Toe Job

Hello my friends,

It’s been a while.


I’m not apologising this time. Each time I write, it seems that I take so long to add something to this little corner of cyberspace and I apologise every time for neglecting it - but this time, this time, I make no excuse….


You’re an intimidating bunch of people to write for.

A collective bunch of family, friends, friends of friends, girlfriends, ex-girlfriends and of course, My Mum.

Initially it was for me.

All this venting my spleen onto a computer screen. I am a frustrated writer, wishing all my life on That Great Novel that must surely be just around the corner in the dark recesses of my mind.

I know it’s there.

It must be.

In the meantime (and that’s positive thinking for you), this is the vehicle from which I joyride and explore the creative side of my mind that I hope is there. If it’s not there I’ll hunt it out like the dirty, skulking dog that it must be.

Now there are more of you, I feel under pressure to write something that not only I would be happy with but something that you would be equally content with.

Do I achieve that? Probably not. But I shall persevere to entertain you, to fill a coffee break, to take you away from the tedium of a day in the office or for a few short minutes from your hectic lifestyle, a little detour from your day to day existence – something to take your mind off That Terrible Thing That Needs Doing.

So here I go…


But before you call for “those lovely men in their lovely white coats” (or whoever it was that my father used to sing to us about), I mean physical agony – not some form of mental torment that has me howling at the moon and sucking my thumb in the fetal position….


As you know, I love football. Probably more than is healthy for me.

I say “probably” as in “probably” in the knowledge of the fact that in the past football has been wholly responsible for me meeting friends, losing friends, meeting girlfriends, losing girlfriends, missing days at work, bragging rights with friends, eating humble pie with the same ‘friends’, losing sleep over upcoming matches, losing days after the game.

Spain 0 – Northern Ireland 1

AC Milan 3 – Liverpool 3 (Liverpool winning on THAT penalty shoot-out)

Northern Ireland 1 – 0 England

They are to name just a few of the games that stick in the mind.

I could go on about Liverpool’s other 4 European Championship victories, the reason why we get to Keep The Trophy, but I fear I may switch you off from that ‘drivel’ (as my mother refers to it) so I shall move (not so swiftly) onto my point.

I broke two toes playing football.

There. I’ve said it.

Yes - I broke bones in my body in my pursuit of The Beautiful Game, the Perfect Body or at the very least chasing the dream of a life without the not so perfect BBB (Belgian Beer Belly).

But did I break down and cry?

Did I roll around like a salmon out of water?

Did I Hell.

Unlike those highly paid prima-donnas that make up the collective bunch of people known as “professional footballers”, I did not role about in agony; I did not complain and whine, like a four year old who has been told that he can’t have that packet of sugary sweets at the checkout.

I’m not even sure how or when it happened in the game. Yes, I noticed a bit of pain but I merely played on, not wishing to let my team-mates down. Granted, it certainly wasn’t the cleverest of thing to do and as we sat in the bar afterwards, I started suffering from pain as the toes started to swell up.

I limped home after a few glasses of painkillers, went to bed, figuring it was nothing more than badly bruised.

Until that was, when I jumped out of bed to greet the morning (like I always do) and put my weight on my foot and promptly crashed to the floor, a bolt of pain shooting up my leg.

I hobbled in agony over to the hospital across the street - always a handy pre-requisite of any living location for me – compared with the usual requirements of shops, public transport, public amenities and after a lot of humming and aaaahhhing, and a few X-Ray photographs – I discovered my fate.

So – this tale of woe is being type up on my laptop as I sit in my apartment with the foot taped, bandaged and raised up (to stop the swelling).

Outside, the weather is quite pleasant but after hobbling up the 63 stairs (I just counted them) to get to my third floor apartment, I don’t think I’ll be venturing out today.

FOOTNOTE: (Pun Intended)
This was typed up a couple of weeks ago. You will all be pleased to know that I am well on my way to a full recovery, although it might be a few weeks until I’m kicking a ball - or fellow players – I’m still not sure how the injury occurred.