Welcome To The Raw Chicken Diet

Growing old means consequences.

I’m finding that out.

Warning: What follows is graphic and falls squarely in the bounds of “too much information”. So, read it at your own risk.

You’ve no doubt heard me rave on about how wonderful New Zealand is. It’s true. But it’s also not safe in other areas. Specifically, we lead the world in campylobacter infection rates. That is, food poisoning.

So at a young age we are taught to cook chicken and pork thoroughly before eating. I do. I promise.

But about two weeks ago I bought some raw chicken kebabs, and in my drunken state I didn’t quite cook them enough.

Drunken logic: Yum, this chicken tastes so good. It’s very tender though. Really quite tender. Hmmm… it was frozen, maybe it needed more than 10 minutes per side to cook through? Never mind, I’ll drink spirits; the alcohol level in my blood will rise to new levels of toxicity and kill any nasty bacteria that might be circulating.

How was I to know that campylobacter was alcoholic? It has a higher tolerance to alcohol than the Sun has tolerance for heat.

When I was younger and this sort of thing happened, I would have a shocking couple of hours on the toilet and then it’d be all over. All done. Be careful and don’t let it happen again; at least for a few years.

No longer, it seems.

Monday was the calm before the storm. I thought back hungoverly to the weekend and honestly believed I’d gotten away with it. Ha!

Tuesday morning at work the urge hit me. I felt the first contractions. Like there was a riot happening in a football stadium that had only one door. I snuck off to the work toilets and let loose the dogs of war.

I swear, I was hanging on to the seat to avoid lift-off. Sweat was pouring off me and I was gasping like I was in labour and had just run a half-marathon in record time.

Finally, the riot subsides. I wash everything thoroughly and crawl out of the toilets; drag my lifeless body to my desk and drink three gallons of water to replace the fluids which had so violently departed my body.

I do about half-an-hour’s work and suddenly the bowel’s fire alarm goes again. Everybody out. And so it continues in the “never trust a fart” theme, until I’m absolutely exhausted and scared to stand up in case the convicts make a break for it.

And it stops.

I breathe a heavy sigh of relief and go back to life. Sensible, non-bacterial food with lots of fibre to slow things down. Cheese is always good to put the bowel brakes on, too.

So the weekend rolls around and I’m all happy again. Except no. You see the constant rush of excitement down there annoyed the exit area quite a lot. Enough for it to protest with the generation of a swollen vein, known simply by the term: "The h-word".

Now, as a rule, swollen veins in that general area are good – if you’re a bloke. But that is, as a rule, at the front of the equation. Swollen veins at the rear of the equation are just a pain in the ass.

So I drink my way through the pain over the weekend and apply large amounts of appropriate cream. (Since this process started, I’ve gone through half a jar of anti-bacterial hand-cleaner as well). By Monday the tail-end Viagra episode has settled to tolerable levels.

Then said vein bursts. And there is nothing quite like the first time in your life when you find blood pouring from the rear exit. And you’re checking all your clothing in case there’s some tell-tale seepage/splash-back deal going on.

Then what to do? I mean, it’s not like you can bung a Band Aid up there! Do you keep working? Do you hide your head in shame? How do you tell your boss you're sitting like that because of 'rhoid rage?

I guess it’s just a case of visiting the pharmacy, asking for some more appropriate cream, and sitting very carefully for a while.

Why have I written all this? Well, partly to get it off my chest. Or at least to get it out of me in some way other than the most recent popular port of departure. And partly because some people get enjoyment out of others’ misfortune. If you're one of them, I think I just made your day.