Archive for January, 2011

Cock Chop Op… Part 2!

The surgeon prepared his tools...

My girlfriend tied the gown shut around my back, thoughtfully leaving my arse on display, whilst a young nurse fed me painkillers. “These won’t wear off until a long time after the surgery,” she explained, with a sympathy that suggested I might be needing them.

And then we were on the trolley, crashing through double doors like they do in ER. My girlfriend was left beyond the last set of doors after issuing a final warning; “You’ll be fine, as long as you don’t think about getting a boner!”

Suddenly six people were working on me simultaneously. A stab in my hand for the anaesthetic, oxygen mask over my mouth and nose, two doctors taking turns in asking me questions whilst another wired me up to blood pressure and heart monitors.

“Wait!” I shouted. “I need to wee first!”

And that was the last thing I remembered.

When I woke up I felt great. High, even. And inexplicably my bladder was empty. Oh shit. That probably went some way towards explaining the look on the surgeon’s face. At some point during the procedure I must have pissed all over him. “Welcome back,” he said, none too convincingly. I had a brief thought that if there ever was a guy not to urinate on, this was him. The man with the knife. Thank God I was still attached.

An enormous tube snaked out of… well, out of the end of me. It led to a bag full of… well, you can imagine. A recovery nurse followed my gaze to where the bag hung from my gurney.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’re going to give you one of these.” She flung a packet into my lap. It contained a kazoo.

“What, I whistle when my bag needs emptying?”

“Ha! No. Here…” With a deft touch she whipped off the bag, opened the packet and attached the kazoo to the end of my tube. The tube from my end, that is. “You use this,” she explained.

Quite how was left to my imagination.

The Kazoo. Well, what would you do with it?

My cock was gigantic. Unbelievable. I wondered if they’d added collagen – either that, or there’d been a cock-up (no pun intended!) and they’d accidentally transplanted the knob from a giraffe. “It’s just fluid absorption,” the nurse informed me. “Don’t worry, it’ll be back to normal soon.”

Ah. Bugger.

As I left she offered me a syringe of clear liquid. “You use this if it gets sore,” she said. “You use it in… that area… you sort of… squeeze it in… put a bit in…”

I had to stop her. She was almost making me embarrassed. “Honestly, you can say it,” I told her. “I’ve just had my penis routed out. A whole operating theatre full of people have had their fingers up there. I’d really rather you told me where to put that stuff.”

“Okay. You squeeze it inside the end of your penis. It’s anaesthetic and lubricant. It’ll help.”

“Thanks. I’m sure it will.”

And it did.

For the next two days even moving was an agony. Going to the toilet was an experience I’m working hard to forget. I had to shuffle around the house legs akimbo, as though I’d lost my horse and had a chapped arse to boot. Climbing our rather narrow staircase was achieved mostly with my arms and teeth. By the time I’d shambled up, and weed, and got back down the stairs, I invariably needed to go again… It was two very long days and sleepless nights before the nurse came to remove my kazoo.

I was in so much pain that the weirdness of the situation didn’t strike me until I’d wrestled my pants down around my ankles. There I lay, naked on my bed, whilst a middle aged woman I’d never met made small talk about the weather as she poked my penis with the end of a biro. “You didn’t have to take all your clothes off,” she said. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to drop trouser without first shedding my t-shirt. To be honest I was just thinking about the industrial-sized cable that appeared to connect my willy to the musical instrument of choice for football fans everywhere. And about how much it would hurt when it was removed.

Down to business. The nurse was donning a rubber glove. “That’s a massive one,” she observed. And yes, she was talking about the tube.

“Well, I overheard the doctor discussing drill bit sizes before the op,” I told her. “You know that thing they bored the channel tunnel with? I think they borrowed that in the end.”

Nervous laughter followed. It was mine. Because the nurse was doing things with syringes, shooting me regular smiles in an encouraging manner – which could only mean one thing. She was about to inflict a massive amount of pain.

“This might be a little uncomfortable,” she warned.

Why the subterfuge? I mean, I knew it was going to hurt like hell. Sure as shit she knew it. So why the pretence? At least treat me like a man! Even if I am about to squeal like a pig. Honestly, I don’t think she was kidding anyone in the room. Had she said, “Okay, brace yourself, tense your arse cheeks and bite down on this piece of wood, ‘cause this is gonna feel like I’m raping your penis with a red hot poker covered in battery acid…” – well, at least I’d have had some respect for her honesty.

