I was back at the coalface today having had two days off to get my wisdom teeth out and recover, followed by a weekend of further recovery.
I felt fine the day after the bilateral removal, and thought that the whole process was going to prove pain free.
That was until I woke up in agony in the middle of Friday/Saturday night. It seems that the tender tissue around the stitches takes a couple of days to bruise.
So Saturday saw me increasing my dosage of painkillers, although things did improve a tad on Sunday.
The area around the spot where my lower wisdom tooth could formerly be found is still pretty tender, but I'm fairly sure I haven't burst the stitches. And the pain has, for the most part, moved into my jaw and tongue - I presume I'm using both differently while attempting not to bash my raw, stitched gum against my teeth.
Anyway, I was back at work today with breath that probably stinks to high heaven, what with having a recently-stitched wound in my mouth, and unshaven since Thursday, as my left cheek is too tender to shave.
And joy of joys, my new boss is over from Norway tomorrow - what an image I'm going to present!
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Monday, January 12, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
Aftermath
What a load of fuss about nothing.
I was in the dentist's chair for just 15 minutes, and my jaw and mouth were so numb and I was so relaxed that, not a word of a lie, I almost fell asleep.
I was genuinely surprised when the dentist announced that the bottom tooth was out and that she was about to start stitching, as I expected the procedure to take much longer and for it to be far more uncomfortable. The stitching was the worst part, as the dental nurse put pressure on my tongue to keep it out of road - I'm guessing that sewing the tongue to the gum is frowned upon in dental circles - and it made me want to gag.
As for the top tooth - the dentist simply told me to open wide, jammed whatever tool it was into my mouth and pulled hard - it takes Usain Bolt longer to run 100 metres.
Now though, my lower jaw is throbbing and I can't fully open my mouth. I was spitting blood for most of yesterday evening, but things seem to have settled down now. Last night's oral intake consisted of four paracetamol, four ibuprofen, two pieces of chocolate orange eaten with only one side of my mouth and a bottle of water. I've managed to have some corn flakes this morning though, but I've been told to do salt water rinses of my mouth every couple of hours, which sounds rank. Oh, and my breath stinks.
Apologies to Jaggy - no photographic evidence I'm afraid. There's no external swelling or bruising, and as the gaping hole in my jaw is right at the back of my mouth, I can't get a camera close enough to take a photo.
I was in the dentist's chair for just 15 minutes, and my jaw and mouth were so numb and I was so relaxed that, not a word of a lie, I almost fell asleep.
I was genuinely surprised when the dentist announced that the bottom tooth was out and that she was about to start stitching, as I expected the procedure to take much longer and for it to be far more uncomfortable. The stitching was the worst part, as the dental nurse put pressure on my tongue to keep it out of road - I'm guessing that sewing the tongue to the gum is frowned upon in dental circles - and it made me want to gag.
As for the top tooth - the dentist simply told me to open wide, jammed whatever tool it was into my mouth and pulled hard - it takes Usain Bolt longer to run 100 metres.
Now though, my lower jaw is throbbing and I can't fully open my mouth. I was spitting blood for most of yesterday evening, but things seem to have settled down now. Last night's oral intake consisted of four paracetamol, four ibuprofen, two pieces of chocolate orange eaten with only one side of my mouth and a bottle of water. I've managed to have some corn flakes this morning though, but I've been told to do salt water rinses of my mouth every couple of hours, which sounds rank. Oh, and my breath stinks.
Apologies to Jaggy - no photographic evidence I'm afraid. There's no external swelling or bruising, and as the gaping hole in my jaw is right at the back of my mouth, I can't get a camera close enough to take a photo.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Wise?
Both my regular readers may remember that a few months ago, I was told I'd need to have a pair of wisdom teeth removed.
And those of you who read my internet-based textual tripe may also remember that I opted to undergo this bilateral removal under local anaesthetic, rather than while knocked out or sedated.
Well, today is the day that I clamber into the dentist's chair to have one of the hardest parts of my body sawn in two and ripped out of my face. Then go through it all again as the dentist looks to make a perfect matching set.
