Thursday, 23 October 2008
Part Eight - I Feel So Used
If you read my last blog, I’m relatively certain that you’ve spent more time thinking about my genitalia than you ever feared that you would. This leads me to some good news and, somewhat predictably, some bad news. The bad news is that, right now, you are inadvertently marching towards reading another one thousand two hundred and thirty-three words strictly upon the topic of my spanglers. The good news is that it’s a tale full of deep personal shame and humiliation which has become another bullet point on an ever-expanding list of reasons I have to be constantly ashamed of my existence. The first of which occurring within seconds of my birth when an experienced midwife outrageously claimed that I was the fattest baby she had ever seen. However, what you now need to decide is whether a satisfying hit of schadenfreude is worth the perils of having your mind occupied for a further five minutes by nothing but my filthy organs.
I’d like to mention at this stage that I’m already struggling to provide an adequate assortment of funny synonyms for testicles. I tried to find some through an internet search, but I refuse to use terms such as ‘spunk buckets‘ or ‘Thomas the Wank Engines‘. Actually, I made that last one up myself and I quite enjoyed it. But the fact remains that I can‘t sully this medical journal with infantile names for a gentleman‘s generative glands. Moving on with this in mind, readers of this blog will be aware that last week that I discovered an odd lump on my left twiddle diddle which was revealed to be nothing cancery, to my indescribable relief. My testicles shall remain intact. However, the fact remains that there is a small protrusion which I was told, to my utter horror, would need to be physically inspected as it‘s a possible treatment side-effect. I’d like to point out now that three different people have said to me “Are you sure it’s not your penis?” and that I would like this to cease.
So there I was in a tiny, cold room standing with my pants around my knees. I had chosen to shield my penis with my hand, a canny decision which obviously instantly removed any indignity from the situation. Before we began, my Doctor had made the considerate gesture of locking the door, but only realised after the examination had begun that the blind behind me was almost fully open - exposing my entirely naked arse to the main reception thoroughfare of ward two. As he hurriedly closed the blinds he claimed that no one had seen, and yet the knowing smirks from three members of the nursing staff upon my departure suggested otherwise. The examination had got off to the worst possible start, perhaps with the exception of becoming sexually aroused.
As he began to poke around he sceptically claimed that he “couldn’t feel anything”. Oddly enough this wasn’t the first time this has been said to me when I had no pants on, it’s a sentence that has plagued many of my romantic liaisons. However, this time it took on a deeper meaning than mere spiteful emasculation. Was he suggesting that I had lied about it, just so that I could come in and get molested by a man who’s never actually provided me with any concrete proof that he was a doctor? He may have had a white coat on, but I know for a fact that Christopher Hoggan owns one of these and yet it will be a cold day in hell when I drop my pants at his command. Understandably, I became defensive and insisted that there was something there whilst helpfully pointing at my testicle just incase he had become confused as to what and where a testicle is.
He then asked me to lie down so he could examine me further, so I waddled over to the bed with my pants remaining at my knees clutching onto my penis to shield it from his leering gaze. After more prodding, pushing and uncomfortable squeezing he cupped me and asked me to cough. “Why?” I cautiously enquired to prevent myself from inadvertently entering some form of bizarre foreplay. Apparently it’s quite a common test though, as I’m sure many of my debaucherous friends for whom genital examinations are routine will know. After a small ‘hmm’ noise he then asked me to recloth myself, which I did with a certain amount of eagerness.
I remained lying down as he wrote into his notebook and waited for him to break an indescribable silence that can only occur when a man has just gazed upon another man’s genitals. “I forgot to examine the lymph nodes on your groin” he said and, not realising that I’d have to disrobe again for him to do this, I lay back and confidently told him to proceed. This led to him to humiliatingly taking it upon himself to undo my belt and fly before depantsing me like some cheap floozy. This led to a bit more prodding here and there but, mercifully, it was the last act and I scuttled out of the room fully clothed before he “forgot” about any other demeaning examinations.
Even after this string of embarrassments, they’re not really any the wiser as to what it is besides the unanimous belief that it’s entirely innocuous. Fantastically, this means I’m going to have to get a testicular ultrasound scan next month which will probably multiply the number of medical professionals that have gazed upon my genetalia by at least 300%. I’ve put a funny Stewart Lee video at the bottom of this blog regarding embarrassing medical procedures for people reading this on Facebook, you should watch it. If you’re reading this on Bebo, I don’t care because I’ve become embittered by the inadequate attention that this receives on there. I choose to believe it’s because they’re too distracted by 15 year old girls’ holiday pictures.
Anyway, testicles aside, everything’s going swimmingly. I received my fifth treatment yesterday and it was as annoyingly uneventful as always. A few people have asked for updates regarding my hair. It still looks more or less the same, unless it’s soaking wet in which case I look like a malnourished cat at an animal rescue centre. I avoid heavy rain. Bizarrely, any hair loss stopped two weeks ago for reasons that I can’t explain. However, I now can’t change my routine whatsoever for the next three months in fear of ruining whatever I did to stop it.
Lastly, and somewhat upsettingly, the wristband campaign has ground to a premature halt. Tireless searching has shown 50 wristbands at a cost of £60 to be the best deal and this would patently be a ludicrous indulgence. The Daily Mail would spontaneously combust if I were exposed to be spending my benefits in such a frivolous manner, possibly claiming that the name ‘Bartley‘ is of Muslim descent. The only way I’d be able to purchase them is if I was popular enough to raise a contribution of half of the amount, but this is impossible due to the fact that I’m not Hannah Montana.