It wasn’t actually that bad.

Though before you breathe that sigh of empathetic relief, please re-read the sentence above; it wasn’t that bad. There was no acid. Just searing, red hot agony from bell-end to bowels as the tube was wrenched into the light of day.

Oh. My. God. Ouch. I swear you’d need a general anaesthetic to get a tube that thick down my neck, let alone up my willy. Thankfully it was now back outside of me, where it belonged. And as a token of her respect for the courage I’d shown, the nurse quite thoughtfully left the tube on my desk. At least I guess that’s why she did it, as I can’t think of any practical use she expected me to put it to. I could probably make 25 good strong straws out of it, but who would I get to drink out of them?

Anyway, back to me. I bled rather substantially and passed out.

And that, as they say, was that. I could walk again almost immediately. The pain subsided, as did (regrettably) my cock. I did consider illustrating the swelling with ‘before’ and ‘after’ style photos but luckily enough Krista hid the camera until I came to my senses.

And the consequence was, I have now regained the ability to pee up a wall. And write my name in the snow. In fact, with my new high-pressure nozzle, I could probably carve my name in plate steel. So if in future you see me running for the loo – get the hell out of my way! I could wee through you, and cut the next five guys behind you in half. Next time I get into a pub brawl I’ll have the rarely observed option of urinating my way out…

(And in the meantime – probably best not to stand next to me at the urinal.)

The Cock Chop Op

DISCLAIMER! The following could be said to be in bad taste. In fact it’s disgusting. What can I say? That’s just me I’m afraid. I have bad taste in everything except women (I love you Krista!)

Once there was a boy called Tony, who thought he had a very fun game. He used to race around the top of the climbing frame, stepping quickly from bar to steel bar, amazing all who saw him with his daring.

Until one day he slipped. One foot went in front of the bar; one foot went behind it. And all the weight of an eleven year old boy, multiplied by the average acceleration of a small body in free-fall, went crashing down on to his testicles.

The boy thought it was the end.

He screamed and moaned in such horrendous pain that all onlookers vanished instantly. He was left alone to crawl home, bleating his sorrow and cradling his squashed spuds.

Fast forward to the present, and that boy has never been on a climbing frame since. In fact, he can barely remember the reason why he holds them in such dread. What is apparent to him is that his willy no longer functions like that of a normal man. It can’t shoot round corners or anything, but neither can it squirt. It wees in a dribble and is a constant source of frustration for the small boy, now a man (well, kind of).

Yes, it’s me. And I no longer dribble. Because last week a letter arrived that I’ve been waiting for  for a long time: my appointment for Open Cock Surgery.

I had less than three days to psyche myself up. Unfortunately I’d made the mistake of asking a doctor what this operation actually entailed. Bad Idea. Because he actually told me.

Suffice to say it would involve opening my willy as wide as it would go – then a bit wider – and inserting an arc welder. Or what I envision as an arc welder at any rate. Chuckling, the doctor said it was far more like a television camera – with a knife blade on the end. I chose to picture the arc welder. It seemed safer.

As the day arrived, questions bounded into my mind, some of them helpfully placed there by other people. “What if you get an erection during the surgery?” my girlfriend helpfully supplied. “Make sure you ask them,” instructed my mum, who was keenly planning our holiday to Jordan, “ask them how long before you can ride a camel!”

There’s a certain kind of tension which is only to be found in a surgical waiting room. Now imagine sitting in a room with six other guys – all of whom are about to have surgery on their cocks. To say the air was thick with fear would be an understatement on a par with saying the surgeon was unnecessarily cheerful. “All-righty-roo!” He poked his head around the curtain where I was undressing. “We’re gonna have an ittle-bitty look at what’s wrong with you.”

At this juncture I’d like to point out that there is nothing ickle, or bitty, about the area involved. In fact my size was a bit of a concern. “Whew, if we nick that you could bleed to death in seconds!” he said. I think the doc was making a joke. I think.

There was a form to fill out. Choice of anaesthetic? Hm… lots please! If I was placed under local anaesthetic, would I like to be conscious? If so, would I like a ‘tent’ over the operation site or would I like to watch… WATCH? Are you frigging kidding me? They’re going to cut open my penis! That is something no man should ever see. I’d need counselling for the rest of my life if I witnessed it. So… no, thank-you. I’d prefer not to watch you attack my precious, precious sausage with a power tool.

