Beware - Man Flu

I’ve got man flu. Well - to be honest - I am just recovering from an extremely nasty bout and I have found the strength to crawl to my keyboard to tell you about it.

Yes, I know that if you are a female reader you are probably rolling your eyes, shaking your head and tutting in disbelief. I imagine that you are also picturing a scenario similar to this:

If you are then shame on you. I have been poorly – very poorly.

Honestly!

On Monday I went to work and started sniffling and coughing slightly. On Tuesday, my sinuses were completely blocked and my head felt like somebody had stuffed tons of cotton wool into it through my ears and nose.

My throat felt as if somebody had forced my mouth open and sandblasted my gullet with maximum prejudice. At lunchtime I had to visit the dentist so I somehow dragged myself to my car and drove to have my teeth examined by a man who I feared needed a new set of golf clubs and would therefore find something wrong.

As I sat in his chair with my mouth open, ready for the invasion of metal objects he said “I’m sorry if I sniffle, I have a bout of man flu.”

His assistant – a woman – scoffed and tutted. I could feel her eyes watching us as he probed my teeth with his vicious dental instruments while telling me about how bad his sinuses were. We compared notes about our illnesses at the end as his assistant stormed out to the hygienist – another woman who I was due to see next – with the words “OH PURLEEESSE!” echoing from her disbelieving lips.

The hygienist had no sympathy. As she scraped my teeth she moaned and moaned.

“He’s been going on about his sinuses all morning. For God’s sake – IT’S ONLY A COLD!”

“But it’s man flu,” I said with my mouth full of more vicious instruments, so that it sounded more like “BUURRGGGHHHHH EEESSSSSSSS BAAAAANNNN BOOOOOOOO”.

I left with teeth scraped and polished. The hygienist shook her head and said “Men! Honestly!”

On my return to work, a work colleague said I sounded so bad that I should go home. I survived until four o’clock and drove home in the wind and rain feeling extremely sorry for myself and expecting nothing but trauma from Mrs PM when I arrived home.

And then it got worse. I found myself shivering and sweating at the same time and my head felt like it was going to explode. My throat felt like the driest desert on Mars and my hacking cough sounded like the noise made by a rabid monster. I was sneezing so much that I managed to use three whole toilet rolls.

I had no strength to protect myself from a rampant Liquorice, our beloved hellcat, who was using my hand to exercise her already formidable jaw.

Mrs PM was very sympathetic. She cooked my tea did her best to protect me from the cat. The only thing she couldn’t do was go to the toilet for me.

At 9pm I had had enough. I crawled upstairs and fell into bed in a heap.

I hoped that a good night of rest and slumber would defeat the man flu; it didn’t.

I awoke feeling even worse. Mrs PM jumped out of bed and rushed to work with no sign of illness whatsoever, leaving me to fester in a pit of self-pity and debility.

I called in sick, my first day off work due to illness for at least three years.

And I tell you what, dear reader.

If you are ill and off work, don’t you feel guilty?

Why is that?

I barely had the strength to crawl downstairs, fight off the hellcat and make myself a Lemsip before slumping on the sofa with a duvet and a remote control – yet I felt that I should be in work passing my germs to all the male members of the office (because we all know that women don’t get man flu).

Does man flu addle your brain that much?

Back in my sickbed (or more accuratley sick sofa) I watched three movies and was bored out of my brain.

The Lemsip helped and I had perked up by the evening, enough to be able to find my gloves and defend myself against Liquorice, who by now had started boasting about “the biggest prey she had ever felled”.

By bedtime I was much better and this morning I was well enough to go back to work.

All my male colleagues had sympathy. Female colleagues rolled their eyes and muttered “Men, honestly!”.

I spoke to my boss who told me that “Man flu is no myth”.

I decided to investigate this. I discovered an article that suggested that scientists have discovered that manly men, i.e. those with high levels of testosterone, have a weaker immune system and are therefore more susceptible than women to a whole range of bacterial and viral infections.

Dear female reader - note the words: "more susceptible than women to a whole range of bacterial and viral infections."

So there is proof that man flu really does exist.

And I am recovering from it and have the strength (and testosterone) to be able to tell you about by the media of a very silly but painfully true blog post.

Guys – I know you know how I feel and sympathise.

Ladies – you need to be kinder to your man when he catches this evil little man flu bug.

He really is ill – honestly.

And if I catch you shaking your head and rolling your eyes, I will set my hellcat on you.

The Dribbler

I’m not a huge fan of the dentist.

I understand the benefit of them but they do cause a modicum of fear when I visit them (read about it here: ).

I have a new dentist. My old dentist is retiring soon and is handing off his patients to a new guy who is younger and much more enthusiastic, which I suppose is a good thing, as he will almost certainly catch anything evil before it causes excruciating pain.

He’s a really nice guy but he does scare me.