Nerves? Not yet. I'm trying not to think about it. But I'm preparing to be in a lot of pain afterwards, and to look like like I've gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson.
And those of you who read my internet-based textual tripe may also remember that I opted to undergo this bilateral removal under local anaesthetic, rather than while knocked out or sedated.
Well, today is the day that I clamber into the dentist's chair to have one of the hardest parts of my body sawn in two and ripped out of my face. Then go through it all again as the dentist looks to make a perfect matching set.
Nerves? Not yet. I'm trying not to think about it. But I'm preparing to be in a lot of pain afterwards, and to look like like I've gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
On The Pull
I've just arrived back at Dungroanin' following a visit to Dundee Dental Hospital.
I was sent to the hospital on the recommendation of my dentist, who spotted that one of my wisdom teeth has come through squint and is pushing against the molar in front of it, causing damage and decay.
In truth, I hadn't felt anything, but the dentist thought it best if I get the wisdom tooth checked out by the folks at the dental hospital, so I found myself there today for a preliminary examination.
And it's not good news. The molar has been damaged pretty badly, but nothing can be done to attempt to save it until the wisdom tooth has been removed. And dentists prefer to remove wisdom teeth in pairs, so I'm to find myself back in the chair before too long to have the upper and lower wisdom teeth on one side of my mouth whisked out.
I was offered three options for having the work done - a local anaesthetic injection that will numb my mouth but keep me fully aware during the procedure; a general anaesthetic so that I know nothing about it until I wake up with two gaping holes in my mouth; and a halfway house that would make me pretty groggy but keep me awake during the procedure, albeit leaving me away with the fairies afterwards.
I've had a few fillings in my time and have always managed just fine with the local anaesthetic injections, so I thought I'd brave it out and have the teeth removed while fully aware of what's happening.
Which maybe, on reflection, isn't the best idea - the dentist explained that the problem tooth will be split in two and the two roots removed separately, while the one that is being removed to make a matching set will be ripped out in a single effort.
When I described what was going to happen when I undergo this oral smash'n'grab, Mrs Wife baulked a little and reminded me that she had a general anaesthetic when she had her wisdom teeth removed.
But it's too late now, so I'll just have to remember that it'll all be over in less than an hour and I'll be fit to engage in retail therapy afterwards. And that I should get between two days and a week off work to recover.
I was sent to the hospital on the recommendation of my dentist, who spotted that one of my wisdom teeth has come through squint and is pushing against the molar in front of it, causing damage and decay.
In truth, I hadn't felt anything, but the dentist thought it best if I get the wisdom tooth checked out by the folks at the dental hospital, so I found myself there today for a preliminary examination.
And it's not good news. The molar has been damaged pretty badly, but nothing can be done to attempt to save it until the wisdom tooth has been removed. And dentists prefer to remove wisdom teeth in pairs, so I'm to find myself back in the chair before too long to have the upper and lower wisdom teeth on one side of my mouth whisked out.
I was offered three options for having the work done - a local anaesthetic injection that will numb my mouth but keep me fully aware during the procedure; a general anaesthetic so that I know nothing about it until I wake up with two gaping holes in my mouth; and a halfway house that would make me pretty groggy but keep me awake during the procedure, albeit leaving me away with the fairies afterwards.
I've had a few fillings in my time and have always managed just fine with the local anaesthetic injections, so I thought I'd brave it out and have the teeth removed while fully aware of what's happening.
Which maybe, on reflection, isn't the best idea - the dentist explained that the problem tooth will be split in two and the two roots removed separately, while the one that is being removed to make a matching set will be ripped out in a single effort.
When I described what was going to happen when I undergo this oral smash'n'grab, Mrs Wife baulked a little and reminded me that she had a general anaesthetic when she had her wisdom teeth removed.
But it's too late now, so I'll just have to remember that it'll all be over in less than an hour and I'll be fit to engage in retail therapy afterwards. And that I should get between two days and a week off work to recover.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Carry That Weight
My recent bilateral toenailectomy has had an unfortunate side effect entirely unrelated to the masked man who hacked at my feet with his interesting mini crowbar and scalpel combination.
