I was in Tesco in Milngavie one morning this week when I noticed the suburban country set were out in force. Everywhere I looked there was retired people in fleeces or large red waterproof jackets and some with sturdy 'walking shoes'.
I don’t know why they’ve opted for this look. It’s a bit like neds in their tracksuits, looking as if they should be training, these retirees seem to wish to look as though they are going off for a bit of cross country hiking.
However a quick walk out to the car park will prove this attempt fruitless as they've all got their Mercs and Beemers parked there ready to take them back up the road to their desirable detached villas.
It's another one of the looks adopted by people who I would say are well off. There is one I have noticed of some of the mature ladies that live in that area, and that is to turn up the collar of their blouses under their wool sweaters so it stands vertically (imagine Elvis's jumpsuits). It's a strange one but one that I find is quite common. In fact it's a giveaway sometimes when I get on the train going home from work, particularly on a Saturday when they've beem out shopping or lunching in some tasteful but expensive eatery, as the train can go down either one of two lines, and when I see an upturned collar under a piece of expensive wool, I know I'm on the right train.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
Friday, 28 March 2008
We're Not At Home To Mr Cock-Up
So I was in the hospital a couple of days ago for the wee operation. As I sit typing I am still trying to avoid going for a pee as the first time I went it was as if my dick was on fire and I was doubled over in pain.
As I went into the hospital I was nervous and spent some time watching the other patients around me, as I do. One of the first people called through was a foreign guy, and the nurse immediately stopped his girlfriend from following saying she couldn’t come through with the patient. Now it was clear very quickly that she spoke no English but there was no leeway with letting her through, so she was left in reception. Soon after when I was called through and changed into the highly loose gown. Thankfully I’d taken my own dressing gown and slippers. Now I’ll pass comment on my dressing gown just now. I bought it from Next. Large, thick and warm. I noticed on the packaging on the gown when I bought it a couple of weeks ago. It said that “It lets you enjoy living the life you lead”. That’s nice, very comforting, but it’s just a dressing gown. Do they think people will buy it on the basis that it will enhance the ability for them enjoy life to such an extent? I bought it because it was less than half price. Fuck all to do with that slogan.
After I’d got changed I had to call home quickly and when I had completed that I walked up to the nearest nurse and said “Right that’s me ready”, and she proceeded to lead me out of the ward “to get your clothes”. I faltered in my step and said she turned and saw me hesitating. “It’s just through here”. I walked after her while she explained I could get changed now. Now, I was standing in the middle of the ward in my dressing gown and thinking ‘Does she think this is a big coat?’ I said, “No, that’s me ready to go now”. She nodded and walked off a few paces and turned again and said to me “You look confused” and I’m thinking “’yeah I’m confused, you get me changed, now you want to get me dressed again and leave, what the hell are you doing?’.
Then suddenly Ping!, she looks at me and says “You’re just coming in?” “Yes”. I realised later there were morning patients which were still sitting around after surgery and there was an overlap. I was in half a mind to get dressed again and then ask when my operation started and then watch the confusion on her face.
When I got to the new waiting room, everyone was in their dressing gowns, so we were all equally uncomfortable sitting in front of each other. I quite enjoyed checking out the style of dressing gowns and particularly slippers that other people had. I have to admit I had bought a new dressing gown exactly because of this. My old one was a manky old thing and I looked positively poor when I had it on.
The foreign guy was now opposite me and sitting with his legs open, letting me view his lovely paper pants. The nurse was with him and letting him write a note to his girlfriend in what ever language they spoke to let her know when she could collect him. She suggested giving her the phone numbers so she could call in later in the afternoon. It took several minutes for her to realise that giving out phone numbers to someone who spoke no English was potentially a fruitless exercise. As I saw when I left some six hours later the girl was still sitting in reception waiting for him. Now in that situation it would have been so easy for them to bring her through and sit in the patient’s waiting area.
Soon I was taken to a bed and asked some questions by one man, then ten minutes later another guy came and asked me the same questions. Now this second guy had quite a strong Glasgow accent, and normally I can tune in to accents quite quickly but I didn’t know what the fuck this guy was saying. He kept having to repeat himself. He then made a few comments and I partly didn’t know what he was saying or whether he was joking or not so I gave a few nervous laughs and said Yes or No. I hope he wasn’t asking whether I was allergic to anything. That would’ve been a bugger to sort out for the death certificate.
The anaesthetic was nice, a wonderful tingling behind my ears before I popped off although the accent guy may have been tickling me and cracking jokes again. Back in the recovery area I was lying on a bed in between an older man and woman. The guy opposite me had got dressed and went back to the waiting area and ten minutes later they wheeled him back into the recovery area on a reclining armchair……unconscious. He appeared to have collapsed in his seat and they brought him back to put him on a monitor. He came round seconds later, but at one point not long after I was watching him and he did have the pulse monitor on his finger as the doctors were standing around I noticed the screen behind him had a flatline where normally there is the rise and fall. I watched his chest to see if I could see him breathing and I couldn’t. I was becoming a little concerned as I could see two nurses and a doctor standing within feet of him, but with their backs turned, but eventually one of the nurses called his name and he opened his eyes.
