Inconceivable

than useless, really. Strange, I mean we all knew the machine served liquid shit but because it said it served coffee we drank the stuff. If it had said “Liquid Shit” machine I suppose we would have left it alone. Instructions, you see, we’re all caught in the headlights.

Finally at gone quarter to ten, my number came up. “Mr Bell,” the lady said. It had to be a woman, of course. Like when you’re a kid buying condoms at Boots, you could wait for hours for a lad to take over the till but he never did and you had to buy them off a teenage girl your own age. Anyway, the nurse gave me my pot and the plastic- coated instructions, and when I say plastic-coated, I don’t mean neatly laminated, no, I mean a twenty-year-old form in an old plastic bag. That form has seen some sights, I bet.

“Last room on the left,” said the nurse. “When you’ve finished leave your pot at the lab hatch and return the form to me.”

Well, I must say I’ve masturbated in more pleasant environments. Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t think that the NHS should be consuming its precious resources providing sensually lit boudoirs draped in red velvet and reeking of sultry scents for sad acts like me to wank in. I’m just saying it was all a bit depressing.

There was a chair, a magazine rack, a handbasin and a waste-paper basket in the room. That was it. Apart from that it was completely bare. The plastic-coated instructions informed me that I should carefully wash my hands and knob before getting down to the business of the morning. Already in the wastebasket were the crumpled paper handtowels of the previous tossers on which they had no doubt dried not only their hands but also their knobs. Strange to think that only moments before I had entered the room another man had been… I decided not to think about it.

So I scrubbed up and viewed the chair. It was a municipal easy-chair consisting of an upright and a horizontal cushion. The sort of chair you would have found in the teachers’ common room of a secondary modern school in about 1970. I regret to have to report that it was stained, not in a truly horrid way, but just with age. There was a dark triangle on the front of the seat, left where a million men’s legs had worn the material around it. In the magazine rack were some old dirty mags. It’s a long time since I’ve seen the inside of a dirty mag and for a moment I thought, “Hello, bonus,” but really, you just couldn’t get into them at all, they were so old. I don’t mean interestingly old, like 1960 or something. Just old; about three years or so. On the wall there was a sign saying, and I kid you not, that any donations of spare “reading material” would be welcomed. Reading! We live in a world where five-year-olds can dial up snuff movies on the Internet and yet a hospital calls wank mags “reading material”.

I don’t know why they don’t just write to Penthouse. I’m sure the publishers would be delighted to make a donation to assist all those men in making their donations.

Then suddenly I became aware of the time!

Oh my God, I must have been in that room for two or three minutes already! Instantly I had a vision of all the men outside, shuffling their feet, looking at their watches, thinking to themselves, “How long does it take to toss yourself off, for fuck’s sake!” Just as I had been cruelly thinking myself only moments before. Suddenly I was convinced that they were all out there gnashing their teeth and muttering, “He’s reading the articles in the magazines, I’m sure of it.”

Must get down to it! Must get down to it! Don’t want to hold up the queue. But how do you get down to it under that kind of pressure? It’s impossible. I sat on the chair, I stood up, I glanced at a magazine. Panic rose within me and panic was the only thing that was rising!

In the end, by a supreme effort I managed to calm myself down a little. I did it by telling myself that the door was locked, that I would never have to see any of those men outside again and that I would take as long as I damn well liked.

So I sat down on the horrible, worn-out old chair and resolutely concentrated on the job. With, I might add, the added pressure of knowing that I must get the first bit in! They make this clear in all the literature, and the plastic-coated instructions were also very very firm on the subject. The first bit is the best bit, of that there seems to be no doubt. All the rest is rubbish, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Well, I did it. Sort of. I think there was enough. I hope so, anyway. Only time will tell. Looking at my watch I realized that I had been in there for over twenty minutes. I could feel the wave of resentment greet me as I emerged and walked past them all to hand in my pot. I was so embarrassed and flustered that I tried to walk out of the building still holding the plastic-coated form and had to be called back, which was humiliating.

Like I say, I’ve had better mornings.

Personally, I think it’s possible that I’d rather have dye inserted into my cervix, but I’m not going to say that to Lucy, of course.

Dear Penny

Hysterosalpingogram today. It’s not supposed to hurt much, but they say you should take along someone to drive you home just in case you’re upset or in discomfort. Sam, of course, had a very important meeting, which he did offer to cancel but I said, “No, don’t bother, I’m fine.” Drusilla came along, which was nice of her, except she seems to view all hospitals, especially the women’s-only parts, as places of unnatural torture and intrusion where nature is excluded and man insults the gods. This is slightly embarrassing when she talks about it loudly in the waiting room.

“You know half the problems they deal with here can be treated herbally,” she said so that everyone could hear. “There’s very little in life that a rose and lilac enema won’t go some way towards curing.”

The hysterosalpingogram itself was all right. Legs up as per. Quick prod about, as per. Bunch of spotty students staring up me in an intense manner, as per. Then in goes the dye, they tilt it back so that the dye can flow through the tubes. Actually, it was very interesting, because you can watch the progress of the dye on a little television screen. I thought I’d be too squeamish to look, but it was fine, as it turned out. Then they took a few X-rays and that was that. The doctor was in and out in ten minutes and I was in and out in twenty. It was all right, although I did feel a bit sick and faint afterwards. Apparently some women find it more painful. Perhaps my insides are getting desensitized.

Drusilla and I went for a coffee afterwards and I told her about Carl. Amazingly she’s of the same opinion as Melinda was when I talked to her about it. She thinks I should “put the poor boy out of his misery and shag him”! I had no idea all my friends were so cavalier about the concept of fidelity. I think with Drusilla it’s actually because she’s sex obsessed and believes that anything and everything should be shagged whenever the opportunity arises. Preferably in groups and at Stonehenge.

I said to Drusilla, Hang on, perhaps we’re jumping the gun here, perhaps poor old Carl doesn’t particularly want to shag me anyway. I mean I know we kissed, but I was upset and he was comforting me. Perhaps he really is just a very nice guy who just wants to be my friend.

“Ha!” said Drusilla and she said it so loudly that other ladies spilt their coffee. Drusilla never minds about being noticed. I do.

I must say that whatever Carl’s intentions may or may not be towards me, I’m a bit sad about the way all my pals seem to view Sam. I mean obviously as far as they’re concerned I’m married to a sort of sexless, emotion-free geek whom one can betray with impunity. I put this to Drusilla and she replied, “Well, you said it, babes,” which I thought was bloody mean.

Dear Sam

Lucy had her pingowhatsit today. She wanted me to go with her but for heaven’s sake I have a job. The BBC pays me to sit twiddling my fingers at Broadcasting House, not at Spannerfield Hospital. Besides which, today I actually had something to do, believe it or not.

The Prince’s Trust are putting on a big concert in Manchester. Radio 1 is going to broadcast it live and the whole concert has been designated a Light Entertainment Brief, i.e. my responsibility. There are two reasons for this. Firstly there will be comedians on the bill (comedy of course being the new rock ’n’ roll. Like hell). Secondly, the bill will mainly be made up of ageing old rockers, and nobody at Radio 1 who’s into music wants to touch it with a bargepole. They all think that because some of the artists who are to perform have committed the cardinal sin of being over forty (and doing music that has tunes) the whole thing is terminally uncool and should be on