A typical visit for a check-up involves him checking each tooth meticulously, prodding my gums with an implement that I can only describe as an offensive weapon, and then gripping my face whilst probing my neck, chin, throat and jaw for any lumps, bumps or other malignant threats.

When he has finished, he settles down in his chair and gives me the lecture.

It is the same lecture every single time.

I have a tooth that needs to be rotated; my crown has been in too long and needs to be replaced; a wisdom tooth is positioned awkwardly and if it pops out will cause agonizing pain.

“The trouble is, Dave, we don’t know what is happening underneath that crown. It could be fine – it could be perfectly fine. But you have had it a wee bit too long now and you ought to consider having it replaced. I’m not trying to scare you – far from it – but it could fall out, it could be rotten underneath (we can’t X-ray it) and it could fall out or break out and you will be left with a huge unsightly gap. We need to be proactive, not reactive. I’ll leave you to consider that – but it is probably fine.”

Being a hypochondriac I start to worry and then I think – hang on – he probably needs a new set of golf clubs. Certainly my old dentist didn’t strike the fear of God into my molars.

As I said, I do actually like the guy – he’s young friendly and (I think) has my best interests at heart. He presumably is thinking of me when he pictures an old git with one tooth at the front, all others having fallen out, and not that his 5 iron is a little decrepit.

Anyway, this last check-up was no different – except I need a filling.

And the fear of God has been well and truly introduced and has already slapped me relentlessly.

I can hear you thinking: “Don’t be such a wuss!” but the last filling I had, about a year ago, was as embarrassing as it was traumatic.

I sat in his chair and my friend the dentist  injected me with the anaesthetic before telling me to wait in the waiting room for it to kick in. I honestly don’t mind the needle – what I hate is the sound of drilling.

Metal upon metal makes my teeth rage and a drill on enamel is worse for me than a tiger scraping its ample claws down a blackboard.

I’ve asked dentists before for a general anaesthetic and been told “Don’t be a wuss!!”

When I returned on this occasion, I spent what seemed like an eternity in the chair as he drilled through my tooth into the very borders of Hell itself – or so it seemed to me.

When he had finished I was mightily relieved and he proceeded to fill the gap with cement or concrete or whatever substance they use these days.

My entire mouth was numb and he tried to have a conversation with me:

“That’s finished, Dave,” he said. “The effects of the anaesthetic should wear off soon and you should be back to normal. Don’t forget; try not to bite anything in your mouth.”

It was only when I was driving back to work that I realised what he meant.

My tongue was numb.

My lips were numb.

My cheek was numb.

I could have chewed and chewed on the flesh without feeling a thing – until the anaesthetic wore off. And then I would have been in agony.

But it was worse than that.

Because I had no feeling in my mouth, I was dribbling like a baby.

I caught a glimpse of mutated face in my rearview mirror and I looked utterly ridiculous. I never knew that a human being could produce so much saliva. It was like a waterfall cascading down my chin onto my shirt.

And I didn’t have a handkerchief or a tissue.

People were staring at me as I drove past.

As I approached work, I pictured the scene in the office. I would be ripped apart. There would be no mercy. Kick a man when he’s down? They would be relentless and cruel, unsympathetic and pitiless.

And I wouldn’t be able to defend myself because I could barely speak.

“Dave – shall we get a dummy for you? Do you want a bib?”


“LLUURRRGGGHHH  MURGGHHH ALLLLURRGHHHH!!”

I decided to seek solace at home instead and all the time I drove home, one thought was foremost in my head.

“DO NOT CHEW YOUR TONGUE!”

Sadly it was accompanied by a little voice: “Go on – just a little chomp”.

Fear not, dear reader. I didn’t make mincemeat of my lips, cheek or tongue and I lived to tell the tale.

On Tuesday next week I have to have another filling. I have prepared myself by making sure that I do it after work.

I have meditated using the mantra:

“DO NOT CHEW YOUR TONGUE, DAVE! DO NOT CHEW YOUR TONGUE!”

The dribbler will be back – and I hope I can survive.

Just as long as the dentist doesn’t throw me by mentioning my crown again and activating Captain Paranoia and the Hypochondriac.

Fear (Part Four) - The Dentist

Tomorrow I have to spend half an hour in a torture chamber.

Yes, it’s that time again; my semiannual visit to the fourth level of hell – the dentist. I can’t help but picture Laurence Olivier playing Dr Christian Szell in the film “Marathon Man” torturing poor Dustin Hoffman. As the dentist puts me in the chair and comes towards me, all I hear is “Is it safe?”.

I’ve had a mild fear of dentists for years. I remember my first day at university when I happened to walk past the School of Dentistry; I became aware of something very strange. The screams of agony aside, I noticed that everybody walking into the place were either quaking with terror or grinning psychotically. It took me an instant to work out which ones were the trainee dentists and which ones were the guinea pigs. I mean, what kind of masochist would allow himself to be treated by dental students?