Then the old man beside me pulled the curtain around and stared to get changed and in rapid succession he burped and farted, and I’m thinking awww, Jesus, there’s women here. In a entirely male situation it’s probably acceptable, but on a mixed ward, try to suppress it for Christsake.
Anyway the result of my little visit was that the surgeon found two small growths on the inside of my bladder and took a biopsy of one and I will get a further appointment to get the results. He mentioned to me that he had used a rigid camera to look inside and I was thankful that I wasn’t awake for this procedure, especially as he would have had to then pull out the piece of clipped flesh back out along my urethra. Happy days. Meanwhile for the next two to three days I’ve to drink loads of water to make myself piss, which in turn causes a load of pain in my dick, so this will be a fun few days. I still have the use of my fingers to blog though so let’s be thankful.
As I went into the hospital I was nervous and spent some time watching the other patients around me, as I do. One of the first people called through was a foreign guy, and the nurse immediately stopped his girlfriend from following saying she couldn’t come through with the patient. Now it was clear very quickly that she spoke no English but there was no leeway with letting her through, so she was left in reception. Soon after when I was called through and changed into the highly loose gown. Thankfully I’d taken my own dressing gown and slippers. Now I’ll pass comment on my dressing gown just now. I bought it from Next. Large, thick and warm. I noticed on the packaging on the gown when I bought it a couple of weeks ago. It said that “It lets you enjoy living the life you lead”. That’s nice, very comforting, but it’s just a dressing gown. Do they think people will buy it on the basis that it will enhance the ability for them enjoy life to such an extent? I bought it because it was less than half price. Fuck all to do with that slogan.
After I’d got changed I had to call home quickly and when I had completed that I walked up to the nearest nurse and said “Right that’s me ready”, and she proceeded to lead me out of the ward “to get your clothes”. I faltered in my step and said she turned and saw me hesitating. “It’s just through here”. I walked after her while she explained I could get changed now. Now, I was standing in the middle of the ward in my dressing gown and thinking ‘Does she think this is a big coat?’ I said, “No, that’s me ready to go now”. She nodded and walked off a few paces and turned again and said to me “You look confused” and I’m thinking “’yeah I’m confused, you get me changed, now you want to get me dressed again and leave, what the hell are you doing?’.
Then suddenly Ping!, she looks at me and says “You’re just coming in?” “Yes”. I realised later there were morning patients which were still sitting around after surgery and there was an overlap. I was in half a mind to get dressed again and then ask when my operation started and then watch the confusion on her face.
When I got to the new waiting room, everyone was in their dressing gowns, so we were all equally uncomfortable sitting in front of each other. I quite enjoyed checking out the style of dressing gowns and particularly slippers that other people had. I have to admit I had bought a new dressing gown exactly because of this. My old one was a manky old thing and I looked positively poor when I had it on.
The foreign guy was now opposite me and sitting with his legs open, letting me view his lovely paper pants. The nurse was with him and letting him write a note to his girlfriend in what ever language they spoke to let her know when she could collect him. She suggested giving her the phone numbers so she could call in later in the afternoon. It took several minutes for her to realise that giving out phone numbers to someone who spoke no English was potentially a fruitless exercise. As I saw when I left some six hours later the girl was still sitting in reception waiting for him. Now in that situation it would have been so easy for them to bring her through and sit in the patient’s waiting area.
Soon I was taken to a bed and asked some questions by one man, then ten minutes later another guy came and asked me the same questions. Now this second guy had quite a strong Glasgow accent, and normally I can tune in to accents quite quickly but I didn’t know what the fuck this guy was saying. He kept having to repeat himself. He then made a few comments and I partly didn’t know what he was saying or whether he was joking or not so I gave a few nervous laughs and said Yes or No. I hope he wasn’t asking whether I was allergic to anything. That would’ve been a bugger to sort out for the death certificate.
The anaesthetic was nice, a wonderful tingling behind my ears before I popped off although the accent guy may have been tickling me and cracking jokes again. Back in the recovery area I was lying on a bed in between an older man and woman. The guy opposite me had got dressed and went back to the waiting area and ten minutes later they wheeled him back into the recovery area on a reclining armchair……unconscious. He appeared to have collapsed in his seat and they brought him back to put him on a monitor. He came round seconds later, but at one point not long after I was watching him and he did have the pulse monitor on his finger as the doctors were standing around I noticed the screen behind him had a flatline where normally there is the rise and fall. I watched his chest to see if I could see him breathing and I couldn’t. I was becoming a little concerned as I could see two nurses and a doctor standing within feet of him, but with their backs turned, but eventually one of the nurses called his name and he opened his eyes.
