[Health] Pop Fiction

Recently, a man called Marcus Bass sent me a bag of lollipops. Not only were these lollipops absolutely delicious, but also, apparently, they might actually be good for me. Obviously, these are no ordinary lollipops. No. These are revitaPOPs. revitaPOPs are the invention of Stan Kurtz, who is, as the homepage of his personal website attests, one hell of a human being. Although it might be worth remembering, he's not a doctor. According to the biog page of his site, not only did Stan cure himself of irritable bowel syndrome, but also, Stan and his wife Michelle ‘recovered their son Ethan from autism’. Stan also set up Children’s Corner School, a biomedical school programme with saunas, rarefied air and hyperbaric oxygen therapy. Then he sold the school and became President of Generation Rescue, an organisation with the controversial motto ‘Autism Is Reversible’, where he got to hang out with Generation Rescue board member, renowned anti-child vaccine spokesperson and – according to some – murderer, Jenny McCarthy – and her funny boyfriend. Some time around then Stan hit upon the idea (patent pending) of providing concentrated bursts of the wonder-vitamin B12 in two exciting new ways. First, the delicious revitaPOP sucksickle – mmmmm. Second, the not-so-immediately–appealing nasal spray… at which, unsurprisingly, the marketing dollar is not really being aimed. Speaking of marketing, Marcus Bass works for LA PR company The Brand X Group. They represent Kurtz and they sent me - floundering blogger with nary a good word to say about anything - a pack of seven goji-flavoured revitaPOPs, to see what I thought. Now - what I'm trying to avoid here is knee-jerk cynicism. My instinct, sadly, is to assume revitaPOPs are a con, probably with less nutritional value than, say, a three-week-old lychee, and furthermore that everyone who says otherwise has a vested interest in the product, or is - simply put - either lying or frighteningly suggestible. However, I am determined to eschew my cynicism and examine revitaPOPs as objectively as is possible. First though, a quick butcher’s round the old internet is in order. Hello, who's this? Why, it's Tania Reuben! 

...

If you would like to read the rest of this fascinating and educational article, Stan recommends you go here and purchase a copy of The Little Book of Shame. Not only does it contain the article you're currently reading, it also contains around 50 others, and all for the incredible price of whatever price it happens to be at the moment. You lucky thing you.

Feedback Friday :: Busy Doing Nothing

Life is odd about now. It has no form. Here then, is a list…

- I set up a Flickr account, where I put pictures of thistles and suchlike. Like this one...



I wish the rain would stop so I could go out and find more things to photograph, but according to the forecasts, the rain will remain for at least the next four days, relentless and heavy and dark. At the moment it's horizontal.

- I have been fantasising and even dreaming about being kissed and having my face stroked. I have also been dreaming about kittens. This is a sure sign that if I do not find some physical affection very soon, then rather like that python that ate that alligator, I will explode. Poor thing. He was just after a little intimacy.

- I have been thinking about trying to blog about something ‘interesting’ more regularly. Despite the fact that no one read the piece about ugly manwash the other day (perhaps not helped by the fact that I auto-spammed my feed traffic by putting the e-word in the title), I enjoyed writing it. So I’ve decided I should do more things like that. In fact, what I should do is write myself a weekly column – see if I can do that. See if I have the right to slag off Barbara Ellen and Giles Hattersley quite so priggishly. I'll try for Wednesdays.

- I’ve been doing a fair bit of plinth-watching. I had my doubts at first but then I came to realise, it’s magnificent. The whole idea is just tremendous and I’m very excited about what might come next. My favourite participant so far was this guy, Velorose.



About eighteen minutes in he goes into The Age of Aquarius. It’s wonderful. People are ceaselessly fascinating. Even the painfully dull ones. (This man was so dull, he seems to have put his own stream to sleep.)

