Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Crunch

I will be the first to admit, having never broken a bone before, that when I see footballers howl in agony and take eight weeks off when someone stands on their foot, my first thought tends to be something like: bloody great overpaid sissy prancing fairy-boys.

Well, if Beckham or Rooney were ever upset by this (and I suspect it may have put them slightly off-balance), I apologise. I apologise because I can attest that it flaming well hurts.

I have mentioned from time to time that I play a regular game of five-a-side with some buddies from the pub. We’ve been doing this for a year and a half, and although most of us are now pretty fit, we’re still crappy footballers. This can be rather dangerous.

I’ve certainly had my fair share of bruised shins and bloody noses resulting from wayward feet and high-speed collisions, but never anything that could invalid me out of the next game. Now, however, I can claim rightful brotherhood with the pantheon of footballing heroes by boasting that I have had broken the legendary 5th metatarsal of my right foot.

There I was, end of the first half, right on the edge of the penalty area, only the keeper to beat, ready to shoot, unable to miss when FUCK AH FUCK SHIT GOD DAMN DAMN SHIT AH I’m okay, I’m okay, play on, I’ll just go and run it under the tap for a bit.

Which I did, and then I came back and played the rest of the game, because I’m a testosterone charged, pain loving macho strong man freak, who worried that if he limped off, everyone would think him a bloody great sissy prancing fairy-boy.

Lunatic! Fool! Poltroon! That night I couldn’t sleep I was in so much pain; so first thing Monday morning, I put on three pair of socks, tied my laces really tight and hobbled all the way to the first aid unit at the hospital. Who sent me to my GP. At the other end of town. Who sent me back to the hospital, for an X-Ray. Which finally confirmed, after two hours limping around town, with the cold-sweats and ready to puke, that I had a broken foot and needed to go to the nearest A&E.

Thirteen miles away.

That poor radiologist. I could see she hated giving me the news, the entire weight of the PCT’s inadequacies weighing upon her. I felt sorry for her, but I killed her anyway. I mean, what would you have done?

She lies in peace now, entombed in her lead lined lab. I found myself a lift to Banbury, got myself checked out and cast by some very pretty young girls, and now have nothing to do but splay on the sofa with my foot on a pillow, trawling Facebook for old school friends and fielding calls from panicked and over-harried workmates.

And I can’t wait until I can play again.

11 comments:

  1. Blimey. Is that the sacred Beckham metatarsal, or just a boring, mortal one?? If the former, then we'll have to read news stories about you for months and months and months.

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  2. Not the Beckhamtarsal, no. But Owen, Rooney and Gerrard have all been in the news after breaking the fifth.

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  3. And incriminating themselves?

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  4. Thing is, Lee, if you're ever charged with murder or anything, all the prosecution needs to do is go "look at this" and display your profile photograph. Your defence team will shoot themselves, and you will be immediately sentenced to death. Even if the charge is theft.

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  5. I can't believe you bought the photo up again. I'd put a boot up your backside, if it weren't for the well known lack of facility of one-legged men for arse kicking.

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  6. I thought I'd change it for a while, in case anyone else felt like baiting the cripple. Try it. I will kill you with my mind.

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  7. Sorry about the break, but would've thought you'd broke your hands from the lack of posts.

    ;)

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  8. Hey! The Hooded Man hath hijacked thy blog!

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  9. Blimey, where have you been? And you've got a blog now!

    I enjoyed Lifeline, BTW. Hope it was a better experience than Eleventh Hour. Patrick Stewart can often be seen in a local pub, enjoying the company of a rather young lady he claims is his niece. Tongues are awag.

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  10. Having one's piles tied off would be a better experience than Eleventh Hour. What little info filtered back to me suggests that PS wasn't happy with the way it got steered, either. Sounds like he's managed to get over it, though.

    Life Line was a much better experience. But imagine my joy on seeing it scheduled against Man U vs AC Milan.

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