Bummrungrad International hospital is a pleasure to visit, indeed, it almost makes it worth being ill. There are lot of health tourists here, mostly Arabs recieving treatments unavailable in their own countries. Americans, facing bankruptcy over a hip operation in their home country, work out that it's cheaper to book in here, get the operation done, and recuperate on an idyllic beach. All for about 1/10th of the price it would cost in America. And of course the Europeans, who although have a superior health system to the Americans, the downside cost are the queues you have to endure to get that superior health care.

Getting to the hospital in my condition was no laughing matter. It was about 3/4 of a mile away, a fifteen minute walk no more. But inbetween my hotel and the hospital lay the snarl of vendors and tourists stopping to gawp at every crap trinket in slack jaw wonder. 'Look! Da is a belt!' 'Ja! Ein belt - have you ever seen such a thing!' 'Und here Vilhelm! Look! A T-Shirt wid Same Same but different in textual letters! Vot Vunders nein?'

I had a fiteen minute window to get there before soiling myself. Taxis were right out, the choking Sukhumvit road with it's complex one-way systems would take half an hour easily, way beyond my bowel range! So I broke the journey down into 5 minute intervals. I knew a bar whose toilet I could use at about three minutes, and another at a mall at about five minutes. I waited until the last evacuation and moved with the precision of a well drilled soldier. I knew a dank ally away from the tourist traps, and ducked down this saving me a minute or two kicking at the rats feasting among the sewage, the downside being that I missed the three minute oases - but I was feeling lucky. Emerging, I had to run the gauntlet of one last tourist trap before crossing soi 3 and heading steadily for the Nana plaza, my step quickening, my guts wrenching; any minute now, any minute now. I made it to the toilets with a few seconds to spare. My howls of pain must have echoed around the plaza, birds flying scared from the roof because as I left the toilet a security guard, baton in hand was creeping tenetatively towards the toilet with no small fear in his eyes.....what in the Buddha was in there?

I had no time for his imaginings and set about leg two of the mission. This was the difficult part, ten minutes with barely a port to call upon. I marched determinitely, concentrate, don't think about it, one step a time. The stifling air, polluted by the all pervading car fumes, step by step until finally i'm there. Avoiding reception I march firmly to the toilets and just manage to rip off my clothes before peppering the bowl accompanied by the by now traditional shrieks from hell.

Nearly there. I find my way to the digestive diseases reception and having been to the hopsital before, present my card. I'm sat down by one of the delightful nurses; soon I'm vaguely aware of concerned looks and utterences in my directions. I'm sweating pints from the walk, I'm trembling like a leaf beause I haven't really eaten for two days and have barely slept in two agonising days. One dashes off, I smile weakly at the other nurses who just nod back. Within a minute a doctor approaches, touches my forehead, feels my pulse - he barks some orders,

'Come with me please Mr.John David'

'Where we go?'

'You very sick man Mr.John, we take care of you now, you be okay.'

The next thing I knew I was on a pallet hooked up to machines, IVFs, antibiotics and the ineitable machine that appears to do nothing more than go beep.

Incredibly, somehow they'd spotted something without having even examined me, and I'd thought I'd looked in the rudest of health despite my ailments, I seem to have that knack.

Ten minutes later I was actually examined, and explained my conditon. The doctor seemed to have it clocked straight away. I'd taken too many immodium tablets which led to the constipation. I now had something known as 'hard impacted faecal tissue' in my digestive track; food was just backing up behind it, occasionly leaking past faecal fluid that led to the diahorrea. The backed up food would also explain my overnight, massive gut explosion.

They insisted on keeping me in, while they ran the usual tests and procedures. The first procedure was to soften up the faecal matter with a saline solution, so that later, an indexed rubber finger could be inserted into my anus and physically drag it out, fingerful by fingerful. Oh deep joy. I tried to console myself with two things - this is what the astronauts had to endure, the bowel muscles shoved the food along nicely but when it came to the final passage, the big drop - well they usually relied on gravity for that and in a zero gravity situation that meant up with those fingers chaps! The second thought was that the agony would be over soon.

The time came, and adopting the foetal position the nurse slipped her latex finger deep into the anus. Despite the pain killing flexidrene I still squealed at the uncomfortableness of it all. She rummaged around, tutting occasionaly while I shook in trepidation until she finally stopped.

'No good' she said solemnly 'it too far uo, I cannot reach. Jesus what now.

The Doctor reappeared telling me we must do more tests, X-rays, drug courses, possible an operation. He checked me in to the hospital officially, under 24 hour observation. In the meantime I was given some super laxatives and forced to drink two litres of sulfours tasting water in two hours.

I wondered what the hell was coming next.

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