Cream or scream?

© Niderlander  Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Prometeus  Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

When my alarm clock screeched at 6.30 am the first sensation I noticed was the stinging of my piles (or hemorrhoids as they are more technically known). My second  realization was the awareness of my appointment today at the Colorectal Department of the local hospital to have my bulbous buddies investigated.

Hemorrhoids have stung the backsides of many generations of Jones. Like a clutch of cherries growing towards the light, they sting or leak, always one or the other, never both together. My arse alternates between sore and menstruating.

I spent 30 minutes in the shower this morning, 25 of which was devoted to spring-cleaning the area in question; if guests were going to spend time in the back-room it needed to be spic-and-span, as one must create the right impression, mustn’t one?

Upon arriving at the hospital’s General Outpatients’ Department, and showing the receptionist my official appointment letter, I was directed to waiting area 3 (not 1 or 2) and I wondered whether this symbolic niche, deep in the hospital labyrinth, was reserved for colorectal cases. While sitting in the waiting room I observed my fellow patients and tried to spot those with a similar affliction. A lady opposite had a continuous half-grimace and seemed a good bet, particularly as she shuffled from buttock to buttock in her seat. I was distracted from my game of “spot the hemorrhoid” by squawks of female laughter emanating from a nearby nurses’ station; I wondered if they were ridiculing the sight of the last patient’s butt.

Forty minutes after my appointment time my name was called and I was escorted to the clinic room by a nurse and asked to sit on the bed to await the doctor. Mr Evans, the consultant surgeon, entered accompanied by a young female medical student. Following a brief interrogation about my bowel habits and pain history, I was lying on the bed with my trousers and boxer-shorts around my ankles. As I laid there staring at the wall, the consultant probed and prodded my gaping arse - why do they always have chunky fingers? While doing so he conducted a tutorial with his student.

“Come and look at this; a big hemorrhoid on the outside and two more inside.”

I heard the female student approach for a closer look into my back passage. “Oh yes, I can see them” she said. I thought I could feel their breath on my buttocks. And I’m sure I heard an echo.

“So what’s the appropriate treatment?” he asked.

“I guess he could try applying a steroid cream …”

“You could if you wanted to caress the hemorrhoid and watch it grow,” he said. They both giggled; he was flirting with her with his finger up my arse.

“We could band them?” she said.

“If we tried to band this one on the outside” – wiggling it like a nipple to demonstrate – “he’d empty the ward with his screaming. No, this one we will have to lop off.”

So surgery it is, a day-case under general anaesthetic. I will be sent for within the next four to six weeks.

I dressed and left the clinic room. Walking back through the other patients in waiting area 3, I suspected that my gait might have resembled that of a bloke who had soiled himself. I was conscious of their eyes on me. Were they wondering what indignity I had undergone? I resisted the temptation to scream, “You’re buggered if you go in there!” and instead hurried for the exit.    

                

A Dalmatian assault

                                                                   

Tito, my Dalmatian dog, had been agitating for his walk. It was a frozen February afternoon and the roads and pavements were encrusted with ice, the previous week’s snow compressed by foot-fall into an undulating glacier.

A sane option would have been to limit the walk to the end of the road, a five minute jaunt on a flat, non-hazardous track. But no, my dog had abundant energy and my boots had rugged soles so I opted for the usual two-mile circuit. The inevitable happened on a downward slope by the nearby woods. The fall was spectacular; my front foot sped out from under me, my other foot (in trying to compensate) followed suit, propelling me into the air where I seemed to hover parallel to the ground before crash-landing on my back with a sickening thud.

Despite the acute pain radiating from my arse, my foremost anxiety was whether my plummet had been witnessed. As I gingerly lifted myself into a sitting position my humiliation was confirmed, a party of four adults and twice as many children were walking up the slope towards me, concern etched on their faces. I raised my hand to signal I was unharmed. At this moment 70 pounds of excitable Dalmatian leaped over my shoulders, his dangly bits coming to rest against the nape of my neck. Temporally marooned in this straddle position, Tito panicked and instinctively humped the back of my head as if I was a bitch on heat.

I still wonder how those parents explained Tito’s behavior to their offspring.

Tito wearing his football team's colors.
Rest in peace, my beautiful hound

I am participating in the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)

        

               

The revenge of Mrs Jones

My wife is not a vindictive woman. Well, not usually. But a recent purchase of a toilet-seat allowed Mrs Jones to take retribution for 30 years of frustration.

