Jem Clarke is in his very, very early fifties, is five foot zero inches tall and has never left the family home in Cleethorpes, which he shares with his parents...
Living with elderly parents when you are well into your extremely early fifties is devastating. It gives you an endless look into what fate has in store for you.
Am I really 30 years away from walking with a frame; tripping over my layabout son’s Moomins box set; finding my spectacles in the microwave and theRadio Times in the fridge? I have no progeny, obviously, but everything else will probably come to pass.
It’s a nightmare, as if Dickens’s Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come has dropped me off at some hideous future and forgotten to pick me up at the end of the night.
The one thing I can do – Scrooge-like – is engineer a better third act for myself, and be as healthy as possible for as long as possible. Most people would immediately go to their doctor for a full health MOT and advice. Being a man with health anxiety officially diagnosed, I’ve already done that – fortnightly.
There is one pressing health problem so deeply personal and significant that I have not yet troubled my doctor’s delicate ears with it. I must soon frankly tell the junior GP, ‘We must talk about my shrinking penis.’
I am no boastful, boorish alpha male. I happily confess that, given I’m a 5ft 0in male, my member was never going to be troubling Norris McWhirter’s clipboard.
Still, it was a perfectly proportioned private in the sex war. It equipped itself well in limited sorties across enemy lines, whenever instructed.
But, of late, it has become noticeably ... less notable. So much so that, for the first time since Britpop broke, I’ve been measuring it.
The telephone triage receptionist paused, working out whether I was pranking her, before asking carefully, ‘When you say it’s small, do you mean STEVE WAY compared with other men’s?’ ‘No. I’ve not been comparing it with
other men’s. I mean, compared with mine, last week.’ I added gingerly, ‘I’ve got two columns of results: “At rest” and “At play”.’
A GP was suddenly put on the line and he asked me to come in.
On arrival, I was shocked to find the trainee GP had a camera set up, as he wanted to show it to his mentor.
However, I was glad to be taken seriously – so I wasn’t remotely camera shy. Unfortunately, he had forgotten the extension cord for the camera. He asked that I move closer to the lens. So, trousers round ankles, I had to get off the seat and toddle towards him, proffering my parts forward like a drunken limbo dancer.
He directed me: ‘A little nearer. Now, one step back, one small step forward.’ He concluded, ‘I did what I could, but so hard to get something so small in focus, you know.’
Absolutely charming.
Turning to his computer, he pinged my penis to his mentor, who pinged bit back after – for my money – way too short a time. My practitioner aahed as he read the email, explaining, ‘He says only a microscope will help us diagnose now.’
I gasped, ‘I’m not sure I want to place anything snappable-off in a slide.’
‘No. He meant the pathology department. A biopsy is the best way forward.’
I had to ask delicately if, in the meantime, he had any advice on what I should or shouldn’t do.
‘Find another hobby,’ he said.
When I told Mother where I’d been, she sniffed, ‘I already know. Bernie’s sister-in-law works there, remember? And they’re pig-sick of you going in there, half-cocked.’
I exploded, ‘Oh, that’s a fine way to talk about a patient! If I can’t go to the doctor’s with a shrinking organ, then what did Nye Bevan bother getting out of bed for?’
I suddenly saw mother’s face light up with newly acquired knowledge. I realised she’d been talking about a metaphorical half-cockedness.
She beamed, ‘Well, look who’s played too many tunes on his old fiddle! I knew this would happen one day! It all started with that Lesley Judd poster. And here we are, 72 innocent Blue Peter presenters later, and his string’s finally snapped, I’ll bet!’
‘No one need bet! We all need to calm down!’ I said. I added, in my best radio continuity voice, ‘My privates are under the doctor now.’
Father tittered uncontrollably from behind a vibrating Daily Mail Weekend magazine.