Though both weeping wounds have long since stopped weeping, and the skin is returning to its standard "Scotland in February" corned-beef tones, the areas where the nails used to be are still a tad tender.
Unfortunately, this has left me unable to play football (some might argue that it has had no bearing on my inability to play football, but that's a debate for another day).
Even more unforunately, two games of football a week is about the only exercise I get. And now it has been temporarily removed from my schedule.
Which means that my weight is slowly but steadily creeping upwards, and I am in danger of reaching a weight I have never reached before.
I'm not quite there yet, but another week or two of couch-based chocolate guzzling would pretty much do it, I'm sure.
Though both weeping wounds have long since stopped weeping, and the skin is returning to its standard "Scotland in February" corned-beef tones, the areas where the nails used to be are still a tad tender.
Unfortunately, this has left me unable to play football (some might argue that it has had no bearing on my inability to play football, but that's a debate for another day).
Even more unforunately, two games of football a week is about the only exercise I get. And now it has been temporarily removed from my schedule.
Which means that my weight is slowly but steadily creeping upwards, and I am in danger of reaching a weight I have never reached before.
I'm not quite there yet, but another week or two of couch-based chocolate guzzling would pretty much do it, I'm sure.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Top Of The Hops
Fear not, dear readers, for once again I have survived surgery.
Where once I had mangled toe nails, I now have bleeding stumps.
Today's surgeon seemed more focussed than the one who previously fixed my left foot, and he went about his duties with gusto.
As before, the worst part was the anaesthetic injection, which was a tad painful, but from then on, the procedure passed with barely a hitch. In fact, it made for interesting viewing from my vantage point six feet away, and the surgeon saw fit to remark on the depth to which my hobbit nails had dug themselves.
(He also asked if I was a dancer, which wasn't quite so welcome.)
So now I find myself alone in Dungroanin', save for Pepper the rabbit, who seems bemused by my presence in the house during the day, and a little annoyed that she is not allowed out of her cage. But hey, I can't be chasing rabbits, not in my condition.
I know, fellow denizens of the blogosphere, that you will be keen to see the surgeon's handiwork. And so, through the miracles of mobile camera phones, here is the evidence you so crave:
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
We Are The Champions (Tonight At Least)
Dancer!
My works football team won its first match of the season this evening, recording a 9-5 victory over the only team below us in the league.
We were ahead from the first minute onwards, and never really looked like being caught. One of the opposition players was sin-binned for lashing out in the first half, and a member of our team will return home to his wife and kids tonight covered in blood, having been shoved head-first into the boards at the side of the pitch.
So, blood and sweat were spilled en route to this maiden victory, but thankfully there weren't any tears.
Unfortunately, the appearance may be my last for a few weeks, given that I'm about to have a grown man attack my feet with knives and pliers. So I signed off with a goal, either our third or fourth of the evening.
And the pleasure of knowing that a colleague who predicted we'd never win now owes all members of tonight's squad a drink.
My works football team won its first match of the season this evening, recording a 9-5 victory over the only team below us in the league.
We were ahead from the first minute onwards, and never really looked like being caught. One of the opposition players was sin-binned for lashing out in the first half, and a member of our team will return home to his wife and kids tonight covered in blood, having been shoved head-first into the boards at the side of the pitch.
So, blood and sweat were spilled en route to this maiden victory, but thankfully there weren't any tears.
Unfortunately, the appearance may be my last for a few weeks, given that I'm about to have a grown man attack my feet with knives and pliers. So I signed off with a goal, either our third or fourth of the evening.
And the pleasure of knowing that a colleague who predicted we'd never win now owes all members of tonight's squad a drink.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Under The Knife Revisited
Almost 18 months on, and I'm now lined up for a second spell under the surgeon's knife in the seemingly never-ending quest to fix my knackered toes.
Regular readers (don't you have anything better to do?) will remember that I was first hacked at by the surgeon's blade in October 2006.
Whilst the operation was a complete success, my recovery caused much hilarity and much swearing in Groanin' Towers, as I hopped around the house smacking the bandaged toe off tables, doors and walls.
