The Man With Two Penises

Since the Murdocherisation of MySpace and the creeping Orwellian overtones of F*c*book, I’ve been looking for a new home to hurl around my nonsensical noodlings. It seems that WordPress may’ve given me my new bed of hay.

I think I’ll begin to write a few more blogs on these pages, to pass the time, and flex my withering writing muscles. I’ll undoubtedly write some new blogs too, but I’ll also scoop out some mouldy old wordery, spray it with antibacterial and laughingly present it as new… which, of course, it will be, assuming you haven’t read them before.

The Man With Two Penises

Just over 10 years ago I suddenly required a h-u-g-e operation… Thanks to some, uh, comfort issues, I found myself in need of a circumcision. [I was very apprehensive about the prospect of this op – what with it being on my, umm, favourite organ – but, on reflection, Penis II [as he was named at the relaunch], has performed really quite well. And my wife has had the relatively unusual experience of having one man and two penises in her life… well, at least, only two that I’m aware of. Besides, it all quite naturally added to my continuing spiritual journey; in the sense that I was suddenly in a position to potentially adopt a number of alternative religious persuasions.

The following words come from my journal of the day. You remember journals: hard covered books containing paper that required a hand-held writing implement that exuded ink. Yeah, I know, they’ll never catch on… again. So, over to you journal: [Metaphorical Cut… {Winces at memory}…/Paste]

It was a little like Chinese water torture, as a mixture of nervous faces sat together in the sauna-like atmosphere of the waiting room; a collection of dressing gowns, anxious frowns and embarrassingly unfashionable footwear. [The young woman sat opposite me seemingly unaware that she had her feet stuffed inside two small dogs.] For some unexplained reason the Day Case Unit was running slightly below well-lubed machine and nobody seemed to know when, or in which order, we would be variously diced and sliced. So I found myself sat quietly in the corner, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, with my book pulled up to my face…

…for fear of someone catching my eye and striking up a conversation that might lead to “So, what are you in for?’

The clock ticked on and painfully slowly on, and with my empty stomach playing wind instrument, it eventually transpired… I was last. The room slowly emptied, each name called and they duly disappeared to have their organs harvested by the country surgeon. Eventually, at just after mid-day, my time had finally come.

I soon found myself lying on a slab being prepared for the anaesthetic, my veins apparently retreating to within the depths of my hand; maybe due to a combination of no liquid intake for close on 15 hours and being roasted in the waiting room for another 4! But, after some persistent stabbing, they eventually got the line in and offered up the oxygen mask to my face. I distinctly remember being told that I would start to drift off and found myself clearly thinking… “But I’m not!…  No!… Wait!… It’s not going to work… I haven’t even said a proper ‘Goodbye’ to him yet!” But the next voice I heard was that of a beautiful young nurse saying “Mr Gorilla… Mr Gorilla… Wot… It’s time to wake up now…”

After babbling quite incoherently for a while I was finally wheeled into recovery. Well, at least they call it Recovery, only I didn’t exactly recover…

My wife, Sue, came in just after I had come around. But, as I was still feeling a little dopey, and the staff a little perturbed that she was upsetting the other patients by continually putting her head under the sheets for a closer look, they persuaded her to slip off for a cup of tea. I would be ready to go home when she got back.

When Sue walked back into the recovery room, my bed was tilted sharply backwards, I had an oxygen mask strapped to my face and I was connected to the machine that goes ‘Beep’! About 15 minutes earlier they had sat me up for my own cup of tea. I don’t remember a great deal after that, aside from a brief moment wondering why the recovery room was situated on a fairground ride. Apparently, I quickly went a distinctly unwelcome shade of grey, as all of my blood seemingly drained into my ankles: the consequence of very low blood pressure.

I was soon admitted onto a surgical ward, where they very kindly kept waking me every two hours throughout the night; presumably to see if I was still alive. [This was before the medical advancement of holding a mirror up to your breath.] It was mid-morning on Thursday before I finally began to stabilise. It was certainly nice to be able to sit up and have something to eat without feeling like I was about to slip into another dimension; a really curious feeling. By late afternoon they were happy to allow me home.

Sue then made us a nicely ironic ”Welcome home” tea… of skinless sausages!

Some skinless sausages yesterday

I feel utterly exhausted, though. And it’s not too easy to sleep; I’m at a complete loss as to why they used barbed wire for the stitches! And, looking at the scar, it would appear they allowed a student to have a go at the stitching; which is fine, everyone has to learn, but why a horticultural student?!!

How did it look?… {S-h-u-d-d-e-r} …Imagine I had been persuaded to place the old fella on a table, and then someone with a great deal of pent up anger and aggression hit it with a cricket bat, about 38 times in a frenzied attack!

I later found this photo on the Internet of nursing staff lining up next to my anaesthetised body

Well, it kind of looked [and felt!] a bit like that: wider than it was long and all colours of the rainbow [an opening in the, er, novelty area of a certain movie business beckoned had it stayed like that for long]. And, with stitches sprouting out in all directions, imagine, if you will, breaking the end off a Chinese spring-roll…

They’ll never be quite the same again

A few days after the operation I managed to get some underwear on, but when I went to the loo, I just about managed to arrange the equipment to within a degree of comfort, only to subsequently find that I couldn’t bend down to pull my trousers up! What could I do, but stand there laughing. I was still laughing when Sue came home for lunch 3 hours later… and she pulled my trouser up for me.

During the week after the operation, I could’ve written a fully detailed thesis on the curious male anatomical trait of ‘Erections While Sleeping’ – as I became very aware of every single incidence of this particular phenomenon! I would wake up to find the remaining stitches desperately linking arms and bravely attempting to take the strain; quickly, I’d have to switch my thoughts to bath night at the old people’s home, supermarket shopping or knitting patterns… Ouch! Erections notwithstanding [no pun intended!], for a couple of weeks, sleeping became nigh on impossible. Having spent my whole life naturally sleeping on my front in subtle variations of the foetal position; no variation on that position was viable any more! Even if I slept on my side, as I slipped into Dozyland, I would invariably topple over and have one of the stitches spear my delicate bits; I never realised there were quite that  many nerve endings in there! I seem to recall my eyes watered permanently for about a fortnight; I never did remember actually buying those wire wool underpants.

Anyway…enough of my genitals; I hope you’ve been in stitches reading about, uh, him? Who knows, if this blog proves popular, maybe it’ll begin a whole new series of stories and adventures starring my penis/es. Or would that be penii?