It’s not that I’ve whipped my shorts off lately and made anyone spasm into fits of uncontrollable laughter, causing themselves to hyperventilate and fall dead to the floor, their finger staying solid with rigormortis, whilst still pointed accusingly at my old boy.
And its not that anyone has in fact mentioned my most vital of all statistics in anyway. Although this is unsurprising, since I tend to date the kind of girls who would normally come under the very vague title of ‘raving-scitso-only-get-let-out-every-now-and-then-to-stop-me-burning-down-my-nice-comfy-padded-cell-escaped-criminal-madman-type-girlie-girl’ (which I believe is a Freudian term).
No, in fact the source of my anxiety would seem to be other blokes. I don’t mean the kind of ‘geezer’ who spends all night standing around in pubs, impressing the lads with stories of girlfriends having to wear crash helmets in case they blow the tops of their heads off when they come. I’m talking about a very specific man, one that can be found in every gentleman’s convenience in the known universe.
Picture the scene, there I was standing before a gleaming white (if you’re lucky...if not muddy brown) urinal, relieving myself of four pints of body temperature Stella when a seemingly ordinary man steps up beside me and prepares to do the same. I hear the reassuring sound of a couple of buttons being popped or a zip being slid meaningfully down, assuring me that the man is here to piss and not in fact to catch a quick glimpse of me, tackle-out. However this is where things take a turn for the worst and my ego hits the floor, because this is not enough for him, oh no, he then has to undo his belt and let his strides slip halfway to the floor.
I used to wonder about why this was necessary...perhaps the unfortunate soul has received a nasty kick to the nads and is just relieving the pressure...perhaps he is retrieving his emergency two quid because he’s just pulled and needs to invest wisely in the lucky dip novelty Johnny machine...perhaps he is just so drunk that he cannot find what he so desperately needs and is just clearing the way for the coast guards elite search and rescue team, who are about to come bursting through the door at any moment.
These reasons, as conceivable as they seem, do not however seem likely, and so as Sherlock Holmes once said ‘I like you Watson, just not in that special kind of way, so kindly take that chicken off your knob.’ (Sorry wrong quote) ‘Once you have eliminated the impossible whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be true.’ So mutant boy was in fact getting half-naked, just to get his titanic todger out.
I am not saying that I find it unnecessary to undo my 501’s, and manage to point Percy through the gap between the buttons, but there is no way I need the sort of room that would require me to debag, just to have a slash.
I mean if this guy was to turn round too quick he could suffer severe and lasting whiplash...He must need a clear thirty foot turning circle just to avoid knocking furniture over...When he goes out on the pull he probably takes a complete medical team just in case he gets a stiffy and needs a blood transfusion.
I want to ask him questions like, do you need planning permission from the council, before you get a hard-on...do you have to pay excess baggage on flights, and pay for two at the cinema...can you go to parties as Laurel and Hardy just by painting a small bowler hat on your helmet.
I feel like telling him just to tuck it in his sock then he’d only have to take one shoe off to have a piss. Or perhaps to wrap it round his neck, like a scarf, thus affording him some cheap and convenient winter warmth (although if it got too cold and started to shrivel up he might decapitate himself).
My only solace in this thought is that he must look ridiculous when it comes to the safe sex department, because there is no way you can look cool in a normal condom, let alone a black plastic sack and half a roll of sellotape.
But this was still all only in my head, I didn’t know if I was right or not, which was the worst feeling I have ever experienced in my life, because I knew then that I was going to have to have a look...nightmare.
The funny thing about blokes is they will boast endlessly about their latest over priced, over hyped, under manufactured purchase, and not be happy until you’ve gone round to see their new hi-fi, TV, car, blow up rubber mother Teresa of Calcutta doll with removable habit and realistic wrinkles, etc. But (and here’s a huge tip for you) if one of your mates tells you he’s got the kind of knob that interferes with air traffic, he does not under any circumstances want you to pop down to the bogs with him to check it out.
Apart from the fact that every Essex wide boy has one, and has no idea how to use it, knobs have nothing in common with cars, (which is a shocker I know). If your mate turns round to you and says “You’ve got to av a butchers at me motor I’ve sorted it for some new alloys, and it looks right proper.” under no circumstances expect him to turn round to you and say, “Come and av shooftee at me knob I’ve ad ver chop and na I can go from nought to oh baby I luv ya in free point free seconds.” because that just wont happen...I hope.
So anyway, there I am about to commit the cardinal sin of looking at some blokes wedding tackle, whilst he’s having a bit of a piss, when my thunder was stolen by the sound of a huge helicopter hovering over head and the swishing sound of the coast guards elite search and rescue team absailing into the bogs...he has lost his knob after all.
Phew that was a close one.
I turn to leave the toilets happy in the knowledge that there are no monster manhood’s out there, requiring such monumental efforts just to get out in the open, when I catch out of the corner of my eye a man lying horizontal on the floor by the wall mounted trough, his strides around his ankles and a small portable crane at his side.
This is the point at which I normally start to cry.