Then the old man beside me pulled the curtain around and stared to get changed and in rapid succession he burped and farted, and I’m thinking awww, Jesus, there’s women here. In a entirely male situation it’s probably acceptable, but on a mixed ward, try to suppress it for Christsake.
Anyway the result of my little visit was that the surgeon found two small growths on the inside of my bladder and took a biopsy of one and I will get a further appointment to get the results. He mentioned to me that he had used a rigid camera to look inside and I was thankful that I wasn’t awake for this procedure, especially as he would have had to then pull out the piece of clipped flesh back out along my urethra. Happy days. Meanwhile for the next two to three days I’ve to drink loads of water to make myself piss, which in turn causes a load of pain in my dick, so this will be a fun few days. I still have the use of my fingers to blog though so let’s be thankful.
Monday, 24 March 2008
I See A Different Thing...
When I was getting married in '98, there was alot to do, which my wife did. I drove and said 'Yes'...alot. I did get chucked out a wedding shop (sort of). My wife was trying on shoes to go with her dress and I was there on a consultation basis and unfortunately I ventured too far into an area where brides-to-be might be coming out - with their dresses on. Apparently this encroachment totally fucked them up and some wee lassie politely told me to leave. I explained why I was there and she still said 'leave'.
In one other shop the girls seemed totally perplexed that her husband was sitting there helping her choose her wedding dress. The reason why is that I had this nightmare of turning round on the day and thinking 'she looks crap', so I thought I'd cover it and help her choose the dress. We have a similar taste anyway and we were both happy with the choice. And it turned out well anyway, cos on the day, I had no memory at all of what the dress looked liked til she walked down the aisle in the castle.
Anyway, one day we were trying to choose the band and been told they were playing at a wedding reception at a hotel in Stepps, north east of Glasgow. A wee drive. We made the effort and went there and parked up and headed into the hotel and ask at the desk where the wedding reception was, and were pointed in the direction of it.
There were double doors and I pushed them open. Weird. Very weird.
There was a man on his knees on the floor, with a snare drum between his knees. And other various 'people' around him battering at things, not all instruments. The future wife and I stared at each other and retreated to discuss...... "Fuckin hell, what the fuck is that" "I know" "Fuckin hell" "I know".
We looked back in. It hadn't gotten any better. There was some weird shit going on with the band and the guests. Some strange dancing indeed. We drove away (see previous post for near potential murder).
A couple of days later the band guy phoned me and asked me if we'd been. Yes, I said slowly. He asked me what I thought. I said slowly and carefully I wasn't sure if it was our thing. He wasn't sure what I meant, I asked for a ceilidh band? Yes. What was the problem? So I mentioned the man on his knees battering the drum and the fact that he had long hair and wasn't wearing a kilt, but more of a leather trousers outfit.
"That wasn't us.......we were in the suite at the back of the hotel". Fuck.
In one other shop the girls seemed totally perplexed that her husband was sitting there helping her choose her wedding dress. The reason why is that I had this nightmare of turning round on the day and thinking 'she looks crap', so I thought I'd cover it and help her choose the dress. We have a similar taste anyway and we were both happy with the choice. And it turned out well anyway, cos on the day, I had no memory at all of what the dress looked liked til she walked down the aisle in the castle.
Anyway, one day we were trying to choose the band and been told they were playing at a wedding reception at a hotel in Stepps, north east of Glasgow. A wee drive. We made the effort and went there and parked up and headed into the hotel and ask at the desk where the wedding reception was, and were pointed in the direction of it.
There were double doors and I pushed them open. Weird. Very weird.
There was a man on his knees on the floor, with a snare drum between his knees. And other various 'people' around him battering at things, not all instruments. The future wife and I stared at each other and retreated to discuss...... "Fuckin hell, what the fuck is that" "I know" "Fuckin hell" "I know".
We looked back in. It hadn't gotten any better. There was some weird shit going on with the band and the guests. Some strange dancing indeed. We drove away (see previous post for near potential murder).
A couple of days later the band guy phoned me and asked me if we'd been. Yes, I said slowly. He asked me what I thought. I said slowly and carefully I wasn't sure if it was our thing. He wasn't sure what I meant, I asked for a ceilidh band? Yes. What was the problem? So I mentioned the man on his knees battering the drum and the fact that he had long hair and wasn't wearing a kilt, but more of a leather trousers outfit.
"That wasn't us.......we were in the suite at the back of the hotel". Fuck.
Murder In Progress...Go Around
I was driving through Drumchapel a few nights ago, and there was a queue of traffic in front of me going onto a roundabout. It's a major roundabout on the main road through the west of Glasgow. It's the A82 road, I've checked and it actually starts in Inverness in the (almost) north of Scotland (as far north as I've been) and it ends in the centre of Glasgow where it meets the M8.
Over a small grassy hill beside some shops came a posse of neds. There was about 10 of them. Every single one of them was wearing a tracksuit. I wouldn't expect anything else of them. It's the next national dress. Looks shite though.
