Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t spend a great deal of time checking my old nudger and its surrounding area of outstanding natural beauty. So long as it’s functional, understands its duty, and behaves itself in polite company, then we are both content. But after a feeling of discomfort, and the discovery of a small but noticeable lump, I felt the best course of action was to panic, shake my fist at no one in particular, weep for a short while, then seek medical advice.
On entering the doctor’s surgery, and after establishing my credentials, the sawbones instructed me to drop my britches and display the family silverware, which luckily I’d furiously polished that morning. In fact, you could see your face in it.
Imagine then, after a bit of prodding, a little tongue-biting on my part, how taken aback I was by the doctor’s prognosis, to wit: “What do you think it is then?”
Well, I’m a helpful soul at heart, and seeing as my particulars were in the hands of a relative stranger, I though it only polite to offer some encouragement.
“I’m no expert, doc”, I acknowledged, sensing a kindred spirit, “but it appears to be a lump of some kind. Perhaps it’s a hernia?” I’d always wanted one of those, y’see. You read about sporty types getting them before jetting off to Marbella for a spot of recuperation, and that sounded like just the ticket.
“No, it’s definitely not a hernia” was the response, although by this stage I doubted his ability to spell it, never mind diagnose it.
“It appears to be a swollen lymph gland.”
“Ain’t those up here near your neck, doc?” I suggested, eyeing the exit. He reassured me we have them near our nether regions too, to what purpose, I know not.
His next question was the final straw: “What do you think we should do about it?”
Pulling up my drawers calmly, I took hold of his lapels. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, sunbeam. I’ll put your jacket on, you put mine on. You go outside and come back in again, and I’ll be sat at your desk looking for your certificates.”
I suppose I should at least be relieved that he didn’t muse: “Mr. Flashman, that small lump you’ve found down there. It’s your cock.”
Don’t panic, gentle reader, it turns out I could have as many as 50 years still to live.
FLASHMAN STRIKES AGAIN!
Paul Rodgers is not the best thing since fried Fred.