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I suffered chafing at the Birmingham NEC during the motor show

Last night as I was walking home from the train station I had a recurrence of an ailment that hasn't troubled me for over a year. I was wearing some new boxer shorts with an unusually placed seam down the inside leg that causes chafing at the top bit of my right leg, at the place where it meets and rubs against my left leg as I walk. It's a part of the body you wouldn't willingly go and discuss with your doctor unless you like it when he says, "so, let's have a look, then… I think you'll have to remove your underpants".

The first time I suffered chafing was when I represented my company on a stand at an exhibition at the Birmingham National Exhibition Centre (the "NEC"). Our stand was situated in a hall in a distant corner of the complex, the whole of which I soon discovered is awesomely big.

At the same time as our exhibition, the main part of the NEC was occupied with the National Motor Show. The Motor show was the main attraction for thousands of people, while our exhibition drew just a tiny trickle of attendees who turned out to be of no value to our business.

During my lunch break on the first day I walked around the motor show. After the fifth aircraft hanger sized hall, I started to chafe. By the time I staggered back to our own exhibition hall, I could barely walk with the pain emanating from the top of my inside leg. It felt like I had walked at least ten miles, although being realistic it was probably a mere 9 ½. I resolutely worked on the stand for the rest of the day, in agony.

By the end of the day, I would have done anything to relieve the discomfort, being basically immobilised.

We retired to our hotel right next to the NEC centre. The hotel was easily the biggest I had ever seen, with multiple restaurants, bars and so on. I soon realised that trekking from my bedroom to the bar was not going to be easy. I would only be slightly exaggerating if I compared it to walking across the arctic with some carefully positioned sandpaper.

I eventually staggered to the bar, met my colleagues and ordered a strong drink. What was I going to do? There was no way I would survive the next day on our exhibition stand. I decided to ignore the embarrassment and go to the reception desk for some help. This in itself turned out to be a significant trek, by the end of which I was delirious with pain.

I staggered up to the receptionist and said "This is going to sound a bit odd, but I really need some Vaseline". She showed incredible reserve, given that she was being confronted by an obvious pervert, and pointed to a tiny newsagent shop about ten paces from where we stood, and I went in.

To my delight, on a row all by itself in the shop was a little collection of toiletries including a plentiful supply of Vaseline. To my horror, they could not accept credit cards, or charge it to my room. It had to be cash.

I will always remember stepping out of that shop and looking down the corridor to the lifts that would get me to my bedroom where I had some cash. Actual infinite distances sometimes do not look as far away as things that are merely a very long way away. That corridor looked like it stretched to another continent. My agony was compounded with the knowledge that if I ever made it to my room, I would then have to contend with a return journey.

I arrived back at the bar about an hour later, with a look of bliss on my face. The Vaseline worked its magic on my chafing zone, and I was a happy man.

The next day was a different story. I threw my usual enthusiasm into my work at our stand for the final day of the exhibition, and by late afternoon was in agony once again.

It was time to go home. One of my colleagues offered to drive us to the local train station so we set off to find his car. I use the word "find" in this context for a very good reason. The NEC centre is awesomely big, so it does not just have one car park, it has very many, and they are divided up by hedges. As you might have guessed, my colleague could not remember where he had left his car, so we walked through miles of car parks searching for it.

After about a dozen car parks I could no longer bear it. I simply lay on the ground and waited for the car to be located, jibbering to myself.

For many months after this I was taunted by my colleagues with a range of jokes along the lines of "What's your favourite bank? Chafe Manhattan!" Ha ha ha...