I have piles. Of course, I have piles. Why wouldn't I have piles? Piles seems, to me, to be the next obvious step in my evolution. Psoriasis, asthma, arthritis, funnel chest, fat feet, foot lumps, baggy eyes, run like a girl, tiny tiny penis and being thick just aren't enough for me. I needed something more and my body chose the obvious: piles. Now my arse is as furious as the rest of me.
Well, I think I have piles. Basically, my bum hurts A LOT but I have yet to seek a professional medical opinion on my bum. A lot of people have given their amateur opinion on my bum more times than I can remember over the years but I've yet to seek a Doctor's advice. And why would I? I'm a man. Men never go to the Doctor. It's a sign of weakness and we men never ever get ill and we live forever. Plus I'm a bit embarrassed and don't think I'm mature enough to sit in front of a Doctor and go "Well, it's about my bum..." Of course, I'm not mature enough. I mean, look at me. I can't even write the word Doctor without giving it a capital D. That's how my complex and intriguing mind works: If I have to see a GP the he HAS to be a Time Lord.
The great thing about having or assuming you have piles is that all of a sudden you have a whole new group of friends. People with piles love to talk about piles. They are proud of their piles. No matter how much pain you are in it's nothing compared to their arse agony. "One time, I burst every one of my hemorrhoids while shitting and the toilet bowl looked like Saw III", they say with a beaming smile normally reserved for the day your child takes it's first steps. It's incredible. These people live for their piles and if you have piles too then you are instantly their bestest friend in the whole wide world. My arse is in nine bits but, all of a sudden, I feel like I belong.
And if I go to the Doctor I might get given cream and my piles will vanish along with my new ice-breaker at parties. Piles has given me so much more than a bloody hole. It's given me a social in. Who knows where that could take me? No doubt a fellow piles sufferer will discover that I have piles and do me a favour. Maybe introduce me to a producer at the BBC. And when that producer at the BBC see's that, like him, I have piles he'll realise that I'm great and set me up with a meeting to brainstorm a new sit-com and when the sit-com people find out that, like them, I have piles they will suddenly love all my comedy ideas and want to make my sit-com. And then my sit-com will be on TV and piles "sufferers" will love it and it will become a cult hit and because the piles "sufferers" love it they demand that TV offers me more work and that's when the BBC beg me to return so they can get me to sign the most expensive writer's contract in history, one that I can't possibly refuse, and tell me that I'll be writing the new prime time comedy vehicle for king of the piles himself, Paddy McGuinness. That is when every single one of my precious, precious bum grapes explode right there and then as I stand in the middle fountain thing at the BBC but instead of a hundred record-breaking tap-dancing children surrounding me it'll just be an ocean of my arse-blood destroying everything.
What I need, right now, is a Doctor.