Done gone and put my back out, haven’t I? And done it in the most pathetic way as well. I’d like to say that I did it whilst outrunning an avalanche on only one ski or that my parachute got twisted and I hit the ground hard but lived to tell the tale. I’d love to say that I did it whilst carrying a child from a burning building or that it happened whilst attempting to lift my own body weight at the gym.

It would be great if it were something exciting or dramatic but no…

I did it getting out of the car.

The worst part is that I’m not even sure what happened exactly. We pulled up in Morrisons carpark on Monday morning, I opened the car door, stuck my leg out, went to stick the other one out and the next thing I knew I was walking like Igor and in a state of total panic.

The problem is, you see, that my back tends to go out in two stages. The first stage, that I’m in now, is like a painful warning shot that much worse is to come if I don’t watch out. I can still function but in a limited capacity. The second stage is a full-on prolapsed disc that renders me incapable of even turning over in bed without screaming for about a fortnight or more.

Thankfully, I’m at stage one still and with careful management it should put itself right and I’ll be back to myself in roughly ten days or so.

If I’m not careful and it goes to stage two then I’m in a world of trouble and you won’t be hearing from me for a while because, let’s face it, it’s incredibly difficult to type whilst lying flat on your back. And that’s just about the only position I’ll be in if it happens.

Now, here’s the thing – I haven’t had a stage two since April 2016. There’s been a couple of stage ones but mercifully it’s gone no further than that. So as you can probably guess I’m on tenterhooks at this precise moment.

And if it does go to stage two there is only one solution and that is a visit to the chiropractor, which is an ordeal in itself. What about painkillers you say? Pah! A waste of time, effort and a perfectly good glass of water. The only pain relief that would touch it is probably banned by the W.H.O, the U.N and most countries in the Western world.

No, it has to be the chiropractor. Only he/she can end the misery of a stage two.

I have a kind of love/hate relationship with chiropractors. I hate them when they’re pulling me about and twisting me into the kind of positions normally only achieved by Judo masters and I feel like screaming for them to stop but then all of a sudden there’s that wonderful little ‘click’ and the pain is gone. When that happens I love the chiropractor to the point of offering to wash their smalls for them.

Of course, the chiropractors charge for putting you through hell, don’t they? £50 a pop these days I’m led to believe. Last time I went (2016) it was only £30. Well worth it though I suppose. The sense of relief when I leave the chiropractor is beyond profound. I feel like I’m sixteen years old again, although that feeling only tends to last about a day before I remember my actual age but for a while there it’s nice to be a spring chicken for a few hours.

The most annoying thing about it all is that its entirely my own fault. I did it to myself many years ago aged just twenty-three. I was working in a warehouse and it was my job to load pallets onto a lorry with a forklift truck. On the day in question I had a metal pallet on the forks upon which were two gigantic leaf springs for a HGV suspension. Whoever had prepared them hadn’t done a very good job and as I went to load them onto the lorry one of the springs slid off the pallet.

Not to worry, though, I was young and fit and strong, wasn’t I? I’d have it back on the pallet in no time at all – this thing was about 75kg by the way. So I dismounted, put on my heavy-duty gloves and grasped the leaf spring in both hands and lifted with all my might.

They heard the scream from five miles away.

I’d prolapsed one of my lower vertebrae and I had never experienced pain quite like it in my few short years on this Earth. Thankfully, it was right at the end of the working day and I went home in the misguided belief that a Radox bath and an early night would soon put it straight.

How very wrong I was.

The next morning my entire body had about as much movement as a cheap ironing board but considerably less structural integrity. I was in sheer-bloody-agony. There was nothing for it but to ring in sick and get my sorry ass to the GP.

The GP gave me some painkillers; codeine possibly, and advised me to go to an osteopath. I’d heard of osteopaths but weren’t sure exactly what they did. I was told there was one on the High Street who was very good but I couldn’t get the treatment on the NHS and would therefore have to pay. That was fine, I’d have paid every penny I ever earned if this chap could make me walk like I hadn’t soiled myself.

The year was 1989 and it cost just £5 for the osteopath to sort me out. Oh, admittedly, I nearly fainted as he performed his best Hulk Hogan impression and bent me into positions that would defy any self-respecting contortionist but then, eventually, he pushed the heel of his hand hard into my lower spine, there was a loud ‘click’ and he said, “How’s that?”

I could have French kissed him, tongues and all. I was cured!

During the years between 1989 and 2016 I only had a stage two on three occasions. Once when I was raking leaves off the lawn, once when I bent down to pick my Yorkshire Terrier up and once when I went over the handlebars of my bike.

Now, three times in twenty-seven years might not sound a lot but believe me, when it goes to stage two I cannot do anything except sit and cry like a lost kiddie in a supermarket. Honest to God, that’s it; that’s all I can do. So three times was three times too many in my opinion.

So here I am, in the midst of a stage one and taking the very greatest care not to do anything remotely physical so as to avoid a stage two. But if it should go to stage two you won’t need me to tell you about it as I shall be noticeable by my absence.

Watch this space!