- Seeking cheap thrills, I bought some racy novels from second-hand book shops. Not racy, no. Thrillers. I’m trying to learn how to do that. I’d like to do that. I’m going to read some Jeffrey Archer too. You see if I don’t. At the moment I'm reading Christopher Brookmyre for the first time. He is very good.

- I’ve become obsessed by my stomach and the effect of cycling and 100 jack-knife sit-ups every day. (Wii Fit calls them jack-knifes. I don’t know if they’re right to do so.) Anyway, it’s working. My stomach is disappearing.

- My stomach pain, however, is not disappearing, but I have an appointment at the hospital next Friday. Unfortunately I’m not sure whether my appointment is for purposes of haematology, biochemistry or colorectal surgery. I have pieces of paper with all of these words written on them. I guess I’ll found out when I get there.

- I have just sold 109 CDs for £74.18, equalling an average of 68p per disc. That’s not very much, especially compared to what I paid for them. The good thing though, is that now they are gone, their goodness transferred to my increasingly irreplaceable and still not backed-up computer. Does anyone know anything about remote back-up? Who is good? Anyone?

- I’ve watched a bunch of films recently, and updated my film depository.

- I have no money.

- This week I went to London and spotted three whole celebs in one single day. I spotted Zandra Rhodes, Andy Hamilton and Denis Lawson. Just wandering about the place, they were, like ordinary people. Oh, and I also did a live interview for Canada AM, with a bag on my head. It all looked a bit Abu Ghraib at times...



The bag in question is a Primark bag, steamed apart over a hot kettle at three in the morning, stuck together backwards to avoid the branding, and with stoned eye-holes cut badly and into the wrong place. Has this whole thing got ridiculous enough yet? Or is there still a little wiggle room?

Now I’m going to brave the rain and go see Bruno. Is it awful?

Have a super weekend, you, whoever you are, whatever you're doing, and please, please do lots of things I wouldn’t do.

Enchanté.

Feedback Friday :: Bouncing Back

bulk :: 14st 12
gym sessions :: 3
therapy sessions :: 1
lows :: 1
highs :: 1
steaks :: 1 pending

On Wednesday afternoon I spent 70 minutes flogging myself tender in the gym. All cardio. The sweat was jumping off of me like cartoon fleas and by the time I got home, I was back to my old chipper self. I was feeling positive and light-hearted. I was talking to myself in silly voices. The violent misanthropy of the first half of the week was gone. So - therefore - I am forced to conclude that physical exercise is very good for mental health. I know, I know, I’m a visionary. I’m setting the world on fire with these outlandish new ways of thinking.

So. I’m going away towards the end of May for a couple of weeks. I got an invitation to go see someone I don’t know in a country I’ve not been to, so I thought I’d throw caution to the wind and do it. I've booked a ticket. Two-week round trip. I plan to do a little travelling around while I’m there and I want to get as fit as I possibly can before going. Hence the recent frenetic gym activity, and self-starving.

Connected to that, I saw Rocknrolla the other night. Although it’s a distinctly average and occasionally rather laughable film, it does feature a captivating performance by Toby Kebbel. If I’m perfectly honest, I think I’ve got a bit of a man-crush on Toby Kebbel. Not only do I find him extremely charismatic, but also, just look at what he was able to do with his body…



I should say, my man-crush doesn’t extend to me wanting to lick his body, merely wanting to replicate it. In some interview I can’t find at the moment, he spoke of his regime, which consisted of a seven-day fast followed by nine weeks of one meal a day. This presumably in tandem with a beastly punishing gym programme. I wouldn’t necessarily want to be that thin, but to have a musculature that well-defined, to feel that fine-tuned must be amazing. And I’ll regret it profoundly if I get to the end of my life and I never found the time or the discipline to properly honour the gift of having an able body. I owe it to myself. So I’m working hard. And eating well. And feeling better already.

So this morning I had my first session on the couch. And it was good. I like the guy, which I guess is important. And we agree that it’s his role to lead, and to provoke. I need to be provoked. I look forward to it.

