Too Many Reasons to Live: My Incredible Story

by Rob Burrow

You know what my dad calls me? The Black Knight, from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. When my voice started to go and he asked me how I was, it was a case of ‘Tis but a scratch!’ When I couldn’t get around on my own any more, it was a case of ‘It’s just a flesh wound!’ You know what they should stick on my headstone? ‘All right, we’ll call it a draw.’

Just turning in bed is murder.

But more and more, I’m separate from what’s going on around me. I absorb everything that’s happening, but I’m not really a part of it.

The banter will be flying and my eyes will be as wide as saucers, because I’ve just thought of a wicked one-liner (probably about Baz’s weight). Unfortunately, it will never leave my head. But it could be worse. At least I’m still well enough to think it. And at least I’ve still got my mates.

As he said, it’s irrelevant, in the grand scheme of things, that George Foreman beat up Muhammad Ali for seven and a half rounds; all that matters is that Ali knocked him out in the eighth.