They piled across the road, fighting with each other, kicking each other. They didn't even stop for traffic. One car came off the roundabout at a bit of speed and nearly killed one of them as he strolled across the road. I accelerated slightly before being quickly told not to by the wife in case 10 of the wee bastards decided to stop killing each other and decided to come after a moving car. It's unbelievable. How fucking stupid are these people to have a fight as they're crossing a main road?
I remember a time some years ago when I was driving back from Stepps, north east of Glasgow. We had gone to see a band who we would potentially hire for our wedding (see next post), and we were going along a dual carriageway and came up to a junction with traffic lights where there was a pub on the corner standing alone as often in Glasgow, pubs do.
As I neared the junction, the pub doors opened and about five people tumbled out. Two were fighting with each other. The five were followed by about thirty or forty others (thirty or forty...no shit) and these two guys were oblivious to anything else and brought their fight to the centre of the road. One guy went down on the road and the other started kicking him in the head. It was some sight. I saw a gap near the central barrier at the right and realising the potential danger I (and my car) was in, I slowly moved the car round them and horsed it down the road, looking at the fight in my rear view mirror.
Over a small grassy hill beside some shops came a posse of neds. There was about 10 of them. Every single one of them was wearing a tracksuit. I wouldn't expect anything else of them. It's the next national dress. Looks shite though.
They piled across the road, fighting with each other, kicking each other. They didn't even stop for traffic. One car came off the roundabout at a bit of speed and nearly killed one of them as he strolled across the road. I accelerated slightly before being quickly told not to by the wife in case 10 of the wee bastards decided to stop killing each other and decided to come after a moving car. It's unbelievable. How fucking stupid are these people to have a fight as they're crossing a main road?
I remember a time some years ago when I was driving back from Stepps, north east of Glasgow. We had gone to see a band who we would potentially hire for our wedding (see next post), and we were going along a dual carriageway and came up to a junction with traffic lights where there was a pub on the corner standing alone as often in Glasgow, pubs do.
As I neared the junction, the pub doors opened and about five people tumbled out. Two were fighting with each other. The five were followed by about thirty or forty others (thirty or forty...no shit) and these two guys were oblivious to anything else and brought their fight to the centre of the road. One guy went down on the road and the other started kicking him in the head. It was some sight. I saw a gap near the central barrier at the right and realising the potential danger I (and my car) was in, I slowly moved the car round them and horsed it down the road, looking at the fight in my rear view mirror.
Sunday, 23 March 2008
I Saw Him Coming
I'll say now, I'd had this post on draft for some months. I was never sure whether I wanted to share it, it's rather personal, it could be potentially bad news health wise, but on the other hand I tend to view most things from an angle that makes me think about human behaviour and how absurd some situations are it you deconstruct them in a certain way. Ooooh philosophical.
A hospital date has been set for next week, for a wee procedure and I wasn't sure whether to talk about it or not, but after a few days deliberation and I have to admit...a bottle of wine, I'm going to tell you all about it. It's 1.30am as I type this, and I'm feeling confident. I'll wake up in five hours, and think "Shit, did I really write that?"
I had to go the doctor recently. A testicle problem and a problem with peeing. I could cover it with “Gentleman’s Troubles”, but I'll explain by saying a strange pain in each nut and a slight need to go visit the toilet ten minutes after I've just been.
When I decided to go to the doctor a few months ago I knew in advance that my prostate would need to be checked and I knew what that involved. I didn't actually know what my prostate did (a high percentage of men don't) so I Googled it. I Google everything.
I prepared myself...how to say this nicely..umm....I'm aware that my brother & his future wife read this blog sometimes so I almost feel like I should watch what I say, but they are both very 'open' to some detail and some language, so I'll say...I cleaned out my ass...mwuaaaaaaaoooooaaaaa. Oh fuck. eeewwwww. Well someone's got to do it, and it's my own ass. I assure you it's better that I did it, than I saw the doctor's gloved finger in the air covered in crap.
OK, we're past that. Fuckin' eeewww.
My appointment was a 9am one, to get into work soon after, and as I was standing at the reception desk a young man came through from the back with an anorak and a wee rucksack on and walked past me to one of the rooms.
I've never waited so long for my name to be called.
How amused I was when I walked in and sitting beside my normal doctor was a young, nervous looking student doctor. The guy that had just walked past me in reception. My doctor explained he was there for training and asked me if I minded if he sat in. I'm fairly easygoing in certain situations (some not) so I said "Not at all". I did laugh to myself as I already knew what this young doctor was about to witness in his first appointment of the day and so soon after his breakfast.
I explained about my Gentleman’s Troubles and he asked me to pop up on the table, and slide my trousers down. Now, as any man will know the penis comes in many many sizes, and during any given day your own takes on several different sizes itself at any time it so desires, it really does have a mind of it's own. That may sound like a myth, but when you're half naked in front of a stranger you realise it's very true.
