After recent posts complaining about being infirm and on crutches, I felt it only decent to inform you that, I am now without crutches. I walk unaided. I roam amongst you two footed and proud. I’d challenge you to even notice me, if I were to walk past you in the street. Everyman am I. Apart from my Nazi limp, that is. Perhaps I should define ‘Nazi Limp’ – what I mean to say is, I now limp like a Nazi. Not just any old Nazi.
The gait of Herr Flick
Played by actor Richard Gibson, Herr Flick walked as though one leg was one foot shorter than the other. Using a cane for support, he lurched side-to-side to propel himself forward, in a gigantic waste of motion and energy. It was a theatrical performance to say the least, but such were sitcoms of the era. With canned laughter and playing to the gallery, Gibson’s mock limp was perfectly at home.
Problem is, this way of walking is now my modus operandi. That is how I now walk. LIKE A COMEDY CHARACTER. Were you to walk behind me, you would be forgiven for thinking that you had absent-mindedly paid your two bits and entered the Freak Show.
ROLL UP, ROLL UP and see the incredible mincy limp man. Watch him mincy limp from A to B just for your amusement. Try bumping in to him and watch him canter like a lame horsey just to stay upright. See how he panics if you rush him. Why not follow him up the stairs just to see him wave his arm pathetically and mutter “Go around, go around, I can’t go any quicker”
None of the above is an exaggeration.
Helga has ways of making you sing.
All this foolishness brings me neatly (ish) to the point of this post. I suffer at the hands of my six foot blonde, softly spoken physiotherapist. My Helga. I suffer greatly. I suffer physical pain and I suffer Manly Upset. These are my crosses to bear as she tries to un-Flick me.
Physical pain is, I guess to be expected. Having someone stand on their tippy-toes, bearing all of their weight down through their hands and into your thigh, to straighten your leg; the leg that has not been straightened for 12 weeks and thus has seized, is I suppose an expected pain.
To her the collection of rude words I omit are also expected. Part of the process. Helga has heard it all before she tells me. To me it is hugely embarrassing. As she convulses with laughter, while seemingly trying to snap my leg off, I am only able to survive by singing rude words. Did you get that? ’Singing’ rude words. I don’t speak them like a normal person, or grunt them like a man, I sing them. I sing them like a dirty Soprano. It’s how I get by. This is what amuses her.
I live in fear of singing the C-bomb, or something so rude that she immediately discharges me to one the male physiotherapists – the one that takes all of the oddballs that the lady physiotherapists are too spooked to treat. I don’t know who this man is, but I am sure he exists. I bet he is hairy. And scary. I know I would be intimidated by him.
This is only part of my pain though. My real pain is my Manly Upset. For those of you not in The Know, either because you are female, naturally imbued with Manly or just not weird, Manly Upset is when you have your very Manly wobbled. This only ever happens if your Manly is wobblable in the first place. We are a special breed.
To explain, throughout life I have wooed under my own circumstances. I have chosen the time, the person, the setting, my attire, the lighting etc. Essentially I have set the scene to my advantage – all with the aim if maintaining my delicate sense of Manness. Of appearing Manly. At least in my own head.
Now whilst I am happily married and no longer an active wooer, my Manness is still ticking over and still needs to be protected. More so now it is no longer needed. I don’t know why.
Herr flick laid bare.
SO, when I take my trousers off under the strip lighting, behind the curtain and in front of Helga, my Manly is on my mind. As I hoist my withered leg up and around, like a toy crane and climb on to the bed pulling the sheet over my broken self, my brain, my psyche, my concious and sub-concious all register that my Manly levels are plummeting. They are in free fall.
At this point I think I actually begin ovulating. So low now are my Manly levels that my body must assume I am female and must be drawing up plans to install a womb and soft thighs.
Thing is, my higher-self knows that I do not need Manly. This is a medical situation. I am married. She is a professional. Manly has no place. No need. And yet as Helga massages my leg and comments on the level of muscle waste and just how skinny my leg is. As she pulls the sheet back to compare my ‘bad’ leg to my ‘good’ leg and then says “oh” and politely but clumsily back tracks, clearly realising that actually my legs are normally like those of a blonde Ethiope, my Manly is nearing zero.
I sit with pale, pale skinny legs, in boxer shorts and wearing socks that are pulled up way too far. For a moment I contemplate that I could actually be wearing invisible sock suspenders, SO far up my calves are they. I try to push them down with my toes, but look like a toddler that is desperate for a wee, so I stop that immediately. I maintain eye contact and conversation throughout. I am feigning nonchalance whilst my testicles are actively trying to climb back into my body. If my legs could blush, they would. If discomfort were deadly she’d be calling for the Resus Team. I’m in Manly trouble.
As the deep tissue massage continues and we make chit chat, her effortlessly and me pathetically, there is a sudden moment of Manness overload when Helga accidentally bumps her hand into my penis. This is short lived however, as I counter by saying “oops-a-daisy” in a Northern falsetto. She apologises and doesn’t bat an eye-lid. I start to write this post in my head. I may be a Eunuch now I am not sure.
The session finishes with my leg strapped inside an ice machine that is wired to the mains and squeezes my leg like one of those blood pressure contraptions. After twenty minutes exactly there is a loud ‘ding’ and my left leg is unwrapped. It is bright, bright pink. In my underpants I look like 2 parts of a Neapolitan ice-cream. My manness tank is now on empty. Helga hands me my tackle in a velveteen bag. I tell her to keep them. I have no need. I leave her and go in search of linseed oil to properly treat my new Action Man smooth part. My transformation is now complete. I am sexless.
And so as my physical healing continues its journey, so does my journey of self-discovery. Who am I? What am I? Why is this happening and why in God’s name am I telling you? My wife reads all of my posts before they are actual posts and seems to still love me, despite now referring to me as Herr Flick. Although the other evening, I stood resplendent in my boxer shorts, in front of the mirror, did a part squat, a forward fold and announced that I may have achieved adequate fitness to do ‘my thang baby’. Wifey laughed for about 10 minutes and then went to sleep. Laughing.
Helga found Herr Flick irresistible. Maybe I need a German accent?
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