At last! A cure for gout... Just let me know if it works

My beautiful foot sans the gout

Last week was not good. I woke up in the early hours of Monday morning and knew that it had come back to bite me on the ass. Or to be more anatomically correct - on the joint of my big toe. It felt like my left foot was giving birth to PAIN!!!!
It was 02:37am. In another two hours I would have to get up, shower and get ready for work. The joys of being a postman. My discomfort meant there would be no more sleep. My foot was on fire, but I knew where to find a quick fix. Hidden in the kitchen cupboard were some industrial strength little pills with the ability to sedate stags during the rutting season.

Painkillers to my gout is what make-up and foundation is to a homely woman. Sure, you can mask your suffering somewhat, but when it all wears off, you're still ugly and I'm still sore. What I really needed was Diclofenac, an anti inflammatory drug. I can only get this elixir on prescription, but I was loathe to phone my doctor's practice. The receptionists don't think gout qualifies as a life-threatening disease.

 About eight months ago I once again suffered an acute attack. Foolishly I rang the surgery. The conversation went something like this:

Evil Receptionist: So-and-so surgery, good morning. How can I help?

Me: Hi. I'd like to make an appointment to see a doctor please.

Evil Receptionist: Can I have your postcode?

Me: KY15 7XXYY

(I could hear her banging away on the computer keyboard.)

Evil Receptionist: And your date of birth?

Me: 2 July 1973

Evil Receptionist: Yes Mr Murray. What seems to be the problem?

Me:  It's McMurray. I think my gout is flaring up.  My foot is killing me.

Evil receptionist:  Are you taking painkillers?

Me:  Um, yes.  What I really need is some kind of anti inflammatory.

Evil receptionist:  It looks like we are fully booked today...

(Why bother taking my details then?)

Me:  I understand that you guys are very busy and all, but can't you squeeze me in?  I won't take more than five minutes.  I just need a prescription.

Evil receptionist:  There are three or four slots available, but they really are for emergencies only Mr Murray.

Me:  Oh. Um, the thing is...I can hardly walk and...

Evil receptionist:  Are you taking painkillers?

Me:  Uh-huh.

Evil receptionist: For a prescription I think you should put your request in writing and pop it into the surgery.  We could probably have it ready for you in a day or two.

A day or two?
I wanted to tell this unsympathetic harlot that I could quite easily live with gout if my job involved sitting on my fat arse all day booking appointments, doing the odd bit of filing here and there and drinking endless cups of tea. I wanted this halfwit to know that my gout was an emergency. A postman on his round walks the equivalent of at least 63 city blocks a day. My livelihood depended on my feet.

Of course I didn't say any of this. Words, although not quite as painful as gout, can be hurtful.  I know what it feels like to be slandered.
I've been called a self-righteous prick. I've been called selfish in bed. I've been called South African.

The one thing I'm not, however, is rude and discourteous. So I thanked the battle axe for her time and wished her a very good day. I hadn't even finished expressing my gratitude for her disinterestedness when the phone went dead.




My foot 20 minutes after the gout has kicked in

 It was now 04:20am. Work was going to be a bitch. In my crippled condition I couldn't chase down the pavement after windswept letters. Even trying to manoeuvre the throbbing foot into my sock was a harrowing experience. I needed the tranquilizers to kick in pronto.
A smart man would have taken the day off, but I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed. I'm like the Moron of Martyrdom or something.
Before leaving I woke my wife and asked her to make me an appointment with the quack. Tara has a knack for cajoling the receptionists into giving her precious consultation time with the doctor.

The worst part of being a postman is the tedious indoor work.  We start our day by sorting thousands of mail items - letters, magazines, catalogues, packets and parcels - into the correct walks.  Our office has 33 deliveries so it takes a couple of hours.  After this mind-numbingly boring little exercise you clear down the mail for your own round and start prepping it into your frame. Most of my colleagues had bagged up and were out of the door by 08:45am.  I only left the office at 10:36am.  I was handicapped remember.

I was gingerly making my way down Seaforth Avenue.  It was going to be a loooooong day. 
Over the years I have built up relationships with the masses on my walk. My public - stay at home mums, pensioners and benefit scroungers - love to stop and shoot the breeze.
Today I was in no mood to make small talk or catch up on local gossip.  I just wanted to get home and hopefully see a doctor. 
It wasn't going to happen. 
Men and women left their homes in droves to offer me support and encouragement when they saw me shuffling down the road.   
It seemed everyone I bumped into was a self-styled gout guru.
Some half-jokingly said my disease was the result of "too much good living" while others warned me about the dangers of drinking too much port.
All tales thought up by a fishwife methinks. Port is not my cup of tea. As for the too much good living malarkey...I don't even know what that means. I'm a postman, not some globetrotting playboy.
Nonetheless, I was thankful to the citizens of Seaforth Avenue this day.  They restored my faith in humanity.   Their concern was genuine.  Not like my brethren at Royal Mail who mercilessly tease my condition and tell me to remove the pebble from my shoe.



