Dropping A Bollock (Or Two)?

What did you do yesterday?
Work, more than likely? A bit of shopping for the weekend? Went for a POETS Day pint, perhaps? Well, spare a thought for an acquaintance of mine.......he went and got his bollocks cut off!
The whole concept baffles me! I mean, for a start, had he written it in his diary? Is it the sort of appointment you are likely to forget?

"FRIDAY, JANUARY 11 (Spring Tide in Barcelona. Theodora crowned Empress of the Byzantine Empire in 1055)........10.30am. MUST! MUST!! MUST!!! Get testicles removed!"

Do you think he found himself chatting to someone in the morning when he suddenly exclaimed: "Shit!! Sorry mate, I've gotta dash! I've just remembered, I'm supposed to be having me nadgers lopped off. Catch yer later."?

Before this rambling expression of incredulity goes any further I suppose I had better explain. You see, this guy wasn't just bored. It wasn't something to do to liven up an otherwise dull day. No, the operation (or was it a "procedure"?) was a metaphorical milestone at the end of a long road for him. Simultaneously, it was the ribbon-cutting ceremony on a brand new highway he will be travelling down from now on - only it wasn't ribbon which got cut!
You see, this chap, for a long time now, has felt like a woman. Well, haven't we all? I, for a start, could do with one right now! The trouble is, he not only felt like a woman - he wanted to BE one!
Standing 6ft 4ins tall and having a hairy chest, not tits and facial stubble does not really mark you out from the start as being would-be Miss World material (although I remember being very dubious about Miss Venezuela in 1972!). There are, however, ways around some of that. I gather he's been undergoing years of hormone treatment to grow gazongas. Now that bit I can get my mind around. God! I'd love to have my own - cut out the middle woman! The rest of it I am not so certain about. I think they pumped him full of oestrogen (or did they suck out testosterone, a bit like bleeding the brakes on your car?). Whatever they did, it banished his bodily hair and gradually gave him the complete inability to read a map or walk past shoe shops. There was, however, not much they could do about his height, short of amputating his legs below the knee, but I suppose Jerry Hall gets away with basketball player-stature and so it CAN work.
So far so good. He had been wearing women's clothes in the company of close friends for quite a while but, so confident was he of his chest furniture and new, streamlined look that he ventured out in his new persona to a party I attended. He had an eye-catching, knee-length frock and was made up to the nines. I was sorely tempted to ask "So, what's it really like having tits?" but I was on my best behaviour all night and chatted instead to him about life, the universe and everything, while telling him intermittently that he looked really good. I was, of course, lying. Sadly, he looked, as do almost all blokes outside Bangkok who dress up as women, like.................well...........like............like a bloke in a dress!

Anyway, that was last September. It had obviously been explained to him at the time that only two things then stood between him and full access to the ladies toilets in pubs - and they'd gotta go!"
So, yesterday, off he went - and off they went! I'm not sure what they've done about his "appendage". It wasn't mentioned to me. Someone suggested that "they" sort of turn it in on itself and make a rudimentary front bottom, a bit like making a pot out of a lump of clay. Someone else said "they" just cut it off and stick up a "No Entry" sign in its place. I really don't know but would be fascinated to hear from the more informed.

More importantly, what do they do with "them"? I don't know about you but I'd fucking want them back! I mean, if people can buy horrid little dolls in traditional Welsh costume to remind them of when they went to Llanduddno then you'd think that deciding whether or not to keep your bollocks in a jar to remind you of when you were a man would be a no-brainer!......and they'd make a fantastic conversation piece on top of the telly!

I digress. Anyway, what has got my mind in a spin is the complete and utter, 100 per cent, bona fide, unshakable, almost God-inspired confidence behind a decision like this. I mean, it's not as if you can go back next week and say "I've changed me mind. Can you sew these back on for me?" Even if you could, there is no way they could wire them up again properly!

We all have decisions to make in life. Let's face it, we take minor decisions almost every minute of every day but I'm not on about toss-ups over whether to have tea or coffee or whether to tell Jenkinson from accounts that he's a twat or just let it ride? I'm talking about BIG DECISIONS. You know, whether to get married, whether to have kids, whether to buy or rent, where to live, which property, when to stand up and be counted, where you stand on issues etc, etc.
I can honestly say that I have never taken a major decision in my life which I was totally and immovably convinced was completely the right one to take. I've been 99 per cent certain. I've even been 99.9 per cent certain - but the full 100 per cent? No.

To my mind, deciding whether or not to kiss goodbye to your balls is something you just GOTTA be certain about. There IS no way back after they've gone. As Ali MacGraw almost said to Ryan O'Neal in Love Story, "Plucking your plums means never having to say you're sorry."

I think castration can go to Grantham.