This time, things will be different. Firstly, because I now live an hour away from my place of work, I'll be excused a few days at the coal face, as my bleeding wounds will make driving and walking impossible.
So, I effectively get three days off work without actually feeling ill. I can lie on the sofa and watch DVDs, continue my push towards European success with Rangers on Football Manager 2008 and generally just lounge around like the lazy slob I am, all with the perfect excuses hanging off the bottom of my legs.
Hopefully the doctor will take one look at my troublesome tootsies and decide to remove both nails completely, allowing me to never again be troubled by ingrowing nails. Most footballers allegedly peak at the age of 28. So this should be my season.....
Regular readers (don't you have anything better to do?) will remember that I was first hacked at by the surgeon's blade in October 2006.
Whilst the operation was a complete success, my recovery caused much hilarity and much swearing in Groanin' Towers, as I hopped around the house smacking the bandaged toe off tables, doors and walls.
This time, things will be different. Firstly, because I now live an hour away from my place of work, I'll be excused a few days at the coal face, as my bleeding wounds will make driving and walking impossible.
So, I effectively get three days off work without actually feeling ill. I can lie on the sofa and watch DVDs, continue my push towards European success with Rangers on Football Manager 2008 and generally just lounge around like the lazy slob I am, all with the perfect excuses hanging off the bottom of my legs.
Hopefully the doctor will take one look at my troublesome tootsies and decide to remove both nails completely, allowing me to never again be troubled by ingrowing nails. Most footballers allegedly peak at the age of 28. So this should be my season.....
Friday, April 20, 2007
The Interview
In what will be a brief interlude in the (thankfully) short series entitled "What Groanin' Jock Did On Holiday", I'm going to take part in a meme that I first encountered over at Ole Blue The Heretic's blog.
Basically, it takes the form of an interview, with the last person on the chain picking five questions. So, here are Ole Blue's questions and my answers:
1. If you could control your destiny, what would your destiny be? To live a long(ish) life in good health with my family and good friends and that, when the end comes, that it be quick and painless.
2. What is it about your life that you love? Living happily with my wife in our wonderful house and knowing how lucky I am to live where I do and in the style that I do.
3. What experience made you most humble? Travelling around South East Asia made me realise just how well off we are in the west. In Vietnam, we met children and made their day by stopping to talk to them and play football with them. In Thailand, we spent a few days trekking through the jungle north of Chiang Mai, where girls are expected to be pregnant with their second child by the time they are 17. It made me realise that, in comparison, we were just spoilt rich kids unwilling to grow up, having a great time touring countries far less wealthy than our own.
4. Where do you wish you could be right now? I'm tempted to say in bed, as it's only 8.15am and I'm in the office and still feeling the strain after playing football last night. But in the grander scheme of things, the one place I've visited that I love most is New York City, and more specifically Central Park. If I could pick somewhere I haven't been, I'd be tempted to say Tokyo.
5. If you were a child again what would you want to do the most? Enjoy the freedom of the summer holidays - a seemingly unfillable seven-week period that can be devoted almost entirely to playing football.
If anyone would like to be interviwed, here's how to keep the meme going:
Leave me a comment saying "Interview me." I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions. You will update your weblog with the answers to the questions, and let me know that you answered. If you don't have a blog, but would still like to play, I can send you the questions, and you can answer them in the comments. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Basically, it takes the form of an interview, with the last person on the chain picking five questions. So, here are Ole Blue's questions and my answers:
1. If you could control your destiny, what would your destiny be? To live a long(ish) life in good health with my family and good friends and that, when the end comes, that it be quick and painless.
2. What is it about your life that you love? Living happily with my wife in our wonderful house and knowing how lucky I am to live where I do and in the style that I do.
3. What experience made you most humble? Travelling around South East Asia made me realise just how well off we are in the west. In Vietnam, we met children and made their day by stopping to talk to them and play football with them. In Thailand, we spent a few days trekking through the jungle north of Chiang Mai, where girls are expected to be pregnant with their second child by the time they are 17. It made me realise that, in comparison, we were just spoilt rich kids unwilling to grow up, having a great time touring countries far less wealthy than our own.
