Fire in my Belly

For many years, every outbreak of ill-health I suffered was to do with my mental state; from about the age of 14 I’ve suffered from varying levels of depression. At certain periods, such as 1981-1983, 1994-1999, 2012-2016, so profound and devastating was the effect this cursed illness had on my psyche that I would happily have ceased to exist, as I saw little point in soldiering on, so bleak was my world view. However, the incredible insight afforded to me by my psychotherapist from 2015 onwards meant I was able to rationalise, compartmentalise and deal with the swarm of demons that had plagued me for so long.  In addition, I always say the 3 Cs of cats, cricket and coffee saved my life back then, but I’d also add the support I got from friends within my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC kept me going; we are a true community club.

To be frank, being mentally ill is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. Thank goodness we are now living in a more open and understanding society, whereby people are no longer afraid to discuss their fears and self-loathing, compared to a quarter of a century ago. The prevalence of more tolerant social attitudes is why, when I realised I was suffering from severe anxiety in 2015, I had no compunction about telling my GP and accepting more medication, in the shape of Beta Blockers that keep me from hyper-ventilating during the regular panic attacks I endure. That said, and here we come to the kernel of this article, anxiety isn’t just a mental health problem, it is a physical condition that can manifest itself through an array of symptoms that are neither preventable or predictable. Many of these symptoms are visible. Some of them are embarrassing. Certain are so personally and profoundly humiliating that their persistence forces the sufferer into wholesale lifestyle changes.

As I’ve grown older, my innate and instinctive preferences for quiet pubs, local cricket clubs, games of non-league football and intimate gigs have become stronger by the year. I thought for a while I was just being precious and pretentious and, frankly, I was, but that’s not the only reason I seek out oases of calmness. Rationalising this urge, I feel that social anxiety is at the root of what I initially thought was just my cantankerous middle-aged, nature. I’ve given up going to the theatre, except for midweek matinees, and only do the cinema at ludicrously unpopular time slots, when the place is almost guaranteed to be deserted. At seated gigs and professional football, I can only breathe properly if I’m sat on an aisle, with a clear run to the bogs and an established emergency escape route if I need to get out of Dodge ASAP. Otherwise, I start to sweat, both hot and cold, gasp for breath and shake with nerves, regardless of events on screen or pitch. If this can happen when I’m watching an Am-Dram version of As You Like It, imagine how being among 52,000 moaners at St. James Park can makes me feel?

If that was as bad as my physical anxiety got, I would know exactly how to cope as the triggers are predictable and the strategies logical. Unfortunately, there are two other anxiety-related, autoimmune conditions that I must consider; namely, urticaria and colitis. Without getting too technical, the prevalence of urticaria means I suffer from seriously debilitating cases of hives, rashes, vomiting and unspeakable diarrhoea every day of my life. Urticaria, which comes from the Greek word for a stinging nettle, is an unpleasant burning rash, characterised by the presence of blister-like hives that can flare up with apparently no cause. It is an auto-immune condition, kept at bay by taking strong anti histamines, that is thought to be related to anxiety and often appears alongside digestive or colo-rectal problems, which hints at the next of my medical impediments.

Whenever I’m anxious, I am gripped by an overwhelming urge to vomit; really deep, shuddering retches that come from the bottom of my gut. I can puke just about every single drop of liquid and morsel of food I’ve had that day in about six hideous heaves.  Often it is at the side of the road, as being outside can often bring this condition on, but it has also happened at work and once when about to play 6 a side; crazily, I’ve played football with the same dozen blokes every Monday evening since I was in my 30s. It doesn’t stop me throwing up out of fear and loathing, alas. Thankfully, it has never stopped me going to a game of football or a gig.

However, the worst of all the array of health problems I’m required to endure is colitis; you may not have heard of the medical word, but you’ll no doubt be aware of the umbrella term of irritable bowel syndrome, which covers everything from trapped wind to rectal prolapse. Colitis is another defect in my fractured autoimmune system; ulcerative colitis is the disease that blighted Jonathan Woodgate’s playing career at Newcastle, but I don’t have that. Nor do I have Crohn’s Disease, which is a relief as I don’t appear in any need of a stoma bag to deal with this condition. My particular problem is lymphocytic colitis, which gets the following thumbnail biog from NHS Online; a condition characterized by chronic non-bloody watery diarrhoea. The peak incidence is in persons over age 50; the disease affects women and men equally. Associations with other autoimmune disorders suggest that overactive immune responses occur. No definite cause has been determined.

