I was one of those kids.
Luckily I wasn’t alone and there were plenty of kids with worse allergies than I. As an allergist I was and still am hypersensitive. While most people will cry and rub their eyes while watching this T-Mobile flash mob, I cry and rub while Spring happens. My little mast cells get very excited by something called IgE and decide the best form of response is to get all angry and inflamed as if the pollen and pussies are trying to stop The Hobbit from being filmed in NZ.
My list of afflictions includes the exotically spelt eczema, the interestingly spelt asthma and the spelt as it should be hay fever. Apparently this trio of torment have an I’ll scratch yours if you scratch mine relationship and just love to band together to make their sufferers feel as miserable as watching The Feelers at Band Together. New Zealand is also over-represented in the asthma and eczema department, probably due to the fact that all New Zealanders live on farms and the cats are extra friendly.
I thought I was only allergic to things like grass, pollen, dust, dust mites, pussy hair, pussy dust, pussy mites and pussy pollen however when I was 13 and riding a Cruiser, my parents sent me to a chiropractor who found I was allergic to dairy and wheat as well. He discovered this by putting food samples on my tongue while I was flat on my back. He then applied pressure on my left wrist which I held aloft like a drunk and dyslexic Nazi. My resistance to his pressure while tonguing a piece of Weet-Bix was futile. I could hardly keep it up at all while licking the cheese. Apparently this was conclusive proof that if I ran through a field of wheat with a cat while eating cheese I would die.
I really like cheese. I used to be the PA for the Head of the Dairy and Cheese Department at Sainsbury’s HQ in London and every Friday would horde the cheese samples and swap them for fags and ham. I never smoked the fags but used them to barter for high value goods like beef and beer.
Beer is made from wheat. I really really like beer. In fact, I would go so far to say that I love beer. I am probably at my happiest when there is a pint in one hand, a gouda in the other and a pussy on my lap. So far the only good thing about being hyper-allergenic is being able to make lots of pussy gags although up until now I’ve been under control and still able to consume litres of lager.
Not anymore though. This year my skin has gone to pot and I’ve moved to the allergy capital of Australia. I’ve been scratching in places I haven’t scratched since my youth while leaving a trail of flakes around Melbourne that would make Hansel and Gretel proud. I went back to a different Chiropractor in Christchurch who also practices the dark art of Applied Kinesiology. He not only cracks your bones, but puts boxes of crystals on your tummy, magnets in your groin, lasers up your nose and sprays load after load of his mysterious substance into your mouth. You also have to watch Risky Business and Battlefield Earth over and over again and sign a contract to only fly Qantas. He confirmed that I’m allergic to dairy and wheat and gave me lots of useful information on how to give up everything I love. He asked if I had a pussy. I said I did. He said my pussy was bad for me and every time I touched it Tom Cruise would kill a kitten. I cried and rubbed my eyes and scratched the back of my knee.
So now I’m dairy and gluten free. Instead of beer I’m drinking the same volume in red wine. I’m not scratching as much because I spend most of the day passed out on top of the cat. I’m also allergic to penicillin which puts me into paralysis, so if I’m ever boring the shit out of you just slip me some Stilton and watch the fun begin.