I was hoping that when I wheeched the tweeds down my cock would have been a suitably impressive size. It was not to be. It wasn’t a cold day, but my dick had decided to shrink to about half the size it would normally be at, while “at rest”. When I was lying there I looked down to check what size it was an was mildly embarrassed. Fuck it, I thought, you could at least tried to have had an erection. I'm not going to go into sizes here, as my sister in law may see this (Hi Kathy), but suffice it to say, it is normally fucking huge (är-tĭs'tĭk...lahy-suhns).
After a quick feel of my testicles, and very gently I must say, my doctor explained that he needed to have a check up my back passage, and that I should lie on my side with my knees up to chest. I haven’t felt quite as exposed for a long time. In fact, never.
I heard him squeeze on the rubber glove and the slap as he pinged it into place on his wrist. I then heard a squirt noise and a cold sensation on my rear entry point. He’d only fucking lubed me up. Be gentle I thought as I squeezed my eyes shut.
The probing was not as bad as I thought, I have to say. Although it took a turn for the worse as his hand decided to take a turn....in me. Ninety degrees to the right. The finger going straight in wasn’t too bad but when he started turning it around it felt slightly uncomfortable. I heard a faint plop as the sixty year old man withdrew from my ass and it was running through my mind to look over my shoulder and ask the young doctor if he wanted a turn. It would've been my way of diffusing a 'slightly' awkward situation with humour.
If this wasn’t weird enough, my doctor then got a wad of tissue and with one hand lifted my left cheek and started to wipe the lube off my ass. How thoughtful I thought as I lay there thinking 'Can this get any more embarrassing?'.
He told me he thought I had an enlarged prostate and he'd send me for more tests which I will cover soon.
And you know the funny thing, some months before I'd been at the doctors about something else and thought about raising this but chickened out at the last minute. And thinking back now, maybe I should have just told the temporary doctor then who was a rather saucy looking young lady that time. Nothing against her sticking her finger up my ass..... normally that's so difficult to get.
I have read up on the prostate thing and the thing you see the most is 'cancer'. I have seen a treatment for an enlarged prostate where they insert a thing up your penis and proceed to chip away at the enlarged prostate gland basically with a hammer. Is it just me? Is there not some better way?
The cancer thing scares me a little, but I read that one in three men will get cancer at some point in there lives, and I know that my one of my brother's had testicular cancer a few years ago and one of them removed so I guess that rules me out of the cancer market (a layman's take on the law of probabilities). When he called me to tell me, he told me after it was all over.
I got a phone call and he said 'I just wanted to let you know I'm out the hospital'. It's maybe the best way as they're talking to you so they're alive. He said he'd just been in to have a testicle removed after they found a cancerous lump. Like I say, I'm glad I found out after.
Anyway I'm sure I haven't got cancer. I give my balls a good battering every few days and they seem fine to me.
A hospital date has been set for next week, for a wee procedure and I wasn't sure whether to talk about it or not, but after a few days deliberation and I have to admit...a bottle of wine, I'm going to tell you all about it. It's 1.30am as I type this, and I'm feeling confident. I'll wake up in five hours, and think "Shit, did I really write that?"
I had to go the doctor recently. A testicle problem and a problem with peeing. I could cover it with “Gentleman’s Troubles”, but I'll explain by saying a strange pain in each nut and a slight need to go visit the toilet ten minutes after I've just been.
When I decided to go to the doctor a few months ago I knew in advance that my prostate would need to be checked and I knew what that involved. I didn't actually know what my prostate did (a high percentage of men don't) so I Googled it. I Google everything.
I prepared myself...how to say this nicely..umm....I'm aware that my brother & his future wife read this blog sometimes so I almost feel like I should watch what I say, but they are both very 'open' to some detail and some language, so I'll say...I cleaned out my ass...mwuaaaaaaaoooooaaaaa. Oh fuck. eeewwwww. Well someone's got to do it, and it's my own ass. I assure you it's better that I did it, than I saw the doctor's gloved finger in the air covered in crap.
OK, we're past that. Fuckin' eeewww.
My appointment was a 9am one, to get into work soon after, and as I was standing at the reception desk a young man came through from the back with an anorak and a wee rucksack on and walked past me to one of the rooms.
I've never waited so long for my name to be called.
How amused I was when I walked in and sitting beside my normal doctor was a young, nervous looking student doctor. The guy that had just walked past me in reception. My doctor explained he was there for training and asked me if I minded if he sat in. I'm fairly easygoing in certain situations (some not) so I said "Not at all". I did laugh to myself as I already knew what this young doctor was about to witness in his first appointment of the day and so soon after his breakfast.
I explained about my Gentleman’s Troubles and he asked me to pop up on the table, and slide my trousers down. Now, as any man will know the penis comes in many many sizes, and during any given day your own takes on several different sizes itself at any time it so desires, it really does have a mind of it's own. That may sound like a myth, but when you're half naked in front of a stranger you realise it's very true.
