The tug of war came to an abrupt end when the fought-over trophy burst out of
its wrapping, falling with a resounding thud at their feet.
I strained my eyes to read the inscription on the side of the tube: Preparation H,
Treatment for Haemorrhoids. Reduces swelling. Eases pain and itching.
 Inadvertently, I had stumbled on our nation’s heart of
darkness. Like Marlow, I was determined
to know more. My research into the underworld
of yellow boxes led to some disturbing statistics. Haemorrhoids (more affectionately known as
piles) are a painful swelling of the veins around the anus, producing prolapses, which in
the severest of cases resemble a bunch of over-ripe grapes.
They affect one in three of the population, with a high incidence of sufferers
among those in mid and later life, as well as pregnant women and gay men. Ultimately, it’s down to wear and tear.
When I
discussed my earth-shattering findings with friends, I was amazed to discover that more
than half of them, both male and female, had experienced this unfortunate complaint.
‘People
think it’s a big joke,’ one confided, ‘They have no idea just how
debilitating it can be. At times, I feel as
if a red-hot poker has been thrust up my bottom.’
‘Even
my GP was unsympathetic,’ complained another with a sharp intake of breath, ‘He
told me to put the problem on the back burner. It
was agony.’
Although there are a number of treatments for this
condition, ranging from creams and suppositories to major surgery, the afflicted are often
too embarrassed to seek help. Many of them
are put off by the preliminary investigation. During
this, you are told to lie in a foetal ball, while a beguiling voice distracts you from the
impending rear entry. ‘Seen any good
film recently?’ it enquires ingenuously as the most barbaric of violations takes
place.
Being sodomised by a film buff in washing-up gloves is bad
enough. Having a camera, with what feels like
a Merchant Ivory crew, up your derriere is far worse.
Director and leading actors fair enough, but why should
the best boy and the entire catering team get a look in?
My stepfather described how, prior to his
colonoscopy, he was informed that the procedure was being filmed for the benefit of a
consultant, based in another hospital. ‘Don’t
worry,’ the nurse told him reassuringly, ‘Nobody’s going to see your
face.’ The shoot took forever.
‘Pan to the left, pan to the right, zoom in, zoom out…Cut.’ From his
office at St Mary’s, Paddington, Dr Kubrick dictated artistic close-ups, elliptical
jump cuts, elegant high and low angle shots. While most people would kill to be on
television, my stepfather had mixed feelings. Still,
at least he got to keep some of the stills. These
he regularly produces at dinner parties, where excited guests comment on the pink lustre
of his colon. Ladies have been known to
swoon.
Haemorrhoids have a long historical tradition. Napoleon is said to have met his Waterloo because
of a particularly virulent attack. Judging by
the hugeness of the hill commemorating the battle, on which I got stuck as a child and was
rescued by helicopter, his condition must have been pretty dire. Karl Marx, on the other hand, was fond of his,
claiming they had proletarian potential.
But despite its entry in the annals of the past,
this all too common medical complaint remains shrouded in mystery and prejudice. In the animal kingdom, from which we are only
separated by a question of degree, the female baboon proudly flaunts her fluorescent
bottom. Why can’t we do the same? While Mrs Baboon rejoices in the flamboyance of her
behind, dangling it from every tree, pile sufferers clench their buttocks in shame. Is it merely a question of social conditioning? If so, it’s about time we lent our
understanding and support to this benighted section of the public. Then, and only then, might they stop feeling that
the bottom had dropped out of the world. After all, out is better than in.
You can also take a look at previous personal views by
Harriet Ewe:
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