4. Where do you wish you could be right now? I'm tempted to say in bed, as it's only 8.15am and I'm in the office and still feeling the strain after playing football last night. But in the grander scheme of things, the one place I've visited that I love most is New York City, and more specifically Central Park. If I could pick somewhere I haven't been, I'd be tempted to say Tokyo.
5. If you were a child again what would you want to do the most? Enjoy the freedom of the summer holidays - a seemingly unfillable seven-week period that can be devoted almost entirely to playing football.
If anyone would like to be interviwed, here's how to keep the meme going:
Leave me a comment saying "Interview me." I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions. You will update your weblog with the answers to the questions, and let me know that you answered. If you don't have a blog, but would still like to play, I can send you the questions, and you can answer them in the comments. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Dazed and Confused, Battered and Bruised
I think my body is in shock from the recent resurrection in my exercise levels.
My hamstrings and knees are both grumbling after I played football twice today, and I think that my problem toenails will probably resurface in the near future. I don't blame them - if I were an inch long and 15-stone men spent an hour kicking me, I'd complain as well.
To compound today's injuries, I blocked a belter of a goal-bound shot, which I estimate must have been travelling at around 50mph, with my face. As a result, my jaw feels like it has moved a couple of inches backwards.
So it's a fine line between enjoying a game of football and spending the best part of an hour wandering around a rectangular patch of astroturf in a semi-concussed daze.
In fact, I think I must be delirious - as I write this, Celtic are holding AC Milan to a goalless draw in the San Siro.....
My hamstrings and knees are both grumbling after I played football twice today, and I think that my problem toenails will probably resurface in the near future. I don't blame them - if I were an inch long and 15-stone men spent an hour kicking me, I'd complain as well.
To compound today's injuries, I blocked a belter of a goal-bound shot, which I estimate must have been travelling at around 50mph, with my face. As a result, my jaw feels like it has moved a couple of inches backwards.
So it's a fine line between enjoying a game of football and spending the best part of an hour wandering around a rectangular patch of astroturf in a semi-concussed daze.
In fact, I think I must be delirious - as I write this, Celtic are holding AC Milan to a goalless draw in the San Siro.....
Friday, March 02, 2007
Hospital-ity
I hate hospitals.
Last night, following an incident involving my Granny, the kerb, a stone wall, a broken kneecap and a severely battered and bruised face, I spent six hours in the accident and emergency ward at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee.
Besides the obvious feelings associated with watching someone close to you endure having their nose stitched shut and their broken knee prodded and manipulated, the hospital is not my favourite place for other reasons.
All of the seats and chairs in hospitals seem to have been designed as a cruel but inventive Medieval torture technique whereby comfort is hinted at but can never be achieved. None of the vending machines work properly, and the television in the waiting room is always too loud or too quiet.
However, the reason that I most dislike hospitals is that nothing ever seems to happen quickly. I half expected to leave the casualty ward to find that Scotland had popped up somewhere near the Bahamas thanks to continental drifting, or that a new mutant race of genetically-superior humans was now running the show.
In the six hours that we spent in the hospital, three things happened: my Granny's cuts were cleaned, her nose was stitched and her knee was x-rayed. Now, does any of those activities sound like it requires two hours to itself?
Please excuse today's groanin' - I've only had three hours of sleep, and I'm struggling to stay awake at work. Roll on 4.30pm and the end of another working week.
Last night, following an incident involving my Granny, the kerb, a stone wall, a broken kneecap and a severely battered and bruised face, I spent six hours in the accident and emergency ward at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee.
Besides the obvious feelings associated with watching someone close to you endure having their nose stitched shut and their broken knee prodded and manipulated, the hospital is not my favourite place for other reasons.
All of the seats and chairs in hospitals seem to have been designed as a cruel but inventive Medieval torture technique whereby comfort is hinted at but can never be achieved. None of the vending machines work properly, and the television in the waiting room is always too loud or too quiet.
However, the reason that I most dislike hospitals is that nothing ever seems to happen quickly. I half expected to leave the casualty ward to find that Scotland had popped up somewhere near the Bahamas thanks to continental drifting, or that a new mutant race of genetically-superior humans was now running the show.
