Part fifty one: FAMILY PLANNING

In which dignity is sorely tested

A good deal of these tales of idiocy occur in my formative years, this however is an exception. It was the year of our Lord 2011 and I was an impressive thirty four years of age. Otherwise what follows would be weird, illegal, and you’d probably go to prison just for reading about it.

On this particular day I found myself sat in a GP’s waiting room wondering whether or not I should just run away as I was about to go into, you see, an appointment to arrange a vasectomy. Before any viable escape plan could be hatched however a light came on above a nearby white door and a synthesised voice read out my number over the PA system. ‘This is it’ I thought, ‘Unless you leg it now, or fake a seizure or something, you are definitely going to have to go through with this and there’s not a single thing you can do about it’. My number was read out again and I watched as, unbidden, my traitorous legs carried me through the white door.

A few months later (months! I know!) and I am driving to some sort of clinic/surgery type place in deepest Lincolnshire.

‘Christ, am I really doing this?’ I wonder anxiously

‘Yes you are, it makes perfect sense and you’re hardly donating a kidney are you? It’s only a vasectomy, quit being such a girl’ also me.

‘What?’ me again.

Now I can’t remember the name of the place where this was to be done, but it was something like ‘Such and such Clinic & Men’s Surgery’. It was the sort of gender oriented name that would immediately have you thinking ‘Oh I see…trouble down there is it?’ and I was having difficulty finding the bloody place. I’m on a single carriageway road with houses on one side and the satnav reckons I’m here – I’m not. I spy a pedestrian.

‘Excuse me. I’m looking for the blah blah clinic, do you know if it is near here?’

‘Oh, the men’s surgery? You’ve driven past it, it’s about half a mile back that way’

‘Thank you’

Fucking hell, she knows. I quickly drive away before she can memorise my number plate and report me for being some sort of bollock pervert or something. I can always torch the car and say it was stolen.

I eventually reach a squat, anonymous looking building of brown brick, surrounded by trees. Jesus, here we go. I park excellently and go inside.

I am unable to recall anything of the checking in process but I eventually found myself in a small surgery room, under instruction to strip from the waist down and lie on the treatment table. I slipped out of my jeans and unders and stood wondering whether or not I should remove my socks. I didn’t want to appear too comfortable, Christ this room is cold, but I don’t know the form. I remove one of my striped Paul Smith socks, Jesus the floor is freezing, but decide that it should go back on. I climb onto the altar treatment table and cover my (recently shaved) nether regions with a strip of what appears to be surgical kitchen roll.

Five or so minutes of shivering later (I’m beginning to wonder if this room doubles as a mortuary) and the Doc walks in. He whips the covering from my crotch, rifles through some notes and brusquely outlines the order of the day.

‘I also have some students here who would like to observe the procedure, will that be ok?’

A combination of anxiety and hypothermia had fogged my brain.

‘Er, I…..yes, I suppose’

‘Ok great, I’ll just be a moment and then we can begin’, he leaves the room.

Almost immediately the door opens again and the students enter, two attractive young women in their mid twenties – because of course they were going to be. They walk to the corner of the room and stand quietly while I lie on the treatment table wearing only a polo shirt and a pair of stripy socks.

I peer over my feet.

‘Um…Hi’

‘Hello. Thank you for agreeing to let us observe’

‘Er…No problem’

‘Jesus, look at him’ you can practically hear them thinking. ‘Does he even need a vasectomy? He has the genitals of an infant’. The room was frigid, I bet they do it on purpose. The Doctor/Surgeon/whatever returns.

A most unpleasant forty five minutes or so ensued, involving needles being jabbed into my beanbag, all manner of slicing and rummaging, an offer of a mirror so I could watch (no thank you), an argument about whether or not I could feel it (I fucking could), several banal attempts at conversation from one of the two women who were by now closely peering at my shrivelled and bloodied manhood (just leave it, love), rounded off by a smell of burning flesh as the whole wreckage was cauterised, a small circular plaster was applied to each incision. The crowd left and I staggered back into my clothes.

‘Do you have somebody to take you home? You really aren’t supposed to drive for a while.’ the receptionist asked.

‘Yes’ I replied. It was me.

I drove away without incident and wondered why the warnings about vehicular stewardship, it didn’t hurt. I vividly remember seeing a blue Renault Clio on its roof in a farmers field as I breezed by, obviously having left the road in dramatic style. The driver still probably had a better day then I was having.

When I returned home I drew a bath and hopped in. I wasn’t supposed to do this either but driving had gone well enough and anyway there was dried blood on my bits and pieces, I wallowed and marvelled at how incredibly brave I was. At least I did so until the anaesthetic wore off and then found myself ‘John Wayne’ing’ about the house while people who really ought to have been more supportive, hooted with laughter.

A week later I was to attend a post-op check up at the surgery and It was this that saw me standing next to the Dr’s. desk in much the same manner as a errant schoolboy might be summoned to the teacher’s side.

‘If you could just drop your trousers, please’ as the latex glove snapped on.

Now I wasn’t expecting soft lights and lingering eye contact but he didn’t even glance up from his computer screen as he used his right hand to mangle my still-tender bollocks, he didn’t even close the blinds.

‘Where are the dressings I applied?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The dressings, they aren’t there’

‘No, they came off in the bath the same day’. I had in fact found one of them stuck to my side the following morning.

‘The wounds are supposed to stay dressed’

‘Right’

‘Well everything seems to be ok, any problems please let us know’

‘Right’

I left.

During all this time I had been given a letter which explained that though the operation had now taken place, it could take up to a month before I had fully ‘joined the territorials’ and so I should ‘go steady’ (I’m paraphrasing). I would also have to provide two ‘samples’ for testing, one at four weeks and another at six weeks, two small plastic pots enc. Righto.

Now we all know what was required of me at this stage so we won’t go into too much beastly detail. Suffice to say there was a period of incredibly unsexy ‘gentlemen’s time’ and then I drove hurriedly to Lincoln hospital. ‘Keep it in a pocket next to your skin so it stays warm, and try to get it to us within an hour’ they said. Jesus Christ, if I get caught speeding and the police decide to search me…

Before too long I had reached the required destination and parked efficiently and without fuss. I hurried across the car park and into the building, scanning all the while for signs that would lead me to the ‘I’ve just wanked into a jar’ department.

Standing at a long desk in a crowded waiting area, I know I am in the right place but it is not clear where I should leave the envelope containing my sample. Worried that accidentally leaving a jar of Harry Monk clearly labelled with my name and phone number, in the wrong place might constitute a sex crime I discreetly ask where samples should be left.

‘IS IT SEMEN?’ bellows the harridan, making sure absolutely everybody can hear.

‘Ye-es’

I slink away.

A month or so later and after another ‘splash & dash’, I receive a letter saying that I am now a fully paid up member of club Jaffa.

Only giving one star because I can’t leave none.