Each year I undergo a medical MoT which highlights the bits of me wearing out the quickest. I dont really want to know, but my GP says one day possibly in my lifetime surgeons may be able to discard the wonky bits completely, leaving the good organs to function contentedly on their own.
At my current rate of decay, theyd chuck out everything but my ears. Where once sat Mike Lockley would be two lug oles on a velvet cushion, which rather flies in the face of my doctors advice to take up cycling.
I suppose my wife could be talked into the hobby, but would she want to transport my ears in a basket on the handlebars? I think not.
Im lucky, really. Colin would be reduced to a bum. His son says if it happens can he use Colin to park his bicycle.
Last time I underwent an MoT, the doctor joked: The good news is youre definitely not a hypochondriac.
I didnt see the funny side. I wanted him to say I had the body of a 30-year- old, but he wouldnt. He fears he could be sued for dishing out such disinformation. Sued by a 30-year-old.
How about the body of a sickly 30 year old, I asked? The doc promised he would as long as the 30-year-old was short-sighted, had a bad back and was chronically overweight. That was fine by me. We shook on it.
Each year, my GP asks for a urine sample, shakes it, stares at it, sighs and mutters: We are not getting any younger are we, Mr Lockley?
Are you basing that diagnosis on the colour of the liquid, I asked, a tad stung by the criticism, last week.
No, Im basing it on the 15 minutes Ive had to wait for you to fill the bottle, he explained.
Once I cheated and took our cats urine. The doctor couldnt understand how someone with worms had such a huge beer belly. He thanked me, however, for heeding his advice about eating more fish. He wants to know if I keep a record of what I eat. I do. Its called a tie.
Sex drive? he asked. I thanked him, but pointed out a lot of the lay-bys our way had CCTV cameras.
Hes concerned about the number of units of alcohol Im consuming. No need. Ive never drunk out of a unit in my life.
Ive come to the conclusion his is a profession of scaremongerers and it needs to be: if my doctor said Im in pristine condition and will live to be 130, hed never see me again.
No, doctors are much like the fire-and-brimstone priests who spat out dark, petrifying rants on the horrors that awaited myself and fellow sinners at our school. I faced eternal damnation for eating two Twix bars a day, apparently, which was a bit harsh. Why should I suffer alongside Adolf Hitler in the bowels of Hades for having a sweet-tooth?
The only difference between our GP and those priests is he has a benign smile and adopts a soothing tone.
He might as well go the whole hog and tell me: Neither of us want to see you wailing in torment in the furnaces of hell, do we Mr Lockley?
So try to cut out the red meat and reduce the alcohol content, theres a good chap.
You want to see 80, dont you, Mr Lockley? he asked during the recent visit.
Depends. Depends on whether Ill dribble, smell and have to indulge in line-dancing classes at an old folks home.
What irks is he dismisses the things that really concern me, such as my faltering memory.
For example? he asked, leaning back in his leather chair and tapping the stem of his glasses on his teeth.
For example, I stammered, last week I put the shoe polish in the fridge.
Hardly a life-changing anomaly, he laughed. Have you tried a shoe polish sandwich? I demanded.
In summary, he mused, a change of eating habits, a change of drinking habits, a change of daily routine ie. get to bed earlier, a change in your work environment...
I demanded a second opinion. Well, that shirt went out in the early 1980s. That could do with changing, too, he told me.
The most boring man in our village came round to show me his new chrome shovel.
I spoke in Spanish, in a bid to curtail the painful conversation, but he had none of it, and went on to tell me about his cousin in Nantwich who has found two earthworms tied in a reef knot. Hes going to display them at carnivals, if they dont untangle by summer.
Mr Magic, the kids entertainer, does the same kind of things with a balloon, the parishs most tedious man says.
Anyone who can make a swan out of two worms is a warm favourite to win X Factor, I say. I wouldnt mind, but his brother, Malcolm, was the victim of a drive-by shooting last week. That didnt get a mention. Malcolms azure blue Ford Mondeo and its mileage did, however. I just ran off in the end, the drone becoming dimmer with each rapid step until, Honest, I can remember when the chocolate was THAT thick on a Wagon Wheel was but a whisper in the crisp spring air.
Thank goodness the parishs most boring man quit that debating society, thats all I can say.
He wouldve stayed on, but didnt agree with the suicide pact. Funnily enough, the group ditched that idea after his resignation.
He walked out just 48 hours before delivering his first lecture: To grout or not to grout? That is the question.
The woman immediately before him was addressing the audience on, Hiroshima morally right or morally wrong? Lets be honest, the quantum leap from A-bombs to tiling would prove too much for most.
The local bore is one of those people who starts statements with obvious questions, like: You know earthworms? Well...
Feigning ignorance is an interesting, and enjoyable, defence mechanism. You know carrots? he once asked.
No, I shrugged. Well, theyre orange vegetables... Whats a vegetable? Once Id whittled it down to explaining what.
What concerns me is the fact he mustve once been interesting, or he wouldnt have married. Mind you, shes profoundly deaf and was wooed by his clumsy, error-ridden early attempts to master sign language. He mistakenly did the signs for I was in the first SAS unit to enter Goose Green, while trying to tell her My brother Malcolms got an azure blue Ford Mondeo. How many more crossed-wires have there been, one wonders?
Yours Truly has been invited to a VIP party aboard the worlds biggest cruise liner. I have accepted, despite painful memories of my only other time on a ship. I complained after discovering a common merchant seaman using the shower in my cabin.
For what youve paid, sniffed the purser, youre not going to get the captain.
The constant, undulating movement made me walk around the vessel with a limp, which I also complained about.
We havent left port yet, huffed the purser, adding: Are you aware the heels come off your left shoe?
Ive boned-up on a few nautical phrases such as aye, aye captain, captains log, the ship canna take it, captn and beam me up, Scotty.
My wife says these arerandom catchlines gleaned from re-runs of cult sci-fi series Star Trek, which are useless.
Tell that to the Klingons, I say.
Thur she blows, I added. Thats whaling, pointed out the wife. No, I stressed, dropping to my knees tugging my hair and shrieking. Thats wailing.
Where is starboard? I pondered. Its in the town centre, but the coffees very expensive, explained She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed.
I think shell find thats Starbucks.
Insanity is hereditary. You get it from your children.
Rang our council and said I want a skip outside our house.
The bloke replied: Im not stopping you.
|
Comment 
