Monday, 7 November 2011

7 Billion and NOT counting.

Our species had hit the big 7 billion the media announced; it was time to commence Operation: Deweaponise My Nads. Codename: Seedless. Project: Blank. Objective: De-Plum. Mission: Unleaded !!!
This is the story of my journey to slow the population explosion by having my bollocks taken off the grid. A gripping tale of transformation from Optimus Pomigranite to Bumblejaffa. A quest to defuse genitals and turn the tide by having “the snip”.
However you want to put it a vasectomy was the only way to protect our planet from my baby making love spuds. For too long they have threatened people numbers with a ‘semenly’ limitless ammo of man fat. This was the double dip the world needed.
Making the arrangements was easy and there were no end of local GP’s that could do it. I visited one and they told me in detail what was involved. However, all I heard was blah blah blah, no more babies. After four years of two babies and zero sleep this was all the incentive I needed. Being a bloke I naturally went into this the only way we know how, with eyes wide shut. I booked a date and began the countdown. At Day minus 20 all I could think was: ppff, I’ve got ages yet. At Day minus 7 this had been upgraded to the more serious: ooh, me thingy is next week, I should probably read the leaflet or something.
On the bloke scale of panic there is very little time between DEFCON 5 and DEFCON 1. From vague concern to headless chicken can sometimes be just nanoseconds. It was this realisation that made me read the leaflet at Day minus 1. My conclusion: yeh I’ll be fine. I’ve found that it’s very easy not to be worried when your head is in clouds of blissful ignorance and a fog of naivety.

Day zero : cometh the hour, cometh the man #phrasefail. In total denial of what was about to happen, my only nerves came from my lack of nerves. Fortunately me, and the Victoria Cross worthy ‘Dr M’ hit it off like two Canal Street regulars on a bender. It was important that we did, after all future lives were in his hands.
Considering this was about to be the gayest experience of my life, Dr M was awesome. He’d probably fondled more scrotums than the local bishop but he did it at F1 speeds and with the touch of a Russian grand master. Seriously, the guy was a pro. He had a blade in one hand, a soldering iron in the other and only the slightest glimpse of sadistic pleasure in his eyes. If ever I need my undercarriage tinkering with in the future I’ll know exactly who to call.

While he desparkled my crown jewels we chewed the fat about golf and mountain biking. He explained that there would be no riding for me for at least the next two weeks, and no biking either, fnar fnar. It was only a minor ballache to add to the major one I should expect after the op. While I lay there I enquired about installing Sky Sports on the ceiling but it fell on deaf ears. I explained to the nurse that a 19 inch flat screen would fit perfectly between the two strip lights but it wasn’t to be. Sorry future egg-bashers, I tried I really did, but you’ll just have to lie there starring into a world of poorly lit magnolia like I did. The previously mentioned soldering iron was actually for electrically cauterizing the offending tubes. The only off putting bit was the burning smell, it was me, it was my bollocks, they were on electric fire! Life doesn’t get any more awesome when you realise a stranger is tickling your plums with a scaled down light sabre.
All in all, apart from briefly having electro-balls it was a bit of an anti-climax #phrasefail. The whole thing from lying down to standing up took fewer than twenty minutes and was on a par with going to the dentist. The sterile environment is the same, the same anaesthetic is used, the proceeding pain is roughly the same, they both want you to jizz in to a test tube 16 weeks later etc etc. The only difference seemed to be which end they were working on.
After my bollockoptomy I found my wife waiting in reception. She was more worried than I was and was a total hero for ferrying me home during her lunch hour. She’d even prepared a ‘carepack’ for me which consisted of some mountain bike mags, some booze, some ibuprofen and a shed load of chocolate. She was awesome and in total agreement about how this procedure was way worse than child birth. I’m basing our conversation on the age old adage that when she says no she actually means yes. She REALLY meant it.
Back at home I made comfy on the sofa, but not as comfy as my now useless onions which nestled in the finest Endura chamois panelled cycling shorts. There they would lay locked down and motionless for at least the next day. If you’re squeamish I would advise not looking down for quite a few days as you might be surprised to find what looks like two rottweiler puppies chewing on a cocktail sausage. Apart from the initial change of vista in the trouser department the recovery time is quite quick. Sure, for a few days you’ll walk like you’re in Planet of the Apes but this is nothing when you consider the reward. I had done the world a massive favour by guaranteeing not to add to it anymore. There was also a second prise of equal awesomeness, the very real fact that with the current batch of kiddies growing up and with no more sprogs in the tubes, I could at last attain the parent holy grail.



  1. Superb technical grasp of the procedure, with a refreshing lack of jargon to confuse the layman. I think it covers more or less everything anyone needs to know about the subject. Ever.
    Jon Strickland MD. 'The Lancet'/'Pipework for Beginners.'

  2. Booze and shed load of chocolate was inspirational Mrs. D.