My cardiologist said my blood is too thick and intense in pressure, that if I don't stop eating salt, I could have a heart attack and die. I didn't even know I was ill, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised I'm actually just beyond the limits of modern health understanding. My blood is high pressure because it wants to get where it wants to go, it fills the vacuum, it forces itself out of the confines of my circulatory system and comes out in my other bodily fluids on a daily basis. I must lose a pint a week in my urine alone. I produce so much blood that it has to escape somehow, and when it doesn't, it might get a little bit higher pressure than the doctor likes, but that just means I have more blood per blood, and blood is vital to life.

It's time we bring back leeches from ye olden times. As a child I frequently spent time in a Victorian mill - it's where I met the-then Prince Charles, now King Charles III, where he called me a naughty boy. But this is also where my kindling for the sciences began, where I experienced being bitten by the leeches the blood damsels kept in urns for demonstration. I've never caught back up to that high of sneaking "to the toilet" when really I went back two rooms and opened that jar up and put those blood slugs onto my arm and rolled my sleeves over.

Like a retard sucking a Capri Sun, the fluids in me had no chance. I was seeing stars and swaying from side to side, the thoughts waned and everything flowed in a way that set me up for life success.

But was this all my grand mistake?

Ever since then, my body has failed to adjust back, and assumes I am always to be leeched of excess, milked like so many cows. It thinks I'm being milked for my blood sauce. They want me squeezing my vascular teet.

And sure this all sounds fine and dandy, but when I drain out and freeze a small stock of zip log bags of spare blood, the NHS van that sometimes parks outside Tesco doesn't want anything to do with it. What a waste, anybody would be lucky to have my blood. There are no viruses in my blood. There are no microbes in my blood. There is only good, happy blood cells that love to live and live to love. There's a happy magical world in there and, damnit, it fills me with so much hell-bent rage to think that being in me is so much better than being me. But I know a thing or too about that and I can tell you, it's no better in than out, and I'll never come out.