Punch monastery into the sat nav will Ya.......

It’s official, I am allergic to wheat. I have suspected for years that I might be. After eating bread etc I would feel like someone had inserted a bicycle pump up my rectum, and started pumping vigorously! So with all the "New year, new me" …….(It has worn off already. I have welcomed back with open arms, the old "The world is full of cunts" me!) …….cobblers, I took the plunge and decided to get it sorted once and for all.

Instead of going down the traditional route of making an appointment to see my doctor (whoever he or she is), via a Nazi receptionist, I took a wander down the holistic path. At our local "Mega" Tesco’s there is a little cubby hole, and inside is a little Chinese doctor, and his helpful female assistant. For the sum of thirty-five pounds, they can do a test, and it will tell you all the things that you are allergic to. It’s a simple and painless procedure which involves taking a small sample of hair, which they then send off to some laboratory somewhere. They work some voodoo magic on it, and lo and behold a few days later, you have your results.

Now, being somewhat follically challenged, and shaving the remaining hair to a closely cropped no. three, for one un-nerving moment I feared she might say that there was not going to be enough hair for the sample, and she would have to visit little Andy for a donation from his little hat! In the few seconds as we stood there, this whole scenario played out in my head, in a kind of mortifying slow motion. There I am standing in the middle of "Mega" Tesco’s, with my trousers around my knees, shirt pulled up over the protruding beer gut, staring down at a petit Chinese lady, who is kneeling down, and coming at me nervously with a small pair of scissors. All the while my wife, the Chinese doctor, and a rapidly gathering crowd look on with jaw slacking bemusement! Fortunately it never came to this, as the young lady coped admirably with my lack of scalp carpet, and managed to get enough from round the back somewhere.

So off it went in a little plastic bag, and I was told to wait a few days, and she would phone me to tell me it was ready. A few days passed, and she did indeed phone me. She asked if she could "speak to a mista Moo" and proceeded to tell me that my results were back, and to come in to see them on Saturday, and they would analyse them with me. Saturday comes around, and Miss Marple and I toddle off to "Mega" Tesco’s

"Ah Goo afternoo Mr Moo, here are your results."
Yes, there it was in big bright red letters…….ALLERGIC TO WHEAT…….It was even circled in red (Must be serious). There were other things too. Caffeine, citrus fruits, tomatoes, pepper, spices, fortunately these were not in red, and therefore I am not so allergic to them.
So, thank you God. That is not one, but several more avenues of pleasure closed off. I haven’t got much left. Fags when a few years ago, the only things I had left to cling to in an attempt to keep a grip on some kind of sanity was my beer, Jack Daniels, curries, big cups of tea and crusty cheese rolls. If I stick rigidly to what would be the new regime, all that would be gone, and all I would have left would be the XBOX and wanking. Having said that, the latter could be in jeopardy due to an unforeseen, and very unwelcome bout of some kind of ‘Tennis elbow’…….I could practice left handed I suppose, it’s not the same though is it?.......sigh.

Anyway, I then had three lots of pills plonked in front of me, and told that a good session of acupuncture would do me the world of good. I declined the opportunity. They seemed very keen; the little Chinese doctor’s assistant had to virtually wrestle the little Chinese doctor to the floor to stop him from jabbing me with hundreds of needles.

So, there you have it. I might as well join a monastery. I virtually have no avenues of pleasure left, and I have a head start…….(Eh!, see what I did there, eh!) on the monks hair cut thing. Or I could just say fuck it, and carry on regardless. What is worse, a clean living life of salad, fruit, and abject misery, or having an imaginary man thrust an imaginary bicycle pump up my bottom?
PS. I wonder what the monastic stance on self abuse is?.......