I was hoping that when I wheeched the tweeds down my cock would have been a suitably impressive size. It was not to be. It wasn’t a cold day, but my dick had decided to shrink to about half the size it would normally be at, while “at rest”. When I was lying there I looked down to check what size it was an was mildly embarrassed. Fuck it, I thought, you could at least tried to have had an erection. I'm not going to go into sizes here, as my sister in law may see this (Hi Kathy), but suffice it to say, it is normally fucking huge (är-tĭs'tĭk...lahy-suhns).
After a quick feel of my testicles, and very gently I must say, my doctor explained that he needed to have a check up my back passage, and that I should lie on my side with my knees up to chest. I haven’t felt quite as exposed for a long time. In fact, never.
I heard him squeeze on the rubber glove and the slap as he pinged it into place on his wrist. I then heard a squirt noise and a cold sensation on my rear entry point. He’d only fucking lubed me up. Be gentle I thought as I squeezed my eyes shut.
The probing was not as bad as I thought, I have to say. Although it took a turn for the worse as his hand decided to take a turn....in me. Ninety degrees to the right. The finger going straight in wasn’t too bad but when he started turning it around it felt slightly uncomfortable. I heard a faint plop as the sixty year old man withdrew from my ass and it was running through my mind to look over my shoulder and ask the young doctor if he wanted a turn. It would've been my way of diffusing a 'slightly' awkward situation with humour.
If this wasn’t weird enough, my doctor then got a wad of tissue and with one hand lifted my left cheek and started to wipe the lube off my ass. How thoughtful I thought as I lay there thinking 'Can this get any more embarrassing?'.
He told me he thought I had an enlarged prostate and he'd send me for more tests which I will cover soon.
And you know the funny thing, some months before I'd been at the doctors about something else and thought about raising this but chickened out at the last minute. And thinking back now, maybe I should have just told the temporary doctor then who was a rather saucy looking young lady that time. Nothing against her sticking her finger up my ass..... normally that's so difficult to get.
I have read up on the prostate thing and the thing you see the most is 'cancer'. I have seen a treatment for an enlarged prostate where they insert a thing up your penis and proceed to chip away at the enlarged prostate gland basically with a hammer. Is it just me? Is there not some better way?
The cancer thing scares me a little, but I read that one in three men will get cancer at some point in there lives, and I know that my one of my brother's had testicular cancer a few years ago and one of them removed so I guess that rules me out of the cancer market (a layman's take on the law of probabilities). When he called me to tell me, he told me after it was all over.
I got a phone call and he said 'I just wanted to let you know I'm out the hospital'. It's maybe the best way as they're talking to you so they're alive. He said he'd just been in to have a testicle removed after they found a cancerous lump. Like I say, I'm glad I found out after.
Anyway I'm sure I haven't got cancer. I give my balls a good battering every few days and they seem fine to me.
Friday, 14 March 2008
Roller Blade Bandits
On Gordon Street a few days ago, an old woman came from behind me at a bit of a run, and pulling her suitcase which bumped down off the kerb as she ran out onto the road. She was running with her hand outstretched as if she was trying grab something. I then saw two 14 year old boys on roller blades trying to get away from her. I thought they may have robbed her.
They both had long hair. But not cool long hair, the kind that looked like a girl's. Big flock of seagulls at the front and sweeping round and down their back into a wee curl. White t-shirts and flowing open shirts. Wee knob heads.
They'd been throwing those little bangers at people. I thought I'd heard a woman's high heels clicking behind me but it was those little gits throwing bangers. This old woman had taken exception to them and tried to catch them. I could hear her swearing behind me.
To be honest it made me angry and I felt like grabbing them myself. And I could have. Even though they were on roller blades they were going as fast as anyone else walking along. But... I couldn't be assed. One nearly got hit by a car as he flew across the busy street. Christ that would have been satisfying. Little prick.
They both had long hair. But not cool long hair, the kind that looked like a girl's. Big flock of seagulls at the front and sweeping round and down their back into a wee curl. White t-shirts and flowing open shirts. Wee knob heads.
They'd been throwing those little bangers at people. I thought I'd heard a woman's high heels clicking behind me but it was those little gits throwing bangers. This old woman had taken exception to them and tried to catch them. I could hear her swearing behind me.
To be honest it made me angry and I felt like grabbing them myself. And I could have. Even though they were on roller blades they were going as fast as anyone else walking along. But... I couldn't be assed. One nearly got hit by a car as he flew across the busy street. Christ that would have been satisfying. Little prick.
Thursday, 13 March 2008
Bloodbus This Isn't
A colleague of mine was on the bus a couple of weeks ago at 5pm. The of the day so very busy and only standing room left.
There were several people standing in the centre aisle and at the front, just beside the driver was a man holding a baby.
Someone pressed the bell up the back somewhere fore the bus to stop at the next place, but it kept on going. Whoever it was hadn't deemed to move down the bus to grace the driver with their presence, so the man holding the baby quite politely raised a point with the driver mentioning there were people wanting off at the last stop
"Well there's nae-one doon here waiting to get aff and I cannae fuckin' stoap in between stoaps". Alrighty then.
