Sexy Back

I’ve been having trouble with my back this past year – which has made me feel like a complete Grandad, constantly twisting, clicking, and moaning on…I thought it would be a good idea to get it checked out by a doctor in England  in the short window that I was on home-ground. You know, to see if anything was really amiss, or if I was just whining unnecessarily! 

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So I had to set up an appointment, but wasn’t really sure how to go about it…I know you can just Google these things but for some reason it didn’t cross my mind…I just rolled in unannounced and thought the nice people at the reception would probably help me out;

“Errr…hi…hello, hi. I’d like an appointment please…”

“Alright, what’s the problem?”

Now I found this odd. Maybe it’s just me! But what if it was something really personal, something I really didn’t want to share with the rest of the waiting room? A like…ball related thing, or like a penisey problem, or whatever. I probably wouldn’t want a load of strangers hearing about all that!

“It’s like a weird back thing…it’s like, sorry…it’s…”

“A weird back?”

“Yeah…I don’t know – it aches, I just wanted to check if it was-“

“You wanted to know from a professional if it is weird, or not?”

“Ergh, yes. I suppose so.”

“Ah…ha…”

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And so after a condescending few minutes, I was given my appointment time – and bid her good day. I returned a week later…although funnily enough I hadn’t been having much to complain about. My back had been relatively well behaved. Now I would look like a big fat liar! Despite this I didn’t want to end up looking like a fool at the reception again, so kept going over the name of the doctor over, and over, and over – so that I wouldn’t be caught out!

“Hello! I have an appointment at 9:20.”

“Okay, what’s your name?”

“Doctor Foo.” 

“No…what is YOUR name?”

“Err…my…errr…” Now this really threw me, I was racking my brains for what seemed like forever, why did she have to ask me such a difficult question?! I felt like this was the final question on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? I was never going to get it right! Only a genius would!

“Err…it’s…John. John…Taggart!” Phew, got there. I took my seat with reddened cheeks, and an expression that clearly spelled out how ashamed I was.

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I waited a while, trying not to make eye contact with people – and also trying to subtly block the sputtering coughs from the contagious man next to me. But I didn’t have to sit for long, and was soon shepherded through by a beeping machine, announcing my name in red – and informing me of which room I had to go to. Room 7. 

I walked in unsure whether to do a handshake, after all I may have hand-plague…or something…or do doctors wear gloves for that very reason? Hmm…not sure. Anyway, he didn’t offer it, so I decided against it. Instead I just sat, as he quizzed me on this, and that. After the interrogation he told me to roll up my jumper – which made for an awkward scene, me standing with a self-made belly top, as he massaged, and prodded my knobbly joints!

He came to three conclusions, a trifecta of back ache horror, if you will. It wasn’t due to my flat feet, as I had guessed (I have feet like Donald Duck) instead it is down to working with small children – always leaning, and bending down to speak to them – like the BFG. Then there is the fact that I am always writing, and I probably slouch into my laptop when I do…then there is the fact that I am a tallish person in Asia…so I have to stoop somewhat to get a clear view of things, as “it’s not designed with John size in mind” as Dr Foo boldly  announced!

After all that we shared some stories about China, and Korea, which was nice – I then thanked him for his time, and bounced back home – paying special attention to my posture, asI had just endured quite a telling off!

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At least I can head back to South Korea with peace of mind! Mind…the long flights always give me a sore bum…perhaps I should have got Dr Foo to check that for me too…

On second thought, I think I’m fine.

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GTL (Gym Tastes Lackadaisical)

I looked in the mirror yesterday after a shower, and just thought “you fat cunt” – actually I said it out loud (is that worse or better?), this was followed by a look of disdain from both myself and the reflection that stared back at me. I practically wept…I mean, what the hell has happened to me?!

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“IT’S NOT MEEEE – IT CAN’T BEEEEEEEEE?!?!?!?!”

I don’t know what it is…there’s just something about looking like a huge slab of pork, that makes me vomit in my mouth every time I catch sight of myself. I wished that I could refer to my gigantic sides as love handles, but right now they are just flabby masses that my tighter t-shirts can no longer handle yeyyyy, baggy shirts that make me look like even more of a walrus! GreatI wish I could be all sassy and “I’m comfortable with who I am, so if you don’t like it, fuck off” but that’s not me at all…

Instead I am left to dwell on the poor quality human I am…maybe this is too much information, but I don’t think the man-boob nipple area is supposed to look as much like a beef burger as mine does – I suppose they do say you are what you eat though, so in that sense – fair enough. That theory would also explain my fatty chicken thighs, pork chop cheeks, jelly belly, and spotted dick. hahaha! I’m just joking…or am I? No I am…or…no I am.

Anyway, I decided that I had to do something about it so immediately signed up for the local gym in my new town! I was full of so much enthusiasm that first day, I quite literally hopped and skipped all the way there! I was ready to get started!

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“White men can’t jump? FUCK YOU STEREOTYPES! God, I’m thirsty.”

It was an absolute nightmare. Just checking, but are you supposed to feel sick after every single movement? You’re not right? Even the ones where you get to sit down are a challenge…who ever thought sitting down would be anything but nice? You have to push the heavy things, pull the heavy things, pick them up…put them down, do it again, have a break (but not like a tea and biscuit type break, just water) – but you know…oh, you know – that soon you will be going back to the same thing in just a few short moments. I mean it’s terrifying really. My body was literally screaming, STOPPPPPPPP, PLEASE STOP, IF YOU STOP WE CAN GET A DOUGHNUT AND JUST FORGET ABOUT THIS WHOLE THING! And I was inclined to agree with my body, but then of course there are mirrors everywhere and you remember why you are there in the first place – the reason being that it looks like you are wearing a life jacket under your clothing, and you are worried people may use you as a buoyancy aid should you be swimming in the sea.

I have taken a “before photo”, which is just beyond gross – in the hope that I can compare it with the after model that I will carve out…which will hopefully be an amazing, superbly chiseled physique, …God like if you will…but not like beardy and robes, but all Greek…in short, I want to transform myself into a creature of mythological proportions, a person who inspires awe, so much so that people tell stories to their children about me…possibly even folk songs, or cave paintings…

This will be me at the New Year countdown ~

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“I LIKEA DO DA CHA-CHA AT THA GUN SHOW!”

That’s not asking too much, surely?

I am returning home for Christmas this year, first time in three years that I will spend it with my family (missed the last two, booohooo!) By my rough estimations, (which are not fueled by mathematical and/or scientific evidence) – this should be more than enough time to right the wrongs that I have did to myself.

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“There’s no such thing as too much groin.”

In other, entirely unrelated news – boxes of Krispy Kreme are buy one get one free today. Good times!

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