On self-diagnosis

On self-diagnosis

A little learning, they say, is a dangerous thing. And sitting on your own on these long winter evenings with the entire sum of human knowledge at your very fingertips is very dangerous indeed.

Particularly dangerous if you are an amateur hypochondriac like myself.

Google. Wikipedia. NHS Direct. It is a veritable goldmine for what the medical profession calls "the worried well", who spend their waking hours flitting from Daily Mail health scares to the internet, convinced that they are getting killed to death by Ebola.

I've looked it up. I've been to Monkey World within the last five years, and who knows what's in primate crap these days? I'm doomed.

You might remember, not so very long ago, of a not-so-tall tale of a trip to the local surgery, having convinced myself through self-diagnosis, that I had a brain tumour.

I had, it turned out, something called a "headache".

I am certain Dr Chapman has appended the words "WARNING: Has internet access" on my records to warn his colleagues that I think I know better that years of intense medical training.

I've got a past record of this.

What I thought - and this went on for several years - was a brain haemorrhage, was a trapped nerve in my neck, cured coincidentally by the combined bad driving of my sister and a little old lady on a hara-kiri mission.

Only a couple of years ago, I seriously thought I had herpes or some other hideous disease. Scabies.

I know for a fact the doctor wrote "Manky git" in my notes, and he was right.

Now, having read the Wikipedia entry on my genuine MySpace chum Gary Numan, I am convinced I have Asperger's Syndrome.

It's all there in black and white:

- Problematic social skills

- Inability to mix with people

- Inability to communicate clearly (as six years of this blog have proved)

- Restrictive and repetitive behaviour

- Restrictive and repetitive behaviour

- Repetitive behaviour

- Minute obsession with a single subject matter. In my case: poo.

There can be only one answer to these obvious clues. It's Asperger's Syndrome. Of the fatal variety.

It all makes sense, when you think about it.

And the best bit for any fully paid-up member of the Worried Well is the fact that it's incurable.

Or, as I'm sure Dr Chapman has already noted: "Caution: CUCKOO"

I am not mad. I think.


On any other business

Multiple updates and latest scores on the Duck of Death Celebrity Deathpool.

That is all.