As an adolescent I was exiled for unspecified crimes to a deeply unfashionable Australian suburb and I never really got over it. This suburb orbited metropolitan Sydney like a lightless, joyless lump of rock grimly hanging on somewhere in the outer reaches of the solar system. Just about the only reason for its grimy existence, as far as I could tell, was to serve as an artery pumping industrial traffic to and from the city. No young person in his right mind would have wanted to live there. All the sane teenagers gazed longingly north to suburbs where the salt-tanged sea breezes blew and surf culture ruled supreme. The working class, the low-paid, the new migrants, we were stuck out west, twenty miles from surf, sand and teenage popularity.

There was a nursing home in my suburb that I visited a few times with a church fellowship group. We were supposed to entertain confused old people who were pretty much past all entertainment. We would line them up on the porch that faced out on to the main road where the semi-trailers, trucks, and vans roared up and down all day; the theory was that we were magnanimously giving them something to stare at apart from walls and ceilings. I don’t know if it did them any good. Mostly they gazed open-mouthed at the cavalcade of noise and fumes thundering westwards; at the time it seemed kind of funny the way their heads moved in unison from left to right, following the traffic, like plaster clown heads in a carnival side-show, crying out for a few well-aimed rubber balls to stop up those sad, toothless maws. That sounds heartless, doesn’t it? And yet, it accurately reflects my state of mind at the time. I just couldn’t see the point of old people.

However, one old fellow drew my attention. For a start, there weren’t too many men in the nursing home, given the brisk turnover in males after a certain age. But this old guy, he had beaten the odds and here he was, reaping the rewards, ensconced within his very own cognitively impaired, wrinkly-assed harem. But the other reason he caught my eye was that he spent the entire time hugging and kissing one particular emaciated old woman. He was positively obsessed with her. Difficult to say to what degree the affection was reciprocated. She didn’t resist or appear to be distressed by his extravagant caresses but, who knows, perhaps she was merely indulging this geriatric lothario.

I did a little research with the nursing home staff and found out that the old lady was not his wife. In fact, they were both widowed; she had buried two husbands in her time, he had but recently seen off his only wife. So then, I guess you could say they were kind of recent sweethearts. How quaint, you might be thinking, but actually it had the opposite effect on me.

There was too much of the touching going on for it to be considered truly touching, if you see what I mean. The nurses seemed reasonably confident it was a mutual attraction, as far as one can tell of these things with a couple who literally did a lot of drooling over each other but not exactly in a romantic kind of a way. At sixteen, this really played with my head. I mean, what was going on here? Were they just a pair of senile, old fools mindlessly aping a romantic attachment? Without much in the way of mental engagement or even conversation, could this still be called love? Maybe love was just a fancy romanticized word for the skin-on-skin contact sought by our particular species of gregarious hairless apes? And what of the bittersweet irony should they truly be in love, having discovered each other whilst teetering over the precipice of mortality? When one of them died the survivor would lose everything that had made life almost bearable, all the hugging, kissing and God knows what else they got up to when the nurses weren’t around to prise them apart.

The thing that disturbed me most about them was the core insight they had forced upon me; here I was at the beginning of life, aching for love and romance and physical affection; and there they were at the end of it all, a road map to the final destination. A seed was sown. I learned of a thing I could never erase because you can’t unlearn a memory – I learned that love has a way of decaying with time just like everything else in this world and that it must end sadly with a parting one way or another because, of course, there is one final existential parting that we can delay for years and years but never ever deny.

Summer, 1970. In my mind I am walking again through the streets of my suburb, like a ghost. It is midday and the sun is deep-frying the shoppers; mostly they are weather-beaten, middle-aged women and old ladies with blue-rinse perms. There are no old males in my suburb. Or, if there were, I can’t remember them. I think that, as with certain species in the insect world, their female mates devour them when they can no longer take out the garbage and/or change the odd light bulb. It is important to be useful. Men who forget how to be useful soon forget how to get up in the morning and from there it is but a short transition to forgetting how to breathe. Or so men are taught to believe.

Besides the steps that lead up to the railway station there is a fruit shop. It lurks like an exotic organic trap for unwary train commuters who are drawn in by sweet, pungent smells and tropical hues; strangely, not once have I seen anyone actually come out; perhaps they disappear within its cool, shadowy recesses never to be seen again. I too am drawn to this shop almost daily but not exactly for the fruit. On closer inspection the fruits on display appear sticky with oozing juices, as does Mrs. Manoli behind the cash register. Her husband bustles around emptying boxes, arranging fruit, whistling energetically and making loud small talk interspersed with poor jokes. It is unclear whether he truly thinks he’s funny or feels it is incumbent upon every fruit shop owner to at least try to be. Either way, his repartee is awful.

When I think about Mr. and Mrs. Manoli I can smell mangoes and the sickly odor of overripe pawpaw. It is a smell I will never forget, permanently bonded with a cycle of memories. Mr. Manoli likes to handle his fruit selections personally, rearranging displays, sensuously squeezing the firm round fruit. He does the same to Mrs. Manoli whenever he passes the front counter. She squirms under his touch but this doesn’t stop his groping.

How to describe Mrs. Manoli? Her gleaming hair is always pinned back; she has what you might call a prominent nose but I prefer to describe it as Roman and aristocratic; her eyebrows kind of arch up thanks to bold and imaginative plucking, something you don’t see that often in my suburb; her languid eyes regularly reduce me to speechlessness. She would be just about perfect if not for the dark mustache but I am prepared to live with minor imperfection the way one overlooks the detached arms on the Venus de Milo. In case you haven’t guessed by now I am madly, utterly, irreversibly in love with Mrs. Manoli, hirsute upper lip and all. The fact that I am sixteen and she is, I don’t know, a woman of a certain age, let’s say, matters not.

The disparity in our ages is not the problem here. Neither is the mustache. I can live with the mustache. I have a mustache just like it, so that gives us something in common, right? The real problem is Mr. Manoli. I despise him for his sleazy sexual handling of the lovely Venus (O.k., her name really wasn’t Venus but it should have been). The terrible thing about the situation is that I’m all too aware I’m not so different from her brute of a husband; I too am full of demeaning lust for this faintly furry goddess of fruit and vegetables. The troubling nexus between sex and guilt and lust and love is off to a roaring start and it will take me years to muddle through the mess and arrive at a morality I can live with. But the real twist of the knife into my heart occurs on this very day when I walk in and catch her ardently embracing her husband. She likes him. Good God, she may even love him despite the fact he is a low-life, sleazy Neanderthal; or, could it be, because of that very fact? And so I begin to see that love isn’t sane or fair or particularly romantic or noble and that we live in a topsy-turvy world in which Beauty can be unaccountably drawn to the Beast.

Let us flee from this disturbing Venus fruit-fly trap and make our way to the graffiti-covered bus shelter outside the bank, for this is the place I wanted to bring you, reader, our destination. I fell in love in this bus shelter. I fell hard and fast. It quite took my breath away. The French call it coup de foudre, the lightning strike that is love-at first-sight. Of course, the whole notion is ridiculous; of course it is entirely physical attraction, which in itself is basically the urge to copulate with a suitable mate. But that is just your brain speaking and who listens to your brain? Certainly not your heart that is racing to some crazy jazz beat syncopation, or your hormones that are leaping to the steps of a phallic fertility dance. Shut up, brain, the rest of you choruses in unison, and just let us get on with it.

She was waiting for a number 504 bus and I prayed so hard that no such bus would come that day, just to stretch out the perfection of the moment. Dear God, grant me only this, that the 504 bus might take a wrong turn and hurtle off a cliff; and if fifty or so hysterically screaming passengers have to go over that cliff along with the bus and its driver, well, so be it. Her name was Francesca Bugini. I always remember the surname because there was an Elton John song at the time containing the lyric, “blue jean baby, L.A. lady”, which synchronized in my mind with the sound of her surname and, well, you know how it is, the urge to romanticize anything remotely connected to one’s sweetheart even when the connection is so tenuous as to be in reality virtually non-existent. Lord, what fools these mortals be. Suffice to say I was smitten.

Once more The Bomb had dropped out of a clear suburban sky, blasting me to atoms. But this was not like my childish infatuation with Venus Manoli. Of course it wasn’t. This time, it was different. This time it was Real Love. Why do you smile condescendingly, reader? How can you be so cynical? Francesca Blue Jean Baby L.A. Lady Bugini smiled at me as well, that day. She smiled whilst I gawked at her in desperate yearning; she smiled at my pathetic attempts to initiate a conversation, she smiled when I asked for her phone number and she kept right on smiling when I asked her out for a drink. Looking back on it, that girl could really smile. She had long black shiny hair. Between the hair and the smile she looked like one of those cartoon heroines out of a Disney movie.

Let us now proceed to my first date with Francesca. In my suburb when you talked about going out for a drink you meant a milk shake at Dimitri’s Milk Bar. The ambience was unparalleled in its greasy burger joint authenticity, the cuisine reliable in that one could just about guarantee to locate a strand of suspiciously pubic-like hair in one’s burger. Francesca and I sat at my usual table close to the counter serenaded by the sizzle of frying fat and occasional banging of a basket of French fries to shake off excess oil after it had emerged from the vats.

In the lull between slurping our milk shakes we entertained ourselves eavesdropping on the colourful conversation being conducted by Dimitri and his formerly lovely wife Sophia. I say formerly lovely because she had a front tooth missing and I don’t know about you but I think that missing front teeth tend to detract from overall loveliness. Mind you, Dimitri was no bed of roses either. He was one of those classic milk bar proprietors, now sadly rare in the industry, who somehow managed to combine a sort of avuncular baldness with the hairy-chested virility of a leering satyr; dirty old Uncle Dimitri; although I must say in his favor he was in possession of all his front teeth even if they were yellowed and crooked.

Dimitri and Sophia were speaking volubly and loudly in their native Greek tongue, so I had to translate for Francesca in furtive whispers, trying not to blow my cover. I had been coming to this milk bar for years and the proprietors had never suspected that the boy waiting for his burger and fries could understand every scalding, lacerating insult they lobbed back and forth like a game of derogatory tennis played with verbal grenades.

‘What’s she saying?” Francesca eagerly asked me.

“Well,” I said, “It’s a bit…kind of personal.”

Francesca rolled her enormous Disney animation eyes. “I know. That’s why I’m dying to hear it. What’s she saying?”

“She’s telling him he’s not a real man, he’s a…a whore who runs after his friends every night and does whatever they ask him to do whenever they ring up to go drinking or gambling…”

“Oh my God, “ Francesca gasped, “Dimitri is a homosexual prostitute.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said hastily, “I think the whore bit was a metaphor. And, I mean, look at him, he’s not exactly the homosexual prostitute type, is he?”

“I see your point,” Francesca said, “now what’s she saying?”