In the six hours that we spent in the hospital, three things happened: my Granny's cuts were cleaned, her nose was stitched and her knee was x-rayed. Now, does any of those activities sound like it requires two hours to itself?
Please excuse today's groanin' - I've only had three hours of sleep, and I'm struggling to stay awake at work. Roll on 4.30pm and the end of another working week.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Lost weekend
Woo-hoo!!!!!!
My copy of Football Manager 2007 arrived yesterday, Mrs Wife is away to see her parents this weekend, I am off work, don't have to get my bandaged foot seen by a nurse until Monday and Man Utd v Liverpool is on the telly tomorrow.
The weekend stretches before me!
My copy of Football Manager 2007 arrived yesterday, Mrs Wife is away to see her parents this weekend, I am off work, don't have to get my bandaged foot seen by a nurse until Monday and Man Utd v Liverpool is on the telly tomorrow.
The weekend stretches before me!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Tomorrow is another day
The day started with such promise as well....
It is 6pm as I write this.
Today I waited an hour for a nurse to dress the bleeding wound which was once my left toenail.
Today Rangers lost at home to Inverness Caledonian Thistle.
Today Celtic came from behind to beat Dundee United 4-1.
Today Manchester United came from behind to beat Wigan.
Right now Mrs Wife is watching The X Factor.
Woe is me.....
It is 6pm as I write this.
Today I waited an hour for a nurse to dress the bleeding wound which was once my left toenail.
Today Rangers lost at home to Inverness Caledonian Thistle.
Today Celtic came from behind to beat Dundee United 4-1.
Today Manchester United came from behind to beat Wigan.
Right now Mrs Wife is watching The X Factor.
Woe is me.....
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I will survive
Well, I survived the surgery.
Admittedly, there was little danger of me dying on the operating table, given that I had a local anaesthetic before my toenail was cut.
But it's good to have come out the other side.
Except that my toe now hurts like hell and I can't put my left shoe on.
So I am hopping around with a blue shoe normally given to people wearing plaster casts.
And I'm eating ibuprofen like M&Ms.
The reason for this unexpected level of pain is that the doctor, in his infinite wisdom, decided to remove the whole nail rather than just cut away a small section as originally planned.
Watched by a student doctor (and not by me) he attacked the offending nail with what looked like a huge pair of pliers.
As my toe was numb, I couldn't feel any pain, but was aware of the sensation of the metal crunching through to the skin.
Actually, the worst part was having the anaesthetic injections - the initial sting as the needles went in, followed by the strange sensation of feeling the fluid flow through the nerves, switching them off as it passed.
What I hadn't expected was the amount of blood which pumped from the freshly-denailed toe.
The required bandage looks like one from a cartoon, as if Jerry has just smacked Tom's toe with a hammer.
And how much sympathy have I had?
None. Not a bit. Mrs Wife was staying in Campbeltown last night for work, so I had to hop around the house and fend for myself.
Number of times I smacked said toe against doors and pieces of furniture: 3
Number of expletives uttered after said toe smackings: More than 3
One final piece of information. As I attempted to put my sock on (to no avail), I asked the doctor when I would be able to play football again.
His magnificent answer?
'When it doesn't hurt anymore'
Genius.
Admittedly, there was little danger of me dying on the operating table, given that I had a local anaesthetic before my toenail was cut.
But it's good to have come out the other side.
Except that my toe now hurts like hell and I can't put my left shoe on.
So I am hopping around with a blue shoe normally given to people wearing plaster casts.
And I'm eating ibuprofen like M&Ms.
The reason for this unexpected level of pain is that the doctor, in his infinite wisdom, decided to remove the whole nail rather than just cut away a small section as originally planned.
Watched by a student doctor (and not by me) he attacked the offending nail with what looked like a huge pair of pliers.
As my toe was numb, I couldn't feel any pain, but was aware of the sensation of the metal crunching through to the skin.
Actually, the worst part was having the anaesthetic injections - the initial sting as the needles went in, followed by the strange sensation of feeling the fluid flow through the nerves, switching them off as it passed.
What I hadn't expected was the amount of blood which pumped from the freshly-denailed toe.
