My unhealthy obsession with being a pain in the bum

F‘When I came to, there were too many people with smug looks on their

faces’

OR the past three years or so I have had an almost perpetual burning sensation in that no-man’s land between chest and abdomen, in the vicinity of the solar plexus. Many times I’ve found myself guzzling Gaviscon like a woman in her third trimester. Me being me, I just assumed that it was a case of too many extra-hot briyanis, Cajun-chicken-flavoured nachos, Bloody Marys and Flaming Lamborghinis finally catching up with me.

As it happens, it was nothing more than my tummy letting me know that it hates me. Probably as a result of the Flaming Lamborghinis. Just to punish me, it allowed the ingress of a strain of bacterium that specialises in churning out gallons of acid and gas. I apologise to anyone who’s shared an elevator with me in the last three years or so.

One of my few true pleasures in life is offending people by mocking and ridiculing them. I enjoy picking on medical doctors. There is not much fun in poking a caged bear with a stick and having the bear yawn and roll away from you; no, I love poking the type of bear that will growl menacingly and rattle its cage.

Of all the categories of people I pick on, doctors — and other health service professionals — are most likely not only to get offended, but pen 2 000-word essays telling me what an ignoramus I am for not even knowing that the condition I have is called chronic gastritis and that the bacterium I am referring to is called Helicobacter pylori and, and . . . you catch my drift. That’s the beauty of humourless people; they are accidentally hilarious.

So when I point out that I am convinced doctors are obsessed with people’s fleshy bits in the nether regions, I’m just poking the angry bear. You could go to a doctor with a bleeding pinky and the first thing he’ll do is place a cold stethoscope on your chest, followed by, “Take your pants off.”

That’s why I always wear my good underwear when I have a doctor’s appointment. I wouldn’t want to be caught off guard, wearing the 14-year-old, tattered lucky boxers that I wear when Kaizer Chiefs are playing. And I apply an extra layer of Vaseline back there to avoid baring my ashy butt in front of a stranger.

So when I was booked for a gastroscopy, which is essentially a torch stuck down one’s throat, I was naturally concerned. With good underwear and shiny bum (you’ve watched Shaka Zulu, the historically accurate TV series, right?), I presented myself at reception. I swear on my granny’s grave that the receptionist was judging me harshly for arriving in track pants. It was almost a case of, “Those are obsolete around here, why bother hiding your fleshy bits from me? Resistance is futile, you will be assimilated.”

My admitting nurse wasted no time in getting me to strip down to my birthday suit before offering me loose cotton panties with a pouch in front. Then I was made to lie on a bed, at which point a team of Nazis masquerading as nurses walked into the allegedly private ward

which I shared with three others in various stages of ill-health and humiliation.

I was subjected to a barrage of questions, at 100 decibels in case my fellow “private ward” inmates were hard of hearing. Why are you here? Do you understand what a gastroscopy is? How tall are you? Have you had any operation since the year 2000? What was it? When did you last experience a bowel movement? (One of my fellow inmates giggled at my answer.) What is the length of your member? (OK, I made that last one up.)

When I came to, after having had a pipe shoved down my throat, I couldn’t help wondering what had happened in the three hours I was out. There were too many people with smug looks on their faces. Like I said, I don’t trust doctors and therefore cannot rule out the possibility of coming across an image of my ashy behind on Facebook.

The moral of the story? Try to avoid being sick.