The full effects of gout on my foot

 It had gone past midday when I reached Mrs H's house at number 2069.  Mrs H is a hoot. She's always coming up with new and imaginative ways to flirt with dustbin men, census takers and even passing Jehovah's Witnesses. 
She was pottering away in her garden when I arrived.
"Hello luv," she said.  "You're late today."
I told Mrs H about my condition.
"That's terrible," she said.  "I get gout. Are you taking anything for it?"
"Just painkillers.  I'm hoping my wife gets an appointment with the doctor today," I replied. "I really need some Diclofenac."
Mrs H thought about it for a second, looked around to see if anyone was listening, and whispered, "Forget the pills. I know what really works."
She leaned in closer.  "Pee" was all she said under her breath.
"Sorry?" I whispered back.
Mrs H told me that during the Napoleonic Wars sailors were prone to gout attacks on account of all the rum they drank.  She said these sea dogs eased their pain by bathing their feet in urine.
I was gobsmacked. Mrs H may have been a kindred spirit and something of a history buff, but she was also old enough to be my mother.  Was she really advocating that I give my left foot a golden shower?
"Come again?" I asked.
"I've done it and it works a treat," she said. 
I was skeptical.
"I'm not joking luv.  Soak your foot in a bucket of urine for a couple of hours."
A couple of hours?  Clearly Mrs H was taking the piss.
"And preferably your own wee."
I'm glad she cleared that last bit up. It's not like I was planning on bribing 12 Catholic choir boys for their specimen or anything.  It was just good to know.  I thanked Mrs H for the advice and told her I would give it a whizz sometime. 

It was 2pm by the time I finally finished Seaforth Avenue and I was more irritable than bowel syndrome. Tara still hadn't phoned to confirm an appointment. It grated on me that my colleagues were most probably done for the day while I still had to deliver to the 700 or so houses down Claremont Avenue.  I was physically, emotionally and spiritually drained. It felt like my toes were going to drop off.  I would gladly have popped Rohypnol in a jail cell jam packed with horny, halitosis-suffering Hispanic hombres if it meant the foot ache would go away. Heck, I would even have manned up to a ballet of swans to ease the stabbing twinge.
I would have done anything. I would even...

Sigh.  Let's get this ugliness out of the way. Yes, I would even have marinated my foot in a keg of pee.

I like Mrs H, I really do, but I have a theory about her and her bedroom antics.  I'd hazard a guess that Mrs H led quite the hedonistic lifestyle during the salad days.  She has tattoos and everything.  As for the piercings on rather intimate places?  I'm not sure why she felt the need to volunteer this information.
 No, I believe Mrs H uses gout as an excuse.  I think she intentionally pees on herself and others.  It's foreplay for her and her ilk.
Yes, you read it here first folks.  There are "people" out there who get their sexual kicks by losing control over all their bodily functions behind closed bedroom doors. 
I'm no prude.  After a couple of beers I can come up with stuff that would make Caligula and his orgies look like a tea party at The Waltons.  Just give me a toilet brush and some pork chops and I'll show you kinky. But deriving any sort of gratification by defecating or whatnot on a loved one is wrong on so many different levels.  (Some wise guy out there will argue that you shouldn't knock it till you've tried it.  Well, I've had a pigeon shit on me before.  And nope.  It did nothing for me.)
My point is that I am no pervert.  I was only going to do what I was going to do because I was in such dire straits. This despite the fact that I didn't have a bucket with me.  Or even a few hours to kill.



Political correctness gone mad 



It was 2:35pm and I was leaning against a wall down an alley behind Claremont Avenue willing my urinary tract to open the floodgates. There was always the off chance that Mrs H was right.  Maybe a splash of piddle would alleviate the pain.
 I knew I was flouting the laws of the land.  You can't just discharge willy-nilly wherever you like.  Something about public indecency or something.  
Unlike George Michael, however, I had an iron clad defense. My gout is a medical emergency.  If people with glaucoma can get away with smoking weed for their ailment (wink, wink), then surely I can pass water in public. 

I wasn't passing anything though.  It's kind of like when you're stood at a urinal in a crowded public toilet and you sense that the well groomed middle-aged patron squashed next to you is trying to to sneak a peek at your goods.  Your bladder shuts down.  Or is that only me?
In a bid to micturate (Look it up.  I had to) I closed my eyes and thought of waterfalls, leaking taps and running water.  Lo and behold it actually worked.  Although it probably would have worked even better had I remembered to remove my shoe and sock first.
Dammit.