Throughout our time together she has asked me to put the toilet seat down after I've had a pee. Although I suspect that millions of women across the planet urge their men to perform this simple act, I’ve never been able to understand why. After all, I’m thoughtful enough to always lift the seat before peeing so as to avoid splashes that would condemn Mrs Jones to a wet butt when she uses the loo. So why am I expected to put it down again when I’ve finished? Is it something to do with aesthetics, the bathroom being more pleasing on the eye for future visitors? Or is it because they feel contaminated if they have to touch the toilet seat prior to squatting? The underlying motivation behind her insistence on this piece of lavatory etiquette remains a mystery to me, like multiple other aspects of the female psyche.

After my three decades of non-compliance Mrs Jones has hit back. Last month she bought a new, black-and-white cowhide patterned toilet-seat for our downstairs loo. As I am to D.I.Y. what North Korea is to nuclear disarmament, my wife does all the practical jobs around the house. So, true to form, Mrs Jones fitted the toilet-seat. But an additional tweak of the screwdriver or a calculating twist of the pliers rendered the seat incapable of remaining upright; lift the seat into the vertical position and it totters, like a neurotic on the edge of a high-diving board, before crashing down with a dull thud.   

A toilet seat that refuses to stay up presents a conundrum to the peeing male. What approach can be used to channel the stream of urine into the bowl? When faced with this frustration my initial intention was to just piss all over the seat to punish Mrs Jones for her sloppy joinery. But then my self-preservation instinct kicked-in and I quashed that idea.

So what options remained in my attempt to pee through the contracted hole of a seat-down toilet? Well, I could have sat down to urinate like a girlie, the equivalent of Mrs Jones having castrated me, but that would have been conceding defeat. So I tried holding the seat up with my right hand while directing the hose-pipe with my left only to discover that the complex maneuvres of finding, releasing and aiming were too much to execute single-handed, particular when wearing tight underpants devoid of a fly-hole and requiring one to hold down the elasticated waist-band – males will understand the considerable dexterity required to achieve this mission without pissing down your trouser leg.

Creativity was required to overcome this challenge. Next I straddled the toilet bowl, one foot at either side, bent my knees and pushed my willy downwards into a perpendicular position as if operating a pneumatic drill on roadside concrete. Although not the most edifying sight for casual onlookers, this macho straddle-pose seemed to have solved the problem; that is until my knee-ligaments began to give way.

But then success! Seven days of practice at leaning forward without putting my hands on the toilet-cistern, thereby freeing them up for todger-management, enabled me to consistently hit the target while maintaining my masculinity. Picture the Winter Olympics 2010 in Vancouver, and the poise of the ski-jumper in mid-flight, tilting at an angle of 45 degrees, and you will replicate the image of me doing what comes naturally in our downstairs toilet in Lancashire, England.

I am participating in the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)

        

My baby leaves home

“Are you ready love; have you got all your stuff?” I asked from the foot of the stairs.

A beautiful young woman, my 18-year-old daughter Becca, bounded down the steps, a small suitcase in one hand and a black plastic bag full of soft toys and books in the other. “Yes dad, but let me say goodbye to mum.”

I took her luggage and placed it in the boot of my car. When I returned to the hallway Mrs Jones had Becca in a bear-hug, both tearful, grasping at each other.

“Look after yourself sweetie,” blubbered my wife, surfacing from the embrace and holding Becca at arm’s length, as if to glimpse her for one last time.

“I will mum” said my tearful daughter.

“What are you two like?” I said, “Anyone would think she’s emigrating to Australia, rather than nipping down the M62 to Liverpool University! Get a grip; she’ll be home in a couple of weeks.”

During the one-hour drive few words were spoken. Despite my efforts not to, every few minutes I glanced to my left at Becca, in the passenger seat, listening to her iPod. I smiled, smug in the knowledge that the cute, compassionate lady at my side was mine. As I pondered how a flawed, hairy fellow like me could have reared such perfection, a warm tingle caressed my neck and shoulders, causing me to sit taller in the driving seat.

When we arrived at the university accommodation, I carried her bags to her room. Once inside, I tried to make myself useful; straightening the duvet, wiping the sink and picking imaginary specs off the carpet. I sensed eyes on me and I turned to see Becca grinning at my delaying tactics.

