18 May 2012
I'd quit my search for Anusol in the supermarket aisles, And hobbled to a pharmacist’s to seek balm for my piles, But when they saw my sorry state it was straight to the GP, They’d phoned ahead to warn him of my bum calamity. I'd barely even settled down nor had got my sour grapes aired, Before the Doc, with twinkling eye, had already declared: "I think you need a specialist," said he, shuffling my notes "I'll refer you to the experts who've the very whitest coats." I could hear my black dog barking and I hoped a call'd come soon, But the card went on to say that it'd be that afternoon.
I'd barely left the surgery when an unmarked car arrived, In which my Nobby Stiles saga was unpleasantly revived, With gritted teeth and nail marks scoring the back seat, Until I was delivered and could scramble to my feet; Ushered through reception to white-walls with glaring lights, Where in marched an elfin little Doc in moiré fishnet tights, Followed by one cameraman, Then two, Then three, Then four, Then a burly balding steward, leaning cross-armed by the door, A producer and director and a kid with cups of tea, All sidled in with voices low and wry sideways looks at me.
As the medico sanitised and scrubbed her palms with verve, A cameraman swooped in with macro lenses to observe, A tall loud-mouth on the sidelines shot the introduction piece, As I signed my image rights and liability release. They took up their filming places and I barked a dry-mouthed cough As the tiny Doctor ordered me to take my trousers off. “Never mind” said she abruptly as my cheeks began to blush, Pronouncing erythema and a case of oral thrush. The cameras, sated, wheeled away and renewed positions; In came the next unfortunates to flaunt their freak conditions.
Now hell hath no greater fury than a red-raw haemorrhoid; The red mist was thick upon me, I was verily annoyed, I climbed upon the consulting couch and threw my trousers down And I bared the eye of Sauron as the room turned with a frown. The place came to a standstill as hands went to whitened faces, “What about this!” I demanded; I’d lost all airs and graces, Unveiled my throbbing insult in its dreadful swollen glory, One brave but shaken macro lens was capturing the story, The Docs engaged me gingerly; I was still on bended knee, And decided by committee: radiation therapy.
So off I went, my end in sight, and slowly I got better, But never saw it broadcast so I wrote them off a letter, You couldn’t dream an improved answer from a politician Than I received in hindsight; ‘twas an on-air prohibition: Whilst they had no problem flaunting painful arseholes on TV, They just didn’t want to show repeats of X-piles in HD.
A pile of trouble • Opuss № I