Inconceivable (6 page)

Dear Penny,

I
can’t believe it!

Sam thinks about is his sperm test. I mean for God’s sake! From what I can gather, as a younger man he practically had a
degree
in masturbation. His horrid hand was never still! Even now I suspect he occasionally indulges in a sly ‘excuse me’ when I’m not around.

All in all masturbation is clearly a much-loved hobby to Sam and yet here he is, moping about as if he’s been sentenced to be hanged by the scrotum until dead.

What’s more, he’s

desperate
to get a good result! Terrified that he might be found to be lacking in the tadpole department. This is unbelievably selfish of him because basically and in reality what this means is that he’s desperate for there to be something wrong with
my
body. I mean, that’s what it comes down to, surely? When he prays for a full complement of the damn stuff he’s actually praying for me to have shrivelled tubes, or blocked follicles or nodules on my whatsit or something equally ghastly. Because, let’s face it, it’s either him or me. We can’t blame Mrs Thatcher for everything like we used to when we were young.

And this is the

whole point.
There is basically only one thing that can go wrong with a man. N.E.S. Not Enough Sperm. That’s it and once you know you know, and you can start to deal with it. I imagine there are creams or possibly vitamin supplements of some kind.

But with a woman! Well, a woman’s plumbing is like…well, I don’t know what it’s like, I’m trying to think of something really complex but also very beautiful. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, for instance, or Paul Simon’s

Graceland
album. There’s a hundred things to be checked and every single one of those checks involves a gang of doctors placing something up one’s doodah not dissimilar to the equipment they used to build the Channel Tunnel! How could he wish that upon me?

There was a documentary on this evening about orphans of war.

I wanted them all.

Every single one, disabled, dying. There was one little girl with no mummy no daddy, no home and no legs. I’d bloody have her any time. Does that make me a patronizing Western imperialist who wants to deprive a child of its culture merely to satisfy my mawkish maternal needs? Probably, but I don’t care. If Sam I can’t have kids (oh God, I’m going teary again) I think I’ll try and work for a children’s charity. I sent £100 to War Child but didn’t tell Sam as we already have a charity covenant and have agreed not to respond to impulse appeals.

Dear Self,

I
feel much better about the sperm test now.

I’ve decided that it’s actually politically offensive to get all worked up with fear and shame about something which is simply an accident of nature. Would I consider someone who is born with less than fully functioning legs or arms less of a man or woman for that? No, I damn well wouldn’t. So enough of this nonsense.

I’ll take my sperm result like a man and if it’s a poor one then so be it. If it turns out that the contents of my balls is all stew and no dumplings then that’s fine by me. I’ll simply shrug,
c’est la vie
style. In fact I’ll take pride in the way God made me.

‘I have runny spunk,’ I shall announce at dinner parties. ‘Does anyone have a problem with that?’

Nonetheless, despite not caring at all, I’m planning to go into a bit of training. Well, you want to do as well as possible, don’t you? I might as well give it my best shot, so to speak (quite funny that, must suggest it to one of our ruder comics). I’ve resolved therefore to cut out the booze for a few days and eat a lot of fruit. Also George told me that he’d heard that zinc was good, so I’ve bought a tub of five hundred tablets from Boots.

I’ve also got multivitamins, a crate of Energizer sports drink and an American book entitled
The Testicular Workout
. Having said all this, I wish to stress again that I’m not in the slightest bit concerned about my test result.

Turning once more to other matters, I did something a bit devilish at work today. I instigated a bit of tentative job exploration and on BBC time too. I wrote a letter to Simon ‘Tosser’ Tomkins, with whom I was at college. Old Tosser’s done very well of late, having practically cornered the market in supplying the BBC with programmes fronted by posh smart Alecs.

He and his partners have had a quite extraordinary run of success, producing quiz shows (fronted by posh smart Alecs), chat shows (fronted by posh smart Alecs) and endless travelogues (fronted by posh smart Alecs). All these shows, I have to say, have been pretty good, not least, I might add, because the BBC itself pioneered most of the formats on radio.