As the bus then made it's way around George Square the driver had to manoeuvre round a corner where some diddy had parked his car. This kind of riled the bus driver somewhat and hammered on his horn and let rip with a torrent of abuse at the parked car which I think was empty.
The man with the baby said to him "I think you should calm down a little".
No.......don't.......say.......that.
The driver turned to him and said "I think you need a fuckin' personality transplant pal, what the fuck are you daein telling me that?".
I think he should get a job on one of those tour buses and be a real face to face advert for Glasgow. Then he could drive them somewhere for a group mugging.
There were several people standing in the centre aisle and at the front, just beside the driver was a man holding a baby.
Someone pressed the bell up the back somewhere fore the bus to stop at the next place, but it kept on going. Whoever it was hadn't deemed to move down the bus to grace the driver with their presence, so the man holding the baby quite politely raised a point with the driver mentioning there were people wanting off at the last stop
"Well there's nae-one doon here waiting to get aff and I cannae fuckin' stoap in between stoaps". Alrighty then.
As the bus then made it's way around George Square the driver had to manoeuvre round a corner where some diddy had parked his car. This kind of riled the bus driver somewhat and hammered on his horn and let rip with a torrent of abuse at the parked car which I think was empty.
The man with the baby said to him "I think you should calm down a little".
No.......don't.......say.......that.
The driver turned to him and said "I think you need a fuckin' personality transplant pal, what the fuck are you daein telling me that?".
I think he should get a job on one of those tour buses and be a real face to face advert for Glasgow. Then he could drive them somewhere for a group mugging.
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
Unethical, illegal or stupid?
I don't know if it's illegal to dump your rubbish in someone else's skip which is in the street. It's definitely annoying when you pay £100 to hire one and in the morning you find everyone else's crap in there.
We have Litter Wardens in Glasgow now and the other day I walked out my office and immediately saw one of the emptying his pockets into an skip sitting on the road. And there was a normal bin within 20 feet of him.
The skip isn't there for public use. It's outside a building site. Can I fine him myself?
Is it unethical for a Litter Warden to dump some of his own rubbish into a skip in the street? Probably. Is it illegal? I don't know.
Is it a bit stupid? Almost definitely.
We have Litter Wardens in Glasgow now and the other day I walked out my office and immediately saw one of the emptying his pockets into an skip sitting on the road. And there was a normal bin within 20 feet of him.
The skip isn't there for public use. It's outside a building site. Can I fine him myself?
Is it unethical for a Litter Warden to dump some of his own rubbish into a skip in the street? Probably. Is it illegal? I don't know.
Is it a bit stupid? Almost definitely.
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
Drunk Diving
I was out at the weekend for a wee swim with my son and went to the PlayDrome in Clydebank. I paid a little more for the thrill of having large chutes available so we could experience sliding down the massive chute and disappearing into the swirling pool at the bottom, and trying to clamour back to the surface and coughing out the water from my airways. Oh the joys.
Alas only one chute was open. The wee one. I say wee, it's still as high as the ceiling but to get up any speed you have to get your arse off the surface and slide on your heels and shoulder blades. This of course causes acute pain to those areas sliding along hard plastic at speed. I did it once. Never again.
Anyway, the wave machine was next. Bloody fantastic. I now know if was actually at sea, I'd drown. I never appreciated how hard it was to swim vertically. I had to do it as my son was there and I didn't want him to see me struggling to stay afloat and coughing with each mouthful of water, so I smiled at him and tried to keep my head above the water. Several times though the wave came up behind me, totally covering me, and I had to bob through the water to a calm bit to push the hair and water out my eyes and force myself to shout "Great isn't it?!"
The pool was also quite busy with your groups of various ages.
The twelve year olds were amusing. They were sitting opposite us in the jacuzzi at one point and the boys were fighting with each other, and twisting each other's arms in a clear show of masculinity for the girls who just talked amongst themselves. Unimpressed. At one point, the girls asked them;
"Do any of yous fancy any of us?"
"Aye" says one boy as they confer with each other.
"Which wan?"
"Her" one boys says, pointing. Oh so romantic.
"Which wan o' yous though?"
"Him". One of them pointing.
So that's how you chat up a girl. So many of my teenage years wasted. If only I'd known the secret, I'd have got my Nat King much earlier. Not at twelve though. That would be illegal. Good, but illegal. I'm not condoning that, oh no.
The next group were the neds. The eighteen year old guys with the muscled bodies, shaved heads and battered faces. They were running round, splashing people, throwing floats around, just missing me, and making a friggin nuisance of themselves. At one point a blue float flew past me within inches of my face and I turned and stared at the prick and mouthed something which hopefully looked like "What the fuck are you doing you little prick?", while letting mt jaw hang slack as if I had more to say. I got a palms raised apology, and I stared at them for a few seconds longer to show them I wasn't to be messed with.