I was moved up this list – being a rare specimen of fitness and health (other than, you know, a block in my cock), they decided to operate on me first. Which was good news, as it meant they weren’t anticipating any problems. I like to hear that when my willy is on the table. But it also meant that my time to mentally prepare myself had just elapsed. I was going in now

In case my imagination wasn’t working hard enough already, my gurney had stirrups.

To be continued… (and no, you don’t have to read the rest… I know, ugh!)


The Trouble With Travel

Buses bite

I love travel, I really do. In fact I’ve pretty much made a life out of it. But have you ever heard that expression ‘Don’t sweat the small stuff,’ and then, ‘It’s all small stuff’? Well, travel can be a bit like that. Lots of little things which by themselves are easy to ignore. It’s only sometimes, when they all add up at once, that it becomes… well, you’ll see.

For starters, travel in England is guaranteed to be less exciting. When I boarded the 502 National Express coach from Bridgwater to London I was hoping to spend most of the four hour, overnight journey asleep. I was admittedly a little dismayed when an Indian couple with a tiny baby followed me aboard, all the way to the back and sat directly behind me. I immediately gave up all thought of rest; if there’s one thing bus travel has taught me, it’s that bored infants within two feet are not conducive to a peaceful night. But what I expected to become an assault measured in decibels became instead something more… fragrant. The baby didn’t scream or wail – much – oh, no. She decided to spend the whole journey vomiting.

Alternating between intense snot-gargling and heaving with a sound like the death rattle of an asthmatic brontosaurus, the baby produced a range of sick noises that would impress darts team captains the world over. It didn’t smell too good either.

But that was not the source of the problem. There’s a special kind of stench which is only possible to achieve on public transport. Human kind have been using toilets for just a few millennia, so it’s hardly surprising that some of us have yet to grasp the complexities involved. Hence the quality of public conveniences the world over; even if only one person in ten struggles with the concept of not pissing all over the floor, by half past nine in the morning you’re still ankle deep in urine.

When you add the instability of a bus doing 60 mph down the motorway, then throw in the mood of the driver and the high probability of sudden and dramatic right turn – well, it’s hard not to imagine the state of the rubber matting in the toilet cubicle on the 502. Though how it gets so far up the walls remains a mystery.

Luckily the toilet has a door. It kind of has to really, or there’d be week old turds doing laps of the bus.

Unluckily, this toilet door was broken. It would shut and it would open, but it didn’t seem keen to remain in either state for very long. So every time the bus negotiated one of those delightful mini-roundabouts we’re so fond of in this country, the door gave a stately swing, generously wafting that most unique of odours across me on the seat opposite.

No wonder it was the only one left when I got on.

But it did help me avoid some slight embarrassment. Alerted by firsthand experience that the lock was probably knackered, I was clever enough to hold the handhold when I was forced to use the loo later – rather than perform my usual trick of remaining still by wedging my back against the door. Thus, I was spared the indignity of toppling backwards at the next sharp turn, possibly still urinating in a graceful arc above myself.

By the time I’d extricated myself from the cubicle the man had gotten his baby to sleep. She was wrapped around his neck and he was making a calming ‘SSS-sss’-ing sound. As I sat back down I couldn’t help but notice that every hissed breath blew right over the top of my headrest and gently lifted the back of my hair. That was slightly disconcerting. After a few minutes I sank a little lower in my seat. But I needn’t have bothered.

Because at that moment the baby woke up and volubly shit herself.

Spicy poo-stink spread like a fog, and in the sealed environment of the coach it seemed thicker somehow, and destined to stick around. As the subtle fragrance of curried diharreha drifted past my nostrils I reflected – perhaps I would get some rest on this trip after all. I was a heartbeat away from passing out completely.

But please don’t let me put you off bus travel in the UK. It’s nearly always not quite this bad…

New Year’s Resolutions!

Tony naked in the snow


It’s that time again…  Love ‘em? Loathe em? Love other people’s and loathe your own? No I’m not talking about wives, I’m talking about Resolutions. New Year’s ones to be exact.

This year I’ve made a particularly powerful list of the things wrong with my life and what I need to do to fix them. AND I’m gonna stick to my guns this time around! Honest.

Here begineth the list of New Year’s Resolutions:

1) I WILL WRITE longer and more interesting blog posts;

2) I WILL NOT allow myself to be distracted so easily;

3) Oh, hang on – just thought of something I’ve got to go and do…