SPECIAL EDITION

This month we are giving the entire newsletter over to a plea from the heart, and other parts of the anatomy, of an unfortunate Prat who had better remain nameless. Yes, Auntie Molly received the following epistle from one of our normally merrie band and since she thought that its contents are probably relevant to most Prats we decided to publish and be damned.

WARNING: THIS LETTER CONTAINS LANGUAGE WHICH COULD GIVE A FENCE.
NOT FOR THOSE OF A DELICATE DISPOSITION (or in a delicate position!)

Dear Auntie Molly,

I have the honour to request that I may be excused boots until further notice.

The circumstances surrounding this request are somewhat bizarre and therefore, with your permission, I will recount, as briefly as possible, the full facts of the matter.

Many things in life seem to be "a good idea at the time". It seemed a good idea at the time ﷓ last Christmas ﷓ to spend 2 weeks at, an admittedly foreign, school, learning a foreign language. Nearer the time these things are often seen in a different light.

I confess to sharing a disease with pilots and the rich (pilots are sometimes rich as well and perhaps regard the money as fair compensation for the disease). Pilots contract it from having their backsides in intimate contact with umpteen tons of screaming aluminium for long periods of time. The longer the time and the more screaming the aluminium the worse things are likely to be. The rich? Well, you must have heard of the richest animal in the zoo, the rhinosauras rhino = money, sauras = piles, therefore piles of money. Yup, I had the dreaded . . . . . . . . . . heaps.

For years, sometimes troublesome, sometimes not. When a subject for complaint, it was usually after a damned good curry and a few million beers - one learnt to avoid such excesses after the first few times! or events requiring one to be seated for excessive periods of time in one place - one learnt to avoid the longer plays and journeys. The doc had helped with creams and potions of palliative rather than curative efficacy, but as he said, they weren't about to go away, like a bad dream! I had also tried the alternative remedies, starting with the "finger﷓ized" piece of raw potato, inserted nightly, and culminating in the tea-leaf poultice. Apparently Jasmine is highly recommended, the size of the leaf being larger, but Lapsang Souchong has it on the grounds of flavour - I hasten to add that you drink the tea and then use the leaves when they have cooled.

They didn't do a lot of good either, but apparently I was going to meet a tall dark stranger and lose some money. Wrong about the first, right about the second! So it seemed another of those "good ideas at the time" when I said to the doc, while consulting him on some minor matter just before the aforementioned sojourn in a foreign language school, that I would consult him on the matter of ............. heaps on my return. I should have known! Immediately! I should have known from the alacrity with which he assured me that a consultation with him was unnecessary and that he would provide me with the vital letter of introduction to The Specialist without delay! I should have known it wasn't such a good idea, straightaway!

The Specialist. (The next step on the inexorable progress into the abyss from which I presently write.) The thought that the meter was running and clicking up pounds at a rate to enthuse even the most hard bitten taxi driver - even at someone else's expense (I'm buggered if I would do it at mine, although perhaps that is not quite the verb to use in the circumstances) - was not helped when I had to complete a questionnaire on my most intimate habits, including the frequency,' volume and loudness of passing wind! Could things get worse? Yup! The Specialist was neither tall nor dark, but was suave, bespectacled and definitely strange. Leastways I call it strange for a chalk-striped-suited individual of mature years to be charging money for the voyeuristic pleasure of using a bright, white light and a device vaguely akin to a glass-bottomed boat to peer UP, and I mean UP, my fundamental orifice! It wouldn't have been so bad if he had taken the oars off first.

There are seminal moments in every person's life and the first time one hears the SNAP! of rubber gloves being donned behind one is such a moment! You can tell those that have had this experience - that noise is for them followed a micro-seccond later by the involuntary tightening of every sphincter muscle and the spreading of a rictus grin across the face. But I digress.

The Specialist, although adhering strictly to the Principle of Dr Gall (inventor of the Gall Bladder) - "Specialise only in Diseases of the Rich" - did at least have a sufficiently well developed Bedside manner (or perhaps it was just sales patter) to cluck sympathetically and opine that the heaps were definitely non(well, he WOULD say that wouldn't he? He wasn't exactly going to turn business away now was he?) He then spoke at some length about, presumably an acquaintance, some Baron or other who was highly influential in the matter of bands. Now I have always been something of a social climber and am quite into jazz if not brass bands, so I readily agreed. The sting in the tail - and I mean this most sincerely, folks - was the throwaway line about tidying up a few other bits and pieces and making everything shipshape and Bristol fashion. Having lived in Brist’l, and knowing about sailors, I should have caught on fast that this was the anal equivalent of trimming one's fingers until they were all the same length, and cutting off one's thumb because it got in the way. But I didn't.

