My bollocks aren’t something I think about a lot.. Actually, that’s a statement I should qualify.
I’m a red-blooded male who’s not yet completely past it, so naturally, I think about my cock and balls at the rate of about once every six seconds. Completely normal, in other words.
Despite this enormous amount of time spent absent-mindedly pondering my tackle, I don’t give a lot of thought to its correct functioning. Unlike many things in life, my genitalia just works as expected and requires very little maintenance.
At this point, at least one of your eyebrows has probably been nudged upwards by a furrow in your brow. Never fear, dear reader, my nether regions still do the business as they should.
Unfortunately, though, I recently developed a rather large bulge in my groin. Now, there are few places a healthy man (or even an unhealthy one) would less rather develop a lump, but I’m not prone to worrying, so before I could be beset by thoughts of “Fuck me, there’s a lump down there, it must be cancer, I’m going to die”, I (as in Sarah) did some home research to achieve a working diagnosis and then I went to the doctor.
As suspected, it turned out to be just a hernia, endearingly called a liesbreuk in Dutch, which unapologetically translates to ‘groin fracture’.
Basically, I have a hole in the wall of my groin and my innards are poking through it. This is much less painful than you might imagine and there’s really only a dull, nagging ache down there most of the time.
Nevertheless, this is something that isn’t going to sort itself out over time — in fact, it will only get worse — so I’m going into hospital for an operation in January. Basically, some bloke I probably wouldn’t trust to cut my hair or walk my non-existent dog is going to butcher my loins. Well, not really, but it helps sometimes to set one’s sights low. Then, the actual outcome can only be a nice surprise, can’t it?
So, I’m enjoying my last month of pain-free groin ownership before I get shaved, sliced, patched and sent home on heavy-duty painkillers; a prospect I need about as much as a hole in my bollocks, which, funnily enough, is more or less what I’ve got.
In case you’re wondering how I acquired this affliction, it came after a particularly heroic evening of wild sexual athletics.
Actually, no it didn’t.
The all-too-mundane fact of the matter is that I slipped, coming out of the shower, because one of my children had moved the floor mat. I had actually noticed this and tried to step carefully, but I slipped anyway. I didn’t fall, but it was the bracing of my body to avoid the fall that caused the tear down below. Although I felt it at the time, it didn’t hurt, and it wasn’t until a week later that I noticed the bulge whilst showering. And no, you smart-arsed bastard, that doesn’t mean that I hadn’t showered in the intervening week.
Gents, let this be a lesson to you. Don’t take your loins for granted and watch your footing on slippery surfaces.
And those of you who think I’m a cantankerous old twat at the best of times should catch up with me about a month from now. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet! (Assuming I don’t die under anaesthetic, of course.)