“…I’m afraid I can’t quite follow…her accent’s hard to understand,” I said, blushing at the unrelenting tirade of obscene filth spewing out of the sewerage pipe mouth of the formerly lovely Sophia. That woman could certainly swear. Perhaps she had served a spell with the merchant marines or maybe a decade or so as a bartender in the rougher parts of the Piraeus district.

“I think it must have been one of those arranged marriages,” I said, sadly, “I suppose it’s hard to recapture that first fine careless rapture when you’re flipping burgers twelve hours a day.”

Francesca Blue Jean Baby L.A. Lady Bugini and I went on to enjoy a serious, long-term relationship that lasted eight weeks, after which she dumped me. I’m not sure what Francesca was thinking about over those eight glorious weeks but I spent much of the time wringing my hands, staring out of the window whilst listening to Leonard Cohen’s first album and asking myself questions about the nature of love. I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t know how to nurture it; I didn’t know what you’re supposed to do with it once you had it. As a consequence I became moody and taciturn and generally tiresome to be around if you happened to be an adolescent female who uncannily resembled Snow White out of the Disney movie.

Francesca couldn’t understand the problem. Her idea was that we should keep things simple, show each other off to our circle of friends, indulge in impossibly prolonged sexual foreplay up to but never exceeding the point at which my testicles turned blue (always a warning sign) and let the big existential questions answer themselves in the fullness of time. In retrospect of course Francesca was absolutely right. I must have had rocks in my adolescent head. I blame Leonard Cohen. I was never the same after listening to that first self-absorbed, maudlin album.

Breaking up with Francesca Blue Jean Baby L.A. Lady Bugini proved to be devastating for me. Francesca, however, seemed to positively bloom at the end of the relationship. Somehow, by the act of rejecting a brooding neurotic like me she managed to imbue herself with new vigor and confidence. Kind of like those mate-devouring insect species, I guess. She was growing as a person and moving on in life, leaving me to wallow in self-pity and Leonard Cohen. The power of love had manifested itself and I was on the painful receiving end of the power nexus. And it really, really hurt.

Ten more years or so were to pass before it occurred to me that the attachment we call love varies from person to person as does its intensity and durability, that there never has been or ever will be a one-size definition that fits all of us. It’s a bit like our personalized perception of reality – in the same way that the observer affects every observation, so too is every experience of love uniquely interpreted by the individuals giving or receiving that love.

Maybe we are all looking at this emotional phenomenon way too analytically. Maybe when we look too closely this whole love thing melts away in our mouths like pretty, sweet cotton candy. Maybe love can’t be dissected forensically. Maybe when we wield the scalpel of the intellect we’re using the wrong instrument entirely. Some emotions don’t bear close examination; feelings are rarely rational. In which case, where does that leave us then? Right back where we started, of course. In a bus shelter praying that the 504 bus never ever comes to interrupt this sweetest of moments.

Nearly twenty years later I met Francesca Bugini again. She was walking out of McDonald’s looking harassed and clutching the hands of two whining children; I was walking into McDonald’s looking equally harassed and clutching the hands of two other whining children. I’d put on a few kilos and lost a lot of hair; she looked heavy-limbed and her beautiful long black hair had wound up on some hair salon floor. We stared at each for a moment but neither of us stopped to speak, what with the whining children and all. But I’m sure it was her.












“Can we go to the Easter Show, Daddy?”

No one says that to me anymore. And no one will ever again. Which is kind of sad. You know, I never thought I’d miss it. There was a time in my life when I looked forward with relish to the day when the whole Easter Show shenanigans would be consigned to the garbage can of family history along with weekend sport at the crack of dawn, endless rounds of kids’ birthday parties and the transporting of sundry offspring to a mind-boggling array of after-school activities. And then, quite suddenly, or so it seems now in rheumy-eyed retrospect, the whole merry-go-round came to an abrupt halt and everybody rushed off to find more challenging entertainments.

The Easter Show is a family rite of passage for every Sydney parent and child. It comprises of an agricultural show, an amusement park and a fair. For two weeks the farmers come to Sydney and those two ancient antagonists, country and city, pretend to get along and even sort of quite like each other on the strict proviso that the traditional antipathy will resume after the fortnight. Essentially it’s a showcase for the agricultural industry to promote its products and an opportunity for city kids to pat a cow. Behind all the backslapping and bonhomie lies the usual human obsession with comparing and competing. Preened and cosseted pedigree livestock parade the arena for the ultimate accolade of a First Place at the Show; abnormally curvaceous pumpkins are pitted against each other in the vegetable equivalent of the Miss Universe beauty pageant and members of the Country Women’s Association go head to head in no-holds-barred contests in cake baking. It’s all very serious and gladiatorial; a whole lot of metaphorical and not-so-metaphorical blood, sweat and tears are shed over the awarding of certificates and prize ribbons.

But of course the Easter Show is not merely dedicated to the proposition that my organic heritage cucumber is longer and more voluptuous than yours. Around this unwholesome competition in wholesome foods has grown a children’s paradise of amusement rides, sideshow alley stands and sample Show bags full of junk that kids don’t need and can’t afford to buy unless they happen to be Richie Rich. A giant pavilion is dedicated to these Show bag stands; its wide, welcoming doors are conveniently located down the boulevard of broken dreams where a tidal wave of determined kids dragging their unhappy parents behind them are flooding in whilst doughty bands of determined parents dragging their unhappy kids behind them are staging a desperate bid to get out.

Anyway, what I thought we might do today, you and I, is take the kids to the Easter Show one more time. Just for old time’s sake. Not in real life, of course – I mean, good God, who does anything in real life anymore? – but just as a sort of virtual trip in our minds, all from the comfort of our various digital devices and wherever we happen to be on the planet or (let’s be optimistically inclusive) the surrounding galaxies. So then, let’s get a move on, shall we? Don’t forget your virtual coat and, maybe, a virtual hat. Sydney autumns definitely seem to be getting cooler. Virtually speaking.

We herd our brood into the car and set off for the Sydney Show Ground. The children are full of joie de vivre; only they don’t know it as they are not as effortlessly au fait with fancy French expressions as their pretentious parents. Pretty soon the energy level in the back seat is bordering on hysterical and we have to pull over when the youngest member of the party has to urgently empty his bladder due to all the excitement. This will be the prevailing theme of the day: toilets. Where to find them? Are they in hygienic condition? Do we have to queue? And what is it with children’s bladders, anyway? Why can’t they store up the urine for a couple of hours like the rest of us? Before this day is done it will begin to seem as if a decent public toilet for our borderline incontinent kids is all we have ever wanted out of life.

O.k. so now the traffic is getting heavier. This will trigger the usual argument we have every single time we go to the Easter Show. Why didn’t we use public transport? What on Earth is wrong with us? Why did we jump into the car and inflict gridlock hell on ourselves just as we did the previous year and the one before that? Pretty soon it is bumper to bumper and all the cars around us are filled with grim-looking adults chauffeuring children all of whom are caroming off car ceilings, bouncing against car windows and beating each other dementedly with soft toys. This is what happens when parents insist on entombing children in a tin shell for more than an hour at a time – sweet little angels metamorphose into gremlins whose superpower is attention deficit disorder.

An hour later we abandon the car with a mixture of defiance and desperation beside a no parking sign two kilometeres away from the Show Ground and begin The Long March to the entrance. By the time we walk through the turnstiles the children are looking sweaty and exhausted; and, truth to tell, we don’t look much better. The first exhibit we feel like visiting is the first aid tent to seek treatment for dehydration. Damn, it’s hot. Unseasonably hot for a Sydney autumn. I know exactly what you’re thinking: why were you stupid enough to listen to me when I suggested you bring that damned virtual coat and matching virtual hat, currently hanging off your arm like an albatross? Hmm, good question. You’ll thank me in the unlikely event the temperature drops precipitously over the next couple of hours.

Miraculously, the sights and smells of the Show seem to revive the children. Adults are in the minority here and this bestows upon the kids a kind of empowerment. Swept along by the prepubescent zeitgeist our timid objections are swiftly overturned and a junk food orgy ensues. They gorge on scary-looking hot dogs, clouds of violent pink fairy floss, greasy French fries and the sort of soft-serve ice cream that looks as if it is made with non-dairy ingredients whipped up in a petrochemical plant. It all tastes pretty good though, according to the kids, and taste is what it’s all about in an amusement park, right?

And then they want to try the rides. Not just any rides, of course. They want to go on the most stomach-turning, gravity-defying death capsule ever to screech upside down on rickety rails. Our youngest, a sweet little fellow barely out of diapers, stages a tantrum when we refuse to let him ride on some macabre contraption going by the name of Buried Alive that purports to be a motion simulator which simulates, logically enough, being buried alive. This is what passes for fun these days. If their lives aren’t under serious threat the kids feel like demanding their money back.

O.k. things are getting out of control here. The time has come to assert parental authority. We explain to our progeny that we are disinclined to pay for the privilege of watching them throw up in a vehicle hurtling hither and thither in the stratosphere. This seems to surprise them. We firmly lead the them to a traditional merry-go-round with appealing horses that go up and down whilst the children hold on to candy striped poles. How lovely they look. How lovely we look looking lovingly on at how lovely they look. It is, needless to say (but I will anyway), an idyllically lovely tableau. Let us take a mental snapshot for our virtual family album and entitle it “What We Did On Our Holidays.”

A few minutes later the attendant stops the merry-go-round because one of the fruits of our loins has thrown up over the appealing horse and candy stripe pole. In fact, he is still throwing up as we lead him off the merry-go-round. Such a lot of vomit. And colourful, too. Quite mesmerising. Not to be outdone, our other child is turning what nowadays would be described as a Shrek shade of green and is clutching his stomach. Oops. Look out. Here it comes, another river of technicolor vomit to match if not exceed the best efforts of his older brother. Oh well, better out than in. They both look at us accusingly. Their eyes are saying, “Why did you let us eat all that appalling food? And why did you make us go round and round in nauseating circles on that murderous merry-go-round? Aren’t you supposed to be responsible adults? What are you trying to do, kill us?” It is a low moment in parent-child relations.

Desperately casting about for a distraction we take them to the show bag pavilion. It is a gaudy temple to juvenile consumerism. There are literally hundreds of bags for sale in here but one and only one is going to be acclaimed by Sydney’s children as the must-have show bag of the year. This will be due to some plastic toy that would be totally overlooked by an adult. It could be a pair of ninja turtle handcuffs or a headband with wiggly extra-terrestrial ears or a cap with luminous antenna attached. It is impossible to tell. These decisions are made in the mass subconscious of our children. But it is certain that if our children do not purchase the right show bag there will be no turning back. This is a once a year deal. Get it wrong and we will have to live with our mistake for, I don’t know, maybe the rest of our pointless, blighted lives. Yep, that’s how high the stakes are here. We will have to put up with our child’s inconsolable grief because he is the only child in Class Three Blue who does not own a pair of Easter Show hot pink neon sunglasses that glow in the dark. No wonder all the adults in the show bag pavilion look so tense.

