Breaking Bad
by Glenn Muir
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: An autobiographical account of how I have been marked for life by experience and injury, and what can come about if you are over-competitive.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: An autobiographical account of how I have been marked for life by experience and injury, and what can come about if you are over-competitive.
The list of injuries that I have sustained in my fifty-nine years had never included a fracture of any kind. Admittedly, I do have plenty of scars, ancient livid marks to remind me of past misadventures. There is a prominent scar on the front of my right knee, this was the result of a four years old me falling from my trike onto broken glass. There is also a slightly larger scar, at right angles to the first one, where the knee bends. This happened during a kick about with a couple of guys. Sliding to prevent the ball going between the jersey goal markers, my leg was ripped to the bone. I was carried home by the lads. Pop must have been on the backshift as it was our downstairs neighbour who took me to our G.P.‘s house for treatment. You could say that was my first sporting injury.
My right leg was not very lucky, there is yet another scar close to the ankle. I got that one during a game of football at Linlithgow academy. An idiot tossing a boulder from the side-lines caused the damage. I hobbled into my history lesson, gouts of blood seeping through my sock. A concerned teacher took me to the first aid room and that was that.
The only scar on my left leg is a faint one in the thigh area. You could say this was a work related injury, a faded circular mark about the size of a two pence piece. I had been working with Royal Mail for a couple of years at that time. A customer came to her front door in order to give me a signature for a recorded delivery item. As she signed the wee book a black standard poodle that accompanied her went for me. As “Fido” sank his fangs into my upper thigh, she handed me back the wee book with these words, “He does that sometimes.” I managed to stifle my temper and not say “Thanks for fuck all, bitch.”
My hands also bear the marks of old wounds. There is a small boomerang shaped one on my left palm, I think that was from the time I fell off my trike onto the broken glass. There is a crescent shaped scar on the back of my right hand. An insect bite became infected and my G.P. had to lance it before prescribing massive doses of amoxicillin to ward off the ensuing septicaemia.
Luckily my stunning good looks remain unsullied, the only facial scar I have is covered by my right eyebrow. This occurred whilst using old hardback beano annual covers as makeshift Frisbees. My playmate was a bit too forceful and the sharp corner caught me just above the eye.
All this information might seem a bit self-indulgent and boring to you, but if some natural disaster happens and I come a cropper, at least you will be able to identify my lifeless corpse.
As I was saying earlier, I had not until now, broken any bones. I had recurring knee problems which forced me to give up playing Five a Sides in 1988, so I was no stranger to sports related injuries. About ten weeks ago I sustained my first fracture, and worst ever sport related injury. Fortunately it was not a major break, the fourth toe on my right foot to be precise. The whole thing was quite bizarre, surreal in fact. Nobody else, as far as I know, has ever broken a bone whilst playing snooker.
Every Wednesday night six of us play at The Club in Broxburn. Two leagues of three with the two winners playing a final and the bottom player in the top league being relegated. Anyway, I was playing Malky when I sustained the damage. After a brisk start my opponent went off the boil a bit. The game got to a crucial stage, Malky required a snooker and only the pink and black remained. With the pink hanging over the left baulk corner bag, all I had to do for victory was to pot it. The cue ball was located near the black’s spot, I carefully lined up my shot and watched the cue ball trundle the entire length of the table potting the pink. Alas, there was too much topspin and the white followed the pink into the pocket. The pink was re-spotted and I would still have won if I managed to pot it. No such luck, Malky potted pink and black to win the game.
You are asking yourself: where does my broken toe fit into this scenario? At the point where I potted the pink and followed through with the white, that’s where. Frustration got the better of me and I lashed out my foot at a handy chair. I have never regretted anything quite so much in my entire life. You could say that it was not one of my better breaks at the snooker.
My right leg was not very lucky, there is yet another scar close to the ankle. I got that one during a game of football at Linlithgow academy. An idiot tossing a boulder from the side-lines caused the damage. I hobbled into my history lesson, gouts of blood seeping through my sock. A concerned teacher took me to the first aid room and that was that.
The only scar on my left leg is a faint one in the thigh area. You could say this was a work related injury, a faded circular mark about the size of a two pence piece. I had been working with Royal Mail for a couple of years at that time. A customer came to her front door in order to give me a signature for a recorded delivery item. As she signed the wee book a black standard poodle that accompanied her went for me. As “Fido” sank his fangs into my upper thigh, she handed me back the wee book with these words, “He does that sometimes.” I managed to stifle my temper and not say “Thanks for fuck all, bitch.”
My hands also bear the marks of old wounds. There is a small boomerang shaped one on my left palm, I think that was from the time I fell off my trike onto the broken glass. There is a crescent shaped scar on the back of my right hand. An insect bite became infected and my G.P. had to lance it before prescribing massive doses of amoxicillin to ward off the ensuing septicaemia.
Luckily my stunning good looks remain unsullied, the only facial scar I have is covered by my right eyebrow. This occurred whilst using old hardback beano annual covers as makeshift Frisbees. My playmate was a bit too forceful and the sharp corner caught me just above the eye.
All this information might seem a bit self-indulgent and boring to you, but if some natural disaster happens and I come a cropper, at least you will be able to identify my lifeless corpse.
As I was saying earlier, I had not until now, broken any bones. I had recurring knee problems which forced me to give up playing Five a Sides in 1988, so I was no stranger to sports related injuries. About ten weeks ago I sustained my first fracture, and worst ever sport related injury. Fortunately it was not a major break, the fourth toe on my right foot to be precise. The whole thing was quite bizarre, surreal in fact. Nobody else, as far as I know, has ever broken a bone whilst playing snooker.
Every Wednesday night six of us play at The Club in Broxburn. Two leagues of three with the two winners playing a final and the bottom player in the top league being relegated. Anyway, I was playing Malky when I sustained the damage. After a brisk start my opponent went off the boil a bit. The game got to a crucial stage, Malky required a snooker and only the pink and black remained. With the pink hanging over the left baulk corner bag, all I had to do for victory was to pot it. The cue ball was located near the black’s spot, I carefully lined up my shot and watched the cue ball trundle the entire length of the table potting the pink. Alas, there was too much topspin and the white followed the pink into the pocket. The pink was re-spotted and I would still have won if I managed to pot it. No such luck, Malky potted pink and black to win the game.
You are asking yourself: where does my broken toe fit into this scenario? At the point where I potted the pink and followed through with the white, that’s where. Frustration got the better of me and I lashed out my foot at a handy chair. I have never regretted anything quite so much in my entire life. You could say that it was not one of my better breaks at the snooker.
About the Author
West Lothian-born Glenn Muir is a fiftysomething postman living in Bo'ness and working in Linlithgow. Previously a member of the West Lothian Song Writers Group, he is now with Quill, a poetry and writing group based in Bathgate. The McFables, his reworking of selected Aesop's fables in Scots, has been published by McStorytellers.