Anyway, Tosser recently floated his company on the stock market and it turned out that it’s worth seven million quid! Which really is a quite astonishing amount of money. And to think I once saw him shove four radishes up his arse at a May Ball. Blimey.

Anyway, I just sent him a friendly note, you know…

‘
Dear Tosser. The Beeb’s a bit crap these days or what? Too many shows full of yobs going on about how much they like football. I was thinking of putting myself about a bit. What do you think?’

I signed it ‘
Sam Bell, Executive Chief Commissioning Editor, BBC Worldwide
,’ which is actually a post I made up but I didn’t want old Tosser thinking I’m not a major player. Of course, being me, as I was putting the note into an envelope I began to worry about it. I suddenly felt all guilty and started to think that I might be burning bridges at the Beeb. Suppose my negative thinking is showing in my attitude? I wouldn’t wish to blow the credit I’ve built up at TV Centre, certainly not before I get a new job. So I also sent a note to the new Channel Controller asking if he’d like to come to dinner. I very much doubt he will, since as I believe I’ve mentioned he’s younger than me and also knows pop stars and people like that, but it’s nice to ask him. A bit of smarmy arselick never hurts. I sent the letters through the BBC franking system. Let the licence payers stump up the cash. I’ve given them the best years of my life.

Dear Pen Pal

I spent yesterday lunchtime at a women’s clinic for alternative medicine and therapy. As I’ve said, all that New Agey stuff is not really for me, but on the other hand it’s foolish to dismiss things out of hand. Anyway, while I was there I bumped into Drusilla. she’d just been to an aromatherapy session and she reeked of orange and liquorice oils. It made me think of the school tuckshop actually. This was unfortunate because of course then I thought of all the girls I knew at school, and then I wondered where they all are now and of course then I thought they’ve all got babies
! Twelve each, no doubt. Which is wonderful, and I’m glad for them, no really I am, but it does also make me feel a bit sad.

Anyway, Drusilla (who seems to be nearly as fascinated by my infertility as I am myself) asked how long we’d lived in Highgate.

‘Five years,’ I said, to which she positively shrieked and said that this was our problem! I told her not to be ridiculous, of course, but asked her to tell me more (you can’t be too careful). Well, apparently it’s well known that there’s an unfriendly and infertile ley line running right through Hampstead and Highgate. I pointed out that other people conceive in Highgate, but apparently ley lines are very personal and can be a fertility drug for some and an absolute vinegar douche for others. Drusilla is convinced that our problem is geographical. She claims that the most powerfully positive ley line within this, our ancient and magical land of Albany, runs right across Primrose Hill! Well, I half guessed what was coming, but it was still a shock. She wants Sam and me to have it off on top of Primrose Hill!

On bloody top! In the open air. At midnight under a full moon, no less.

It’s not on, of course. Absolutely out of the question. Under no circumstances would I dream of doing such a thing. Well, it’s ridiculous. She’ll have us fellating at Stonehenge next.

Incidentally, I nearly shouted at that arrogant sod Carl Phipps today. I was on my own in the office and he came in to pick up some faxes, from an American producer no less, very grand. I must say he was looking rather nice, wearing a maroon-coloured corduroy suit, so I said, ‘Oh you’re looking rather nice, Carl,’ and he said, ‘Well, one tries.’ I mean the arrogance! He might just as well have said, ‘Yes, I am gorgeous, aren’t I?’ Which he is not, incidentally. Anyway, then he sat right down on the corner of my desk and said, ‘You’re looking like something of a sex bitch yourself today, Lucy’ which was simply not true. All I had on was a silly little miniskirt, my kinky boots and that little tight top I quite like. Frankly I looked awful, so it was stupid of him to pretend I didn’t.

