Voy Por Ustedes

I feel rubbish people. I've felt rubbish most of this year in all fairness. I've stubbornly refused IV treatment for the past two years, relying instead on a combination of painkillers, soup and good old fashioned British spunk to see me through. Unfortunately, I'm out of painkillers, I'm sick of soup and I have not a drop of spunk left. Sam Fox has left the jungle just in time. I therefore give in. I surrender. I relent. I hereby declare that my shunning of modern medicine has been counter-shunned.

I did receive a message from a Slovenian gypsy earlier today, delivered by a monkey, who claims my nasty goo and infections can be tackled with a treatment passed down through the generations of her family that would see her open up the womb of a bear and spill it's mess all over my chest - but part of this treatment involves me having to actually remove the womb from a living brown bear myself - in this case a five year old 35 stone beast called Holly - whom one assumes might be quite protective of it. Genealogical investigation into the old crones family revealed many deaths at the clumping and raging fists of violated brown bear - I therefore thanked her for her offer but declined politely.


So then, my social calendar is not what one might call demanding, but for the next couple of weeks I am rendered house bound. One of the reasons I am so reluctant to accept these treatments is because they're just so darned inconvenient. They're not, in all fairness to them particularly nasty, just a bit uncomfortable and they do tend to give my urine the smell and colour of Dandelion and Burdock. But since they're administered every eight hours and I need 10 hours of sleep at least per 24 hours - they essentially give me no time to do anything else over the 14 days other than eat, sleep, inject and if I'm lucky, shoe-horn in a bit of light relief.

This will of course mean the Pigeon's game will be harder to win if I'm not there to provide the value, but I will save about £500 by not playing at the Fox. Hopefully when I emerge just in time to ignore Christmas, I'll feel better, maybe even well for possibly the first time this year. As George S. Patton said when the US Army finally got involved in the war when it became clear who would win, "better late than never."


In other news, it's the Pigeon's quiz tonight and while I may not feel 65% physically, I'm looking forward to our confrontation with the Barbarians. I know Sky Sports have gotten a little carried away with the hype as they are want to do, but I fancy this will be pure unadulterated quizzing carnage making the St Valentine's Day massacre look like a Tupperware party.