This wasn’t today, sometime ago in fact.
I got a letter in the post telling me to go for a medical checkup for my life insurance. “No worries” said I, munching down on my breakfast bacon butty “I am a picture of bloody health.” The old ball-and-chain muttered something under her breath which I didn’t quite catch – it was either “fat bastard” or “fit barsteward” but she wouldn’t repeat it. I’ll go with the barsteward one because I have been known to frequent drinking establishments from time to time but also, memorably, did a press up as a Christmas party trick once. Just the one, mind you, don’t want to end up looking like that robot fella, wozisname, Arnold… you know the bloke that whoopsed the hired help and then became a big shot politician. Yeah, that’s the fella.
So anyway, I arrived at the doc’s office and the receptionist told me the doctor was running a bit late – some old fella had swallowed his dentures or something – so I ended up sitting in the waiting room for about an hour and a half flicking through old copies of Reader’s Digest, Horse & Country and Farmers Weekly.
At this point my guts got sick and tired of waiting around and started fidgeting – rapidly breaking down the mince and cheese pie I’d had for breakfast on the way into town. Mate, traffic was getting seriously backed up at the motorway exit, if you know what I mean. So, I’m sitting there thinking to myself “Cripes, I’ll have to hold myself down for this one” and working out a plausible excuse to go and walk around in the car park for a few minutes when the receptionist called me to see the doctor.
There was no escape so I did the old reverse swallowing trick is well-known to fellas like me who are prone to the odd bumburp here and there.
Now at this point, I’d just like to describe my doctor. Most doctors are bloody old, smell of Old Spice and piss, and partial to a power nap. Usually these happen while you’re describing your symptoms and you end up with a leg cast to treat your hay fever or eye drops for your chapped udders… in small towns doctors can double up as vets, by the way.
Yeah, so our new doctor is not like this at all. She is in her thirties and pretty in a sort of Dr-Quinn-Medicine-Woman kind of way. She’s been bloody awesome for the district health levels because there seems to be a lot more bathing and hairbrushing and suchlike amongst the lads, and the fellas now drag the kids off to the doc at the slightest sniffle.
Oh and she’s bloody posh: you know that “I drive a Volvo and get someone else to sweep the sh*t off my porch for me” kind of posh.
So I went into the consulting room and the doctor asked if I’d like a fella to perform the exam. “Odd” I thought but anyway, I wouldn’t want Mick the orderly there to get all involved – he’d spend an hour talking footy and I’ve got bloody fences to mend! So I said no. So we did the pulse thing, and the ears, eyes, throat thing, blow in this tube, stand on the scale, blah-de-blah-de-blah. Then she asked if I would undress to my underwear and lie on the bench as she needed to check for hernias and a testicular cancer.
Things began to get very tricky as she was doing her checks extremely thoroughly – I was frantically trying to sing the national anthem backwards to myself whilst mentally yelling at my downstairs “DON’T YOU BLOODY MOVE!”.
Let’s just say I ignored myself. Embarrassed as, I tried to bluster through an explanation she just gave me an “I’ve seen it all before don’t you worry” smile, patted my on my shoulder and then said that she needed to do a prostate exam. I would need to lower my briefs and lie on my side. “Odd” I thought again but only briefly as I was trying to tuck my errant old fella away out of sight.
Now at this point, I would like to make a serious complaint about the education system of the seventies and eighties. No-one explained enough about the prostate when you’re at school. Most blokes don’t know what it is, let alone where it is or how it’s checked. All we know is its in the section of the school textbook where there are pictures of naked people that other students over the years have decorated with little spectacles and moustaches, arrows, people’s names and suchlike.
So I was lying there still smarting from embarrassment when suddenly it felt like the doctor rammed a log of firewood up my nethers. “A bit taken aback” is probably the politest way of describing my reaction but she persisted, rummaging around like Santa searching his grotto for a present and I swear at one point she might have been in up to her bloody elbow.
If this wasn’t enough, the mince and cheese pie and my over-active metabolism came back to haunt me. I farted long and hard and, my oh my, it smelled like it came from the deepest depth of Satan’s own backside. I can quite comfortably say that the embarrassment of becoming sexually aroused during a hernia and testicular exam pales into insignificance when you fart in a doctors face. So, needless to say, I haven’t been back to the Doctor for a year and a half. My missus says the doctor often asks after me and I suspect there’s been a bit of a breach of doctor/patient confidence because she always sniggers when she tells me this. Oh, and I saw the receptionist in the supermarket a month after the exam and she was laughing uncontrollably and pretending she had read something amusing on the back of a cereal packet. Personally, I’ve never seen anything on a cornflakes box that is THAT funny so she must know too.
This is why I hate insurance salesman – if it wasn’t for them I’d still be mates with my doctor.
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