Paris, France, September 2018
‘Quiet please! S’il. Vous. Plaît.’
The jostling bustle reduces to an occasional rustle. He steps over the ball. Jittery? Shaky? Knowing that most lips surrounding are mumbling silent prayers for him to miss. But I know better than most that he doesn’t care what the fans want. A perfect triangle of collarbone and hanging arms rocks the club one way, then the other. Tiger beats the ball towards the hole but, no! He’s clawed it wide. A cacophonous jungle of cheers erupt; the crowd goes wild.
‘OLÉ! OLÉ, OLÉ, OLÉ!’
Defiant opposition chants of ‘U-S-A!’ are drowned out or, better, followed up with ‘-can-not-play!’ as Europe edge closer to the coveted Ryder Cup.
But, ah merde! I shouldn’t have risked that pain-au-chocolat en route to the outskirts of Paris this morning. Le Golf National is a huge course and while Tiger frets over a bogey (is a double-bogey one in each nostril or two-fore-one?) I have more urgent issues. I need to find les toilettes sharpish. We stole the word toilet from the French for ‘small cloth’, we even stole ‘loo’ from ‘l’eau!’ which they shouted before emptying chamber pots into the street. Searching to no avail, I had a squelching worry that we’d stolen all their actual loos along with the words. Where was the bloody bog?!
Clench and scuttle. A new walk that had already saved me on multiples occasions in the first month of my new teaching post. But, butt-problems in mind, I’d been skipping breakfast to survive mornings at work unscathed and un-skidmarked.
Why did I eat? Why today? Dad ate and I wanted to, too! Where is the sodding loo?? Clench. Scuttle. Squeeze. Clench. Just don’t shit. Clench, clench, clench. I reach the brow of a hill, spot une toilette a few hundred yards away and mind informs useless bowel that it need not wait any longer. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…! Clench and scuttle deserted in a hurried flurry as I dash, desperate, towards the temporary poo-cabin. If I can just… hold… no. No, no, no. Non! Putain! Non! Merde!
The desperate dash becomes a downtrodden, pants-sodden dredge the last few metres. Dramatic visions of apologising as I‘d burst past the queue were overly optimistic. Instead, I join the back of the line, clench, and look out for the nearest bin.
Luckily, I was wearing my best pants1 and the high-quality fabric made for excellent, extra-absorbent nappy material. My favourite joke to tell the kids when teaching radioactivity is:
‘What’s the problem with Ukrainian underpants?’
…‘Chernobyl fall-out!’
We teach how nuclear waste is secured in safe containers and entombed deep beneath the Earth’s crust. How was I going to subtly dispose of my toxic fall-out?
Once in the cubicle I had to plot a route to smuggle my damaged goods to the bin without any of the boozed British blokes in the queue noticing. I was already drawing unwelcome attention. The duration of my sorry stay behind the door, combined with nauseating noises emanating, was a source of drunken toilet humour.
‘Blimey someone’s had a curry last night haven’t they?’
‘Christ, mate you can jump ahead in the queue if that one comes free first.’
Boxers mummified in a wad of loo-roll, I scuttled out (no longer clenching at least) and, eyes averted from the queueing comedians, went straight to the bin. Washed my hands under the dribble and trudged back to the grassy bank where my Dad sat. The crowd fell silent for another putt on the 11th green. All, except Dad.
‘So, you make it?’
I nodded, embarrassed enough that he’d told everyone in earshot I’d ran off to the loo, and not wishing to share the dirty details. I’d explain later. I just wanted to be back within easy reach of a nice, clean loo.
I don’t even like golf all that much. Over a year ago, I’d spent a good chunk of my first month’s teaching salary buying these tickets and before 11am I was already completely wiped, exhausted, crevé, and going commando in some particularly chafing jeans.
…..
What was wrong with me? I still had no clue.
Multiple GP visits had only provided me with antibiotics. First, two courses for a bug picked up in China. When that didn’t work, instead it was for a parasite picked up in China. Unsuccessful? Let’s try another two courses of those, just in case. The antibiotics were doing nothing and my life was starting to deteriorate along with my weight and health. Meet up with friends, only to spend the whole time on the loo before a tired trek home. Hungry at work, but too shit-scared to eat.
And then there was the blood. Even when I ate minimally, I’d still be racing my bastard of a bowel to the toilet seat. No food equals no poo, surely? Sometime in September my colon decided it wanted to cough up claret, too.
It didn’t help that I ended up seeing a different doctor each appointment. I must have explained the embarrassing events of the previous few months to eight professionals now. China, France, problems running out of classes when teaching up north. Admitting that Paris wasn’t even the first such instance. I’d had a drink spiked in Portugal, watching football with a couple of beers and my best mate. Words slurred into poisoned slush-puppies and I slushed a great mess all over the villa floor. Back home, waking up, desperate. The race to my toilet at the other side of the flat was one I was losing more and more often. The pile of discarded pants was growing, and my waist-line was shrinking at an alarming rate.
No medic seemed overly concerned. ‘75kg for your height is a healthy weight.’
‘Not when I was 86kg a few weeks ago!!’ (and technically it’s not a weight but a mass, brush up on your Physics, doc.)
Eventually, after, eight, nine, or maybe ten GP appointments and a fair few mortifying accidents, I was granted a specialist consultation. I can only apologise to the reader for the crude aspects of this chapter. The best way to avoid any more such stories is for us to get to the bottom of my crappy condition. And that’s exactly what we’ll do in chapter seven…
Footnotes
1£12 for two pairs of Calvin Kleins in TKMaxx, get on it.
…..
Tough times Jack😔getting diagnosed was a long haul! Calvin Kleins will be in your Christmas stocking😜
What a journey Jack!! Thank god for quality underwear!! p.s. Chris won’t wear anything else 😂😂