“Just go dad; mum will be wondering where you are.”

I opened my arms wide and Becca walked into them. I held on to her like a drowning man clinging to flotsam. I put my hands on either side of her head, tilted it forward and snorted her crown. Ah a musty scent to kindle so many memories: lifting a new-born bundle from the midwife’s arms; the infant in a pink baby-grow lying asleep, warm and clammy, across my chest; and the distressed toddler who, forgetting she had taken off her inflatable wings, had plunged into the deep end of a Spanish swimming pool and was telling me, while water dripped off her nose, “I wen tunder daddy, I wen tunder.”

And now I had to abandon her to fend for herself in a big city. I noticed my pollen allergy was flaring so I kissed her cheek, turned and carried on walking to my car without looking back. 

I am participating in the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)

        

    

Bye-bye beer-belly

On Christmas morning I discovered an extraordinary slimming aid. It will inspire all rotund, middle-aged men to pursue an ambitious weight loss program and, as it will achieve a 100% success rate, it will earn me millions of dollars. 

For at least a decade I have known I’m a tad on the portly side. My trouser size is 36-inch waist. Forty years of guzzling fine ale has inflated my mid-riff. Last year, when I attended my doctor’s surgery for my over-50s health check, the practice-nurse announced that my 15-stone bulk put me on the cusp of the official obese range; to achieve a healthy weight required the loss of 50 pounds. My 22-year-old son has constantly sniped about my lack of fitness and how I hold my belly in at social events, especially when I’m trying to impress the ladies – “breathe out dad,” he taunts as he passes me at family parties.

Prior to the 25^th December 2012, none of these reminders of being over-weight had instilled any motivation to embark on a reducing regime. I have continued to eat what I want and avoid all exercise. But all this changed within 15 minutes of opening the Christmas present from my 18-year old daughter.

Becca had bought me a “onesie.” For anyone not familiar with a onesie, it is a one-piece hooded garment that zips up the front, usually worn as cozy night-attire. Becca has one and looks really good in hers. She insisted I try mine on and then proceeded to take pictures.         

                                                                      

Since 11.00 am on Christmas Day morning I have resisted spooning sugar into my tea and coffee, eliminated French-fries from my diet and endure a daily dose of press-ups and leg-lifts. I have reduced my beer intake (apart from the 10 pints on New Year’s Eve, but hey, that’s tradition). Even more worthy of note is that, since the turn of the year, three times per week at 6.00 am (when few people can see me), I jog the streets of my neighborhood.

I’ve already patented the “onesie and photo” combination as a phenomenal motivational aid for over-weight, middle-aged men and await the surge in my personal fortune.     

I am participating in the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)

        

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The Christmas night out

Two weeks ago I attended the “work’s do” as I have done each Christmas for the last 33 years. I’m not going again.

A Christmas celebration alongside work colleagues can be fun. Freed from the constraints of the office, a colleague often displays an alternative persona from the one on show 9-to-5, Monday-to-Friday. My most prominent memories of this annual bash include a senior manager and his secretary performing one of the more risqué scenes from “Last Tango in Paris” in the centre of the dance-floor, and a staid professional punching a stranger he accused of drinking his beer.      

This year, the evening started badly before I left home. Having prised my 15-stone physique into my best pair of silvery-grey trousers, I realized I had to pee before setting off for my bus. As any man over the age of 50 knows, the combination of a dodgy sphincter and pants too tight around the crotch should come with an official flood warning. My post-urination shake proved insufficient; upon returning Percy to his cage he dribbled a puddle into my boxers. As the sensation of wetness spread around my nether regions, it was a relief to note that my sturdy underpants had prevented any two-tone staining of my trousers.

I needn’t have worried. On my 10-minute walk to the bus-stop I had to negotiate   sleet lashing into my face and torso, along with six inches of slush around my feet. By the time my bus arrived (20 minutes late) my trousers retained a single band of silvery-grey around my knees, above and below radiating a darker, drenched shade.

I live in a rural area, or “up in the hills” as my city-dwelling work-mates call it. When I arrived in Manchester city centre, there was no slush, no sleet, no wind, only a fine drizzle. And thousands of people, a combination of late shoppers and Christmas revelers  most of who seemed to be thrusting umbrellas in my direction. Already late, I sped to my destination, dodging eye-removing brolly-spikes and mumbling obscenities about the recklessness of human-kind.