Intrigued by this, I made an effort to get inside the mind of a dental student. I got to know a young Indian woman who on the surface was a wonderful person – in fact we became very good friends. But when I mentioned the quaking victims, her eyes became feral and she said “Yes, I’m looking forward to practicing my art”. I felt as if she had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart.

I came to the conclusion that dentists are normal people but as soon as they get a sniff of the white coat, and pictured their instruments of torture, they mutate into sadistic beasts ready to inflict pain and torment on hapless victims like myself.

Now some of you reading this may be thinking “You are such a coward! They are there to help you!”

That is just not true. I have evidence – approximately forty years of evidence. True, my teeth are fine, but the psychological torment dentists have inflicted on me over the years is immense.

In the 70’s as a mere child a dentist was responsible for a full year of embarrassment. I was just a teenager but he didn’t care. He was a young man; cool and friendly and quite likeable. But the instant he got you into his surgery, there was a transformation to rival that of Dr Jekyll mutating into Mr Hyde. He took out four of my adult teeth without a care, telling me that my teeth overlapped and therefore needed room to manoeuvre. He made me wear not one but TWO dental braces; the first ached, the second was agony – I looked like I was trying to eat metal spaghetti.

And then there was the time when at the age of 15 I foolishly gave my mate a ride down a hill on my bike. The inevitable happened and the two of us went flying over the handlebars. I was a cushion for him. The tarmac was a cushion for me – my face hit the road, tooth first and I chipped away most of one of my front teeth. And as I lay there on the road, in complete agony with my upper lip so swollen that it looked like I had tried to glue a sausage to it, all I could think of was the dentist. “Oh no!" I wailed to my mate. "The dentist, the dentist, the dentist, …”

When I got there, all I received, apart from a temporary filling, was a severe bollocking and the ritual torture I had suffered before.

Of course, you may say that the acts of sadism perpetrated by this dentist were rare and that this dentist was particularly brutal. I can tell you that isn’t true. Eventually, he departed to cause untold terror in Birmingham. He was replaced by a young female dentist fresh out of university.

“Now then,” she said smiling as I opened my mouth. “Let’s do a thorough examination.”

Before that session, I had no fillings. After that session, I needed six – SIX!!! And she “made sure” that I needed six by impaling each tooth with a metal spike, causing me to head butt the ceiling six times. I had to have the six fillings over a period of three more appointments. Each time was more terrifying than the last. What is worse than seeing the world’s biggest needle heading towards you gum? I’ll tell you. There are TWO things worse; the first is the look of glee on the dentist’s face as the needle goes in; the second is the sound of drilling.

I have a weird phobia that makes my teeth itch; you know when you get two forks stuck together and grind the metal? My teeth are on edge when that happens, a bit like the feeling you get when fingernails scrape down a blackboard – it is pure agony. Drilling a tooth, sounds very similar to me and I am in total distress when the dentist is chiselling away chunks of my teeth with the drill.

And all the time the dentist is in your mouth with spikes and drills driven by motors, he is talking to you.

DENTIST: Are you all right?

ME: GAH! GAM GINNN GUGGING GAGOGY!”

DENTIST: There’s no need for language like that!

Why do dentists insist on talking to you when your mouth is full of equipment? And, yes they do understand you. I’ve had a conversation with my current dentist about holidays:

DENTIST: Where are you going to on holiday?

ME: GANG GANG GAN GAILANG! GEAR GOIGIN GOGEMGER!

DENTIST: Hong Kong, eh? Should be nice in November. I’ve never been to Thailand, actually. Is it nice?

ME: GES! GEGY GIGE!

Of course, these days dental appointments are made all the more traumatic because not only do you have to suffer the dentist, you have to face the dental hygienist, who is, in many ways much worse. The session goes something like this.

HYGIENIST: What have I told you about brushing too hard?

ME: GAIM GOGGY! GAI GANT GELP GIT!

HYGIENIST: Yes you can. I’m sorry but now I have to scrape all the tartar away and I’m going to have to use THIS!

And then the hygienist pulls out a drill with a spike on the end of it and proceeds to attack my teeth with it. The noise is unbearable and the agony is unspeakably horrible. And all the time, his partner in crime, the dental hygienist assistant, has a hoover in my mouth, sucking up the saliva and my tongue (and possibly my lungs). And still the hygienist insists on talking to me as if I am a child. And I can’t respond properly because my tongue is three quarters of the way up the hoover nozzle getting dangerously close to the motor.

HYGIENIST: You know you really should use dental floss.

ME: GGGGGGNNNNNNGGGGGGNNNN!!!

HYGIENIST: There’s no need for language like that!

Anyway, this time tomorrow it will all be over. I know that for six months I will not have to enter the torture chamber have to cringe at fifteen tons of dental equipment, most of which will end up in my mouth. I won’t have to have rubber-gloved hands shoved in my mouth. I will be free of spiked drilling equipment being jammed into my teeth and gums in the name of dental hygiene. And best of all I won’t have to say “GAH! GEAGE GE AGONE!” when the dentist says “Is it safe?”