I’ve not blogged for a while – other than rugby stuff – and that’s because I’ve been in what could generally be described as a “damned bad mood”.
And as a result of said “damned bad mood” (DBM) I haven’t written a thing. Nada. Three unfinished projects, and not a single word added.
Am I in mourning following the departure of my beloved Aston Martin, you may well be wondering? Not a jot, is the answer. I don’t miss the impracticality of the thing, the bills for its upkeep, and the pervading emotion (rubber-stamped by my wife) that the money could be better spent elsewhere. Of course, it was nice to be surrounded by crowds of admirers washing it with their tongues and clicking at it with their cameras, but that came at a price. And as I’m at an age where I’m spending more on medication and nutritional supplements than I am on alcohol, these things must be considered.
But now the sun is shining, the grass is greener, and whilst not everything under the sun is in tune, I am infused with a long-forgotten sense of positivity.
So, what caused this almost year-long malaise?
If you know me, then you will know that I have been suffering from something called Chronic Sinusitis for a very long time. To begin with it was irritating, then it became distracting, and finally – about a month ago – it became debilitating to the extent that I had very little quality of life. I’ll not go into the grossness of it all, but to give you a flavour, the act if bending down to tie a shoe lace left me with a blinding headache and a nostril full of green foul-smelling gunk which had to be painfully disposed of.
Grosstastic.
It’s the second worst chronic medical affliction I have suffered. The worst – I’m sure you’re clamouring for this information – was a knee which would randomly and without warning bleed internally. A condition which resulted in nine emergency trips to hospital to have the thing drained. The pain was excruciating, but thankfully this affliction was at a time when it was possible to get an ambulance without a six-day wait.
Eventually my knee affliction was resolved by a surgical procedure to remove the lining called a synovectomy.
And a little over a week ago, my problem Chronic Sinusitis was also relieved with functional endoscopic sinus surgery (FESS).
This was done privately at the Quiron Hospital in Marbella by the redoubtable Dr Carlos López Azanza… an ENT surgeon whose only failing is to have more than a passing resemblance to David Cameron.
Not only is the good doctor a remarkably thorough and diligent surgeon, he is also a likeable and charming fellow, because upon learning that my health insurance company – DKV: avoid them like the plague, as they can best be described as unprincipled charlatans – had refused to fund the operation, he proceeded to go the extra mile with the surgical procedure.
During the two-hour operation, conducted under general anaesthetic, not only did he treat my right maxillary sinus, he also cleabed out the left hand one, which had appeared clear in the CT scan. And in addition to this, he did a bit of re-jigging of my left-hand nasal septum, which had been broken at least six times during my brief but violent rugby career.
The net result is that I currently feel better than I’ve felt for a very long time. I had a consultation with the good doctor last Tuesday and he was delighted with my progress, but he did inform me that he would need to see me again in twenty-one years’ time.
‘Twenty-one years?” I gasped. ‘I’ll either be dead, or planted in a piss-stained nursing home armchair by then!’
‘Ah… twenty-one days… my English is not so much of the best.’
And that neatly brings me around to the other thing which has lifted my spirits: The New Pope.
Now… again if you know me, you will know that I have as much interest in the Pope, organised religion in general, and Catholicism in particular, as I have in soccer. I am, after all, a Belfast-born Ulster protestant.
But I rather like this new chap in the Vatican. You can like (or dislike) folk for all kinds of reasons. You can like people who you’ve met, had dealings with, and come away from with good vibes. Take Dr Carlos “David Cameron” López Azanza, for example.
And although I’ve never met Henry Pollock, Volodymyr Zelenskyy or Greta Thunberg, I wouldn’t sit down to break bread with any of them… whereas I would have a pint with Boris Johnson, and possibly even Donald Trump, if he was buying.
So, if Pope Leo XIV invited me to the Vatican to share a bottle of Chianti, I would disregard the allegations of his “history of resisting disclosure of abuse information to the public,” and hop onto a plane to Rome.
But what I like most about the Pope is his circumstance, and the sense of purpose it has triggered in me.
On the day that white smoke announced his election, I texted to my two oldest and dearest friends: “Kinda depressing to find out that the new Pope is the same age as us, guys!”
One of them replied that he regarded it as a positive, as it vindicated his decision to spurn retirement. The Pope, he said, has reached the pinnacle of his career at the tender age of 69. He’s fit and he’s sharp and will stay ahead of his game until the Good Lord-slash-Grim Reaper calls his number. If an octogenarian who can’t remember whether he’s had breakfast or not can be President of America, then he’s totally in the right place to kick on. Popes don’t require further validation; they are, therefore, in control of their own legacies.
And so, between my newly-acquired and unaccustomed (if you know me) positivity, and the inspiration provided by my friend’s Pope-related comments, I have decided to work on my own legacy.
And, if you know me, a footnote to this is you’ll know that I was one of only three students to have won the Portora Poetry Prize on two consecutive occasions… the other two being fairly minor luminaries (Oscar Wilde and Sam Beckett).
And because there’s no point in setting the bar too low, I’ve decided that my legacy target will be to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.
So, best get started then.