The required bandage looks like one from a cartoon, as if Jerry has just smacked Tom's toe with a hammer.
And how much sympathy have I had?
None. Not a bit. Mrs Wife was staying in Campbeltown last night for work, so I had to hop around the house and fend for myself.
Number of times I smacked said toe against doors and pieces of furniture: 3
Number of expletives uttered after said toe smackings: More than 3
One final piece of information. As I attempted to put my sock on (to no avail), I asked the doctor when I would be able to play football again.
His magnificent answer?
'When it doesn't hurt anymore'
Genius.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Pray for Groanin' Jock
Spare a thought for Groanin' Jock at 3pm - that's when I go under the knife for the first time in my life.
If there are no more posts to this website, you'll know why.
If there are no more posts to this website, you'll know why.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Fantastic plastic
Catching up with the latest football news on the worldwide interweb this morning, I was startled to read the headline ' Hamilton thank Uefa for cup final'.
Surely not - UEFA is to host the Champions League or UEFA Cup final at New Douglas Park?
Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is not the case. UEFA has in fact agreed that the artificial pitch in Moscow's Luzhniki Stadium will be the surface which the 2008 Champions League finalists will grace.
Apparently, Hamilton Accies were the first club in Europe to use such a surface, and have thanked UEFA for having faith in the plastic.
Call me old-fashioned, but to my mind, football should be played on grass. Mud and grass stains are as much a part of football as dodgy refereeing decisions, cynical challenges and botulism pies.
I've played on a few artificial surfaces over the years, and have never yet found one that felt like grass, or which didn't give rise to burns and skinned knees.
In fact, the worst injury I have ever had in almost 20 years of playing football was sustained on an artificial pitch. I performed a sliding tackle and stood up to find that I had no left leg....left.
I couldn't walk properly for weeks, although picking off the scabs was good fun.
I'm reminded of a line from Only Fools and Horses - Del is on the pull, pretending that Rodney is a professional tennis player. Rodney, not paying attention, is asked whether he prefers grass or astroturf.
To which the immortal reply is:
'I don't know, I've never smoked astroturf'
Surely not - UEFA is to host the Champions League or UEFA Cup final at New Douglas Park?
Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is not the case. UEFA has in fact agreed that the artificial pitch in Moscow's Luzhniki Stadium will be the surface which the 2008 Champions League finalists will grace.
Apparently, Hamilton Accies were the first club in Europe to use such a surface, and have thanked UEFA for having faith in the plastic.
Call me old-fashioned, but to my mind, football should be played on grass. Mud and grass stains are as much a part of football as dodgy refereeing decisions, cynical challenges and botulism pies.
I've played on a few artificial surfaces over the years, and have never yet found one that felt like grass, or which didn't give rise to burns and skinned knees.
In fact, the worst injury I have ever had in almost 20 years of playing football was sustained on an artificial pitch. I performed a sliding tackle and stood up to find that I had no left leg....left.
I couldn't walk properly for weeks, although picking off the scabs was good fun.
I'm reminded of a line from Only Fools and Horses - Del is on the pull, pretending that Rodney is a professional tennis player. Rodney, not paying attention, is asked whether he prefers grass or astroturf.
To which the immortal reply is:
'I don't know, I've never smoked astroturf'
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Groanin' Jock is unwell
After my crowing earlier in the week that I haven't had a hangover in more than a year, I am now being made to suffer for my arrogance in the face of nature.
I have man flu. Though women commonly mistake this life-threatening condition for the common cold, the two are light years apart.
The following excerpt from Dr Jock's Home Medical Guide (Groanin' Publications, 2006) offers advice on the treatment of man flu:
"Man flu makes the sufferer feel so ill that they can only really be treated by a day of full-on pampering in bed. Drinks, both hot and cold, should be relayed to the patient as and when required, as should whatever food the patient craves at that time.
Pillows should be plumped up a minimum of once every hour, and the patient should be given a variety of stimulating magazines, books, computer games, TV programmes and other entertainment whenever requested.