In other news, cancer continues to ravage and ruin all things bright and beautiful, making life, on occasion, feel overwhelmingly hopeless and depressing and cruel. It’s like, what can you do? Well, first and foremost, if you’re lucky enough to be healthy, you can live to the best of your abilities. Amen. Secondly, if you’re within running distance of Glasgow, you can go to the Britannia Panopticon Music Hall tomorrow night. There will be music and comedy and cakes and prizes and popcorn and a woman playing a ukulele. All proceeds go to Breast Cancer Care. (Someone asked me to mention this, I think imagining my influence to be rather greater than it actually is. Happy to help. Or not, as the case may be.)

Now, I’m going to cook a six ounce steak and a kilo of spinach. This weekend I shall be mostly punishing myself physically and writing some things.

And you? What are you up to?

Bookscan :: The Devil Has All The Best Books

Some very good guesses to yesterday's Bookscan, the closest being AnnAnon's Here We Go: Health Action Series by Charlotte Wilcox and Edith McCall, 1955. Close, but no apricot, I'm afraid.

The answer was of course Basic First Aid by The St John Ambulance Association, 1966.



And this is how it looks today. That's progress for you.

Today's Bookscan is a little on the dark side. Four images to chill your very soul, but what's the name of the book?














This last image is also ripe for captioning. Perhaps something about that candlestick Uncle Wilbur brought back from Haiti proving a real ice breaker at Granny's wake. Perhaps not.

Ugly Stuff No One Really Wants To Know

It was twelve days ago when I first pooped onto a piece of toilet paper, scooped a tiny piece of that poop onto a faecal sample stick and then popped and sealed it inside a small plastic tube. Then I put the tube in my bag and went to hospital. I headed for the testicle screening room first to make an appointment. But when I was told that I didn’t have to make an appointment, that I could just turn up any day before 9.30, I thought to hell with it, I'll come back on Monday morning, get my balls screened, my blood tested and hand in my poop at the same time.

But I didn’t do that because I was sidetracked and slightly lazy. Instead I didn’t return until yesterday, so basically, I walked around with a piece of my own poop in my bag for twelve days.

Morag found this to be the height of vileness. She was properly disgusted.

It was in a tube though. No biggy.

At the weekend Morag and I went to the wildlife photography exhibition at the National History Museum, where there is a bag search before entry. I opened my bag. The security guard performed a perfunctory check and was about to let me pass when the tube caught his eye. I don’t know what he thought it was but he lifted it slowly out of the bag.

‘It’s faecal matter,’ I said.

He placed it back in my bag.

We went in.

The wildlife photography exhibition is fantastic by the way. This one is my favourite.



So yesterday I went back to the hospital and a young lady moved what is apparently called a transducer over my testicles. Before she did this however, she covered the smooth head of the transducer in warm gel. Once the nurse gets going with the transducer, the effect upon the surface of the scrotum is a very pleasant one. In fact, you can quite easily convince yourself that that is not in fact a transducer floating wetly over your nether regions, but the warm wet tongue of a beautiful woman. This however, under the circumstances, is highly inadvisable, as genital engorgement at this point would just be embarrassing. Believe me.



Another good thing about the scrotal ultrasound is that you get your results immediately. This is particularly good if your results are negative, as mine were. Chatting to the nurse at the end, I asked her if she thought the pain could therefore be stress-related. She half-shrugged. She didn’t really know about stress. She knew about blood flow and epididymitis, the physical stuff. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ I said. ‘I suppose the psychological stuff is a whole different ball game.’

Unfortunately, I kind of mumbled this because we were both speaking at the same time, and the nurse didn’t hear. When I realised I’d inadvertently made a wonderful pun and that it had been wasted, I came really close to saying it again, but then I thought, no. That would be sad. I’d just blog it instead.

Ball game!

I also handed in my poop piece – although I had replaced the 12-day old sample with a fresh sample, you’ll be pleased to hear.