Carl is terribly popular with the public. He’s definitely our biggest client. He gets loads of fan mail from that costume thing he did at the Beeb. I can’t think what people see in him.

Dear Book,

G
ood news and bad news. Lucy has vetoed my all-round scrotal fitness plan. She says that the test must not be rigged. If we’re to get anywhere with discovering why we’re infertile I must present an honest picture of myself and my life. i.e. half pissed most nights and occasionally at lunchtime. Lucy suspects, I fear, that my fondness for booze (which though sociable is by no means excessive) may be the problem. She imagines that the inside of my scrotum resembles the Groucho Club at 1.45 on a Saturday night, i.e. nearly empty but with a thin smattering of pissed-up free-loading liggers who have no real skills or purpose and appear to make no positive contribution to anything whatsoever that might justify their comfortable and socially exalted existence.

Therefore, despite her low opinion of my fertility, Lucy wants it to be presented honestly and for this reason the zinc and the multivitamins have been ditched. Also (rather splendidly) she’s told me to keep drinking. Although only at normal levels, whatever they may be. I find it almost impossible to work out how much I drink. I mean I know it’s not that much, but how much is that? If ever I ask myself ‘How many did I have last night?’ I always answer, ‘Oh, only a few.’ But when you actually try and work it out, check how much you spent, the state of the whisky bottle still on the kitchen table, the various places you’ve been, suddenly you’re worrying that you’re an alcoholic.

Anyway, Lucy’s decision not to let me prepare for my test has certainly made life easier. I’m particularly pleased to be able to give up the
Testicular Workout
. It promised firm, full and rounded testicles in a wrinkle-free scrotum inside one month, but it required a kind of tensing of the arse and lower gut muscles which made me frown furiously. I’m glad not to be bothering with that any more. I have enough new lines on my face without deliberately grimacing for ten minutes a day.

Anyway, in four days’ time it will all be over. Which means from tomorrow onwards I’m not allowed to ejaculate. Apparently a three-day period of being left alone in quiet contemplation will give my sperm time to consider their characters and pull themselves together a bit. No great hardship, this abstinence.

Sex for Lucy and me at the moment is rarer than a decent sitcom on ITV and I’m usually too tired to be bothered with slapping the monkey.

No reply yet from Tosser, or indeed the Channel Controller, but I take this as no slight. They’re both very busy men, very busy men indeed, as, of course, am I.

Big Issue

Dear Pen Pal,

I
gave blood today. This test is to consider my hormone level to see if I ovulate. I did it at an NHS Female Health Clinic in Camden. I didn’t do it at my normal GP’s because Dr Cooper is on holiday and I don’t really like Dr Mason (nothing specific, just don’t really like him).

God, Camden’s getting gruesome. If you’re not out of your brains on drugs the police stop you and ask if you’re lost. I walked up the High Street holding my copy of the

as a sort of shield
. So
depressing, all those homeless people. How did it happen? Thatcher, I used to think, but she’s been gone for donks and they’re still here. You give money to a couple of them but you can’t give money to them all and when you’ve run out of change you want to say to the ones you haven’t given anything to that you’ve already given money to the previous ones, but why would they care?

The clinic was depressing, as it would be. All these women having their bits and their boobs checked, or barren like me. One tries to maintain a positive outlook but it’s not easy.

There was an old

TV Times
in the waiting pen (I won’t call it a ‘room’, that would make it sound too cosy; it was just a sort of square of plastic chairs with a couple of broken toys on the floor). Anyway, the
TV Times
contained quite a good article about Carl Phipps, when he was still in that awful thing
Fusilier!
on ITV. Quite nice pictures, although I must say I prefer him now he’s got longer hair. That crew cut was rather brutal. Still, his eyes haven’t changed, still soft and limpid. He knows how nice they are, though, like David Essex used to. I’ll bet he uses twinkle drops. The text went on and on about how girls are always getting terrible crushes on him. You can see how they might, but God, some women are stupid.