No Show experience is complete without a visit to the animal exhibits. This is where we get to stroll amongst the country visitors chewing on a strand of straw and passing knowledgeable comments on the prize bulls. The scrotal size of these beasts has to be seen to be believed. We’re talking cannonball dimensions. God knows how they manage to reproduce without doing themselves or some hapless female of their species an injury. The children are a little shocked. They may require counselling. A prize bull’s ballocks are a far cry from the gentle reproduction cycles of the birds and the bees in the picture books we have at home. Best to move the children along to the milking cows before the awkward questions get out of hand. Inevitably, it is the prodigious peeing and crapping that catches the children’s eye. They are fascinated at the casual voiding of bovine bowels and the resultant great, steaming piles of turds. Due to our brutal and repressive toilet training techniques it hasn’t occurred to them up till now that al fresco bowel movements are, like, an option. This changes everything, particularly for the youngest. It will take us weeks to break him of the newfound habit of taking a dump in the garden and peeing insouciantly over the flowerbeds.

And now, all too soon for the children and not too soon enough for us, it is time to leave the Show and make the reverse Long March back to our car, always supposing it will not have been towed away by the authorities in the meantime. And as we battle through the traffic snarl of homeward-bound families the usual curious phenomenon begins; already we find ourselves busily snipping out the bad bits, discreetly dropping them on the cutting-room floor until all that is left is a neatly edited highlight memories package of another wonderful family visit to the Sydney Easter Show. Thank you for taking this virtual trip with me. Let’s do it again some time. How about next Easter? Same virtual time, same virtual place. Perhaps it might be a good idea not to bring the virtual coat and hat next year.










To tell the truth, back in my pimple-encrusted adolescence I was more like an 87-pound weakling. Maybe less. Which was doubly humiliating because according to my childhood mentor, legendary American body builder Charles Atlas, it was generally recognised that the industry standard for weaklings should be set at 97-pounds. In the weakling department, therefore, I was in a class of my own.

I first encountered the legendary Charles Atlas, self-styled “world’s most perfectly developed body” some time in the mid-nineteen sixties. At the time he was a fixture on the back pages of the British comics I used to read regularly. He would grin back at me from grainy photographs featuring a backdrop of some exotic beachside locale. The backdrops always made a big impression. We lived in Glasgow at the time and pictures of sand and surf tended to inspire an almost religious awe.

This was shrewd marketing on Charles’ part. The Charles Atlas ads tapped intravenously into the very heart of my generation’s aspirations. He understood us better than we understood ourselves. We craved sunshine. We dreamed about palm-fronded beaches. We were pale, skinny, spotty-faced sun-worshippers condemned to endure a sunless existence. As a consequence our bodies had failed to emerge from the maggoty larvae stage and malingered shamefully at the 97-pound point of our life cycle. Or 87-pounds, in my particular case.

Charles’ advertisements deftly summed up everything I wanted to be, everything I manifestly wasn’t. The ads featured the classic cartoon illustration of a skinny, bespectacled youth suffering the ultimate humiliation – yes, the old sand kicked in the face routine. Hovering over the weedy kid with the concave chest was the archetypal muscle-bound bully taunting me – did I say me? I meant of course him, the bespectacled weakling – with a maddening sneer. Completing the tableau there would of course be a bevy of bikini-clad females looking on piteously and thereby making my – that is, the weakling’s – humiliation complete.

And then, the killer punch line: a photograph of an avuncular Charles Atlas hovered above the cartoon asking the very questions that tormented my soul by day and by night:

“Tired of having sand kicked in your face?”


“Ashamed of being an insult to manhood?”

“Sick of being Soft, Frail, Skinny or Flabby?”

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Of course, in reality no one had ever actually kicked sand in my face; I don’t think I’d even seen any sand at that point in my life; but I just instinctively knew that if the opportunity to attend a beach ever presented itself in the future, sure enough, some muscle-bound jerk would promptly materialize before my face and kick sand into it.

Boy, that Charles Atlas, he really knew how to get to the heart of the matter. It was as if he had read my tortured, angst-ridden adolescent mind. And, in a way, he had. For Charles had been there, too, down amongst the myopic, emaciated losers, or so he revealed in his bracingly frank tell-all advertising copy. He himself had once been a “pathetic 97-pound runt”, a “skinny failure” and – oh the bile and bitter humiliation – a “wallflower”. Hey Charles Atlas, I would have said to him – had he by some miracle of teleportation materialized in the living room of our dingy Glasgow tenement – don’t be so damned hard on yourself.

So you see, he had felt my pain. We had a connection. Which was a bit of a miracle when you think about it. I mean, there was the age difference for a start. Judging from the photo, Charles looked to be around forty albeit a vigorous and virile sort of forty. I, on the other hand, was thirteen years old and by no stretch of the imagination could I have been considered a vigorous and virile thirteen. Myopia, laziness and a phobia of contact sports had conspired to deprive me of any glory on the sporting fields or indeed anywhere else. So then, definitely not a good thirteen. In fact, to be ruthlessly accurate, you would have to say I was like a thirteen year old trapped inside the body of a feeble eleven year old. The babushka doll of weaklings.

Then of course there was the issue of the Charles Atlas underwear. I believe the accurate name for them would be briefs. They were short; they were tight; occasionally they were leopard skin. Charles was inordinately fond of the briefs, insisting on wearing them to the exclusion of any other form of clothing. This was fine on the beach, obviously, but Charles seemed set on making a dress code out of a fabric scrap scarcely larger than his groin circumference. With a body like that, he could have cut a swathe through Madison Avenue in a grey flannel three piece suit, but no, Charles would have none of it. It was to be the briefs or nothing (I believe he did a stint of nude art class modelling in his youth). I will confess that the briefs caused me to have my doubts about Charles early on in our association. My main objection was to the flaunting of the privates, the tool kit, the family jewels, (insert own euphemism). The Charles Atlas briefs accommodated a prominent bulge that looked very much as if he might be concealing an oversized banana about his person. Disporting himself in his underpants in the back pages of comics, well, it was all a little racy for my puritan tastes of the time.

There was also the peculiar case of the unnatural skin. On the black and white page, Charles’ skin was possessed of a strange sheen; it appeared to glow eerily as if exhibiting the after-effects of some form of radioactive exposure. It just didn’t look right. One day I realised that the condition Charles had contracted was what the rest of humanity outside of Scotland called a ‘suntan’. In my defence, the thirteen-year old Glaswegian version of me had seen little of that particular dermatological condition. A suntan as in, like, from the rays of the sun? Good God, who knew such things were possible?

Despite our glaring differences vis-a-vis groin flaunting and radioactive skin, Charles Atlas had stumbled upon a central image that crossed the barriers of age, dress and geography. Every adolescent in the country understood skinny, underdeveloped bodies. A whole generation of moderately undernourished British kids reared on fish suppers, egg and chips, potato crisps and sweets could look at that cartoon and identify with the gaunt little wimp in the National Health spectacles staring forlornly into the mirror. Charles even helpfully provided a checklist of body parts so that we could tick those areas requiring the most emphasis. Did we want a) broader chest and shoulders, b) iron-hard stomach muscles, c) tireless legs, d) more energy and stamina e) more magnetic personality.

It was a case of ticking every box and sending off my money order to 10 Chitty Street, London W1. Over the course of the next twelve months I received thirteen Charles Atlas Health And Strength lessons, every one of which I treated with reverence, as if it had been a tablet of Mosaic law handed down from on high.

The essence of the Charles Atlas program revolved around what Charles was wont to call “the secrets of dynamic tension”, a technique that allegedly came to him out of the blue whilst observing a leopard stretching itself at the local zoo. Personally I don’t believe a word of it. Sounds like advertising copy hooey to me. But at the time, to a thirteen year old, it all made perfect sense. Every superhero must have his moment of epiphany, the turning point after which nothing in his life will ever be the same again. If Charles had been a comic character he would have called himself The Leopard or maybe Claw or Cat-man and there would be much leaping from tall buildings clad in leopard skin briefs with maybe the face-saving addition of a pair of lycra tights and a cloak, for decency’s sake.

Charles’ “secret” comprised of pitting one muscle against the other as well as variations of push ups and sit ups. Basically, then, a set of exercises that could be done on the cheap without expensive equipment and in the comfort of one’s own tenement slum. As such, it had much to recommend it to the average Glaswegian runt. Of course, there were teething problems. I wonder whether Charles anticipated the horror with which Scottish youth would have greeted his instruction to strip down to underpants in order to perform the exercises. We just didn’t do that sort of thing all that often, particularly in the depths of a Scottish winter. I imagine Charles worked out in a sunlit bungalow where an individual might go for years without sighting a beard of frost attached to a membrum virile (once again, insert your own euphemism), and where thermal long johns were largely unknown outside the circles of Florida retirees of a certain age. I wrote to Charles at length on this matter citing the risk of frostbite and pneumonia to dangerously under-dressed Scottish adolescents but no reply was forthcoming. I took this to be a sign from the guru to his acolyte that I should stop whining, man the hell up and learn to love my y-front briefs.

As the lessons arrived, roughly on a monthly basis, a pattern emerged, a profile of Charles Atlas and the values he held dear. He took a strong stand on drugs. The use of tea especially seemed to enrage him. Charles never mentioned cocaine or pill popping, but he did warn us repeatedly against the evils of tea. Who knows, perhaps this goes some way to explaining why there are so many coke-snorting, amphetimine-fueled, fitness fanatics around who wouldn’t be caught dead drinking tea. I struggled with the tea issue. I imagine most of Charles’ British students did the same. Coming off a lifetime habit was never going to be easy. And yet Charles would not budge on this, once more not deigning to reply to my frantic letters on the subject. His only suggestion in the lessons was to replace the morning tea ritual with a glass of hot orange cordial. And so, thanks to Charles Atlas, I learned that there are few beverages more unspeakable than hot orange cordial. I still gag a little when I think about the taste.

On the other hand, Charles was hugely enthusiastic about milk, perhaps recklessly so. We were expected to drink a glass of the stuff each hour of each day for a week; but wait, there’s more; the following week we had to increase this to a glass of the wretched cow juice every three quarters of an hour every day for a week; but wait, there’s still more; during the third week we were instructed to up the ante to a glass of milk every half an hour of every day for the week. Just to sum up, then, drink four hundred and eighty glasses or so of milk over three weeks. Presumably the diet ends here because most of the students have to seek hospitalisation. And God help the lactose intolerance brigade, for I suspect Charles would have slapped the snivelling wretches down with a stern admonition to man the hell up.

When Charles wasn’t busy trying to hook his students onto an intravenous milk drip he would wax lyrical on another of his passions – the application of a wondrous liquid guaranteed to cure a comprehensive list of the world’s ills. We speak here of olive oil. Olive oil, Charles? What, you mean, like the salad dressing? I never quite understood this peculiar obsession until I recently discovered that the real name of the man I knew as Charles Atlas was actually Angelo Siciliano. Now it all makes sense. Who else but an Italian olive fanatic would seriously encourage young people to drink a glass of olive oil every day, rub copious quantities into the hair to stimulate the scalp and even inject it into the rectum before an enema (outlined rather messily in Lesson Three).

