Anal Announcement

Here is a photograph of a man’s bottom. I’ll give you a moment or two to absorb the image. Finished? Okay, let me explain.

My golf was poor last week. It’s seldom better than average but on this occasion it was particularly poor. Duck hooks on holes 9 and 10 threatened travellers on passing trains and a preposterous slice on 16 finally enabled my ball to locate the railway track it clearly coveted. Long irons were slapped, pitches muffed, it was a miserable performance and opened the door for my winter league partner, Keith Douglas, to ridicule me all the way round. Marvellous isn’t it when your team partner extracts the Michael rather than offering  encouragement but I’m mostly reconciled to his infantile behaviour having endured six rounds with the useless oaf.

Nevertheless, I was determined that our next game would see a vast improvement in form, I was wounded by his criticism, so I booked another appointment with my doctor to address the worsening back pain which was causing my golf to suffer. Golfers are adept at offering excuses but mine was a very genuine ailment and it needed sorting. I’d seen the doctor recently, he’d advised a physio, but regrettably her manipulation of my back had no effect so I was back at the quack’s again. To suggest this experience was harrowing, however, would be an understatement.

I shuffled into the doctor’s surgery and gave him a description of my ailment before handing him a letter which the physio had written. He peered over his spectacles to read the letter before ushering me over to the examination table. He explained that the letter suggested other issues may be at play causing my back pain and he needed to investigate these possibilities.

“ It could be a kidney complaint or more likely a urinary problem” he said. “ Until we rule these or other causes out it’s difficult to diagnose. Drop your trousers and underpants below your knees please” he said nonchalantly.

“ P..p..p pardon?” I replied, somewhat taken aback.

“ Breeks doon, airse oot, you won’t feel a thing” said he.

“ What are you going to do?” I was getting worried now

.

“ A rectal examination, we need to check your prostate” he replied.

“ Hells bells, I’ve got a sore back, what’s my backside got to do with it?”

“ I’ve explained the situation Mr Russon, we need to investigate all possibilities. I’ll book you in for blood tests but first we need to check your prostate. Lie down on your side facing the wall”.

And before you could say ‘Jack Robinson’ or ‘ I want my Mummy’, he’d plunged his middle finger deep into my anus and was rummaging around as if searching for a lost set of keys in a glovebox. It wasn’t painful and was over in seconds but I have to confess it was somewhat disconcerting having another man part my butt cheeks and send a digit through my rusty sheriff’s badge to a place where the sun doesn’t shine. I was in a state of shock. I’d entered the room expecting the obligatory urine sample yet here I was with a veritable stranger seeking access to my inards via my chocolate starfish. It came as quite a surprise I can tell you.

We returned to our chairs, silently, as if nothing had happened. He spoke about blood tests but I wasn’t really listening, I was busy creating a mental image of what had transpired and started to worry about the state of my ringpiece. Had I performed an adequate clean up operation last time I’d parked my breakfast or did my arse weep pungent matter over his hand? Thankfully he didn’t appear too repulsed by his procedure but then again he was hardly likely to share a description of his findings. We shook hands, mercifully he’d washed his, and parted company. It was all over in a flash but I returned to the car park muttering furiously under my breath. “I’ll kill Douglas for this”.

Yes I blame Douglas. It is all his miserable fault. Had he encouraged rather than chastised me last Saturday, offered words of support rather than criticism, I doubt I’d have felt the need to make another doctor’s appointment, I’d have put my poor performance down to a bad day at the office and moved on. But since he’d gone to such lengths to demoralise me, I was left determined to have my injured back repaired, to show him just how good a golfer I could be. The doctor’s appointment, and subsequent anal examination, was therefore all down to him.

He’s going to pay for this I swear. Nobody facilitates the investigation of my marmite runway and get’s away with it.  If you’re reading this Keith, and I don’t want you to be unduly alarmed, I thought I’d share with you a summary of a recent article in The Guardian (that’s a broadsheet newspaper with big words commentating on current affairs, not a comic such as those to which you’re accustomed, telling the world about Cheryl Cole’s latest squeeze). This article was about medieval re-enactments, groups of folk who dress up in medieval garb and provide staged productions so that people, particularly children, can better understand what life was like centuries ago. These re-enactments are very realistic and include accounts of the various types of torture meted out to criminals of that age. Amongst these punishments is the ‘red hot poker’, a particularly ghastly instrument of torture, an iron poker heated up to an extremely high temperature and then inserted into the guilty party’s arsehole. The victim would suffer this invasion of his nethers a number of times until passing out with the pain before awaking to have it repeated all over again. And again. And again.  Apparently, I was reading, from time to time the stage effects from these travelling Medieval drama groups go missing and are later found to have been used by members of the modern day general public for nefarious personal use resulting in hours of agony for the victims.

Did you know Keith, as luck would have it, one of these re-enactments is scheduled for Stonehaven in the near future, on a date where there’s a window in my diary. I suggest you keep this in mind because if you find yourself within a million miles of the area you just might find one of these instruments is heated until it’s white hot, never mind red hot, and locates itself a significant distance up your ample backside until it’s tip appears through your nostrils you complete and utter dipstick. This is not a threat, it is a promise.