I was watching some football a couple of months ago; I know, its unusual. But I was. And Spurs superstar midfield genius and vunderkind, Dele Alli, appeared to have what I thought was a new tattoo. Nothing new there, footballers and tattoos. Its like love and marriage, horse and carriage, lawyers and divorce. Even though Dele is relatively ink-free. Because upon his lower calf were thick black lines, extending up to his knee, in a nice, Maoriesque pattern. Nice.

Then I learned this was probably not the case. Mainly because a couple of weeks later the ‘tats’ were gone. These weren’t in fact tattoos but the latest in physiotherapy practice. K-tape. Short for kinesiology tape. Heard of it? Its great. The stuff of dreams. If you have odd dreams involving adhesive shit. Or if you’re Mel (unlikely) and are the ultimate believer. Mel loves medical stuff. She can’t get enough. We had to have the bathroom extended just to accommodate the pills, potions, medications, applications, dressings and now, k-tape.

In the ‘old days’ when you pulled a muscle or had a little ache, you’d use a strap, a bandage, an elastic tube-thing on the afflicted area. But no more. Now its all about ‘k-tape’. Take a lump of basically sticking plaster, make it stickier, most importantly, give it a proper colour, no ‘fleshy, pinky’ rubbish, black, blue, fluorescent green, strong, unashamed colours, and make it big. Two inches wide. And you buy it by the mile. Well, by the tens of metres. Cos you never know where you’ll need it next.

You don’t just stick it on and hope though. Its not like its magic. You put it on in such a way that it pulls your muscles in certain directions. To relieve or to enhance. In fact its so non-intuitive that you have to visit u-tube and watch Americans sticking the stuff all over each other. And learnin’. So you can repeat it.

Mel bought some (£2.14p on Amazon for half a mile, including post and package, how can you go wrong???) and we spent a couple of very productive hours on Saturday night anointing each other as if for some form of religious sacrifice or post-modernist artwork. On shoulders, f’rinstance, you don’t use one measly piece, you use 3. Necks? Another 3. By the time we’d finished with all Mel’s aches and pains she looked like a bright blue version of the invisible man. I opted for the shoulder, on the basis that when you’re desperate you’ll try any form of neo-quackery available to stop the aggro.

Does it work? Jury’s out for me, Mel’s convinced. She won’t ever have an unadorned upper body again. After a few days of showering it comes a bit loose at the edges, so you remove it. Which is far easier to write than it is to actually do. Its like the waxing scene in the 40-year-old Virgin. Lots of sticky = lots of shouting/swearing/motherfucking!!!

Happy taping

A xxxx