Fixing a hole: Part II


Pain. Our eternal, brutal nemesis. Pain can come in all shapes and sizes and vary from physical to mental. A short, sharp pain can make us wince and yell out in despair. But what of constant pain? An all-consuming, unforgiving complete bastard that refuses to yield, often wrecking lives. It can alter moods, strain relationships and cause other kinds of pain. When rid of it, the relief is overwhelming. But what happens when it returns? And what if it’s worse?

A few years ago, I wrote a piece about pain. I was suffering, dear God I was suffering, and I expressed how I was feeling in this blog. The twist to this simple plot is that my pain existed in my pants. I had a sore arse, you see. In fact, I had a tear up there. A fissure, to give it its proper title.

So I wrote some words down explaining my fears of what it may be, my nonsensical tardiness in visiting the doctors, and just how ridiculous attitudes towards private parts problems are. In the end, I expressed how delighted I was to end the ordeal and have reduced my pain to almost nowt.

Except, it’s back, and this time it means business. And just like The Godfather: Part II or The Empire Strikes Back or Aliens, the sequel was a far superior affair.

I considered going into more detail about it, but to be honest, it won’t tax your brain too greatly to imagine the experience. I’ll spare you the more, how shall I say, dirtier details.

Like last time, it started with pain. And it grew and it grew and it grew. This time however, the problem was on the outside, not the inside. A quick check revealed some swelling. Eventually the agony became unbearable. And, just like before, I took too long to make a doctor’s appointment. By the Friday I could hardly stand, and on the Saturday I genuinely couldn’t.

A trip to the doctor revealed I had an abscess. A course of antibiotics was swiftly prescribed along with some rest. Problem was, I was off on holiday the next week. Legoland, London, Harry Potter and friends in Cumbria awaited. This was all planned months ago, and two little children, as well as Karen and I, would be very disappointed if we didn’t go.

It turned out I was well enough to travel, but during the holiday I developed more complications. This is the part that I’ll spare you, but as you read on you’ll figure it out. We all had a fantastic holiday, and on my return I went back to see the doctor for a check up.

Oh dear. The doctor wasn’t happy with the progress and I was swiftly sent to the hospital.

After a wee while I was led to a room where I was assessed by a surgeon and two junior doctors. I am now an expert at dropping my trousers for medical professionals to gape at my arse. It doesn’t faze me anymore, no matter how many folk are there. However, this lovely lady pinched and poked and pushed around at my sore bits, announcing each prod with an “ooh” or an “ahh”.

“We’re just waiting on some gel,” she flatly said after a brief pause.

Things You Don’t Want to Hear #742.

The gel arrived

“Does anyone have torch?” she requested.

Just what the fuck were they going to do?

The junior doctor arrived at my arse with his mobile phone, light blaring and all, and pointed  it crackwards.

It’s unclear whether this doctor actually filmed this episode and uploaded it, but I don’t want to check as I’m pretty sure a search for ‘chubby hairy man anal finger insert’ is inappropriate in anyone’s language.

The surgeon proceeded to then fist me (or that’s certainly what it felt like anyway), assuring me this was necessary to give me an internal exam to check for damage. Well, I definitely did now. It felt like she had a feel at my tonsils, too.

“You have fistula,” it was announced.


“A fistula. It’s a channel from your bowel to outside your anus.”


“The abscess bore a hole and went through the weak point where your internal tear was.”


“This is why you’ve been in so much pain and have been ‘leaking’. I’ll fix it tomorrow. You’ll require surgery.”

And that was that. A relief. A genuine relief to be told that there actually is something wrong with you. To be told you’re not making it up, or exaggerating or attention seeking. It’s a weight off your shoulders.

So, I had a fistula. Hands up if you’ve ever heard of that? Me neither. However, I would like to warmly congratulate the person who named an extra hole in the arse a FIST-ula. Well played, well played indeed. Unfortunately, to the best of my knowledge, there are no conditions named rimula or felchula.

This was the first time I had ever been a patient in a hospital. Sure, I had visited many people on many occasions but never actually been admitted myself. I would like to take the time now to say just how fucking wonderful the NHS is. Not only did I receive an operation the very next day, every single member of staff I came across was wonderful, especially the nurses. Absolute gems, the lot of them.

The staff nurses, auxiliaries, porters, cleaners, anaesthetists (thank you spellcheck), surgeons and doctors were just bloody brilliant. I felt overwhelmed at the service I received. Thank you to each and every one of you, from the bottom of my heart, and the heart of my bottom.

A special shout out to the nurse who woke me out of my sleep after my op who had to put up with my awful patter and my constant attempts to pull my dressing out my arse.

“There’s something between my cheeks, the surgeon won’t know where to operate.”

“It’s okay, Scott, you’ve had your op.”

“Oh. Wow, I haven’t felt this out my face since I watched Faithless at T in the Park!”


“Why is everything yellow?”

“It’s just the lights.”

“Oh. When’s my operation again?”

“Time to take you back to the ward for a sleep.”

“I like sleepi…… zzzzzzz”

Yup, God bless the NHS. And if these bastards in government even consider dismantling it, then I’ll be first in line to fight them.

So, I’m now halfway through my fortnight’s recovery. Apparently that’s it fixed and I’ll never have any more trouble again.


So, as I write this I’m doped up to the eyeballs in painkillers. As you can imagine, it’s not a nice area to get sliced up. However, because I’m writing this in a codeine haze, I’m wondering if it’ll make any sense. Y’know, like the bit in Wolf of Wall Street when Leo DiCaprio thinks he’s driven his Lamborghini safely home wasted on quaaludes, except when he looks at it later it’s a total wreck.

I might think I’ve written a long but eloquent blog but when I read it next week it’ll just be:

ycydyfuggugijiftxrestguhoji igufydufugugihihihih
f gugugi gigigihih tgojpkphicts dysdjgjg gigigihihfh jkfdh tcihiftstwrsfuu8t7gucydtchgihi hdhko0 dgihiufugdtsr
dyfugyddy hi hi igigu 6jx ihifstetd kpp9u8hug  d6dh

utwtfujopjoh7gufyetdfuvubih8fhihugufseatfu hoheg25l

While the main subject of this piece is about pain and suffering, the object of it isn’t to gain sympathy. Not in the slightest. I don’t understand people who take their pain or illness and use it to harvest attention. In fact, while in hospital, Karen and I joked we should check in on Facebook then not reply to anyone.





I don’t get why folk do that. Like when people update their status to announce they have a migraine. STARING AT A BRIGHT GLOWING SCREEN WILL MAKE IT WORSE, YOU UTTER FUCKNUT.

It’s pushed into second place by people who think we care about their exercise. Yay, you did 25 burpees and lifted a kettlebell 20 metres in a muddy park. I ate Monster Munch and drank wine, who’s the fucking champion here?

Nope, this isn’t about sympathy. It’s about awareness. Yes, you may have a problem ‘down there’, but it’s nothing to be shy about. There’s no difference between a sore shoulder and a sore arsehole. They both need fixed. Just because one lives in your pants, it doesn’t make it taboo, and it most certainly won’t fix itself.

We all have private parts. We all need them. We all use them. We all play with them from time to time. But we won’t talk about them.

Well, I just did. It’s easy. Speak up to loved ones or get it seen to. The consequences can be devastating. Don’t suffer in silence, especially us men. We’re 20% less likely to visit a doctor. Fucking idiots. You honestly think the worst thing a doctor will see that day is your big hairy arse? Na, no chance. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Nobody will laugh. It really could save your life.

Don’t be a dick, visit the doc.