You will remember that week as one of shocking and moving experiences concerning the late, lamented Princess of Wales. I certainly found the week to be one of moving, not to say re-moving, experiences for a totally different reason. So there I was signing the contract, sorry, Consent Form, while the sales patter, sorry, bedside manner, assured me that all would be sweetness and light. I should have known. As he went out the door, the smile already fading, there was a SNAP! of rubber gloves and the bad news started. Slowly at first, with form filling.  Did I know why I was there? What was left of my fragile confidence evaporated rapidly. If THEY didn't know, what the hell was I doing here? What had I just signed away? Why on earth had I let the pressure get to me and not read the small print? Would attending to a cut finger be sufficient reason? A withering smile said No. Gulp! Nothing for it then - removal of the ............ heaps? The smile ramped up as far as condescending. Who was my next of kin? This was obviously not for the faint-hearted. Right, for once.

Questions and forms over, it was time for ............ The Enema. What a short, simple word it is. Reminiscent of enigmatic, the Enigma variations, whimsical, a trifle wistful perhaps? Wrong! once composed of hot, soapy water delivered with the aid of 2 1/2 bar of hydrostatic pressure via a high-pressure hose, the modern enema is a thing of beauty and a joy to behold, in the right hands. Like Semtex. Have you ever wondered what happened to the portions of the triple-X rated curries that are left, because not even your drunken, crazy brother could eat more than two mouthfuls before his entire digestive system shut down in self-preservation? Wonder no more! Apparently decent, honest men, indistinguishable externally from you or me, collect them and, following an ancient recipe once used to transmute base metal into gold - or vice versa - add liquid dynamite, Flash and Ajax, and amalgamate gently. (Didn't they read that you should never mix chemicals together?) neatly package it in friendly pastel shades with a convenient nozzle and there you are.

There it was.  Lying innocently in a kidney dish, like 15Ogms of Semtex.  Just waiting for the detonation. Delivered in this case with a SNAP! of the gloves, a smear of KY and a good squeeze from a pair of firm and business-like hands, with the injunction to "hang on as long as you can". Oh, Foul Deceiver! Oh, Savage Dissembler! Within 2 minutes the effect was like that 150gms of Semtex going off in a crowded shopping mall - carnage! I made it with a nano-second to spare and the bottom fell out of my world. It felt like the other way round and I bit my tongue in making sure it didn't follow the general trend! I hung on grimly to the furniture to make sure I didn't descend bodily into the Pit, remembering, as you do, those far off days of ,I can eat a hotter curry than you can", and the following morning, and I hadn't even had the dubious pleasure of eating it! In truth, why I hung on to the furniture I know not. That stuff was like rocket fuel and if there had been the slightest source of ignition I'd have been single-stage-to-orbit, no problem.

The worst having passed, in all senses of the word, and having immersed the nether regions in a bowl of cold water amidst a cloud of steam, I was contemplating the Times Two crossword and pondering the final clue when there was a SNAP! and a second 40mm grenade was loaded with speed and efficiency! I wasn't to be had a second time and was off like a startled rabbit to conduct a controlled explosion in the interests of avoiding the main one. Success I if you can call it that. With a bum like a cherry, I contemplated doing a runner to join a northbound goods train where I could kill two birds with one stone by acting as the rear light while trying to cool things down. However, the No 2 nurse on duty was built like the side of a house, and was permanently between me and the door, so I cowered wimp-like and whimpering until my time was nigh. The only bright spot seemed to be that no-one was contemplating shaving personal parts of my anatomy.

I don't remember a thing after he said "roll over onto your side", but I can vouch for the efficacy of epidural injections in allowing one to be conscious and without pain when it was all over. However, all good things come to an end and then it's back to the good old stand-bys of codeine, paracetamol et al. Totally useless, the lot of them - thank the Lord for a shot of Pethedine and a couple of Temazepams for a decent night's sleep.