I collapsed in the corner. Nothing was going my way.  I was a mental breakdown just waiting to happen.  Self-pity was bleeding from every orifice.
I was still contemplating hara kiri when my mobile phone went off.  It was the wife.
"Hi Mike.  It's Tara."
"I know it's you woman," I snapped. "I have caller ID on my phone."
"What's your problem?"
"I'm sorry. I've peed on my shoe."
There was a pregnant pause while my wife considered this.
"Yes, well, anyway I've managed to get you an appointment with Dr Kildaire at 5:45pm."
I looked at my watch.  I had exactly three hours to finish my delivery.
This good news pepped me up no end.  I was going to see a medical professional.
The pain was unbearable but like mummy's brave little soldier, I soldiered on and made it to the consultation with only minutes to spare.
It was hard graft. By the time I got to the practice I was sweating so profusely that it took two triage nurses armed with mops to wipe my brow. It was worth it though.  I left the surgery clutching a prescription for the little sodium enteric coated miracle tablets.  In a couple of hours I would once again be walking like a regular homo erectus.

I ran into Mrs H a day or two after my ordeal.  Naturally she enquired about the you-know-what.
"Hello luv.  How are you?  How is the foot?"
"I'm peachy Mrs H.  And my foot's dandy too."
"So, did you follow through on our home remedy?"
Our?  Why was it now suddenly our home remedy?  It was her suggestion. 
Weirdo or not, Mrs H obviously felt passionate about urine as a healing agent and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. 
I gave her a slight nod.  And then I winked at her.
"I understand luv.  It's our little secret," she said winking right back at me.

I don't think I'm going to be getting much in the way of Christmas tips down Seaforth Avenue this year.  I think Mrs H, being the piss artist that she is, shared "our little secret" with some of the neighbours.
The always chatty, sweet little spinster at 2067, for example, can no longer bring herself to look me in the eye.  And when mothers now see me coming they cross the road. 
I may be gout free but I'm still something of a pariah down these parts.  Thanks Mrs H.

Final Thought (with apologies to Jerry Springer):  Does pee work for gout?  I don't know, but my shoes have never been shinier.  If you suffer gout and have actually peed on yourself out of desperation and it actually worked, please send a postcard with all the details to the usual address.  Or better yet, just leave a comment.  I am only interested in hearing from bona fide gout sufferers.  The degenerate hoi polloi  need not apply


 





Finger lickin' good and gout-free!

EDITOR'S NOTE: This happened on Friday. Kicking and Screaming is too lazy to update their blog every day

Something about her brother and tonight.
I was so engrossed in watching WWE Afterburn on Sky Sports 3 that I wasn't really paying attention to what the little woman was saying.
Tripe H - "The Game," "The King of Kings," "The Cerebral Assassin" - was going toe-to-toe with John Cena, "The Doctor of Thuganomics."
Gripping stuff.
During the commercial break I got the lowdown on the what's what.
My brother-in-law wanted us to all go out in a couple of hours to celebrate my wife's upcoming birthday.
Now let me just say that I love Tara very much. She's a wonderful woman and I often wonder how she's put up with me for nine long years. She deserves an OBE.
How could I begrudge her a fancy meal at some poncy restaurant?

"Tara, I'd love to go but you know that I'm working tomorrow," I said.
If you're a Philistine and haven't bothered to read any of my previous blog posts let me put you in the picture. I am a postman. I have to get up before the crack of dawn to get to work on time.
I'm normally in bed by 7pm. Sometimes even as late as 8pm. But then I really am pushing the envelope.
"Surely you can make an exception for one night," Tara said rather irritably. "We NEVER go out."
I wouldn't dare call my wife a bare-faced liar. I think she just forgot about October last year when we watched Quantum of Solace at our local Odeon.
Now, however, was not the time to argue the point. I have been married long enough to know that I have to pick my battles more carefully.
"You're right," I managed to force a smile. "A night out sounds like a lot of fun."

I quickly skulked back into the living room for a good sulk.
Even HHH executing his devastating finishing move, The Pedigree, on Cena couldn't lift my spirits.
My not wanting to go on this shindig had nothing to do with the fact that I needed to catch up on much-needed beauty sleep. It was more a matter of moolah.
My brother-in-law Chris is a very affable and down-to-earth person. I genuinely like him. His wife Lorraine is equally charming. They're good people.
They live in a lovely leafy suburb somewhere in Guildford and drive a BMW. I also know for a fact that Chris buys all his clothes from TK Maxx. They can afford to flash the cash. Well they would, wouldn't they? They're both accountants or something.
They earn a SALARY. I make a WAGE. Again, if you've just tuned in, I'm a postman.
Where was I going to come up with £20 or £25 to splurge on some extravagant meal?
I was still wrestling with my predicament when it hit me. Gout.

