I'm a gout lout - there's progress

Gout

Yep. The random, inexplicable pain and inflammation in my right ankle has an explanation. Gout. What have I become? Some sort of feudal lord in the olden days? Have I been transported in a timewarp to the times of feasting on whole roast large animals washed down with gallons of mead? Have I, suddenly, got loads of peasants farming my land and paying with cartloads of vegetables?

Apparently not

Apparently, gout is a thoroughly modern disease, and is on the increase. I can vouch for one thing, it's no less painful for being trendy. The most unsightly trendy since Jeremy Clarkson got some of those male leggings for Christmas.

So. Easy-peasy. To the gout helpdesk pages for some straightforward advice.

Or not, as the case may be.

Bad things are, well, obviously, bad: beer, spirits, red wine. That leaves white wine (pulls a face, ok in cooking) and naff all else. But! Ah! No mention of cider in the adverse column. Then, good things are, well, bad. Oily fish. Liver. Offal in general. Lean red meat. Nuts. What's left?

Then there's the catch-all get out of jail free: genetic predisposition.

“But doctor, I've not had any beer / wine / nuts / liver / blah, blah, blah, for weeks, and look at this red, hot, swollen, excruciatingly painful ankle...”

“Ah...” raises eyebrows, sorrowful sigh “that's that genetic predisposition, is what that is, right there...”

So. Waiting room, waiting, poking and prodding, and that diagnostic thing beloved by the medicals and the forensic-minded. What difference to me? What help? Yes, you've had your fun, got me back for a (pulls a worse than white wine face) fasting blood test. For what? To tell me what it is (that's just putting a name to something – you say gout, I say [insert made up gibberish here]. Unless there's a use for the process, then the process has no value.

The Broken Toe situation

[See Pulp Fiction, The Bonnie Situation]

“Man, my toe's broke...I think”

“Wait here dude” [hours pass]

“Man, wake up, x-ray time” [toe gets x-rayed] [another long, long wait]

“Yo. Man. Yo toe? Broke. Like, broke man”

“So what happens now?”

“Now man, we call Mr Wolf” [enter Harvey Keitel]

“Tape it to the other toe”

“Do what?”

“Please. Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on top. Tape the toe to the next toe. Now. Bye.”

So I learnt. The next time, no trip to A&E. Just to Boots for that surgical tape, and I splinted the big toe to the next-to-the-big-toe until things settled down.

This gout thing – looks like going the same way.