As the wife would say, it’s a sair fecht. I’ve put my back out good and proper, and it’s a bastard misery and no mistake.
I’ve seized up tighter than a rusty lock, my lower back reduced to a throbbing mass of inflammation and pain. Sitting or lying, there’s no position that offers any real or lasting relief. Manage to drag myself upright, and I can only mince about like Elton John’s houseboy with a bad case of the Chalfonts.
To add insult to injury, I’ve got to admit that this situation has only come about due to my own inclination to excess; to wit, over-exuberance where the wife’s charms are concerned. Ironically she blames herself, and is now waiting on me hand and foot. It’s a small consolation, I suppose.
The quack says that I might be like this for another twelve to fourteen days, and has prescribed strong painkillers. I can only sit and lie this one out with whatever patience I can muster, but I’m not a good patient. What a cunt.
Er, any chance of a cup of tea, dear?
(What you want is a naked Flabbott & Swanson giving you a body-sandwich massage – Admin)
Nominated by: Ron Knee