Back when all digestive tract problems were lumped under the IBS handle by the medical profession, treatment focussed on testing for food allergies; herbs and spices that caused swollen guts and bad wind, legumes (peas and beans) that bloated and bunged up the poor sufferer, high-fat items that caused acid indigestion and stinky farts or wheat, which means life wouldn’t be worth living, as you couldn’t have beer or bread.  These days, like many if not most branches of medicine, the emphasis is not on medication or abstinence, but on managing the condition. What I’ve been told is that since my condition doesn’t have a defined cause, the most important thing is not to place too much emphasis on it by worrying unnecessarily, which is of course easier said than done if you’re sat on the bus, terrified to move in case a couple of pints of tawny, liquified log pour out of your back passage. The argument holds that if I can cut down my stress levels, my anxiety problems will decline and the attendant issues with urticaria and colitis will disappear. I’d love that; I dream of a time when I’m not hampered by a constant burning itch up and down my arms and across my neck. 

As far as I can remember, nobody ever used the urinals at the back of the Gallowgate; walls were made for pissing on and once a fortnight 10 or 15 thousand blokes would decant a gallon of Ex or Brown Ale each on the poorly-maintained brick facades and pillars, causing a modest tsunami of Scottish & Newcastle’s finest to pour down the concrete steps that acted as the conduit between turnstiles and terracing.  Great memories and I still happily micturate against brick bogs at non-league and local cricket grounds, if and when necessary.

However, number 2s are a different matter. Be honest; have you ever been for a shite in a football ground? The first time I can remember downloading some software in a sporting arena was January 22nd, 1983, just before Newcastle 4 Shrewsbury 0.  Kenny Wharton got a double. If the Gallowgate pissers were crude at best, the single trap was positively obscene. No seat, no light, no lock, no paper, no roof, no chain and no water. Mind there wasn’t a sink to wash at, even if the tap had been working. The only thing it had was a cracked pot and a broken door, but I needed it, or I’d have been in real trouble.

These days, all the grounds I know of have decent toilet facilities and this is just as well, because colitis means I’m going to need their smallest rooms more and more often. Basically, after I get up in the morning, the timing of my first sit down is crucial as, trying to be delicate, it’s the only solid one I’m guaranteed to have all day. If I’m in a hurry, I keep it for work as, once that first internal, faecal bung has been waved off to the seaside, what follows is a series explosions of yellowy-brown  liquid that require extensive use of the shower head as part of the clean up operation. I can be in the bog for up to an hour and have been known to suffer 6 emergency evacuations in that time. Afterwards, I am left almost bent double by a burning ache in the gut that lasts for several hours, which can be best described as the kind of residual, radiating pain you feel in your calf or thigh after a particularly severe bout of cramp.

Clearly, if I make it out of the house with the back seal intact, then I am vulnerable to the caprices of my bowels. Luckily, I am now in possession of a Radar key, which lets me use accessible toilets everywhere, from shopping centres to cinemas and many points in between, including my work. As my colitis causes the kind of undignified and unedifying spectacle that requires me to strip below the waist and wash myself (you can’t get away with a packet of wet wipes, I’m telling you), I need privacy. So far, I have been unable to find it on a regular basis in football grounds, even with my RADAR key. This is because, in many instances, there are no accessible toilets. Fair play to the likes of my own dear Benfield, Ashington, Bishop Auckland and Penrith, especially as the latter 3 have made accessible toilets a central part of their approach to inclusive customer care when building their new grounds.

From my perspective, I do feel that if non-league clubs are serious about reaching out into the wider community, they need to include those whose disabilities are covered by the Equality Act. In the same way the clubs were faced with the need for finding a separate changing room for female officials, the next step for clubs serious about community inclusivity, must be to provide the toilet facilities necessary for those with medical needs.