The next problem was the First Pee. It's the anaesthetic, they said. stops you going, they said. If you don't go, we'll do unspeakable things to you, they said. Having had totally unspeakable things done to one end, I wasn't about to welcome anything similar at the other. But you know what life is, the harder you try, the worse it is. Try a warm bath, they said. Remembering the quality of some of the previous advice, I treated this with some scepticism, but, mirabile dictu, it worked. Not only pain relief but a certain relaxation. But not enough. Drink more, they said have another bath, they said. Four baths and two pints later, and looking like an albino prune, another important sphincter consented to relax, to the relief of all concerned. It was only later, recumbent in weak triumph, that I remembered that the two hallmarks of a gentleman were that he should take a lady's tights off first, and get out of the bath to pee. oh well, needs must when the Devil drives, I thought.

One good thing about Pinehill (where did that name come from I wonder?) is the food. Varied, tasty, just enough and served by either winsome English wenches or smiling persons of Southern European origin, after all that cleaning out I thought I would be safe to sample the delights of the cuisine - well, if someone else was paying, why not? (Incidentally, it beats me why, with all the research and expense that goes into modern medicine, the Specialists in Diseases of the Rich had not invented some sort of by-pass which would separate one's fundamental orifice from that which passed through it, thereby allowing the former to heal up in peace and quiet without impeding the latter.)

However they were a jump ahead of me, and to accompany the Fillets of Red Mullet in a Lemon Sauce was 15ml. of a clear, oleaginous liquid which didn't move a lot. You need this, they said. Every night and morning, they said. It'll help to get you working again, they said. If you don't take it, then it's the Semtex-in-a-tube, they said. They knew a good threat when they saw one! Don't worry, it takes a couple of days to work, they said. They lied, as usual! It turned out this stuff was called Lactulose. Such an innocent name.  Any student of a supermarket shelf knows that anything ending in "-ose" is a sugar, and "lact-" as in lactating was obviously to do with milk. So it must be some form of "milk sugar" - it had certainly tasted sweet - so no problem, eh? Wrong! The all-important "-ul-" in the middle wasn't there as a misprint or a way of using up spare letters in the printer's diddy box. Oh not "U L" stood for unlimited Loosening. Oh, by the way, they said, it will make you a bit windy! They weren't wrong! The only consolation was getting my own back on the cat for dropping sneaky ones when curled up on my lap - after one of the UL powered ones he beat a hasty retreat. I reckon I could have cleared Wembley Stadium in one go.

Next morning I innocently adopted the more gentlemanly sitting position instead of the warm bath for my morning pee and was rewarded with one of the most moving experiences of my life. It wasn't so much the experience itself - short and somewhat surprising - so much as the aftermath. WHAT THE HELL HAD THEY DONE?  My own instant assessment of the situation involved the worst features of an irate sea urchin, a vengeful stonefish and a pineapple with a VERY bad attitude! Straight into a hot bath for some relief. Have as many as you like, they said. 743 that day! Pinehill - now I knew where the name came from - ran out of hot water, and it was back to Pethidine until the time came to go home, later that day. And at home at least the Codis worked - max dosage, minimum interval, but they worked.

That weekend, Princess Diana's funeral and Grand Prix kept my mind off things but Monday was a different kettle of fish. I lay there doing a mental assessment of what was where that was hurting, as you do. The Baron and his bands were not a problem - they turned out to be rubber and not brass, thankfully - but it was the rest that hurt like hell. And then I remembered that throwaway line about "tidying things up".  It felt like my backside had been remodelled with either a Stanley knife or a star-shaped pastry cutter, or both! And of course when sphincter 2 (S2) hurts it contracts. And so does S1, in sympathy. So back to the hot baths and being most ungentlemanlyl  It's cost me a fortune in gas keeping the water hot and I am getting the right hump having to leap into a bath every hour or so. Being a confirmed shower man, I've had more baths in the last 10 days than I've had in the last 20 years.

So in the circumstances, I most respectfully request that you give sympathetic consideration to my request to be excused boots until further notice.

I am, Madam, your obedient servant,

A. Pineapplebottom

Dear Mr. Pineapplebottom,
l thank you for your letter, even if it did make my eyes water more than somewhat. You were very brave to write to me ﷓there but for the grace of Himself go most Prats.

Having "come out" I am sure that all Prats will be grateful to you for sharing your experience with us.

The moral of the tale however, if you will excuse the unintentional pun, seems to be Forget It, lads, just grit the tooth for the next fifty years.

By the way Mr. Pineapplebottom, have you ever thought of writing a novel? They tend to be rather shorter than your letters by and large!

Thanks again to our mystery correspondent. A timely warning to us all. (You can never tell what's going on behind a pair of goggles, can you?)
 

See Yah Friday, Soon,


Brian

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