As the Travelling Wilburys had warbled many years ago it was indeed The End of the Line; conscious of the mounting pressure on the world’s eco system and fearful in equal measure of a potential depletion in my own resources, I had decided that it was time for the dreaded “snip” so feared amongst modern men. It seemed entirely logical to me having only just cut the umbilical cord attached to Barclays as, at the age of 47, procreation offered few benefits of any kind. With 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 that far; my dad was happy enough that I had not turned out “queer” as he had feared for the much of the first 47 years of my life although I comforted him that change can come “out” late in the day. So now it was down to the GP for a final counselling session.
Are You Sure You Don’t Want A Sleep Deprived Next Few Decades?
It seemed odd to me that a mature adult of sound mind has to be counselled about deciding not to introduce some wailing brat with the capacity to empty at both ends on a regular basis into the world; surely those who choose to do so would clearly benefit much more from a bit of mentoring. 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 – I assume these days at primary school level. She argues that 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; now it was only a matter of choosing the clinic which was easy enough in the end as one had speed bumps en route whereas the other was as flat as you need after having a knife to the nether regions – I chose well.
Go Easy On The After Shave
Like most things that have cause for some dread the human mind can switch to a state of denial until the final brutal point of no escape. With the snip there is a bit of foreplay to engage in before the actual event, if you pardon the terminology; this involves creating a bit of a landing strip for the knife by craving out a runway with your friendly disposable razor. Standing in the shower it was all a bit bizarre and, to me, 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 butchering the product of many years’ efforts.
When I did pluck up – sorry – the courage to look down it looked like one of those mass produced chickens all shrunken skin with a bobbly bit of hair left; and what a mess of the shower floor. The worst bit though is slipping on your trousers; it just feels so weird down there. A quiet night in and the fateful morning arrived as England were getting hammered over in Perth, the one blip on the glorious Ashes tour of 2010-11: as bad as it was seeing Mitchell Johnson bowl straight for once I would still have chosen that over what was now only an hour away. Hell, I would have volunteered to have batted against him even at my age.
How to Quieten a Godson
Too tight to pay for a taxi and always keen to share the pain I blagged 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 each time I see him – 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; fifty ways to quieten a kid in an instant – number one.
Snow on the ground did foster a thought that I may have to walk home in PJ bottoms with a swollen under carriage; who was that local Councillor who said they had more grit than Siberia? 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 bravely hugging his lady – mum where are you when I need you – and about half an hour later there he was, limping out with that knowing look of “that’s me done…enjoy boys!” In came a whole 2 + 2 family – what had the kids done to deserve a Saturday morning at the Snip Clinic – and, somewhat bizarrely the husband and wife sat at opposite ends of the waiting room. It seemed to me that there was no need for contraception with this frosty twosome.
Then it was my turn and, 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 in I went, 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”; which at least suggested that he might not be rushing to make the first tee leaving me in a pool of blood with entrails hanging out.
“Now then tell me why you bloody want no kids? No…I bloody don’t blame you…bloody ungrateful bastards!” I just 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!
Now Towelling Down?
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, a gulp of water – I did notice my hand was start to shake – 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 now; could this get any worse? Any thoughts that she might at least be some Filipino babe were soon dashed as she was a dead ringer for Olive, wife of the long suffering Arthur from the comedy show On the Buses.
One The Tee…Mr Khan
Out came Mr Khan whistling as if he was strolling down the fairway having just creamed a monster drive with his favourite clubs. 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 pipe was attached to my neck, I swear when he pulled it out my head jerked forwards; no worries though because Olive was still cradling my nuts, talking cricket and patting me on the head.
And as the famous line went all those years ago “they think it’s all over” well it wasn’t. The whole thing had to be done with right hand nut as well. 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 it; the end of the line and the World a better place for it.
Wendy O'Malley says
Hello!!! Thought i would have a read,as i thought very funny!!!!xx