As the condition is unique to men, there is no danger of a woman contracting man flu, and as a result, wives, girlfriends or mothers should be on hand at all times to see to all the patient's needs. Because the condition is not contagious to women, requests from the patient for 'snuggling' should be agreed to with a smile."
Unfortunately, Mrs Wife is in Aviemore for the next three nights at a training course. So I'll be living off Lemsip, toast and biscuits. Spare a thought for those who suffer....
I have man flu. Though women commonly mistake this life-threatening condition for the common cold, the two are light years apart.
The following excerpt from Dr Jock's Home Medical Guide (Groanin' Publications, 2006) offers advice on the treatment of man flu:
"Man flu makes the sufferer feel so ill that they can only really be treated by a day of full-on pampering in bed. Drinks, both hot and cold, should be relayed to the patient as and when required, as should whatever food the patient craves at that time.
Pillows should be plumped up a minimum of once every hour, and the patient should be given a variety of stimulating magazines, books, computer games, TV programmes and other entertainment whenever requested.
As the condition is unique to men, there is no danger of a woman contracting man flu, and as a result, wives, girlfriends or mothers should be on hand at all times to see to all the patient's needs. Because the condition is not contagious to women, requests from the patient for 'snuggling' should be agreed to with a smile."
Unfortunately, Mrs Wife is in Aviemore for the next three nights at a training course. So I'll be living off Lemsip, toast and biscuits. Spare a thought for those who suffer....
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Under the knife
Distressing news from Groanin' Towers today folks - Groanin' Jock is to go under the surgeon's knife for the first time in history.
Fear not though - the surgery is a minor out-patient's op to sort an in-growing toenail.
After years of playing football, sprinting, cross country running, long jump and other foot-mangling activities, I have feet that would probably make a Hobbit vomit.
My toes are gnarled like Gollum's, and years of ignoring problems has finally taken its toll. Even by my own gruesome standards, my feet are in a poor shape. When George Best finally departed for the great off-licence in the sky, I considered writing to his estate to ask whether I could have his famed feet for use in the world's first foot transplant (fair enough, I would suggest, considering that he was given a new set of internal organs to pickle).
And so, having consulted my doctor and been pumped full of drugs, but to no avail, I have agreed to have the offending nail sliced and pulled out, and the gaping wound left in its absence 'burned clean' (the doctor's words, not mine).
Having witnessed the pain experienced by friends who have previously had troublesome toenails removed, I was expecting to be told that my foot would be mummified in bandages for a period of weeks whilst it healed.
Not so, says the doctor. I'll get two injections in the toe, the 'operation' will take less than half an hour, and I'll go straight back to work. And apparently I'll be back playing football (or pretending to at least) within a week.
But, for all the doctor's assurances, I'm still not entirely overjoyed at the prospect of a man poking about at my left foot with a sharp knife. All it need is a sneeze from me and he could be looking for a needle and thread.....
Fear not though - the surgery is a minor out-patient's op to sort an in-growing toenail.
After years of playing football, sprinting, cross country running, long jump and other foot-mangling activities, I have feet that would probably make a Hobbit vomit.
My toes are gnarled like Gollum's, and years of ignoring problems has finally taken its toll. Even by my own gruesome standards, my feet are in a poor shape. When George Best finally departed for the great off-licence in the sky, I considered writing to his estate to ask whether I could have his famed feet for use in the world's first foot transplant (fair enough, I would suggest, considering that he was given a new set of internal organs to pickle).
And so, having consulted my doctor and been pumped full of drugs, but to no avail, I have agreed to have the offending nail sliced and pulled out, and the gaping wound left in its absence 'burned clean' (the doctor's words, not mine).
Having witnessed the pain experienced by friends who have previously had troublesome toenails removed, I was expecting to be told that my foot would be mummified in bandages for a period of weeks whilst it healed.
Not so, says the doctor. I'll get two injections in the toe, the 'operation' will take less than half an hour, and I'll go straight back to work. And apparently I'll be back playing football (or pretending to at least) within a week.
But, for all the doctor's assurances, I'm still not entirely overjoyed at the prospect of a man poking about at my left foot with a sharp knife. All it need is a sneeze from me and he could be looking for a needle and thread.....
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