January 3, 2013 by The Friday Facts
Hi and welcome to the first edition of my new blog.
If you’re wondering what this is all about I’m not entirely confident I have the answers myself. My decision to start a blog came long before I’d actually worked out what the hell it was that I was going to blog about. Before I knew it, I’d become a dad (a boy, since you asked and, to quote my 4 year old nephew “she’s name is Sonny”). This seemed like a logical starting point, so I guess this blog’s about fatherhood, but it’s also about whatever else happens to come into my head.
I understand that, due to the sheer existential weight of the topic, blogging about your newborn child has traditionally been the sole domain of the uppermost echelons of the intelligentsia, which probably explains why so few people have been game to go there. But I’m prepared for that.
Like most people who’ve just become a parent for the first time, I’m the only person in the history of the world to have ever had a child. This, I feel, makes me the pre-eminent authority on the subject. I have a PhD in Early Development & Child Psychology from the University of Nowhere, and I also have over a decade of experience in not really giving a shit about other peoples’ kids.
In this spirit, I intend to use this blog to dispense the kind of fathering advice that is condescending, humourless, criminally under-researched and, most importantly, containing an almost childlike lack of understanding of the complexity of the issues on which I declare myself an authority. But let’s face it, such credentials would be for nought without a backstory, right?
In the Beginning…
The story of Sonny is a nearly a year old now, but I thought for the sake of context it would be a good idea to start at the start.
Some years back, I decided to have a baby. I’m a married man and, as such, my wife (that’s her, on the left, having sex with me) seemed the most logical person with whom to have said baby. We were neither of us particularly young at the time, so we needed to get our skates on, so to speak.
A couple of years went by and, while this was not quite panic stations, it was long enough to start consulting with doctors and specialists and various other people who earn more money than me. The resulting advice, inevitably, was that we would need to undergo a series of tests.
Has the word ‘test’ ever been a good thing? Has anyone ever seriously returned from a doctor’s appointment and cried ‘Great news, everybody! I’m being subjected to some kind of test!’? Medical tests, in particular, are something I’ve always lived in quiet fear of. Partly because they never deliver good news – only bad news or relief – but mainly because they always seem like exercises in degradation. And of all the humiliating rituals that regular folk have been asked to perform in the name of medical science, to me there was always one that out-awkwarded the rest.
I’m sure that most folk would probably jump at the chance to sit alone in a strange room, desperately trying to think of sexy stuff as they beat off into a filthy jar, but I guess I’ve always been a little different in that respect.
So just how would this whole thing work, anyway, I wondered. I had an upcoming doctors appointment that was supposed to reveal all, but did I need to be prepared even for that? I did briefly flirt with taking the pro-active route of arriving at the doctor’s with a pre-blown load. That way when my doctor said “Now there’s a few things I’m going to need” I would raise my hand sagely and say “Way ahead of you, doc”, before triumphantly holding up 3mls of spunk swishing around a shot glass with a Wild Turkey logo on the side and piece of cling wrap covering the top.
In many ways that would have been easier because my biggest concern – apart from having an earnest conversation with another adult, doctor or not, about masturbating – was having to do it in the romantic surrounds of a doctor’s surgery.
Being sent to ‘the room’, where I just knew so many strangers had been before me, just grossed me the fuck out, quite frankly. And based on the magazines you usually find in doctors’ waiting rooms, I think it was reasonable of me to assume that ‘the room’ would be populated by Playboys from 1962, old underwear catalogues and, god, what else? Would there be a weary old jizz rag lying on the floor and if so, would it have some nostalgic name like Ol’ Yeller or something? Would the room be sound proofed? So many questions…
The first directive from the doctor who had just asked me to masturbate into a jar for her was to go to a specified clinic and pick up a kit. A ‘kit’? And what, pray tell, would be the content of this ‘kit’? A coupon booklet, a Casper the Ghost comic and a pack of edible ‘Spunk-Os’? I suppose the one good thing to come of this whole weird situation was that, in a completely unrelated context (some TV show I was watching later that night), I was introduced to a description of wanking that I had, against every conceivable odd, never heard before: making the bald man cry. This provided me with much mirth.
A Friend With Weed’s a Friend Indeed
I turned up to the clinic praying there would be no one else there and was instantly disappointed; the joint was jumping. I slunk up to the counter, took a number, sat down and started playing with my phone, feeling just about as self conscious as I had at any other time in my life. Oh well, it could have been worse I guess. It’s not like I was stuck in the waiting room for 40 minutes next to some bud-smoking, half-witted Jesus freak who insisted on talking to me the whole time….Oh wait, that’s right, I was!
It was one of those situations where I clocked the guy before I’d even sat down and just started counting down the seconds until he tried to start a conversation with me (12:47, since you asked). I don’t know his name but I should; he told me enough fucking times. He explained what he was there for but I can’t remember because I didn’t really care. Nor can I recall the lie I told him when he inevitably asked me what I was there for. He prattled on for a while about whatever it is that lunatics prattle on about and I responded by playing with my phone in an ever more frenetic fashion. Then he asked me if he could have a look at my phone. Damn! The very thing I was using as a defense mechanism had suddenly become his weapon of choice. Was this guy some kind of simp-genius?
He asked if I could check my contact list for the number of a friend of his. When I enquired as to what in the hell his friend would be doing in my contact list, he told me that his friend was almost certainly my friend as well. He told me that his friend was everybody’s friend. He told me that his friend’s name was Jesus. “Jesus” I muttered under my breath as I rolled my eyes. He then gave me the requisite bullshit about how we could all do with a friend like Jesus before eventually growing bored and asking me to Google something for him. Backed up against a wall, I wearily agreed. He began spelling the word out to me “s-i-n-c-a-m-i-l-l-e-r”. It was, he told me as I was punching in the letters, a particularly potent kind of weed that he smoked regularly and thought that I should too. Ok, this conversation was over.
By the time my number came up the room had, mercifully, thinned out some. I skulked up to the counter and said “Ummmm…..I’mhereforthejizztestkitthingy.” “Sorry?” Said the woman. Loudly. I think she got it after the fourth time. She produced the kit, and sent me on my merry way.
Providing sperm samples is kind of fucked up to begin with. Adding to this, though, was the revelation that neither sex or monkey-spanking was allowed for three days before the sample, so to say that you front up to the jar with a loaded weapon is a massive understatement. Then there’s this: the window for you to drop your vessel de cum off at the clinic lasts for a whopping 10 minutes. And you need to have unleashed no less than 30 minutes beforehand. This leads to a great deal of head-fuckery, and numerous questions to boot. Most notably, what the hell are you supposed to do if you live more than half an hour away from a spunk clinic? The answer, I guess, is pray that you drive an automatic.
Luckily for me, the clinic was barely a kilometre from my house. The tyranny of distance had lost this battle, but the ever present threat of an immovable bulwark of traffic could yet bring about my downfall, leaving me sitting there at the wheel, dejected, beaten, with nothing but the sound of talkback radio and a jar of rapidly curdling man-milk as a passenger.
So did I make it in time? Did the tests turn out ok? Did me and my new weed-toking best mate ever go bowling together with Jesus as we’d promised each other? You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid, for the next thrilling installment in this timeless ballad of semen, love and loss. But mainly semen…