From the OraHorse's mouth - things I was trying to type while in hospital

Power to the people

Here are some unedited (bar some unbearable spelling mistakes) bits-and-bobs that I wrote whilst still in hospital, trying to get this blog on the road. I apologise for nothing.

I'm just sitting here writing at the moment. No one's really told me how the operation went, which is slightly disconcerting. I can feel a massive lump on my head and individual stitches scratching on my fingers. It itches like nothing on earth. Like my head's an STI-ridden testicle sack. 

They've taken the thing that was allowing the blood and liquid to come out of my skull out too. That was weird, having that in there. Like a massive glass bottle of blood-coloured Ribena being sucked out of my head via a tube. Ribrainer.

All in all, I'm happy I've got it (touch wood) removed, I just wish they'd let me in on what's going on at the moment, even if they feel by doing so they may worry me or make me aware that they don't really know what's going on either.

My headaches are coming much more under control now, and I appear to be getting my appetite back a bit.
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Helen and Emma have been here nearly every day, as has Jono. I've been getting more and more energy every day so it means my posing for photos is improving.

I had a royal visit from Princess DiEmma.

And I proved once and for all that my pyjama modelling career is far from over...

Magnum (white chocolate)

Charlie and Boxy swung by too, which was brilliant but scary - I thought they were going to jump on me or something. As it was they brought me a book and spoke wise words about resting up. I underestimate those crazy bastards.

I have an inbox full of wonderful messages from my friends and family and even work people that send their best wishes - I feel very lucky indeed.

I'm now just looking forward to getting home. Sitting out in the back garden.

I'm looking forward to feeling normal again, if that's possible.

I want to kick a ball, have a smoke, maybe even drink a beer - although that's the subject of much contention at the moment. With myself. No one else could give a monkey's. I'm just scared of beer. Literally frightened of alcohol.
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It's day five after the operation, and there is talk of getting me home to rest. This is exciting, as the company I'm keeping at the hospital is arduous.

The nurses and other staff are all lovely, even the moody lady who steams the food. I've accomplished my mission Helen - I didn't just make her smile, she's my mate - she brings me extra coffee!

It's just (most of) the other people on the ward.

Particularly someone who is called Sharia, who, amusingly, seems to think there's a different set of rules for him and thus he can do whatever he wants. 

He spent the entire day yesterday talking to his brothers about what sounded pretty much like several cases of insurance fraud. I couldn't care less that he's ripping things off, I just want the cunt to stop shouting. 

Then last night he insisted on watching the Spice Girls in the Olympics closing ceremony with the sound full-fucking-blast. He then fell asleep immediately, burping and farting until he started snoring.

The snoring was so bad I requested to be moved into a different ward. Luckily the nice big burly nurse found me some earplugs, but they seemed to intensify the feeling of pressure in my head, which made sleeping nigh on impossible. I felt as though my brain was going to pop out my eyes.

There is a man that I feel very sorry for, as he's obviously in a great deal of pain, but he also refuses to help himself. When the nurses try to help him he whines like a dog. He also hiccups bile all the time which is one of the worst noises ever.
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This bloke (in the video below) came in at two o'clock last night and just hasn't stopped. I know I should feel sorry for him, but I don't. He says he knows who he is, where he is and that he's not in pain. So why the fuck are you shouting, John?

I'm worried that my sense of sympathy is disappearing, replaced by homicidal thoughts. I'm going to smother him.

I need to get out of here. 

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I go home tomorrow. Thank fuck. Otherwise I'm going to kill a man. 

Oramorph is a hell of a drug

To be honest, I've felt really let down by the painkillers that I've been given by the hospital.

I mean, they've done their job, sure, but at no point did I feel like I was experiencing either the 60s, Trainspotting or the bit in The Simpsons when Homer licks the toad.

I did only get a mixture of paracetamol and Oramorph though. The oral morphine did manage to live up to one of its renowned traits, it bunged me up like a cork.

As I write this, at 2pm on Monday 13 August, I am five minutes past passing my first stool since last Wednesday morning. Scary stuff for a man as regular as an Omega watch and with double the product placement.

I've been taking laxatives, eating poo-friendly food and downing fruits and juices like they were foods and liquids.


At last, the time came. (Please note, the video below, despite it's position in the narrative, is not of me visiting the loo.)

I'm not sure what the hospital's health and safety people would have to say about it, but my technique consisted of squatting backwards on the toilet and aiming my bum at the water, resembling a Sunday morning pub-team player struggling to put a corner flag in.

It was like shitting out a BMX handlebar.

Whilst I was enduring this torture - and it really was torturous, considering that any type of straining makes me feel as though my brain is going to burst out of my skull - I had the bizarre thought that it was like trying to poo out your granddad's fingers.

Anyway, mission accomplished, I came outside and it seemed that my writer's block had ended too. It never ceases to surprise me how much a good shit can churn the thoughts.

Shitting out your granddad's fingers. I'm a genius.