I’m back. On the tennis court. Where I belong. Where I can’t do much damage. Other than to myself, obvs.

Because its happened. Precisely 3 months and 3 days after having my shoulder replaced with a shiny (literally) new one, I was back on court. Fitter, faster, keener and about 3 months and 3 days older. But bionic. Cyborg. Living tissue over titanium parts. And I can’t tell you what a wonderful pleasure it was to play yesterday almost painlessly. So I won’t bother trying. The lingering ‘aches’ and twinges are post-surgical therefore aren’t proper ‘pain’ like swinging round a shoulder jammed up with Osteo-arthritis, as I’ve been doing for years. This is ‘happy pain’. The pain of healing.

Because I’ve been religiously doing my physiotherapy every day.

I started out, in front of the mirror (not a vanity thing but fuck me, I am gorgeous!), because you need to address your posture before and during each kvetch), doing Heil Hitlers. Just raise the right arm vertically to just past the horizontal. Heil Hitler. Then do it again. And again. Until you feel either better or ready to invade Poland. From there we progressed to other forms of semi-torture whilst the shoulder tried to heal. Then we added weights to the equation. As if my natural resistance wasn’t sufficient. And now I’ve been promoted from light weights to stretch bands. So I can lie on the floor, shoulder down, head up, arm pressed to the floor, strangling myself with a six foot elastic band until Mel comes and unties me. And repeat. Yet ridiculously, it seems to work! Who’d’a thought that?

But Liverpool. Ahhhhh, Liverpool. It would appear that were there a league table of football teams involved in public inquiries, Liverpool would have been long crowned ‘undisputed champions’. Of the world. Of all known worlds. Unknowns too. Yet on Saturday night we had Paris-gate. Actually, Paris-gate-gate, as the problem was that no-one opened the gates at the Stade de France to let the fans in. Understandable, you may think, who the fuck would let in 20,000 drunken, shouting, singing Scousers? But this lot had tickets. So actually had a right to be let in. But they weren’t. And because French authorities have only two modes: overly-aggressive or SURRENDER!, they went for the former and sprayed tear gas, indiscriminately, at children, old people, quiet people, peaceful people, everyone. For complaining that the ticket they’d paid a lot of money for was not allowing them entry into the ground. Because they didn’t open the gates.

Fortunately, no-one was seriously injured. No thanks to Monsieur fucking Gendarme. Who maintains that ‘there were thousands of people with fake tickets’. How did they know? No-one got as far as having their tickets checked. No stewards were around, insufficient police, it was a shambles only the French could be proud of. Which robbed thousands of innocent supporters of their right to watch their team lose. Ok, the result is really not the point.

You do have to just think the obvious question: why is it ALWAYS Liverpool?

Happy Monday

A xxxx