Jordan Watson
If you are easily put off by my well-researched medical facts about bums then I suggest you clench tightly, suck it up and get this over and done with.
I’m 30 years old – quite fit, and I have just been slapped on the arse with a nasty case of haemorrhoids.
Why the hell am I talking about this on a national scale? Well, I brought this exact topic up at a Christmas party recently and was amazed at how many people suffered like me, or wanted to know more.
And maybe my weird group of family and friends aren’t the best focus group for topics of national column importance, but here goes . . .
About two weeks ago my 5-year-old said ‘‘Dad you’re walking funny’’.
I was. It was all to do with something down at my ‘‘hell’s gates’’; no, let’s go with ‘‘Mordor’’.
Something wasn’t right with my Mordor. Gollum may have leapt into the pits of Mount Doom with that ring but now it was trying to get back out – still covered in boiling hot lava. It hurts. Bad. It burns.
I wish I could have done a Frodo and just turned invisible, disappeared – but this is not the world’s greatest movie ever. This is me, hobbling around in my house – feet inverted to prevent hell’s gates from rubbing .
So, what is a haemorrhoid? Well, you can maybe Google that yourself. Some people call it a pile. Some people like me swear about it quite loudly. They can sting. Some don’t hurt at all. There are ‘‘external’’ and ‘‘internal’’ ones.
In my case, one has camped