But I think my faith in Charles was most seriously undermined by his attitude to women. Even an 87-pound runt could see that my milk-guzzling, oil-smearing mentor was a tad out of step with the Swinging Sixties raging around us. He subscribed to a morality just left of the early church fathers from Saint Augustine onwards in that he did at least draw just short of blaming women for all carnal temptation. That is, I think he did. I can say with certainty that he was a great believer in cold baths in the morning, hard beds and early rising, all of which were designed, one gathers, to prevent us from succumbing to the demeaning temptation of self-pleasuring. I can also say with equal certainty that none of these measures worked. At thirteen, self-pleasuring was high on my agenda and, indeed, I would have had no hesitation in giving it priority in any list of the seven habits of highly effective teens, such was my dedication at the time.

At no stage in the thirteen lessons did Charles mention women directly but one was left with the unmistakable impression that the female of the species represented a distraction from the real centre of attraction in the world according to Charles Atlas – one’s own endlessly fascinating physique. Like all body-builders Charles must have been self-absorbed to an extraordinary degree in order to achieve such physical development. That, after all, is the name of the game. Little wonder, then, that his lesson program espoused a way of life leaving no room for any other obsessions. In his private life, I later learned, Charles was happily married and devoted to his wife. I just wonder how he found the time in between the exercising and drinking all that milk.

Charles Atlas drifted out of my life in the late 1960s when I began to realise that his Spartan regimen belonged to a different era than my own. Possibly it was the olive oil enemas. Or maybe the prudish allusions to the sins of the flesh and that vile devil’s brew lurking in a teapot. The briefs didn’t help either; definitely not what they were wearing in San Francisco during the Summer Of Love, 1967. In fact, Charles was even more out of step with the zeitgeist than I knew. Those grainy advertisement photos of a beaming forty-year-old man were deceptive. Angelo Siciliano was born in 1893 and would have been in his seventies when I subscribed to his health and strength program. So then, he wasn’t even a father figure. More like a grandfather, actually. He died in 1972 at the age of seventy-nine, not that old for such a relentlessly healthy exercise enthusiast. I still have all the lessons. Now that I live in Australia I go to the beach a lot and I can testify with every confidence that the Charles Atlas health and strength program absolutely works – over the last forty years or so not a single muscle-bound bully has kicked sand in my face or attempted to humiliate me in front of anyone clad in a bikini.


(The following information has been compiled specifically for the first-time father. It is a kind of idiot’s guide for dummies. It is not appropriate reading for first-time mothers. Should a first-time mother accidentally come into contact with the contents, immediately get her to fresh air, open doors and windows wide and apply cold wet towels to the face until the sobbing subsides.)


First of all, let me say that I know exactly what you’re thinking. It’s the same thing every first-time father has secretly thought since time immemorial – all this birth malarkey; all this fuss and bother about having babies; it’s a tad overdone, is it not? I mean, for goodness sake, how hard can it actually be? After all, our species has been doing it for the best part of one hundred thousand years. What is the big deal? Simply read the appropriate instructions, follow the guidelines and hey presto, there you have it – one baby, express delivered, just sign right here on the dotted line. Right?

Try very hard not to say the above sort of things in front of your heavily pregnant partner. It is in fact the kind of reckless crazy talk that could get you killed. You really have no idea, do you? Clearly, you have much to learn and little time in which to learn it; the nine months have just flown by (well, for you anyway) and now here we are preparing to initiate launch sequence. Only, it’s not going to be that simple. There are no buttons to push, co-ordinates to calibrate or computer screens to consult before this eagle has landed. Mostly, it will be seat of the pants flying, relying on gut instinct and reflexes. Forget the baby books, the antenatal classes, the heart-warming film depictions. By the time you’ve finished reading this article you will know all that it is necessary for you to know about delivering babies.

Your first problem will be to establish when the mother is in labour. Studies indicate that a large proportion of your time in first stage labour will be taken up with the following questions – is she or isn’t she? When do I take her to hospital? How far apart and how long are her contractions? Do I have time to order pizza?

O.k., let’s start with the pizza. Best not to mention it in front of the mother in labour, particularly during the onset of labour pains. Yes, I do realize you are ravenous after skipping lunch just to be here for her. Trust me, she’s not going to understand. Get used to it. Nobody cares how hungry you are. In fact nobody cares about you that much at all. You are not the lead character in this performance. You are not even the understudy. You are merely the father. Apart from the generous donation of a teaspoon of seminal fluid some months ago, your contribution to this event is basically minimal.

Of course, you will be expected to drive her to the maternity hospital at some point. So go easy on the alcohol. Yes, I know you’re agitated and could use a couple of drinks but, believe me, suggesting that your partner might agree to be the designated driver on this particular occasion (the birth) is not one of your better ideas. As for the onset of labour and the right time to proceed to hospital, there are no hard and fast rules. First stage labour in some cases can be tricky to measure or even detect. I see that surprises you. You’re obviously a sensitive new age kind of a guy; one who is attuned to the nuances of your partner’s every mood. I mean, if she’s moaning and/or screaming her tonsils out then chances are she’s in labour. Right?

Wrong. Moaning and screaming turn out to be unreliable indicators of early stage labour. For a start, not everybody does it. Some women are simply not as demonstrative as others in the moaning/screaming department. As a general rule of thumb, if your partner is a moaner/screamer during the moments of heightened passion that precipitated the pregnancy then chances are she will bring this winning attribute to her labour and you will know exactly how she’s feeling. For the rest of you who are dealing with the strong, silent birthing types – go ahead and order pizza. This is likely to be a long day and there is no sense in going hungry.

O.k., now here’s a red-hot tip – the experienced father knows that there is one, and only one answer to all the myriad questions regarding the onset of labour.  That solitary answer is that there is no answer. Without wishing to sound critical, I must say that both baby and mother often behave uncooperatively, displaying scant concern for the collateral impact on the male partner. The baby will be delivered from the mother’s body when the two of them damn well feel like it and no amount of massaging, regulation of breathing, cajoling or pleading will alter this, no matter how fatigued and eager for pizza sustenance the expectant father happens to be.

Eventually, at a certain point in the proceedings it becomes obvious to even the most casual of observers that the mother’s labour is transitioning to the next stage. You will be alerted to this primarily by the banshee-like wails of raw, blistering agony emanating from your partner. Her eyes may roll back in an alarming manner; she may froth at the mouth and twist her neck and torso into convoluted, unnatural positions. It will cross your mind that what she needs right at that moment is not so much an obstetrician or midwife but more along the lines of a Vatican-appointed exorcist. Try not to get upset. Chin up. Our species have been reproducing like this for over one hundred thousand years remember. Have a slice of pizza.

At this juncture it might profit us to consult the checklist:

Are her contractions rolling in with increasing frequency and gut-wrenching ferocity? Tick.

Have her waters ruptured? Tick.

Finished your pizza? Tick.

O.k. Houston, I believe we have lift-off.  If you haven’t yet taken your partner to hospital, then this might be a good time to do so. To be honest, you’re a little behind schedule and will need to get a move on if you wish to avoid an unassisted birth occurring in your vehicle on the side of the road during peak hour traffic. Another red-hot, insider’s tip: avoid delivering the baby on your own if you can help it. These back-seat deliveries are never as heart-warming and uncomplicated as they sound. For instance, you would more than likely be required to cut off the newborn’s umbilical cord with your teeth, amongst other biological hazards. Yuck.

Let us assume that you make it to the hospital. Let us also assume, hypothetically, that despite all the stress and panic, you avoided leaving the birthing mother behind back at the house (happens all the time, you’d be surprised). The midwives will probably take her into the delivery room. We now come to the tricky part of the whole procedure. Brace yourself. Things are about to get totally crazy.The correct protocol in the delivery room is as follows –

1) Speak only when spoken to. Respond to commands instantly e.g. fetching glasses of water, applying wet cloth to the feverish brow (hers, you fool, not yours). No doubt you have been eagerly poised to coach the mother’s breathing utilizing the panting techniques you rehearsed together at ante-natal classes. For the love of God, do not attempt this. You have to understand – that is not a rational human being lying spread-eagled on the delivery bed. Your partner is going to be distracted, in considerable pain and may act as if she has something else on her mind at that precise moment other than listening to your foolish prattling about breathing. She may seem peevish and out of sorts; she might even say something along the lines of  “Don’t tell me how to breathe, you motherfu##er, I’ve been doing it all my life without needing any help.”

2) Do not be offended by some of the shocking insults and salty sea language that may pour from your partner at the height of each contraction. Much of her vitriol will be aimed at you because logically enough she holds you responsible for her current condition and this has caused the marked decline in your popularity. She might even appear to loathe you. Try not to take this personally. It may console you to know that it is not really you she hates with a passion but the part of you that is responsible for her condition and, arguably, most of the world’s problems – your testosterone-charged reproductive organ. So, be reassured that she still loves you the rest of you, just not your penis.

3) Attempt to deflect her rage and frustration. This is optimally achieved if you had the forethought to engage a male obstetrician to oversee the birth. As soon as he makes his entrance your outraged shout of “where the hell have you been?” will focus your partner’s resentment on a substitute male target. No matter what time the obstetrician saunters in he will be considered criminally late by the mother in labour, so you are on safe ground here. Sure, it’s tough on the obstetrician but what’s the point of paying him astronomical fees if you can’t insult his professional competence and make veiled threats about medical negligence? Let the obscenely rich bastard sweat a little.

4) Cry. The nurses will feel sorry for you and may even assist by loosening your partner’s demented grip from around your neck. For some reason labour pains make mothers want to wrap their arms around the nearest male and squeeze the life out of him, much like an Amazonian anaconda. At some time during second stage labour you might notice another curious phenomenon in your partner’s behavior. At the height of every contraction she may seek emotional release by taking a swing at someone. Unfortunately for you, this tends to be the father as the midwives are far too experienced to walk into a series of southpaw jabs followed by a vicious right uppercut as the birth reaches its climax. All you can do is keep your guard up and resist the urge to retaliate. Once again, do not be offended. Try to imagine it is not you personally that your partner is punching with ruthless accuracy but every man in general. If possible, attempt to interpose the obstetrician between yourself and your partner’s devastating right hook.

5) It is absolutely vital that you heap lavish praise upon your partner immediately after the baby is born. Your first instinct, of course, will be to say something along the lines of “Thank God that’s over, when are you coming home?” or “Wow, I don’t know about you but I’m starving. Let’s order pizza. Shall I get family-sized?”

Don’t do this. Your thoughtless comments born, understandably, out of stress and a healthy appetite, will nevertheless be trotted out regularly by your partner in the years to come and used in evidence against you whenever the subject of your appalling insensitivity happens to arise (which, trust me, it will, with monotonous regularity). Remember, this is an important historical occasion. Could you imagine Neil Armstrong announcing to a hushed world – “That’s one small step for a man, Thank God that’s over. Who’s for pizza?”