I know all about this disability.
Gout is my curse. It can also be a godsend.
I can't tell you the number of times I've used the disease as an excuse to get out of doing certain household chores. As white lies go my gout is pretty much right up there with "The dog ate my homework" or "Not tonight dear, I'm on my period." Classics that have stood the test of time.
There are days when I don't want to mow the lawn. Or take out the garbage. Or do the dishes. That's when gout comes into play.
A bit Machiavellian I know, but the end justifies the means.

Tara was in the kitchen doing the dishes when I sidled up next to her.
I could tell she was still slightly annoyed with me. It's like this sixth sense that I have.
"I'm sorry for my selfish attitude,” I said while gently kissing the nape of her neck. "Screw the job. I want to celebrate with you and your family."
After that kiss she was putty in my hands.
Tara turned to embrace until she saw my face, a face contorted with pain.
My wife's initial shock quickly turned to concern.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"It's the gout. It's come back".
"Are you alright?"
Time to crank it up a notch. Time for the oohing and ahhing to start.
"Ahhh, ohhh..." was all I could mutter through clenched teeth. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar.
"Mike, if you're in so much pain you should maybe stay home and nurse your foot," my wife said. She's an absolute angel.
Of course I solemnly nodded my wholehearted agreement.
I was about to navigate my way upstairs to "nurse my foot" - no easy feat when considering my "condition" when Tara called out.
"It's a pity you're not coming with us. Chris offered to pay for the entire evening."
Almost immediately there was a miraculous improvement in my foot. Divine Intervention? Hell yeah and Hallelujah!

Chris and Lorraine treated us to a banquet at the Spur Steak ranch in Wandsworth. Good food and good company. What more could I ask for?
I am also pleased to report that I was in time for work and that I suffered no ill effects from the Castle lager or steak and enchilada combo drenched in a rich and creamy cheese sauce.
For me the cherry on top was that my wallet didn't leave my pocket the entire evening. Excellent.
Thanks Chris and Lorraine for a memorable night out. We should do it again sometime soon.

You wouldn't want to walk a mile in my shoes

What do Isaac Newton, King Henry VIII, Charlemagne, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Nostradamus, Leonardo da Vinci and I have in common?
We have known pain and suffering.
I am talking about gout. Painful, inflamed, raw, tender, throbbing gout.
I don't know all that much about "the disease of kings". What I do know is that gout is only slightly more annoying and upsetting than watching Britney Spears lip sync her way through a live concert.
Gout is a form of arthritis, an inflammation that affects the joints and tendons as well as other tissues.
I was diagnosed with the disease shortly after joining Royal Mail. Before the gout kicked in I had the kind of feet hard-core foot fetishists fantasise about. My wife will vouch for that. And no, she's not into any deviant practices. She just knows a good foot a mile away.
Alas! My feet were beautiful once. And odour and fungal-free to boot.

A postman with gout is in for a bad day at the office. Trust me. Delivering mail with a gout afflicted foot is like trying to run The London Marathon in cheap high heels.
When my gout flares up these days I take Dicloflex tablets which relieves the inflammation. Another little capsule, Allopurinol, reduces the amounts of uric acid which can produce kidney stones and gout. Allopurinol helps to prevent the condition but will not ease an acute attack.
It beggars belief that the pharmaceutical giants have yet to find a permanent cure.
Everyday I am bombarded with emails from companies like GlaxoKlineSmith trying to sell me on some or other zinc-based ointment to treat genital warts or Pfizer offering me a substantial discount on Viagra.
They can somehow get to the root of erectile dysfunction but not make any significant breakthroughs in treating a disease which has also plagued the likes of Benjamin Franklin and Alexander the Great? Hmmmm...

Yes, the gout never really goes away. It just lies low for a while. By making certain lifestyle choices I can keep it at bay. If I have a pint too many or happen to gorge myself on Welsh rarebit, I know I'm going to pay for it in the morning.
Cheese and lager - my staple diet - are definite no-no's if I want to avoid those gout blues.
About two weeks ago, however, the life-altering malady returned with a vengeance. I was puzzled. I can't even remember the last time I enjoyed a cold one with my ploughman's lunch.
The Dicloflex and Allopurinol don't seem to be working this time. So I've had to resort to drastic measures.

I'm not one for taking pills. Let's face it. I have enough bad habits. I smoke. I drink. I feign interest when my wife tells me about her day.
The last thing I want is to harbour an addiction to prescription painkillers. But the last few days or so I've been popping Co-Codamol tablets like Smarties.
It has to stop.
I'm not ready to give up on the Carlsberg and Emmental just yet. I'm a glutton for punishment I know. I figure if Alexander the Great could get on with conquering the Persian Empire with a slight hobble, then surely I, Postman Plod, can perform a similar feat?
Come Monday, maybe Tuesday, I'm going to go cold turkey on those pills.

God help me.

FOOTNOTE: According to the About.com: Men's Health website, men account for over 90 percent of all cases of gout.