Out of mind

"Dear paul, the players reported back for pre-season training on Monday and immediately the news pages on WOW were buzzing again. We were first to bring you details of Ivar Ingimarsson's arrival at Wolves, and also the unhappy news of Dave Jones's illness."
It's the latest Wolverhampton Wanderers Newsletter. The last one must have gone astray because I've never heard of Ivar Ingimarsson and I didn't know Dave was ill. "We also exclusively revealed that Doritos are the clubs new sponsors and brought you the first picture of the new home shirt." Much as I'd like to study the new kit, there's someone here to see me. She needs a supervisor for her research project. I wipe the newsletter from the screen as if I have something to hide. "I'm Kara," she says, drifting in like scented smoke.
"I'm more of a neuro man," I'd told her over the phone. I tried to put her off. I said I knew something about body image changes caused by brain damage, and self-mutilation in the mentally disturbed, but nothing about the cult of extreme body modification. She wasn't deterred and here she is, opening a folder to show me samples. The thing that first catches my eye is a photograph of a man with his tongue hanging out. Well, tongues, almost. It is split from the base giving it a wicked, reptilian look. You can almost see it flicker. Kara has a glistening stud in the middle of her own tongue. I try hard not to stare.
The tone of the information sheet is reassuring. It could be from a private hospital brochure. I learn that, "The most popular method of tongue splitting is surgical." Images of DIY enthusiasts setting-to with razor blades and scissors rapidly fade. The operation is quick and high-tech, "...performed by an oral-maxiofacial (sic) surgeon using an argon laser." The tongue is slit in a single sweep, the laser cauterising as it cuts. Long-term side effects are played down. There may be minor changes in some speech sounds, it says, and the number of taste buds increases to cover the extra surface area. Elsewhere, a woman says it took three weeks before she could eat comfortably and control "both tongues." No claims are made for the gastronomic or sexual advantages of the split tongue, but I wonder.
Some of the other images are relatively mundane (tattooed penises, nipple piercings, branding),some bizarre. I'd put transdermal implantation in the latter category. Kara shows me pictures of men with objects inserted into the forehead or scalp. They look like Star Trek characters. I flick through reports on "non-psychotic self-cannibalism (autophagy)" and on "apotemnophilia" which, I learn, is a craving for amputation, which is sometimes satisfied through surgery. What's going on?
Body art has filtered into the mainstream-it seems as if almost everybody has a tattoo or a piercing these days-and so has body modification: breast implants, nose jobs, liposuction; anorectic dieting, bodybuilding. Kara condemns it all as a hopeless striving for unobtainable ideals of conventional beauty and eternal youth-the women in Vogue, the men on the cover of Men's Health-culturally sanctioned and commercially driven. She's right, of course. Extreme body modification is the antithesis. It's about redefining the aesthetic, even the boundaries, of the body. "And what about circumcision?" she says as an afterthought. Kara, by the way, is distractingly beautiful.
Searching for common ground, we skim across body image distortions in neurological disorders such as epilepsy and stroke. We discuss hysterical paralysis, phantom limbs and transexualism. I tell her about anosognosia, which means, "lack of knowledge of illness." People with severe neurological disabilities-quadriplegia, say-can show a complete lack of awareness of their condition. I remember once chatting with a man who was paralysed from the neck down. He was telling me about his plans to go rock climbing. I agree that "body image" is a fascinating area for research, but can't immediately see a connection between Kara's interests and my own. I tell her I'll think about it.
I've enjoyed our chat but when she leaves I am relieved to return to the Wolves newsletter and the wholesome image of Joleon Lescott, star defender, looking fit and handsome in the new kit. Alongside Kara's pictures it seems subversively normal. The shirt's OK but it's a pity about the sponsor. The Doritos splash looks gaudy. Goodyear was better: plain black, unflashy and the name had an association with the town. My dad used to work at the Goodyear factory. If shirts must be sponsored, that's the sort of thing you want. But it could be worse. It might have been Chupa Chups: The World's Most Popular Lollipop. The kiss of death for Sheffield Wednesday. Had they no pride?
Later, at home, I stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror. Not exactly Men's Health, I think. What might a little body art do for me? I tell my wife I'm thinking of having my penis tattooed. "What do you have in mind?" "Wolverhampton Wanderers." She looks at me. "Or maybe Wolves."
Get well soon, Dave. And welcome, Ivar, whoever you are.