man would rather spend a morning ironing at the mother in laws than have someone gazing up their hairy harris, or worse, fiddling with the odd assortment of gentleman's unmentionables housed securely inside their sturdy pair of Calvin Klein's. 

This is especially true if they're past 50 as this will normally mean the insertion of a gloved digit in a northerly direction up the old Khyber pass to check the prostate is behaving itself. That's usually thrown in on the house!

I digress though, as being someone who promotes himself as an International man of mystery, incredibly sexy and ready to deploy to any corner of the globe at a moments notice, it was completely against my nature to sit, with some trepidation in the waiting room watching Homes under the Hammer thinking, Hmm, A bidet, that looks just the job, I must get one. 

As it turned out I needn't have worried as the doctor who had the somewhat dubious honour of providing the consultation was;

A)   A man. This made the recounting of my story less difficult though I have no idea why? As if a female doctor would have anything more than a passing professional interest in my bowel's dodgy performance.

B)  The aforementioned male doctor was a very affable chap who quickly passed me on to my local hospital "because even if I did an examination today I would still want you to have this looked at by having a colonoscopy"

This brief moment of relief was cut cruelly short as I was handed a small booklet outlining what a colonoscopy entails. It would not be a surprise if my squeals of terror where heard somewhere in Northern France! 

A pole up my arse?? Are you serious???

I left immediately and on the way home called in to the DIY store where another helpful young man asked:
"Can I help you sir?"
"Yes I'm interested in buying a bidet" I replied, "oh and I'll need some industrial strength sani-cloths.......scented please, Floral valley if you've got it"

"I'm on it" he said, enthusiastically.

Yeah, me too shortly, I thought despondently.

The Lycra Fashionista On Two Wheels

Norman Tebbit could not have known what he would be starting when, after the Brixton riots of 1981, he made his infamous (often mis-quoted) remark that his father, when he found himself out of work, rather than rioting, 'got on his bike' to look for a job!

 It was suggested that he implored people in similar situations and tempted therefore to throw bricks through Curry's window and walk off with the latest tv to do the same thing !

This though was just a tabloid myth designed to provoke outrage and portray the good lord as completely out of touch, and insensitive to the hardships faced by ordinary working class folk.

Be that as it may it cannot be argued that whether meant or not his intervention coupled with the promise of being incinerated by global warming if we use anything with a combustion engine bigger than a lawn mower has resulted in more and more people getting out and about on their bikes.

 All very comforting given that millions of pounds of public money has been spent on providing bespoke cycle ways and tracks while it seems acceptable for the road network to be left crater strewn and untended for months making travelling on them in anything other than a lunar rover a bone jarring nightmare!

 Of course the 'commute' often means that the bulk of cycling is done on those very same lethal roads into major towns and cities while the cycle network is left for Sundays and bank holidays.

This is mildly irritating but would on its own be fairly palatable, were it not for the hideous 'uniform' that the intrepid cyclist feels is the appropriate garb to wear when 'pumpin the pedals'.  

In times gone by we would tuck our trouser leg into our socks, (this being vital to ensure the trousers didn't catch in the chain mechanism resulting in a lower limb amputation)

We'd turn our cap the wrong way around and mount the trusty steed handed down by our dad which despite having Sturmey Archer 3 speed and dynamo lighting also weighed as much as a washing machine and had a hideously buckled front wheel which invariably rubbed against the brake rubbers making forward progress almost impossible!

 Nevertheless pops used it every day for work before he succumbed to an arthritic knee which swelled to the size of a football with any exertion. This meant therefore that a car had to be invested in, consigning my siblings and I to the ravages of the planet heating up exponentially and it seemed, the almost daily use of jump leads.

These days things are very different! It appears that the only way to be seen on a bike is to don garments making yourself look like you have come straight from a Lycra fetish party and complete the outfit by wearing a natty helmet fitted with a camera. 

This presumably is so they can film themselves breaking the law every day while riding a carbon fibre wafer costing roughly the same as a Brighton Semi.

 Men in particular, most of whom appear old enough to know better, seem to feel it is vital to be seen in the latest body hugging, streamlined apparel, so much so, some it would seem even insist on keeping their bicycle pump tucked in the front of their shorts, presumably to reduce drag. What is that all about? It is a frankly terrifying sight!

Of course riders say that they get an enormous amount of pleasure from getting 'out and about' and have become seduced into thinking that a daily dice with death is in someway a healthy and relaxing thing to do and good for the planet.

 Nothing of course could be further from the truth as the life expectancy of the average pedal pusher using main roads is something around 3 weeks.

 This is not because they will be hit by Tyler the tearaway, 'Sexting' his girlfriend while caning his Corsa, No, cyclists are far more likely to disappear into a pot hole abyss the size of Derby, while trying to adjust the position of their pump, furiously chafing their gentlemen's essentials on the saddle!

So would I ever fancy getting back into cycling?......On Yer Bike!