Deep Throat

I mentioned yesterday in ‘Gagging For It’ that I was off for an endoscopy after lunch – although as you have to fast for hours before, lunch was somewhat sparse (as in sod all to be precise). I assume that this was to stop you chucking up tripe and chips all over the doc’s nice blue jim jams.

Everyone kept telling me that having an endoscopy is a piece of cake (ha ha). Is it buggery  –  which is apparently similar to another medical procedure involving a camera and sounds even more unpleasant frankly!

If endoscopy is indeed a piece of cake it could only involve a three week old iced bun or a Turnip Suprise!

I made the grave mistake of reading the leaflet and looking at some rather disturbing diagrams before I pitched up to the clinic – big mistake.

It informs you that there is nothing to worry about as the cable is only about the width of your little finger – fuck that, I had assumed it would be like the one that you use to charge your mobile – but without the USB thingy on the end, obviously.

I had a butchers (sic) at my digits and tried pushing my littlest piggy a short way into my gob – I was less than reassured I can tell you.

When I was finally ushered into the treatment room I was horrified to see that the cable was even thicker than I had anticipated.

The bloke who knocked out the leaflet must have been using Eric Pickles as the standard unit for the little piggy on the end!

The doc and nurses turned out to be very nice and I was told to lie down while some sort of gum shield was stuck in my moosh and strapped round my head. This was some feat since my teeth are about as impressive as that bloke’s in the Pogues. I was never able to keep a gum shield in when I played and this resulted in my choppers getting even more messed up (see ‘Getting Hurt’ post).

The mouth guard is designed to keep your mouth open and it was about the only time I haven’t been told by someone in authority (or anyone in fact) to keep my gob shut.

The big cable had a light thing on the end and I thought maybe they were having a laugh before using the real one. Not so – they shoved it down my gullet and I gagged a bit whilst keeping my fingers firmly crossed  – I consoled myself thinking about the dentist joke where the patient says “now we’re not going to hurt each other are we?”, whilst firmly grasping the bloke’s knackers”.

The doc was watching the screen behind me and commented that my throat looked ‘enflamed’. I thought to myself ‘so would yours mate if someone stuck a fucking great hosepipe down past your tonsils’.

Fortunately the mouth guard prevented me from pointing this out, I suspect it would have been unwise to take the piss when some bloke has you in the equivalent of an SS interrogation.

He wiggled the cable about and murmured something before, to my delight, pulling the thing out.

I had to sit around for a while and answer questions including a rather personal one about whether or not I could get  home on my own without a carer. Then I was sent off with the report – but luckily, not the revolting photos of my insides.

Terry read the report when I got back, informing me that I have a hernia. I wittily (I thought) commented that I believed that was the place you could get to, through the back of the wardrobe. Did I get a laugh? Not a titter!

She simply went on to say that it is a hiatus hernia – and I took the pre-fix to mean that it is rather a superior one. No surprise to me, I can tell you.

I knocked back some soup and then we headed off to Cheltenham for the theatre.

The endoscopy leaflet had warned that the procedure could lead to me suffering an extended period of flatulence and wind – something I had forgotten until we were seated and waiting for the play to begin.

It should really have warned the poor sods seated either side and behind us to be honest – they were the ones who suffered – until the interval anyway.

We moved to a row where there were hardly any other patrons and everybody looked relieved – well all except Terry, obviously, who rather unwisely had moved with me.

She commented that it was like after I’d been out on a quiet pub crawl round Taunton with Harro. I think her description of ‘quiet’ was her attempt at sarcasm.

If there’s anyone reading this who is up for an endoscopy sometime soon, I hope that I haven’t put you off.

To be fair it wasn’t that bad – it was right up there with my old man’s funeral!

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