My septimana horribilis commenced with an argument about the weekly online shop. While I'm loath to berate the better half's parsimonious approach to filling the pantry, Sainsbury's Basics items often both look and taste like they've recently negotiated the digestive tract of a fucking cat, so while I'll just about suffer their own-brand potato crisps, I opined that the chopped tomatoes and in-house orange juice could remain shelved.

Of course, all hell broke loose - for the sake of 50 fucking pence - and I of course yielded to her autocratic reign of terror and thrifty food purchases.

In a meek effort to exhibit my condemnation for the atrocities about to be committed in my kitchen, I boarded my trusty bicycle and I rode and I rode and I rode...

Unfortunately most of this much-fabled 'riding' took place amid inclement weather conditions and I returned home with the beginnings of a robust sniffle.

This of course escalated and the following morning I arose with extreme nasal congestion, a sore throat, and, inexplicably, constipation. I say inexplicably because I replenished my depleted glycogen stores, post-ride, with a kebab - and let's just say that Abdul didn't need any encouragement with the old chilli sauce ladle.

Monday at work. The cold remained low-level but a constant source of annoyance, and the bottom, well, the bottom just wasn't playing ball.

Tuesday at work. Sore throat and cough mitigating a fraction. Snot on keyboard, however, at an all-time high. All-but-obsolete sphincter still apparently on a hiatus of sorts.

Wednesday at work: Code red mucus attack. Lemsip downed by the pint. A trip to the chemist ensues for laxatives, " the strongest fuckers in the shop, please".

Thursday at work: Splash down is imminent, yet a hugely disconcerting sting emanates from my arsehole. Sitting becomes very uncomfortable.

Friday at work: Cold gone, toilet time has happened, but the pain of the sting reaches "I'm leaving work right fucking now" levels.

Friday at home: Sleep is an absolute impossibility. Even after consuming the best part of a bottle of gin and half a pot of paracetemal. After some online investigation I muse that I must have a fissure - I also muse that this is the most painful ailment in the whole wide world.

Saturday at home: After more online investigation, I find that fissures don't even make the top 10 of the most painful ailments in the whole wide world and that cluster headaches and kidney stones are apparently more harrowing. I'd currently swap this arse ache for a head ache - there's a bit more dignity to it.

Saturday night at home: Second night of no sleep. Again, a cocktail of drink and drugs has failed me and my burdened backside. Agony does not begin to describe it.

Sunday at home: Send the mrs, she of economy shopping fame, to Sainsbury's for some arse cream. I apply it with gusto, squeezing half the tube onto the affected area. The pain continues without relent.

Sunday night at home: Third night of no sleep. I have reached my threshold. I am very close to unconsciousness - not through fatigue, but excruciating agony. I make an informed decision - admittedly one that should've been made a long time ago - to visit the accident and emergency department.

Sunday night/Monday morning at the hospital: I explain my ailment. Minutes later an Indian gentleman has his hand up my arse. I'm on a bed in the fetal position screaming blue murder at the kunt.

All done, he says - the doctor will see you now.

"The doctor! Well who the fuck are you then?"

The doctor sees me. He manhandles my bottom. He tells me it's not a fissure but an abscess. He makes noises about morphine. I smack my lips hungrily.

He gives me codeine and antibiotics. I shove them down my throat.

The following night, after a day of pain, I sleep. It is one of the happiest moments of my life.

Let's hear it for the NHS!