My Caesarian Sunday
ROSS PITALL recalls an eventful Caesarian Sunday
I surveyed the scene: most people were lying down, some chatting, others sleeping, while a couple were quite obviously drugged up.
The lethargy in their actions and their bloodshot eyes never lie, though they seemed happy in their substance-based euphoria.
Today was going to be a lazy day, an easy day, almost like watching Trisha on a bank-holiday Monday. I was happy to be here, isolated from strife, an island of tranquillity in a stressful city.
The calm was soon broken by the proverbial storm: one of the substance abusers chunned.
Not just on himself, but on a mate next door, on the floor, over a couple of bottles, some flowers and a bunch of grapes that happened to be nearby.
The vomit was a strange red colour, reminding me of that time I drank too much Ribena at school and threw up into Mrs Hooley’s cleavage. You could say I had my first slippery nipple at an early age.
Now I find being sick as funny as the next man, but the people around him were taking it really seriously: asking him if he was alright, helping him get cleaned up, seeing if he had a temperature etc. etc.
What has this country come to? Do people not even have the courtesy to leave him where he lies and take a picture of your mate’s balls draped over his face?
The chunner was quickly escorted away, leaving a lingering smell.
I didn’t have put up with it for long though, as I was called over by a friend helping a man with blood streaking down his face. He’d been in a play fight with his mates that ended badly, when one of them caught him in the ear with the sharp end of a Pimms bottle. Being the good Samaritan that I am, I did my best to set him right, making a bandage with what the stuff I had to hand. Luckily his ear was intact, so he could make do with the basics. However, this didn’t stop me miming words to him to make him think he had turned deaf (a classic).
I almost wet my self laughing, when he started crying and ranting about how he would only be able to watch obscure BBC documentaries, with the little person in the bottom left corner of the screen. My antics were interrupted when a screaming woman entered my vicinity.
I have to confess, she was an absolute slag: lying down with her legs in the air, no knickers on so the whole world could see her minge. Lovely, just what I needed this Sunday: the sight of some aesthetically challenged woman’s overgrown vagina.
Don’t get me wrong, if the no pants scene from Wolf of Wall Street happened to me in real life, I’d be so aroused that the ejaculate in my pants would form a stain in the shape of Lucy Pinder’s breasts. This girl however, with her oversized proportions, pallid sweaty face and shouting, had all the attraction of Meatloaf’s naked calendar.
Despite my initial revulsion, there was something wrong. I tried to maintain eye contact with this woman, but she kept on pointing downstairs and saying, “It’s coming, it’s coming”. I resisted for as long as I could. Then took a peak. It was awful: a foot was sticking out, an actual human foot.
This was not what I wanted on a Sunday. Things could not progress naturally from here on (classic breach birth): quickly we gave her some drugs, cut her open and whipped out her new-born child.
That was my caesarean Sunday; Addenbrookes never had it so good.