Now clearly, if my son hadn't been there, there's no fucking way I have even looked at them. If I had, I'd have apologised to them for being in their way. There's no way they were going to set about me in the pool in front of everyone and even if I'd got out, changed and reached the front door, I can run like a motherfucker if someone's chasing me, and I've got a car as well.
Then there was the two older neds. You know the guys whose intelligence didn't quite corrolate with their physical age as they grew. I'm sure there's a medical term for that. Two guys, again, very fit looking, shaved heads, unshaven, battered, scarred faces, and clearly a bit pissed. It was 3pm, and they at the swimming pool...drunk.
They were being a bit loud and unruly, and I pished myself laughing as the pool manager, some overweight goober in a shirt and tie, and a wee radio, called one of them over to the side and said "I need a word" and indicated he should move up the shallow end. I watched as the man gestured for the drunk to leave the pool and get out, which he sheepishly did. The hardman seemed to know he'd met his match. A pool manager with a bad tie.
Alas only one chute was open. The wee one. I say wee, it's still as high as the ceiling but to get up any speed you have to get your arse off the surface and slide on your heels and shoulder blades. This of course causes acute pain to those areas sliding along hard plastic at speed. I did it once. Never again.
Anyway, the wave machine was next. Bloody fantastic. I now know if was actually at sea, I'd drown. I never appreciated how hard it was to swim vertically. I had to do it as my son was there and I didn't want him to see me struggling to stay afloat and coughing with each mouthful of water, so I smiled at him and tried to keep my head above the water. Several times though the wave came up behind me, totally covering me, and I had to bob through the water to a calm bit to push the hair and water out my eyes and force myself to shout "Great isn't it?!"
The pool was also quite busy with your groups of various ages.
The twelve year olds were amusing. They were sitting opposite us in the jacuzzi at one point and the boys were fighting with each other, and twisting each other's arms in a clear show of masculinity for the girls who just talked amongst themselves. Unimpressed. At one point, the girls asked them;
"Do any of yous fancy any of us?"
"Aye" says one boy as they confer with each other.
"Which wan?"
"Her" one boys says, pointing. Oh so romantic.
"Which wan o' yous though?"
"Him". One of them pointing.
So that's how you chat up a girl. So many of my teenage years wasted. If only I'd known the secret, I'd have got my Nat King much earlier. Not at twelve though. That would be illegal. Good, but illegal. I'm not condoning that, oh no.
The next group were the neds. The eighteen year old guys with the muscled bodies, shaved heads and battered faces. They were running round, splashing people, throwing floats around, just missing me, and making a friggin nuisance of themselves. At one point a blue float flew past me within inches of my face and I turned and stared at the prick and mouthed something which hopefully looked like "What the fuck are you doing you little prick?", while letting mt jaw hang slack as if I had more to say. I got a palms raised apology, and I stared at them for a few seconds longer to show them I wasn't to be messed with.
Now clearly, if my son hadn't been there, there's no fucking way I have even looked at them. If I had, I'd have apologised to them for being in their way. There's no way they were going to set about me in the pool in front of everyone and even if I'd got out, changed and reached the front door, I can run like a motherfucker if someone's chasing me, and I've got a car as well.
Then there was the two older neds. You know the guys whose intelligence didn't quite corrolate with their physical age as they grew. I'm sure there's a medical term for that. Two guys, again, very fit looking, shaved heads, unshaven, battered, scarred faces, and clearly a bit pissed. It was 3pm, and they at the swimming pool...drunk.
They were being a bit loud and unruly, and I pished myself laughing as the pool manager, some overweight goober in a shirt and tie, and a wee radio, called one of them over to the side and said "I need a word" and indicated he should move up the shallow end. I watched as the man gestured for the drunk to leave the pool and get out, which he sheepishly did. The hardman seemed to know he'd met his match. A pool manager with a bad tie.
Monday, 3 March 2008
A Bit Old For A Tracksuit
Recently on Buchanan Street I saw a rather disturbing site. A fortyish year old man out of his mind on something.
His eyes were barely open, and he was swaying left to right and occasionally stumbling a few feet, nearly falling on top of a baby in a pushchair. It wasn't his drink/drug induced state which alarmed me though.
He was wearing a bloody white Lacoste tracksuit with wee bits of sky blue, mismatched Adidas tracky trousers and white socks tucked into his untied white trainers. I shouldn't judge him. Maybe he stopped off for a pint on his way back from the gym.
What a sad advert for Glasgow though. A forty year old in a tracksuit.
His eyes were barely open, and he was swaying left to right and occasionally stumbling a few feet, nearly falling on top of a baby in a pushchair. It wasn't his drink/drug induced state which alarmed me though.
He was wearing a bloody white Lacoste tracksuit with wee bits of sky blue, mismatched Adidas tracky trousers and white socks tucked into his untied white trainers. I shouldn't judge him. Maybe he stopped off for a pint on his way back from the gym.
What a sad advert for Glasgow though. A forty year old in a tracksuit.
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