See what I mean?

Finally, some parting advice. Naturally enough, the sympathy and attention in the delivery room is going to be focused on the person doing all the screaming and shouting i.e. the mother giving birth. So try to keep your own screaming and shouting down to a manageable level. No one cares about your anguish in a maternity ward. If they did, it would be called a paternity ward, wouldn’t it? The question is, what do our partners want from us? The answer is, they simply want us to suffer right alongside them, to feel just a fraction of the agony inflicted upon the birthing mother. Someone (undoubtedly a female) once suggested that every father should be strapped down next to the mother in labour and, at the height of every one of her contractions, a nurse wielding tweezers should extract clumps of his pubic hair with short, sharp tugs. My own theory is that what every mother subconsciously wants is an apology; a sincere, heartfelt apology from the father for his physiological inability to share the pain and bear his part of the biological burden. So go ahead and apologize; say sorry and say it often.








“My rosary has broken, my beads have all slipped through.”

(‘Sixty Years On’ Elton John/Bernie Taupin)

When I was seventeen I fell in with the wrong crowd. Former boy scouts, Inter-School Christian Fellowship types, Sunday school teachers. I blush to think of it. What can I say? Seventeen is an impressionable age. It’s hard to believe now, observing the suave, mature and confident fellow that you see before you today, but at the time I was lonely and unloved.  As a result I guess I kind of lost my amoral compass.

This is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky – either you are ‘in’ with the rebellious In Crowd where all the sex and fun is happening or you are at real risk of being drawn into the gravitational pull of the pimple-encrusted, essentially unlovable Out Crowd. So it had come to this. Without considering the consequences of my actions I sought friends wherever I could find them; church fellowships mostly, the sort of low dives in which you could find yourself hanging out with preternaturally polite adolescents who stood every chance of getting on well with your parents. Now that unquestionably has to be a bad sign, right?

It wasn’t easy associating with these relentlessly decent and disturbingly well-groomed youths. For a start, there was the very real problem of wild, hedonistic sex. The problem being of course  – we weren’t getting any. The closest we got was ogling girls in their best Sunday dresses whilst feigning interest in bible studies at Church Fellowship. Let me tell you, the repressed sexuality accumulating in such a concentration of bright-eyed and bushy-groined young Christians was positively explosive and I mean that in a thermo-nuclear sort of way. A whole lot of drooling going on and lascivious glances, not to mention lolling tongues hanging out of gaping maws – and that was just the girls. It was a minor miracle the Fellowship meetings didn’t end up in a rutting frenzy, such was the intensity of lust in our sinful hearts.

I think this explains why it was we took to the Great Outdoors. We were simply seeking a release for all that pent-up, testosterone- charged frustration. The former boy scouts led the way in this and I found myself swept along with the rest of the clean-cut kids, albeit with some trepidation. It was to be a three-day hike into a national park, a test of physical and spiritual endurance in which we would carry our own food and tents; hair shirts and flogging flails were optional. The ostensible idea, I believe, was to sweat the immorality out of our sinful skins and return from the wilderness cleansed of loathsome thoughts, particularly the ones about Christian Fellowship girls in various stages of undress.

O.k., time for a confession – this may surprise you, but I’ve never been the outdoorsy type; cliffs, caves and forests are strictly off the activities schedule due to my fear of heights, enclosed spaces and getting my clothes dirty. On one occasion during a family walk through a national park, I even experienced what I believed to be an attack of agoraphobia that resulted in heightened anxiety and irrational mood swings, although my family claimed they couldn’t tell the difference. Now then, I’m telling you all this, not so you will snigger and make mockery of me (so just cut it out right now), but in order that you might better understand how hard it was for a self-confessed wimp and feckless shirker to join a gang of monk-like misfits on a weekend hike that could best be described as what hell would be like if it had scenic hills.

Which brings us to the abseiling. I hadn’t realized until late in the piece that there was going to be abseiling. And when I did pick up on this casually mentioned fact I had no idea what abseiling really was. The other guys helpfully organized a practice session on the nearest dangerous cliff. Basically, the equipment comprised of a rope and a friction hitch that allowed the rope to be gradually paid out as one descended, swinging hither and thither whilst laughing gaily like a swashbuckling Errol Flynn in one of those old pirate movies. Well, that was the theory anyway. Even though it was all carefully explained to me, I was having a lot of trouble with the concept. In fact, I had to ask for the whole idea to be repeated over and over, such was my incredulity. Surely there was some mistake? Who in their right minds would undertake such a thing? One was actually expected to turn one’s back to a cliff and blindly walk off it, clutching nothing more substantial than a length of rope lashed around a hopefully sturdy tree. This, whilst every instinct one possesses is screaming out that walking backwards over a cliff is a really bad idea under most circumstances.

The secret of abseiling, I discovered, is to think counter-intuitively. You must focus on that part of the rope which is wrapped around your back and gradually paying out through the friction hitch, rather than the main section of rope which is before your eyes comfortingly attached to a tree somewhere above you. The mind has a curious way of playing tricks, however, making you want to clutch with hysterical intensity onto the wrong bit of rope, that is, the length lashed around something solid like a tree rather than the friction hitch rope which is doing all the real work. Of course if you were to surrender to panic and ditch the friction hitch in favor of hanging on for dear life to the main rope, well, I guess that would be just about the most idiotic and life-threatening course of action a novice could come up with. And so, inevitably, that is exactly what I did.

My dilemma caused quite a stir amongst our expeditionary party. One of the ex- Boy Scouts – let’s just call him Our Glorious Leader to protect his identity and pre-empt any libel suits – seemed to take it as a personal affront to his professional competence.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.

Well, it was obvious wasn’t it? I was dangling by a smidgeon of rope halfway down a cliff without a safety harness. I tried to reply in a calm voice tempered with just the right hint of urgency given the situation at hand; but all that came out was “Shit, Shit, Shit.”

Then I abruptly stopped shouting “Shit, Shit, Shit,” because I recalled that this, according to statistics, is the last word uttered by most people before they die in accidents. It’s true; just read the transcripts of black box flight recorders capturing the jolly banter of pilots as their planes go down; it’s all “Shit, Shit, Shit’, trust me.

Meanwhile, back to my own aerial disaster, Our Glorious Leader assumed command, as he was born to do. He began by offering reassuring advice.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go of the rope. Just hang on.”

Hang on. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Excellent.

As they scrambled about organizing a rescuer to drop down beside me I willed myself to stay positive even though I was one faltering handgrip away from doom. I remember that the most positive thing I could think of as I looked down was that even if I somehow managed to miraculously escape death from such a fall, I would be left with so many broken bones my life would hardly be worth living. That, in a nutshell, represented the positive thought. I became so paralyzed with terror from the positive thought that I never got around to considering the negative thought and went back to shouting “Shit, Shit, Shit.”

Our Glorious Leader abseiled down until he was alongside of me. I clung to him like a baby. I may even have whimpered a little. I dare say you would have too, reader. Be not quick to judge. We were dangling in mid-air off a cliff, for heaven’s sake. Glorious Leader was having none of this emotional claptrap. He sternly told me to pull myself together.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked at him.

“A chain is only as strong as its weakest link,” he said. “Do you know what I’m saying?”

I knew what he was saying.

“Now, you say it.”

Clearly, I was dealing with an autocratic madman. I said what he wanted me to say. I would have said anything at that particular moment if it meant getting off the cliff-face in one piece.

Glorious Leader winched us down to terra firma in an annoyingly swift and efficient fashion. After drying my tears and regaining control of my trembling lower lip not to mention my bowels, I requested that I should be excused from the abseiling part of our upcoming expedition.

Glorious Leader shook his head with infinite sadness. Then he frowned ferociously at me and called me a Goddamn hairy fairy. I was letting the side down. I didn’t care. I was never going to walk backwards off a cliff ever again, even if that did make me the weakest link in some megalomaniac’s chain.

A week later we were in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, staring down into a steep canyon at the bottom of which flowed a shallow creek. There was excited chatter amongst the guys. I stood a little apart, unable to partake in their manly camaraderie because of my decision not to abseil unless my life depended on it; and even then it would need to be a catastrophe – say, hunted by Nazis in the Alps alongside the Von Trapp family for crimes against Austrian folk music; that sort of thing. Our Glorious Leader made it clear that as far as he was concerned I had incurred a dishonorable discharge due to dereliction of duty. We had not been getting on very well over the past week mainly due to his propensity to address me as Hairy Fairy at every opportunity. I admit my flowing locks were rather fey and whimsical at the time, especially compared to his neatly trimmed heritage haircut from the 1940s or thereabouts. Putting two and two together he’d come up with this feckless, hippie image of me that was all the more galling for the fact that it struck even me as being a perfectly reasonable and accurate assessment.

As the lemmings marched compliantly backwards over the edge into the canyon far below, the Hairy Fairy contingent (me) took the long way down by a bush trail that ended up at the canyon floor where the others would wait for me. After half and hour or so of walking alone in the bush the mind begins to play tricks on you. Or at any rate, my mind does. And remember, this is the Australian bush we are talking about. Out here, nature can turn against you in the blink of an eye. People get lost and die of thirst or exposure, dingoes snatch babies, everything is either poisonous or rips you to shreds, there are packs of killer koalas, kick-boxing marsupials and all sorts of indigenous flora and fauna itching to take a shot at you. Don’t take my word for it; there is an entire Australian cultural tradition in book, paintings and film dealing with the visceral fear aroused by this collision between a hostile landscape and the incursions of colonial intruders.

All of which represents my limp excuse for how I managed to get lost on a clearly sign-posted main track into a popular national park. Some people just have the knack, I guess. I tried retracing my steps but succeeded only in getting even more hopelessly disoriented. Somewhere along the way, I conjectured, I must have taken a detour track without realizing it. Or, to put it another way, I was hopelessly lost. Do not panic, I reminded myself. A cool head would be required to get out of this one.

After throwing myself to the ground and shouting “Please God, I don’t want to die,” and sobbing for a good while, I recovered sufficiently to make an inventory of my supplies. I had brought enough cans of spam and baked beans to last me a week. By that time, I reassured myself, I could surely expect to be rescued, always supposing I had not been speared by hostile natives or torn limb from limb by predators. Meanwhile I needed shelter. Fortunately I had a one-man tent that I resolved to set up before it grew dark. Easier said than done. After wrestling unsuccessfully with various pegs and poles and bits of nylon cord I concluded that the singular disadvantage of this particular one-man tent was that it required two men to put it up. I certainly couldn’t manage to get the job done on my own. Surely this was a design flaw? Why in God’s name anyone would manufacture a one-man tent requiring more than one man to erect it was beyond me. Kind of defeated the purpose, one would think.