As I entered the Italian restaurant I suspected my lower half was emitting a noxious vapor, like a polecat that had let himself go. Nevertheless, I joined 15 of my work colleagues at a circular table, all in pristine attire, dry and (perhaps with one exception) younger than me. I ordered a pint of Peroni at a price that, should I consume my usual quantity, would require me to re-mortgage the house.      

I wear contact-lenses because I’m short-sighted and vain. Although improving my vision, in poor light they render me incapable of reading small print. Squinting, I held the menu so far away from me the lady seated opposite had to peep around it to hold a conversation.

After the meal, the tables were pushed back and the disco began to spew tunes, most of which were unfamiliar to me. People danced and drank. I sat and drank. Despite the high prevalence of alcohol intoxication, not one lady (nor man) made a sexual advance towards me. Around 11.30 pm. the one colleague of a similar age to me collapsed on the dance-floor and sustained a nasty head-wound. As I observed the paramedics attending to the poor lady as she laid face-down, skirt hitched-up to mid-thigh, undignified and defeated, she symbolized why the over-50s should stay away from the Christmas “do.” I’m not going again.      

          

I am participating in the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)

        

Fifty shades of Jones

I’ve been reading Fifty Shades of Grey to learn ways to ignite Mrs Jones’ sexual desires. It’s not gone well.

In case there is anyone not familiar with this book, Fifty Shades of Grey is the first part of a trilogy by E.L. James detailing the carnal awakenings of a 21-year-old virgin, Anastatia Steele, in the deft hands of mysterious dominant and millionaire, Christian Grey. An erotic fantasy that seems to be stirring the underbellies of women throughout the planet, I thought it offered a unique opportunity to glimpse the intricate workings of the female psyche.

Mrs Jones and I have been a partnership for over 30 years, sharing joys, challenges and beds. We are each aware of what the other is thinking and feeling. We know whether the other will like, or dislike, another person. We often finish off each other’s sentences. But as I read about the shenanigans of Anastatia and Christian, I wondered whether there was a rich seam of sexual craving deep within Mrs Jones’ loins waiting to be mined.   

I’m an affable sort of bloke. Perhaps this is where I’m falling short; maybe women yearn to be controlled and dominated?

A week last Thursday, around 10 pm, I was in bed pretending to read the latest edition of The Oldie magazine, while peeping at Mrs Jones who was sitting at the dressing table, removing her make-up. I shut my magazine and slapped it down on the bed-side table. “Get your sweet arse into bed now” I said, adopting my most menacing tone.

She glanced towards me, and then back at the mirror, continuing to dab her cheeks with make-up remover.

“Take off your night-gown and get into bed now; now I say!”

Mrs Jones stopped her dabbing, stood and ambled towards the bed.

I dodged the first swipe, but the second blow caught me on the back of my head. That night I learnt that (unlike Anastatia Steele) I don’t like pain.       

For the next few days I sought further guidance from Fifty Shades. On page 193 I read, he pops a fragment of ice in my navel … It burns all the way down to the depths of my belly. Wow! I pondered as to whether the secret code to open a woman’s sexual vault involves exposure to extremes of temperature.

Last night, having loitered to allow Mrs Jones to retire to bed before me, I raided the freezer-box. Climbing the stairs, ice-cubes in my hand, I tingled in anticipation of that raw female sexuality I was about to unleash. I entered the bedroom, undressed (not an easy manoeuvre with blocks of ice clasped in my hand) and slipped into bed next to the luscious, naked body of my beautiful wife. She was lying on her front, denying me access to the target area of her abdomen, and seemed to be asleep. I tried a couple of gentle nudges to encourage her to turn over but to no avail. Meanwhile, the ice was melting in my hand.

I was on the verge of aborting the assignment when she flipped over onto her back, eyes closed, still sleeping. In one swift movement, I leant over and dripped several drops of icy water onto her belly. Her body tensed and her eyes shot open. I braced myself for the sexual explosion. Her hand moved instinctively towards me and lingered, palm down, inches from my midriff. She then screeched the words that will remain etched on my memory for many years.

“Have you pissed the bed?”  

                                                                 **************

I am participating in the Dude Write Starting Lineup this week where you can find some excellent posts by bloggers who happen to be dudes: http://dudewrite.blogspot.com)