I didn’t get my blood test however, because there were too many people waiting and I had to rush across town to keep a dental appointment.

My dentist is very chipper. Almost annoyingly so. He happily explained that it would cost me around £350 to have the tooth that broke refilled and the rest cleaned. He was overjoyed.

Treatment starts next week.

That's it. No more grossness for a while.



But the upshots so far are good. No testicle tumours, no hideous unforeseen and hugely painful tooth furies.

So far, so good.

Fingers crossed.

We can get through this.



By the way, if you are male and you feel you might have a problem with your testicles (or let’s face it, even if you don’t), I recommend you pop along to your GP and hook yourself up with an ultrasound examination. It really does feel like a tongue.

Feedback Friday :: Balance

bulk :: ?
glad factor :: 8
sad factor :: 2

I confess, I’ve fallen off the health wagon ever so slightly. But that’s OK, you know? It’s allowed. And I’m tackling it. I’ve wiped the crumbs from a thousand chocolate Hob Nobs off of my tee shirt and trousers, my face, my laptop, the walls, the ceiling – I’m like Cookie Monster when I get going, Cookie Monster fending off two Tasmanian Devils. And I’m putting on my smelly old trainers as we speak.

This is the first time in a year I’ve refused to get on the scales. Actually, that’s not true. I did get on the scales, but I didn’t activate the digital readout first, so all I got was the backwards ‘E’. For Doofus. Then, rather than doing it right, I got off and walked away. Walked? Who am I kidding. I ran away. The thing is, I know I’ve put on a bit of weight over the last week. When you weigh yourself a lot, you can feel it, you can sense it as you settle on the scales, you can speak your own weight, to the pound, before the machine tells you. And although all I got was a backwards ‘E’, I knew I’d put on quite a few pounds over the last two weeks.

Actually, I knew even before I set foot on the scales. I knew because I’ve been eating like a scabby horse that’s just escaped from between two mattresses, and I haven’t been to the gym for a week. I’ve been eating out at restaurants a fair bit too, even on my own. I really like eating out on my own. It feels like a really special thing to do. A glorious treat. It feels like a celebration. And I am celebrating at the moment. It’s important to celebrate. Good times don’t come along often enough to let them pass unmarked. So I’ve been squirreling myself away in restaurants and cafés, just me, a book and a three course meal. Maybe a bottle of wine if I really want to celebrate. And a jar of pickled eggs. No, sorry, I’m being silly now. But you know what? That’s OK too. It’s OK to be silly. It may even be important to be silly. In fact, I’m convinced it is. But it’s also important to be serious. Balance. That’s what it’s all about. But also extremes. And at the moment, I feel good. Extremely good. I feel full of magic beans. I feel defiant. Stalker, stalk this.

Some people think that eating out alone is a bit sad. Like going to the cinema alone (which I also enjoy). I don’t feel that way. I think it’s the opposite of sad. I think it’s one of the most joyful, life-affirming, exultant things a human being can do. But then, on the whole, I rather enjoy spending time on my own. I’m a people person for sure, but I’m also a bit of a loner. I’d like to say I’m actually quite a private person, but I think a blog is probably not the best place to say that. But with my time, and sometimes with my space, I’m discriminative. And I find there are few people who really come close to me when it comes to pleasant and comfortable, if not always scintillating, company. Occasionally scintillating though.

Having said all that, I must now say, that now is the time for the celebration to end and life in earnest to begin again. So I’m off to the gym. And then I’m going to the shop to buy some greens.

Aside :: Every time I go to the gym I think of Douglas Adams.

Other news: I’ve come to an arrangement with Keith’s landlord. I’ve paid the rent and I’m going to get the place professionally cleaned, then I’ll hopefully be able to collect Keith’s deposit. I may even deign to offer a part of that back to Keith. But then again I may not. We’ll see.

Then, on Saturday 13 December, I will move into my new home. What makes this remarkable is that one year ago to the day – by which I mean Saturday 15 December 2007 – was the day I started this blog.