I comforted myself with the fact that things couldn’t get much worse. At least the weather conditions appeared clear. I opened a tin of baked beans and ate it cold straight out of the can. The sun disappeared. Clouds rolled in. It began to rain. Things had just gotten much worse. I hurriedly slung a rope between two trees and hung the tent canvas over it; then I stretched the cloth out and weighed it down with a few rocks. I sat inside the makeshift shelter feeling quietly pleased with my improvisation until the rain grew heavy and gradually the canvas slipped out from under the rocks, bringing the two sides of the cloth closer and closer until they were almost touching my body. I responded by curling into fetal position, partly due to the tiny space left to me, but mostly out of extreme psychological trauma. I tried telling myself that this time things really couldn’t get much worse. It was around about then that Our Glorious Leader poked his deeply unattractive, rain-soaked head into my shelter.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he snarled. “We’ve been waiting for you for hours.”

It was a classic double bind situation – relieved to be rescued whilst loathing the rescuer. This was not doing my extreme psychological trauma much good.

I explained about missing the main path and becoming lost on this detour track. He in turn explained that there was no detour track and this was in fact the main path all along. I felt slightly foolish.

“And what in God’s name is this supposed to be?” he said, casting a dubious eye over my crude abode.

I told him this was what you get when a one-man tent requires two men to set it up.

“This is not a tent,” he said, “ A tent has pegs and poles. What you have here is a washing line with a canvas cloth thrown over it. You really are an idiot.”

It is amazing how idiotic you can be made to feel when someone looks you in the eye and pronounces you an idiot.

“Now for heaven’s sake, pull yourself together. You’re jeopardizing the trip for everybody. Remember what I said? What are you?”

“An idiot?”

“No. Well, yes. Obviously. But you are also The Weakest Link. And did I not tell you a chain is only as strong as its weakest link?”

It was at this point that I developed the nervous tic that was to dog me for the next couple of decades whenever the words ‘weakest’ and ‘link’ happened to coincide in a sentence.

Of the next two days of rain and mud and toiling through bush tracks, I shall draw a merciful veil, not wishing to relive what was in essence a death march led by a petty tyrant who delighted in haranguing me every chance he got. Finally, on the afternoon of the third day we reached our last obstacle, a precipitous climb up the rocky track that would take us back to the top of the valley. Civilization. One last Herculean effort requiring every ounce of my stamina and I would be free at last. Our Glorious Leader set a brisk pace I had no hope of matching and soon the members of our expedition disappeared one by one from view far above me. It was getting late in the day and the only thing that kept me going was the fear of being alone on this steep ascent in the pitch blackness of night.

But every man has his limits and it wasn’t long before I collapsed on the path, exhausted. I had no idea how much further I had to go at that point. All I knew for certain was that I had expended every last ounce of energy and my legs were refusing to take even one more step. My rucksack was cutting into my shoulders and felt like it weighed a ton. I had been jettisoning cans of spam and baked beans along the trail but to no avail. I even tossed out that damned useless one-man tent. Dehydration was a looming problem and I tried to conserve my limited water. My relations with the rest of the party had so deteriorated over the last three days I had no faith any of them would come back for me. I began to think some sort of alpine rescue involving a helicopter and winches might be neccessary. Had I thought to bring emergency flares I would have set them off long ago. All I could do was hold on until help arrived. And now I must confess that I began to cry, feeling tremendous pity for myself, and wondering whether I would see another dawn.

And there I would have remained until nightfall I suspect, if a couple of small children hadn’t skipped up the track followed by their parents. They were day-trippers carrying a picnic basket and a blanket, enjoying an afternoon bushwalk. The children stopped and stared at me curiously for a moment before trotting past. Their parents nodded pleasantly, and one of them even went as far as to say, “lovely afternoon for a walk.”

I was flabbergasted. It was as if Scott of the Antarctic had written his last words with frostbitten fingers – “For God’s sake, look after our people,” – and just then some fellow walking his dog had popped into the hut to say, “Perfect skiing weather out here.”

As I watched this nauseatingly cheerful family striding up the winding pathway it occurred to me that my situation might not have been quite as desperate as I had assumed. Specifically, it couldn’t have been too much further if a couple of prepubescent kids were trotting up to the top without pause for a breath, or a self-pitying weep for that matter. And if they could do it, probably lots of others were doing it too. So then, you might say that I was succumbing to the elements and lying down to die in a popular picnic spot. I began to feel just a little bit silly. And, miraculously, my legs no longer felt quite so exhausted, the rucksack seemed to grow lighter and I managed to make it to the top without recourse to further sobbing or mild hysteria.

Our Glorious Leader was waiting for me.

“Where the hell have you been?” he said. “Thanks to you we’re going to miss our train home. What did I tell you? – a chain is only as strong as…”

And that is when I hit him, I’m afraid. Well, tried to him, actually; he ducked, I missed and we both ended up on the ground. A couple of the others dragged us apart whilst we were both doing our very best to murder one another by strangulation. I’m not a violent person by nature, but something kind of snapped in my head. The chain broke, I guess. Yes, that was it. The weakest link snapped and the chain flew apart.

There were consequences. Word got around at the Fellowship meetings and I was subsequently ostracized from the Out Crowd. Best thing that ever happened to me. I wandered in the social wilderness for a time, but soon I came across other friendless exiles and we gradually coalesced into a new tribe, the chief characteristic of which was social awkwardness. We self-deprecatingly referred to ourselves as the Pseudo-Intellectuals. Where previously we would pretend to read bible extracts and religious tracts, now we pretended to read Nietzsche, Kant and Sartre. And, incredibly, it worked. Turned out that certain females are actually drawn to weedy, needy pseudo-intellectuals for reasons that don’t make a whole lot of evolutionary sense from the hunter-gatherer perspective, but what the hell.  As for Our Glorious Leader, he later attended military college and rose rapidly up the ranks in the army for a number of years until his reputation became sullied in an enquiry into bullying of cadets and he retired early (no, really; true story). As for me, to this day, dear reader, I can’t look in a mirror without seeing The Weakest Link staring mournfully right back at me. I don’t mind. We’ve become accustomed to each other, grown old bones together, and I might even go as far as to say that I’m quite fond of the lugubrious loser.


First, a disclaimer: I wish to make clear that I am not a psychologist, sociologist or even a dubiously qualified lifestyle counselor out to make a handsome remuneration from my slickly packaged advice. But I have come through this mid-life crisis malarkey and am therefore in a position to impart my hard-won wisdom on the subject to whiny young whippersnappers on the cusp of middle age.

Yes, I’m looking at you, man with the thinning hair and suspicion of a double chin. We both know there are compelling reasons to conclude you are in the throes of a big fat mid-life crisis. Well, for a start, there is the Harley-Davidson parked in the driveway. I mean, really, what was that all about? No, don’t try to explain. You’ll only end up humiliating yourself and anyway I’ve heard it all before. The urge to get your motor running and head out on the highway looking for adventure and whatever might come your way – or words to that effect.

Look, I understand completely. You wanted to be an individual, a lone wolf breaking away from the conformity of the pack; so you did exactly what every other person with silver chin stubble, the beginnings of a beer belly and flabby abs has done before you. There’s rich irony in that, don’t you think? I mean, you go to all the trouble of deviating from life’s main highway to take the road allegedly less traveled only to find it choked with a traffic jam of other “individualists” around your age, all riding Harley Davidsons and looking just a little self-conscious in their scary motorcycle leathers.

But it didn’t stop there did it? The Harley cliché turned out to be merely the first warning sign. After this came the flamboyant wardrobe makeover, the agonizing gym workouts, the dye job with ridiculous peroxide tints, all of which culminated in an overpowering urge to copulate with individuals of all ages, shapes and appearance, just about anyone, in point of fact, apart from your spouse. Soon to be your ex-spouse, by the way, once she wises up to your shenanigans. Hey, sad-faced, middle-aged man, how did it come to this?  Sit down, my friend. There’s something you need to be told.

You may need to take a deep breath around about now. I am afraid I have grave news for you. You are suffering from a condition common amongst mid-life crisis males. The technical term for it, according to demographer Bernard Salt, is Hotness Delusion Syndrome, the ill-founded belief that you have more drop-dead, gorgeous sex appeal than any balding, paunchy older guy has a right to expect. The truth is, of course, that you are not hot. Not even lukewarm. Chicks do not dig you. Younger women, in the main, find you unattractive. Your boyish charm has limited appeal; and by limited appeal I really mean you’re just not that charming at all. Ouch. Sorry, but it had to be said.

Let me talk you through what has been happening here. Social scientists will tell you there are four criteria of success in modern societies, regardless of whether you’re a billionaire mogul ensconced in your flagship New York corporate headquarters or a blue collar worker somehow finding the will to live without a stock market portfolio and a holiday house in the Hamptons. The four standards by which you will be judged by everyone including yourself are as follows: your physical looks, your job, your possessions and your holiday destinations. Of the four, only the latter can be considered a recent development; our ape-man forebears tended to stick with the savannahs all year round rather than surrender to the temptation of two weeks in Florida or the Hamptons.

Logically enough, all our preoccupations originated from one genetic imperative: gene promotion. The acquisition of houses with creature comforts, hoarding wealth, projecting health and status through our appearances and jobs, all of this stems from our evolutionary impulse to attract an appropriate mate, transfer our genes through a spot of pleasurable propagation and ensure the safety of our genetic by-product within an appropriate nurturing environment. We are all strutting peacocks, spreading our look-at-me tail fans and industriously preparing our nests. Essentially, your DNA wants you and/or your selected partner to lay eggs and sit on them. But before you can do this there is an arcane process of competitive natural selection.

Of course, none of us believe we are particularly competitive; it’s always the other person, isn’t it? Even when we think we have eschewed this often redundant and mindless competition over status and material possessions to embrace holistic alternative lifestyles it soon evolves into just another kind of status/image competition with our social peers. It’s always there somewhere, in the periphery of our subconscious, creeping about and poised to pounce. We can change the rules of the game, but not the goalposts. Like a trump card, the genes override all else so that even when you have no intention of breeding you still find yourself blindly dancing to the tune of nature’s mating ritual.

All well and good. But what happens when you hit your forties and fifties and the whole edifice upon which you have based your life begins to crumble? By this stage you have or haven’t transferred your genes, either way it doesn’t much matter any more because evolution has no further biological use for you. The signs of this are obvious. Take a look in the mirror. Nature has commenced to degrade your physical capabilities, which is diplomatic-speak for you are starting to grow old. As if this is not daunting enough to contend with, the deterioration progresses like a contagion to your job. You are not the young hotshot on the way up anymore. You may not even be treading water. You are falling behind, the signs of atrophy are there; you might go so far as to think you have lost your mojo if only you knew what a mojo was before you so carelessly misplaced the blasted thing.

