{First published June 2012}
Amazing what subjects are tackled in the local debating chamber. This week it was world population or more to the point, our combined inability to add any further to this; we were comparing our various experiences under the knife.
Although it causes me great pain, here’s mine recounted – sorry Mum!
No More Willys
Conscious of the mounting pressure on the world’s eco system and, fearful of a catastrophic depletion in my own resources, I had decided that it was time for the dreaded “snip”.
Having just cut the umbilical cord attached to Barclays, aged 47, procreation offered few benefits of any kind. With my redundancy cheque safely lodged in the money bank it was time to ensure nothing came out of the other.
Although my mum would have been the best grandma in the world, even she is realistic enough to have conceded that introducing a younger version of her eldest son would not have advanced mankind.
My dad was simply happy enough that I had not turned out “queer” so it off to the GP for a final counselling session.
Are You Sure You Don’t Want A Sleep Deprived Next Few Decades?
It seemed odd that a mature adult of sound mind has to be counselled about deciding not to introduce some wailing brat into the world.
A school teacher friend of mine has long since held the belief that the only way to halt the slide of humanity is to enforce sterilisation at primary school level. At a very early age you cannot fail to spot the grim cycle of yester-year raising its ugly head.
The counselling session was over in a flash and I was adjudged of sound enough mind to nip the thing in the bud so to speak.
Choosing the clinic was easy enough as one had speed bumps en route whereas the other was as flat as you need after having a knife to the nether regions.
Go Easy On The After Shave
A few sleepless nights followed before I engaged in creating a bit of a landing strip for the knife by carving out a runway with my disposable razor.
Standing in the shower it seemed a bit cruel; after all I still remember the first giddy day in the school showers that I noticed my first pubic hair and here I was going for a No 1.
It looked like one of those mass produced chickens all shrunken skin with a bobbly bit of hair left. A quiet night in and the fateful morning arrived; I felt like I had slept on Death Row.
How to Quieten a Godson
I begged a lift from my Godson’s parents with explicit instructions that if young Harry was to punch me in the nuts as he generally does – I am reassured it’s a show of affection – then could he make it on the outward journey.
Harry was a bit quizzical about this until I told him – helpfully in my view – that I was going to have my willy cut off and so was he if he did not behave; one quick way to quieten a kid in an instant.
Snow on the ground did foster a thought that I may have to walk home in PJ bottoms with swollen bollocks.
I am not sure what I was expecting when I got to the clinic but the staff seemed more interested in the morning brew than a queue of men who were about to be voluntarily assaulted. I sat down on Snip Row and awaited my fate.
Calling Mr Wilson… Your Time Is Up
Soon the human conveyor belt began and the first victim was called in looking ashen faced as a brute of a wife gave him a farewell finger. Looking at her I could not see why he needed the snip.
Half an hour later there he was, limping out with that knowing look of “that’s me done…enjoy boys!”
A few more came and went and then it was my turn; with one longing look at the exit door and a voice in my head screaming “run!” I trudged through the doors, more frightened than when I went on the Big Dipper at Blackpool.
I politely knocked on the consultant’s door and there he was; it was Mr Khan, the chip shop owner in the film East is East. Oh my God I am going to get my bollocks well and truly battered, I thought.
“Sit down Mr Wilson and what a bloody good morning this is!” he said simultaneously twirling his moustache. “Pity about the bloody golf this bloody afternoon, bloody snow”
If this suggested that he might not be rushing to make the first tee, leaving me in a pool of blood with entrails hanging out, I was happy.
“Now then tell me why you bloody want no kids? No…I bloody don’t blame you…bloody ungrateful bastards!”
I smiled weakly determined not to offend a guy that would have a scalpel to my nuts in a very short time. For God’s sake I kept thinking do not call him Mr Khan or ask for a Special!
Olive
As this was, in effect, a production line, the pleasantries were over fairly quickly and I was escorted to my dressing room and offered my luxurious NHS paper gown.
A knock on the door followed and then a walk down a freezing corridor trying to hold the paper gown over my shorn dignity.
The operating theatre was about as big as a bus stop but no sooner had I acclimatised than I was introduced to a nurse who wanted to paint my bollocks; could this get any worse?
Any thoughts that she might at least resemble the blonde one from ABBA were soon dashed as she was a dead ringer for Olive, wife of the long suffering Arthur from the comedy show On the Buses.
On The Tee…Mr Khan
Out came Mr Khan whistling as if he was strolling down the fairway having just creamed a monster drive.
Meanwhile, as she gently painted my nuts a sort of light tan, Olive was engaging in small talk making this seem even more surreal. Up strode Mr Khan, cheery grin and glistening blade in hand.
“Now then Mr Wilson I tell you bloody good joke then I want you to tell me bloody good joke too” he said.
I pointed out that the last thing I could think of right now was a joke and making him laugh and shake with what he was about to do was not a good idea.
He told me a joke regardless, it was shit, I laughed dementedly and in flash he stuck a needle in my left nut. Ouch!
He then proceeded with a running commentary telling me I would feel a slight incision – I did, more ouch – and then a cutting sensation followed by him pulling out my soon to be Pipes of Peace and tying them in a knot.
It felt as if the pipes were attached to my neck, I swear when he pulled them out my head jerked forwards. No worries though because Olive was still cradling my nuts, talking cricket and patting me on the head.
Eventually it was all over, Mr Khan played a few air shots and went off singing into his office. I looked down at my nappy and prayed Harry had remembered the instructions.
And that was that – the end of the line and the World a better place for it. My gift to Humanity.
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