Neanderthal Man is a 40-something, ex-British soldier who collects exotic knives and can strip down a semi-automatic rifle blind-folded. Until recently, he thought ‘chakras’ was a Latina pop star whose hips don’t lie. But things changed for the card- carrying caveman when he met the Tree Hugger… this issue, he survives colon hydrotherapy .
The Tree Hugger recently decided that what I needed was a few colon hydrotherapy sessions.
“What’s that when it’s at home?” I asked. I shouldn’t have because she told me. For the uninitiated, you basically get your insides washed out and it involves having a hosepipe up your backside with the tap turned on full. Just think ‘reverse water boarding’. I’m sure it’s illegal in some countries.
I’ve done a lot of these alternative and holistic treatments to keep the Tree Hugger happy and most of them I secretly enjoy, there’s usually candles and lovely plinky plonky music involved, you just have to sit about and imagine you’re in a forest or on the beach and no one shows any interest in hosepipes in relation to my bottom.
The last time any hands other than my own had been ‘down that way’ was in 1991 whilst I was serving as a soldier in Hong Kong. I was in hospital, seriously ill with heat stroke after an exercise on Lantau Peak during mid-summer, when a rather large male medic shoved a thermometer up my rear. I vowed that day to never again be defiled in such a way.
“It’ll be good for you!” asserted Tree Hugger, who then went on to unnecessarily point out certain noxious symptoms of a less than sparkly digestive symptom. “I am a man, of course I have wind,” I argued.
I was wasting my breath of course, as you men in long-term relationships out there will know. Once Tree Hugger had decided that a colon hydrotherapy treatment would be “really good” for me, it was a foregone conclusion that I’d soon find myself in a room with a nurse, a doctor’s style examination table, a formidable looking machine with a whole pile of tubes. After she weighed me and took my blood pressure, the nurse started to tell me what to expect. My fingers flew into my ears, LALALALALALALA…’ I sang. I didn’t want to know. Then she told me to take of ALL my clothes and put on a top
that barely came down to my tummy button. So, there I was, ‘tackle out’ in front of a woman professionally trained in inserting tubes up rectums. ‘Oh Tree Hugger,’ I muttered, ‘just you wait…’
The nurse told me to lay on the table and passed me a rolled up towel, saying, “here, cuddle the teddy”. Over the next hour, I cuddled that teddy like it’s never been cuddled before. In some countries, I’d have to marry it after that level of intimacy.
I don’t like to be dramatic but it was the most traumatic experience of my life. I can’t go into details, it’s too distressing but I will carry the emotional scars for the rest of my days. This procedure should come with six months of post-stress counselling.
An hour in real time and three lifetimes in surreal time later, the ordeal was over and I was allowed to leave. Just before I hobbled home though, the nurse weighed me again. I was 600 grams lighter. That must be how much my dignity weighs. It was sucked away via that tube.