Essentially, it is all about death in one form or another. The death of youth evidenced in your – please don’t take this personally – haggard physical appearance, the gradual but inexorable diminishment of your authority in the workplace as younger, brighter stars ascend, the decline of an ego that once would have scorned a cardigan with elbow patches but now finds itself powerfully drawn to anything comfortable, pragmatic and within the budget of a penny-pinching tightwad approaching the sunset of his earning years; but most damning of all is the strident denial of our creeping mortality inherent in an entire generation running away every summer vacation to remote destinations that might have deserved the description of being off the beaten track if only thousands of middle-aged tourists were not seasonally beating a well-worn track to them. Machu Picchu, Mount Killimanjaru, even Everest for God’s sake, wherever the spirit of reckless adventure might take you. Well, that and baggage porters, cooks, servants, masseuses, guides, tent assemblers and the rest of the entourage.

You can run, Baby Boomer, you can even hyperventilate in low oxygen altitudes, but you can’t hide. There is no Shangri-La waiting for you beyond the next mist-shrouded peak. Neither is there an emergency exit with a handy parachute out of this life. You see, to put this in terms an educated consumer like a Baby Boomer will readily understand, we are all genetically encoded with a built-in obsolescence, a DNA use-by date. Less sophisticated societies such as, say, the Kalahari Bushmen, call this “dying” and apparently it is more or less compulsory where they come from which is to say that everyone is expected to do it at some point or another. And yes, at a certain point over the next forty or so years you too, as well as every single member of your generation, are going to – dare I say it? – Die. And no, you can’t buy your way out of this existential blind alley, no matter what your net worth might be.

Eventually at some point around your forties, the first doubts began to manifest themselves and you became dimly aware that this death business might well pertain to you. That’s right, there will be no exceptions, not even for you. As a result of this stunning revelation, the entire generation of Baby Boomers has just recently realized that it is genetically imprinted with a “Best Before December 2005” consumption date. In other words, concentrations of DNA are starting to go off all over the place and not in an exuberant, pyrotechnic kind of way, but more a sort of rancid, chuck it out before it stinks up the refrigerator sort of thing. It turns out that is what aging is – a humane word to describe organic decomposition.

The Baby Boomers have responded to their impending demise with a certain degree of manic, hedonistic abandon. There has been wild talk of SKI (spending the kids’ inheritance) YOLO (you only live once), bucket lists of follies involving extreme sports, a mad scramble of late conversions to improbable cults with charismatic leaders and all manner of whacky self-indulgences that come naturally to this most solipsistic of generations. But then followed the inevitable angst. They had been led to believe they would all be virtually immortal by now, if not demigods, given the pace of scientific advances and so on. Bear in mind that Baby Boomers are the first generation born on the planet to consider mortality in terms of a dangerous but feasibly preventable malady. What is the government doing about this mortality crisis? Why isn’t there more medical research into immortality? How many Baby Boomers do we have to lose before the world cares enough to do something about the insidious disease known as death?

In short, the Baby Boomers are not happy. And you know what happens when Baby Boomers are not happy. They have a tantrum and governments fall, global economies have a financial crisis, weaker countries are attacked for no sensible reason and everyone buys another television or smart phone. All of the latter, I would argue, are connected; an indirect expression by a disgruntled social class gone uncontrollably rogue. We have been witnessing the death throes of a generation. And, like a dying Samson bringing down the pillars on himself as well as the Philistines, it’s going to get ugly.

So then, to sum up for the remedial amongst us, a mid-life crisis is fundamentally a deprivation of purpose. It is triggered at a subliminal level by a sense of reproductive redundancy, the ending of your biological capacity and/or inclination to transmit your monkey genes. Your reaction has been to register a sense of emptiness, of existential loss of meaningfulness. This is perfectly natural and perhaps an expanded version of the melancholy many men apparently experience soon after sexual intercourse – ‘Post coitum omne animal triste’ (‘after sexual intercourse every animal is sad’, presumably due to a sense of emotional flatness.) Your response to this situation is simultaneously a cry for help and a desperate regression to happier days of youthful virility. That’s my theory, anyway; or rather, that’s my considered hunch, one I’m totally unqualified to make apart from having observed many a mid-life crisis amongst otherwise sane family and friends.

All right, now that you know what it is, what can you do about it? Mostly, it is a matter of what you shouldn’t do. Don’t have an affair with a significantly younger work colleague with whom you have very little in common beyond a blind and entirely temporary lust; don’t buy anything that has in its product description the words Rejuvenation, Youthful, Virility, Libido, Erectile or Enlargement; don’t wear clothes that make you appear faintly ridiculous in a middle-aged mutton dressed in lambs’ wool sort of way; don’t enroll in an aerobic fitness class – you will only pull an obscurely named muscle you never knew you had; steer well clear of the impulse to own anything chrome wheeled, fuel-injected and boasting more pistons than are strictly necessary on terrestrial-based vehicles; don’t sign any legally binding documents or make any life-changing decisions related to finances, property purchases or religious/cult conversions.

That’s about all the don’ts. There is only one do. We are slaves to our genes. We must live according to our nature, heeding the impulse of our DNA. It’s pretty simple, really. By all means work on maintaining your core relationship with your partner; but I would suggest you also don’t neglect to find someone, some creature or something to nurture. Children or grandchildren are quite useful for this (almost their sole practical utility, in fact); dogs and cats are good; a garden works for some people. Invest your regard, your affection, your capacity to care, in a considered, appropriate and wise fashion. We all need to address this nagging need to be needed.

Whether you like it or not, you are a tribal elder and the heady days of breeding and rearing your young are fast disappearing. It’s the right time to spare a thought for your legacy. Sure, you still have decades to go in this world (maybe), but mid-life is a watershed, a time to reflect and to set your feet upon the path that will take you more swiftly than you care to think towards the sunset days of senescence.

The last gift you will some day give your family and loved ones, if you are exceedingly lucky in this life, is to die with dignity, that is to say, with some semblance of moral integrity consistent and intact. Some people might find that gloomy. I find it quite the opposite; it is calming, reassuring and self-empowering. The ancient Romans and Greeks based their lives around the successful transmission of an honorable reputation to posterity and I can see how that might be an inspiring thought in old age. So, for crying out loud, don’t spoil it all by making an absolute idiot of yourself and everything you claimed to stand for.

It’s not a good look in front of the children and even the dogs and cats will give you the death stare if you disrupt family harmony with your tantrums and absurd antics. Try very hard to get that one right and you might even survive your mid-life crisis long enough to get through to your old-age crisis. But only if you get rid of that Harley Davidson before it kills you. If you must have something warm and throbbing nestled between your thighs – get a cat. They are marginally less dangerous and they will love you back, although entirely conditionally and for only as long you feed them on a regular basis. In that way they’re a bit like your children.


Castrating The Bull.

There comes a time in the life of an individual when he must reluctantly set aside the superhero comics, the computer games, the well thumbed copy of the Kama Sutra with eye-popping photographic plates and, at long last, accept the advice of family and friends to grow up. This is not as easy as it sounds. Maturity is kind of like a twelve step plan. Obviously, I’m not quite there yet. However, believe me, it has not been for want of trying. Exhibit A in my defense would have to be volunteering for a vasectomy all those years ago when I was in my prime, as Miss Jean Brodie would say.

Personally I don’t think I ever received enough credit for this. Let’s look at the facts. One partner in a relationship has to assume responsibility for contraception and just who that happens to be in any particular relationship often tells you something significant about the give and take dynamic between the two people concerned. In my case I received what you might call strong encouragement from my wife to go down the vasectomy pathway. I could hardly argue against the fact that she had suffered enough already after bringing three babies into the world, so suggesting that she might like to consider having her tubes tied was never going to be an option.

Clearly, the fair thing for me to do was volunteer for the snip – well, it was either that or celibacy as far as my wife was concerned. I admit this may have had something to do with my decision to go with the vasectomy. After our last baby was born I became so deranged by the sustained period of sexual abstinence rigorously enforced by my wife that I would have pretty much agreed to anything which ensured the resumption of conjugal relations.

I don’t blame my wife for taking such a hard line on the contraception issue. There are just so many babies one can bring into the world before a little light bulb switches on and one realizes enough really is enough. At this juncture I should point out that all of our children were pretty much accidents. I hope the latter statement doesn’t upset the kids too much. If you’re reading this, children, please don’t be upset about the accident comment, it doesn’t mean mummy and daddy don’t love you; of course we do; we’re just saying we didn’t entirely expect you to be conceived when you did. Came as quite a shock, I can tell you.

And reader, in case you’re wondering how I happen to know that our progeny were all accidents, it’s simply because every time at the precise moment of fertilization my wife or I would cry out something along the lines of “Oh, no!” or “You haven’t, have you?” or “Stop, stop!” or “I can’t stop, you stop first!” That sort of thing. You get the picture. Accidents. It was as if our minds were issuing stern warnings to cease and desist forthwith whilst simultaneously our bodies were madly procreating in reckless hedonistic abandon. And yes, we had heard of contraceptive devices and fully intended to use them. Most of the time. Just not during those stupid, irresponsible, spontaneous occasions when we created our unplanned babies. Thus, the accidents. You know, it’s not love and marriage that go together like a horse and carriage, it’s love and lust; someone should write a song about that.

Let’s not beat around the bush here: a vasectomy is male sterilization. No, on second thoughts, beating around the bush is exactly what it is – a whole lot of yanking and tugging during which someone is going to cut and tie a tube leading from your testicles to your penis (yes, female readers, I’m aware this does not apply to you but you might try a little harder to empathize). These days the whole procedure is done quickly and efficiently in a matter of minutes. Let me talk you through it. You will be held down by the nurse after swigging half a bottle of cheap whiskey and ordered to bite hard onto a piece of leather whilst the doctor comes at you with a red-hot knife he has held in the flame of a blacksmith’s brazier. Or you can request a local anesthetic and conventionally sterilized scalpel. Doctors usually suggest the latter approach. Purely up to you.

The key question for the sensitive new age guy is, of course, does it hurt? Relax and uncross those legs, you metrosexual wimps. Doctors will reassure you there is no pain although you will feel some probing and tugging which could be uncomfortable. If pressed for more information your doctor may mention that in some cases the testicles can feel like they have been bounced back and forth in a game of tennis between two fiercely competitive baseline sloggers. There is nothing to worry about. Or at least, nothing for your doctor to worry about. Why should he care one way or the other just because your testicles are going to feel like Tchaikovsky’s inspiration for the Nut Cracker Suite? The patient is usually advised to have the day off work. Who are they trying to kid? Take the week off and apply for bereavement leave. After all, western civilization has just lost literally thousands of your progeny-producing sperm. You need time to deal with the enormity of this loss.

Whilst I was willing to undergo the vasectomy I did harbor certain reservations. For a start, there was the ominous spectre of Iatrogenesis, a rather neat Greek neologism that basically means death by doctor. In the U.K. for example, 72,000 people die every year from negligence attributed to the medical profession. This is a statistic that fed into my second reservation, which also happened to feature another neat Greek neologism, Thanatophobia. Fear of death. Call me feckless (go ahead if it makes you feel any better, my wife does it all the time) but I just feel exceptionally jumpy around the members of a profession who once thought nothing of slicing their patients’ veins and bleeding them of a pint or two, or slapping a few leaches on to do the job, or prescribing the odd daily dose of mercury poisoning, just to name a couple of follies in the long list of now outmoded “conventional” cures.

