I am 28 years old, which is too young to have a bad back. But life – as the meme mantra goes – comes at you fast.
The inciting injury was picked up five years ago, and its legacy for most of the day is a dull ache behind my stomach that ebbs in and out of my attention, occasionally reminding me of its presence with a deep sting if I am arrogant enough to, say, bend over, or lean nonchalantly on a tall bin. I think of it as my lumbar region clearing its throat to alert me to my hubris.
I suffered my worst spasm lifting a leg to tie a shoe. A shoe. Apropos of nothing, the muscles of my back shuddered and screamed, tearing at each other in panicking jolts, leaving me an immobile, trembling wretch, barely able to lift my legs to walk. The pain was so bad I had to cancel the gig I was getting ready for – the promoter expressing over the phone a disappointment that was purely logistical.
I was quite crippled by this back-attack – it felt as if the end of every limb was pinned to my tailbone by some taut string. So it was a wonderful coincidence that I had a date the very next evening with a very nice girl at – you guessed it – an all-night rave.
If the dancefloors of Brixton were on fire that night, it was nothing to do with friction from my feet. Had a bouncer patted me down, he may have been surprised to find an ibuprofen pack actually filled with ibuprofen. Just as my date was surprised to find that I had apparently spent my clubbing years emulating the moves not of Dirty Dancing but Mister Magoo.
I have since taken to sitting down in a chair every time I put on a trainer, slipper, loafer or sock, like a pensioner preparing for his Boxing Day walk, hoping that if I show this task its due reverence, the spine gods will spare me their fickle, sudden wrath, and I can go to buy my sweets unimpeded.
Fortunately, such onslaughts are few and far between. In peacetime, the pain is at its most intense in the morning (stiff, prickly) and then in the evening (searing, tired) – two painful bookends, on a shelf of books about back pain.
The most striking thing about my unique predicament is just how many people have it. Like group sex or speeding, back pain is a dirty little secret about which, it seems, everyone has a story.
Mine? Bending over at the gym to pick up a weight without bending my knees (to – I don’t know – save time?), then pulling up with ignorant gusto only to feel my lower vertebrae separate strangely to the tune of damp clicks. This sensation was worryingly painless, but new – which is worse. It wasn’t until I had got home and sat down, when that burning, writhe-inducing pain shot through every piece of my central architecture.
Half a decade on, and on top of bending my knees every damn chance I get, I have begun osteopathy (back-cracking to fix a broken back? Hair-of-the-dog, I suppose) and pilates (“yoga without the spiritual shit”) in the hopes of rehabilitation, like the injured veteran of some war with my own foolishness. Meanwhile, suppressing the suspicion that this is not so much a process of healing any more, but of acceptance.
Perhaps the worst pain is, in fact, neither muscular nor skeletal, but the realisation that a second’s mistake can cling to you for ever, and that no amount of lessons learned will buy you pardon from your punishment.
Spare me the tyranny of the one-word title
It was while watching British drama’s latest unconvincing frownathon, Bodyguard, that I thought once more: I have had it up to here (neck) with the one-word title.
Whether it is film (Hereditary, Rampage, Downsizing) or TV (Bodyguard, Humans, Hunted), the title industry appears to have taken Shakespeare’s appeal to brevity, and stretched it to yielding point.
It is an arrogant hijacking of a word, asserting that the production in question is the definitive realisation of the word’s entire meaning. Are we really to accept that Channel 4’s rather specific story of androids-gone-wild is a broad enough exploration of all humans? (With the addition of just one word, the Swedish original, Real Humans, bore a title a good deal more intriguing and meaningful than its British counterpart.)
Netflix is also replete with these, apparently intent on naming their series as quickly as they release them – Glow, Explained, Afflicted, Cooked, Captive, Godless, Insatiable, Happy (Happy?), Safe, Dope and, the worst culprit of all, Love. Love! How dare Judd Apatow – a man who can now officially refer to himself as the “creator” of LOVE.
I have had it up to here (forehead) with the One. Word. Title.
Titles used to be practical, multi-worded affairs: unique identifiers that could refer only to one book, show or film and it alone (Catcher in the Rye, The Little Mermaid, Superman 2). But now, all precision has been lost.
In British television, sitcoms have produced the highest number of single-worded shrugs, so abundant that they require sub-division. The singular noun: Uncle; Cuckoo; Campus; The adjective: Trollied; Blessed; Damned. The lesser-spotted present participle: Coupling; Crashing; Pulling. And the most obnoxious category, the plural noun: Extras; Plebs; Mongrels; Cockroaches; Grownups; Siblings; Parents (any family members left now?) and Episodes. Episodes! Oh yes, that’s not confusing at all, is it? Let’s look up the TV show, Episodes. “Go on, dear, put on episode five of series two of EPISODES, please, darling ... What do you mean, what do I mean? ... What do you mean, you want a divorce?”
I have had it up to here (hand now floating a good foot above my head) with the One. Word. Title.
Shakespeare, but with rented cushions
Maybe I am too late to acquaint myself with Shakespeare. The modern requirement to reinterpret him with some unique twist (The Tempest ... but in space! Antony and Cleopatra ... improvised by bats! The Merchant of Venice ... upside down!) is so prevalent that it is near impossible for a dunce like me to find an authentic production. And so, I bought myself a ticket to Othello at the Globe. The seating was certainly authentic – hard wooden benches you could only soften with a rented cushion. “Scam!” I thought, as I sat on my cushion (£2), envying my neighbour’s backrest (£4) for next time.
