You know you’re getting old when they keep sending you ‘invitations’. Not for parties, no longer for raves, orgies, toga nights, to play for Spurs at right back cos Aurier’s injured, nuffink like that. You get invitations to have health checks. In addition to all the ones you have because bits have broken.

So, having successfully completed my last ‘shit on a stick’ performance and was ‘relieved’ (ha, ha, haaaaahhhh) that I don’t have bowel cancer, I received another invitation to have my lungs checked. So as I haven’t had a major medical procedure for almost 2 days (scan on hip), I thought, yeah, I’ll ave some’a dat. You can never check too much. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re NOT queuing up with various diseases to give you.

So I went to Finchley Memorial Hospital. Which must be unique in that its small, clean, uncluttered with people, relaxed, charming and nice. And you can park outside. For nuffink!!!! Or inside if you have 3 spare hours for the terms and conditions and instructions. Fine if you’re on crutches, not if you’re always and only in a hurry. So the most gorgeous person (other than MY FAMILY, obvs) checked my blood pressure, lung blowability, other stuff and declared me ‘the most perfect specimen of manhood that ever walked (or limped) the planet’. And asked if I’d like to be part of a lung study. Trying to isolate some marker for cancer (which I hopefully don’t have) in the blood. To be honest Celia had me at ‘would you like to…’ and I’d have willingly given her my kidneys; she only had to ask.

She took blood. Loads of blood. I was really brave as I thought crying was probably a bit of a killer in terms of maintaining the super-hero stance. And then I had a scan. Of my lungs. Not an MRI this time (thank fucking Christ) but a nice, friendly, quiet, CT thingy that takes 3 minutes. The disclaimer took way longer. So now I’m a guinea pig on a treadmill. Where I belong. And I’m going to get an invite every year.

But the things you think of whilst you’re in medical procedures. Like: how can Manchester City be so shit when they’re the most expensive assemblage of talent the world has ever known? And, how can Leicester City be so good when they’re the cheapest bunch of cut-price, discounted, 2-for-1 players ever thrown together in a bargain basement and then they sold the 2 best ones anyway? The answers to which I’ll ponder at my next procedure.

Joey’s not ill. Just likes to ingest his food through his skin by osmosis. Clever.

Happy Monday
A xxxx