My doctor laughed when confronted by my nervous skepticism and put it down to what his profession is wont to call White Coat Syndrome or Iatrophobia (where would we be without Greek neologisms?), which I understand to mean a perfectly well founded fear and loathing around doctors. I have no idea what he had to laugh about. The statistics back me up on this – looking at that annual mortality rate from Iatrogenesis, you may well be better off taking two aspirin before bed should you feel unwell and if pain persists, for God’s sake whatever you do don’t see your doctor in the morning.

Given my anxious state the doctor thought I should consider the option of a vasectomy under general rather than local anesthetic and so referred me to a urologist who could offer me this choice. Naturally enough, by the time I turned up at the urologist’s rooms I had done my research and convinced myself that I didn’t want to run the risk of a general anesthetic procedure. Not only was there a one in one hundred thousand chance I would die on the operating table, there was also a one in one million, two hundred and fifty thousand chance I would suffer a complication and be permanently blinded; then there was teeth damage, injured throat, various nerve damages and we haven’t even begun to quantify the risk factors to the real patient, my genital member (code name: Captain Winky).

The urologist tried to put me at ease by telling me there were almost two million anesthetics conducted in Australia and New Zealand every year and I would have almost as much chance of winning a lottery as snuffing out after a fatal reaction to anesthetic. This did not comfort me. As it happened, I personally knew of two people who had won lotteries. They were ordinary every day people going about their mundane business, much like myself. Furthermore, I regularly fantasized about winning lotteries. I’d imagined it so many times I was half-convinced that I had actually won a lottery at some point in my life. So to me the words of the urologist sounded not far removed from the pronouncement of a death sentence. Nevertheless, the urologist insisted that my agitated state of mind made me an ideal candidate for general anesthetic and furthermore, he would refuse to perform a vasectomy on an uptight, bundle of nerves like me with merely a local anesthetic.

Over the next fortnight I sought reassurance from friends and casual acquaintances. The house painter up the road told me the procedure was a breeze; he hadn’t felt a thing and was back at work on a ladder the next day. Unfortunately, by the end of the day his testicles had turned blue and were so swollen he had to take a week off work. I thanked him for his input. Others told me that doctors tend to be rougher with unconscious patients as opposed to those under local anesthetic. Several also spoke ruefully of the post-operative vasectomy shuffle, the instinct to step gingerly on tiptoe with a hand protectively screening the throbbing groin. And then there were the macho oafs who were dead against the whole idea and seemed to conflate vasectomy with castration or genital mutilation. “My fertile sperm is an indivisible part of my identity as a man,” went the argument, “you don’t castrate the bull.” To be honest, I tentatively raised this line of reasoning with my wife. She effortlessly batted it over the stadium roof by pointing out that you don’t as a general rule perform tubal ligation on the cow either and so why should it be considered more appropriate or biologically natural for the female to undergo sterilization? Good point.

And so it was with a sense of impending doom that I turned up for my 8.30 appointment at the private hospital two weeks later. Nervous does not even begin to describe it. I’d spent the previous evening going through my private papers, sorting documents, thoughtfully adjusting my last will and testament based on who had or hadn’t been nice to me lately and generally getting my affairs into the sort of shape guaranteed to foster bitter legal wrangles amongst my beneficiaries for years to come. In the morning there was an emotionally wrenching farewell firstly with my wife (I got a little tearful; she rolled her eyes and told me to pull myself together), and then with the children (I gave each of them a hug; they laughed at me and thought I was hilarious).

I was booked in to be the first patient of the day. I can never quite resolve whether pole position is a good or bad thing with medical procedures. Going first implied the surgeon would be fresh and presumably well rested unless he had been out all night at one of those wildly decadent doctors and nurses parties one tended to hear so much about. But then again, the surgeon in question may have been a slow starter, medically speaking, possibly requiring warming up practice to hit his optimum performance level in the operating theatre. Perhaps he would get better as the day progressed and the first couple of patients might therefore be collateral damage, the regular acceptable losses in every operating theatre. 72,000 a year in the U.K., to be precise. I could feel a bad case of White Coat Syndrome coming on.

I filled out the admission papers, noting under pre-existing conditions both Thanatophobia and Iatrophobia, and wrote “VASECTOMY” in large anxious letters in answer to the question “What procedure are you having today?” This didn’t fill me with confidence. My God, if they had to ask that question at this late stage of the proceedings what chance did I have of getting out of there alive?

Next, I changed into the humiliating operating gown they make you wear, the one that invariably parts right on cue to expose your pale, pimply posterior to the outside world. By 9.30 a.m. I was still in the waiting room, along with several others by now. I had usefully occupied the previous hour convincing myself I was going to die either from an anesthetic reaction (the lottery win) or one of those virulent superbugs that lurk around hospitals, picking off hapless patients one by one. Adding to my anxiety was the fact I had a chest cold that had sprung up overnight, triggering further paranoia about succumbing on the operating table from breathing difficulties.

At this juncture I spotted someone in the corridor adjacent to the waiting room who appeared even more agitated than me. It was the urologist in full operating gear, gown, cap and mask, the whole enchilada. He was pacing up and down, yelling into a mobile phone. He didn’t appear fresh and well rested at all. Quite the opposite. He looked stressed. And extremely exasperated. A nurse informed us the scheduled anesthetist had called in sick and my urologist was at that moment frantically working the phone trying to dig up a last minute replacement. Marvelous. I guess, at a pinch, any old anesthetist would do, even an incompetent one with a hangover after last night’s wildly decadent doctors and nurses party. All things weighed up and carefully taken into consideration, therefore, it seemed I stood an excellent chance of dying from a botched anesthetic job.

Half an hour later a nurse led me into a curtained-off room and left me to wait there, alone with my thoughts, which were all dark nineteenth century Russian observations concerning the resignation of the soul to its melancholic fate. Eventually the stand-in anesthetist turned up. At last, we were getting somewhere. By this stage I just wanted the whole thing to be over with and damn the consequences. After scanning his notes for a minute or so he looked up and addressed me brightly with a twinkle in his exhausted, bloodshot eyes.

“So, having a cystoscopy, are we?”

A moment of pained silence, here.

‘No, I’m having a vasectomy.”


“Yep. That was the plan. Last I heard.”

This seemed to take the wind out of his sails. He went back to studying the notes.

“You are Mr. McPhee, aren’t you?”

“Nope. Never heard of him. I’m Mr. Kolotas.”

I would have liked to add something along the lines of “Soon to be the late Mr. Kolotas, the way you clowns are carrying on around here,” but it obviously wasn’t wise to antagonize someone who had it within his powers to literally knock me out more or less forever. He smiled politely without warmth and excused himself, returning a few minutes later bearing another patient file which, as luck would have it, happened to be the correct one.

The next hiccup occurred after I mentioned my chest cold and he examined me with a stethoscope. He frowned. He shook his head. He looked dubious. My jumpy urologist was called in and apprised of this latest development. The look on his face was disturbing. For a start, there was a nervous tic I hadn’t noticed at our previous appointment in his rooms. The man was obviously getting more and more agitated, which as far as I was concerned was a totally unacceptable level of agitation in someone shortly planning to wield a scalpel on my scrotum.

So, the situation was as follows – we were running two hours behind on the urologist’s busy operating schedule which would have necessitated, I imagine, a speeding up, if not rushing, of my procedure; furthermore, some random anesthetist of unknown mental and physical condition had been hastily dredged up from somewhere or other at the last minute; and now the first patient of the day had presented with a potential anesthetic complication, to wit, a chest infection. It was turning out to be one of those days where everything was going just a little bit disastrously wrong. Why, I bet my urologist wouldn’t have been particularly surprised at all if he wound up breaking the national daily average for Iatrogenesis the way things were panning out. And boy, was he annoyed. He eyed me coldly.

“Why on earth did you come in today if you knew you had a chest cold?”

Under normal circumstances I would have replied with something like “Now look here, my man, I don’t care for your tone,” but instead I tried to look suitably contrite. After all, the guy literally had the fate of my scrotum in his hands. Meanwhile the medical boys commenced a hurried discussion in front of me about the advisability of putting some chump under anesthetic with a chest infection. Finally, the anesthetist said, “I think we should go ahead with it.”

This is where it got weird. The urologist then turned to me and asked, “Well? What do you think?”

What did I think? Why was he asking me what I thought? What possible credible informed opinion could I offer beyond the observation that on the whole I would rather not die on the operating table if it was all right with them? But then I realized what they were after. They wanted my verbal consent. They would be able to say in all honesty that I insisted on proceeding despite their qualms about my chest infection. This might come in handy, I imagine, for the coroner’s inquest. Well, I couldn’t blame them. At a guess I’d say they’d been through their fair share of medical negligence claims and had become quite good at throwing together mitigating circumstances and plausible deniability. A kind of fatalism common in Russian literary characters settled over me – let’s just call it a death wish and be done with it – and I agreed to go ahead.

From this point on everything became kind of surreal. There was no soothing pre-op preparation, no sedative to calm me, not even a bed to lie on or an orderly to wheel me into the operating theatre. I followed them along a corridor, my pale, pimply backside no doubt hanging out of the ill-fitting gown, listening to the urologist thanking the anesthetist for filling in at the last moment. I gathered they barely knew each other. And then we were in the operating room, bright lights, a couple of masked nurses, a tray of gleaming scalpels. They told me to get on the operating table; the anesthetist inserted something into my arm and proceeded to count backwards from ten. I was terrified. I gazed up into masked faces and the last thing that came into my head, a bit like clutching at a crucifix for the comfort it afforded, was a cherubic montage of my unplanned children’s faces.

Reader, you will be relieved to learn that somehow, against the odds, I survived. The operation proved to be a great success if you consider firing sterile blanks for the rest of your life something to celebrate; my wife definitely did. For myself, I must say there was a certain diminishment. Sex lost a little of its dangerousness; I think maybe the thrill seeker in me missed that extreme sport element of walking the pregnancy tightrope and getting away with it. And so, for eminently sensible and logical reasons, love was rendered safer and more suburban, tamed and contained. In the end, I guess that’s what growing up really means. The end of roller coaster recklessness, the docile submission to the yoke of adult responsibilities. That said, I bet Peter Pan never underwent a vasectomy, no matter how much Wendy nagged him. Peter would have maintained his balls intact to the last, that’s the kind of guy he was. Immature, but in a lovable, incorrigible way.

I will end on a positive note for pet lovers: many vasectomy survivors benefit from a new found empathy with their furry friends. When I limped into the house performing the classic vasectomy shuffle I swear there was a glint of recognition in our desexed cat’s eyes that said, “Now you know what it feels like, you insensitive bastard.”