Awwww. I like symmetry a great deal.

And I like the fact that I’ll be spending Christmas in North London.

That’s nice.

Now, gym.

...

So tell me, what do you enjoy doing alone?

And also, what you up to this weekend?

Me? I’m entertaining.



Have fun!

Medical Matters #2 :: The Curious Profession of Digital Dr Singh

A week before I was forced to endure the disdain of Dr Payne’s inspirational needling, it was time to turn the spotlight on my shame. So I made an appointment to see a male doctor. Let’s call him Dr Singh.

Dr Singh is in his 50s. Brown and balding, unfeasibly bushy eyebrows, slug-lipped scowl.

Poor Dr Singh.

What a way to make a living. No wonder he scowled.

Really though, choosing to go into medicine at all is bad enough, but who in their right mind would choose to specialise in proctology? Not that Dr Singh did specialise in proctology of course. He’s probably something of an all-rounder. But today he was being forced to wear his proctologist’s hat. A small brown number with a shocking pink lining.

So I went in there and I sat down and I told him about my painful, bloody anus. Then I apologised. I said, ‘It can’t be pleasant. You know. All this… business.’ He kind of ignored me, maybe gave the tiniest of shrugs, maybe not. He then asked me to pull down my trousers and my underpants and to lie down on the gurney-type thing on my side and draw my knees up to my chest. Then, and there’s no other way of phrasing this, he raped me.

Actually, there are an infinite number of ways of phrasing it, and it would be tough to find one less suitable. It’s obviously incredibly crass of me to compare what took place between Dr Singh and my back door to any kind of sexual abuse. I apologise. It was however, the first time that anything which was not intended to bring me, or at least someone else, pleasure, had ever been inside me. And it really was the opposite of pleasure. It stayed with me for days too, this sensation, a palpable echo of his blunt, untender digit, burrowing away like he was foraging for truffles.

Then, when he was quite done, he said the strangest thing to me. He said, ‘I was looking for fishes.’

I was surprised. ‘Did you find any?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘No, you would have gone off like a rocket if I’d found any.’

I was confused. Were there really tiny brown bream living in my bottom which, when tickled with the tip of an inquisitive finger, caused internal combustion so powerful that my entire body could be propelled into space? Why hadn’t I heard about this before?

When I expressed my bewilderment, Dr Singh smilelessly explained that the fishes he sought were in fact fissures, or, if you prefer, which frankly I don’t, cracks in the anal tissue. (Bless you.)

Jesus. I feel sick even talking about all of this.

Let’s see if a little rhyme won’t dilute some of the horror.

A scowling doctor showed me love.
Let’s call him Dr Singh.
And with one hand in latex glove,
He pushed a finger in my ring.
No truffle troves were found inside,
No treasure, loaves or fissures,
No miracles of any kind,
Just piles and dirty dishes.

Eh? No. I fear no amount of winsome poesy can wipe this blog entry clean. Let’s just get it over with.

I’ve got piles. The disease of stretched mothers and desiccated old men.

Joy.

Singh asked me about my diet. I gave him a brief history. He told me to eat more greens and fibre. He also prescribed a tube of pile-zapping foam, with an applicator, to be taken internally twice a day and once again ‘after each movement’. I wasn’t keen on Dr Singh, and not just for what he did to me. I didn’t like his choice of language either. Movement. Poppycock. What a singularly inappropriate word to use when discussing one’s bowels. It brings music to the act of defecation and makes it sound positively creative, crafted. As if the morning after St Patrick’s Day, the lavatories of the world are alive with symphonies, every sweaty evacuation an Ode to Joy.

Call it what you will, Singh, for me it’s just one more dirty step toward death, one more stinking bag of body-refuse closer to oblivion, and that it must now come tainted with bright blood and agony, then coated in chemical foam, frankly disgusts me.

Anyhow. Cream seems to be working!