Best/worst injuries ever, AKA the story of my right leg

Forget about heroic stories like My Left Foot (I was thinking of Alan Devonshire and not Christy Brown). The story of My Right Leg sends shivers down the spine of NHS workers and the UK taxpayer. And I am not talking about my well rehearsed and embellished story about when my right leg snapped into several pieces on a cold autumn morning a few years ago and the medics tried to drag me into the back of the ambulance. Or how the doctors described it as a jigsaw puzzle as they sipped tea. Not this time luckily for you. My friends and colleagues will tell you they are sick to death of that one (especially after buying me several pints at first in sympathy and I managed to wangle free taxi rides around long as well as an NHS chauffeur).

Nor am I going to tell you the story of how a piece of titanium lodged itself in my knee joint making it impossible to straighten my right leg. The scars tell that story. And I am not going to tell you the incredible-but-true story of a crazy woman who drove me down on purpose one morning in her flashy sports car, ramming my right knee with a ton of metal then taking off as quickly as it happened. No. That’s too sad and disturbing. This story is about my most recent injury, one that will make you very scared, and I hope, will earn me many pints of beer as well as clear a space down the left wing for me to run and score (luckily I’m left footed so no worries there about self-inflicted pain).

Having returned from a recent work trip abroad to the tropics, several red and swollen sores appeared on my feet, but most prominently my right foot. These were not ordinary sores – they seeped, bled and seeped more, and did lots of other things as well as bloody hurt! After a week of hobbling around in London, the missus finally ordered me to go to the doctor and get some penicillin. That I did, and after almost completing the course of treatment, things looked better. That was, until I received a call from several government officials. Christ, this was not some ordinary phone call. This was big – they told me they knew my name. Even at the hospital, people made way for me – I was fast-tracked. No waiting. Straight there, door open. Come inside Sir.

Not only did I have some infection, but this was unusual. My movements were to be curtailed. Security screens placed around me, escorts (not Russian) in and out of hospitals. A ring of steel placed around me, (actually a bandage) and under no circumstances, was I to reveal my bare foot in public. Deadly spores, I was told. A matter of national security.

Damn! Forget Thursday night then. There goes my Christmas run-out and drinking run-in. Sit at home and listen to the radio and watch the rain and snow instead. Balls.

Apparently the spores from my foot could infect people, bring down the team, not to mention ruin Christmas for my neighbours and friends. Burn everything, that’s what they said: burn my socks, my sheets and my shoes – yes, even my own shoes. Hell, no: what about my football boots? They couldn’t…
Well, one day later and another prescription, the prognosis is looking better. I’ll be able to make my return in the New Year now that the microbiologist just informed me I’ll probably see it arrive. Thank god for that!