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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen...

Now, I'm not one to complain very often. Lord knows, I'm very good at keeping my own counsel and holding my opinions internally for so long, I'm quite often left with some heavy constipation. Yes, that's right readers, I'm not a whinger. I'm not a whiner or a moaner. I'm stoic. I'm almost silent. I do not ever make a terrible fuss about everything and nothing.

Therefore, it will come as a terrible surprise to many and most of you, as you will be hearing this news for the very first time, that my back is fucked up again. Readers from way back in the past will be familiar with my medical history and specifically with the hate-hate relationship I have with my own spine. But to summarise incredibly briefly, it goes something like this:

1. Shazzle has arthritis.
2. Shazzle falls down stairs.
3. Shazzle's back gets twisted and broken.
4. Shazzle lies down for an entire year (2004) and cries.
5. Shazzle gets back up again and kicks the world's ass.

Unfortunately, God, Buddha and Xenu have clubbed together to get their own back for all the wrong-doing I've done during the last blissful two and half years in which I've been (for the most part) pain-free and fully functional, and they have between them decreed that a plague of metaphorical locusts should be playing with my spinal cord like the strings on a double bass for the last month and a half. I've become increasingly anti-social and, I'll be honest, a complete nightmare to live with over the last six weeks, and I've finally reached, as Gary Lightbody so aptly whines, my final straw.

The choices currently facing me today, the ones that have led me to bolt down a pint of beer on top of 2mg of valium and then sit down to blog this entry are thusly:

1. I have to miss a Tom McRae gig I bought tickets for 5 months ago tomorrow night and I ADORE HIM.
2. I have to miss a Joe Purdy gig next Tuesday and I ADORE HIM.
3. I have to fly to Dublin and back again next Wednesday (two flights in one day, TWOFLIGHTSINONEDAY) to meet with a consultant because at this point I've lost faith in the English NHS system, because all they've done is told me to go back home and get on with life. You get on with life, mother fuckers, when your own back is trying to fucking kill you with pain.

I am, as I previously stated, an absolute joy to live with.

To commemorate this fine moment in my life, here is a photo from the last gig I saw Tom McRae at, grinning at the ironic melancholy of his own lyrics, when life was good and I could still stand up. Not that I'm one for seeking pity. This is not a Pity Party. This is merely a pity post.

Many, bitter thanks.


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