If it works it can’t be alternative

I HAVE an issue with alternative medicine. Once it’s been proved to actually work, it’s no longer an alternative medicine.

Therefore, it is the domain of wishful thinkers prepared to put their health in the hands of hearsay and folklore.

If alternative medicine was as effective as some made out, it would’ve ceased being an alternative long ago.

Don’t get me wrong, I dabble, and recently invested in a suppository substitute made from palm leaves.

The box states: “With fronds like these, who needs enemas?”

I’ve also bought a herbal wine that promises to ease the middle-aged misery of frequent nocturnal toilet trips.

It’s something called Pinot More. Before the chaos of lockdown I attended a spanking new alternative therapy clinic and had candles stuck in my ears. Honest.

Well, not candles exactly. The lady looked at the build-up of wax in both lugholes and decided to stick a couple of wicks in.

The amazing thing is – and I never thought I’d say this – it worked.

My ears have been burning for six months now, and quite vigorously too. Admittedly, the eternal flames may be down to my drinking.

Having agreed to donate my organs on death, I’m helping the medical profession by preserving them in alcohol.

The treatment has not cured my piles, but it has bestowed a sense of calmness on Yours Truly, shattered only briefly when I turned sharply in the Post Office queue and singed someone’s eyebrows.

On the plus side, I’ve become a very popular addition to the local pub’s smoking shelter.

I’ll admit that in the past I’ve poohpoohed all these New Age remedies. Call me a sceptic, but given the choice between penicillin and liquorice, I go for the former, even if they’ve yet to master penicillin allsorts.

“Bronze Age Man,” said a bod at the clinic, his soft voice near drowned out by the haunting calls of whales and splash of waterfalls on the in-house sound system, “knew more than we do about the immense medicinal power of countryside plants.”

Unfortunately, Bronze Age Man didn’t know too much about living past the age of 30 – something that, as a 59-year-old, I find important.

But as soon as I walked into that clinic, smelled the sandalwood and heard the mournful whale noises through the PA, the stresses and strains gathered during a working day fell away.

The whale sounds took me aback at first.

“Humpback,” pointed out the receptionist, detecting my alarm.

“Reeeally!” I gasped. “Who’s treating the poor chap – a panel beater?”

Apparently, they can tell how many toxins are polluting your body by placing your bare feet in a bowl of clear liquid.

The substance becomes darker the more tainted an individual’s body is. They pulled me out after 30 seconds because it was starting to set.

“We usually recommend colonic irrigation,” said the chief tree-hugger, studying the treacly substance with amazement, “but Biffa are a tad busy at the moment.”

Instead, I underwent an Indian head massage (I’m still fishing bits of naan bread out of my hair) and full body massage with scented oils.

“When it comes to head massages,” I enquired, “do you do anything a bit closer to home, like a Welsh one?”

“Most certainly, Sir,” the chap assured me. “I’ll get the hot fudge.”

“Are you starting to feel relaxed?” asked the expert, applying essential oils.

Not really. I’d slipped off the couch three times.

“Then,” I later recounted to fellow drinkers in the Drum and Monkey, “they covered my back with hot, tiny stones.”

“What did it feel like?” they gasped. Not unlike someone placing red hot gravel on your back, which, in honesty, is a sea-mile from relaxation. I had to keep on turning round to check two labourers weren’t carrying out the treatment while brandishing a wacker plate.

The chap told me how our bodies have seasons. #

Unfortunately, I’ve endured a succession of very wet summers and face a harsh winter.

Anatomically, I’m the equivalent of Glasgow. He believes I can attain Rhyl, off-season, but it will take meditation.

During the session, I drew the line at acupuncture. I suffer from water retention and didn’t want to sprinkle all over the carpet.

Clinic staff told me they could actually feel my tension.

“From massaging the knotted muscles in your shoulder,” nodded Colin knowingly.

‘‘No, from the vice-like grip of my hand on my credit card.’’

It’s amazing what they can achieve, though. They actually stopped me smoking. “Sorry, you can’t smoke in here,” they said.

And I haven’t even thought about my bad back – the burn marks from the pebbles are much too painful.

Most importantly, however, they’ve helped me discover my inner-self, my inner-me, if you will.

“What’s your inner-me like?” asked Colin.

‘‘It’s a lot like me, obviously, but, er, a bit smaller.’’