In which Glastonbury 2010 is (nearly) spoiled

For those who aren't aware, Glastonbury is the best festival.

Out of all the festivals, that is. I've been three times, and I'll be there again for the last weekend of June 2013, some six weeks before the surgery. But this post, I'm going to talk about the last time I was there: the summer of 2010.

It was the third time we (my crew of assorted wreckheads) had scored tickets, and we thought we'd steal a march on the (reasonable but still pricey) on-site booze setup. You can essentially bring onto the campsite anything you can drink. Or, you can let other people bring things, and then buy the things, then drink those things. We decided to buck the trend by buying 24 litres of Burrow Hill scrumpy cider, letting the brewers bring the tubs onto the site (where they have a bus they sell from) then picking them up. It was a flawless plan, and it went off exactly as we'd hoped. 

We arrived on the Wednesday. The festival takes place on the Friday-to-Sunday but we're a keen bunch, so we got in early, set up our tents, and trekked through the blazing sun to the Burrow Hill bus. There was already a queue of overheated revellers queuing for expensive pints in a paper cup. Their faces were a picture as we sidled past them and around the bus, then emerged carrying four big cardboard boxes, and wandered back towards our tents, a good half mile away.

By the time we were back, it was certainly cider o'clock. We set down one box, ripped off the tape, and unfolded the cardboard box lid. The next bit, as the sun illuminated the contents, is best explained by Mr Tarantino:

We were happy. Lids were unscrewed, glasses were poured, cider was necked. Everything was perfect, except one thing. I was still getting over a mild bout of tonsillitis, and the glowing amber goodness was like battery acid on my throat - I physically couldn't swallow it. Disaster. 

I went and saw the on-site medic and had a word. After peering down my throat, it was her opinion that I was probably on the mend, but as she put it, 'things don't heal here'.

Doctor: "So basically, you'll be okay. Enjoy your festival, but..."
Me: "...don't get smashed to bits?"
Doctor: "Yes. Don't get smashed to bits."

And I didn't. I couldn't touch a drop of our awesome, cheap cider (or any other alcohol for that matter) and I spent the whole festival sober as a judge. Don't get me wrong, it was still brilliant, and I saw so much excellent music, but it was one of the many times my tonsils have done their best to spoil a weekend. So roll on the surgery.

In which surgery is confirmed

Well.

In May 2013, a nice consultant at Guy's Hospital in London advised me that given my medical history, a tonsillectomy would be a good idea.

Following a physical exam that same day (testicular MRSA swab! ahem, self-administered...) I had a phone call to arrange a date for surgery. That date is the morning of August 8th, 2013. This is going to be a blog about the build-up, event, and aftermath to that day; in the hope that it will give other sufferers some idea of whether or not surgery is The Way Out. As I write, I genuinely don't know the answer to that question. 

A bit of background.

My name is Ben Jones. I live in South London, but grew up in (heavily) rural West Wales. I'm married to Siri, who will be guiding me back to health in about ten weeks' time. I've had tonsil trouble for as long as I can remember. At its worst - when I was 12 and 13 - that was about once a month. An average bout would mean a day or two off school, a course of antibiotics (usually Amoxycillin), and so many painkillers I rattled when I walked. "Oh no," they said, "we don't operate any more. It's barbaric! The antibiotics will deal with the infection, and by adolescence it'll stop completely."

Would it bollocks. I kept getting ill, right up until now, when I'm staring the big three-oh in the face. It happens less often since I hit adulthood, and most occurrences don't even keep me off work - just a miserable 3 or 4 days in most cases. But not all. The most recent bout, Easter '13, was a bad one. It had me off work for four days, and laid out for six, and I spent (bank holiday) Easter Monday shivering like a junkie. People think of tonsillitis as a severe sore throat, and they're not wrong. What doesn't leap to mind so quickly are the blinding headache, aching limbs, tender skin, and hot and cold flushes a bad case bring. At it's worst, it's a full-on feverish shitfest of misery. Symptoms ordained by the devil himself, your tonsils dragging in a rogue's gallery of susceptible body parts for the ride.

It works the other way, too. Got a bad cold? Have a throat infection, too! If there's one thing I can confidently predict about catching flu or a cold, it's that once it's faded, swallowing will hurt like hell for a few days while my tonsils climb back down off their high horse. Think of it as a memento of the original illness; a reminder that when one bit of you breaks, any other chronically broken bits will join the party.

Looking back as far as memory reaches, it's been a completely unpredictable, completely predictable blight on my life, and it's time for it to end. I've read some truly harrowing accounts of adult tonsillectomies online of late. But no matter how severe the pain might be in the two weeks after surgery, if it means I get ill half as often, it'll be worth it. 

If it means I never get tonsillitis again, I will consider myself to have won the medical lottery. 

Oh, and it's free. Yeah, living in the old U-of-K ain't so harsh. 

More to follow, people of the internets. If you've had the procedure, or the illness, or you're considering the procedure, (for god's sake don't consider the illness) then hit me up in the comments.

- Ben