A Lump in the Night

In the words of the late great Steve Irwin, "croikey!" is perhaps the only expression I can use to summarise the period in between now and my last rambling about not-so-much.

Just to re-cap, here are the salient points of my last blog;

1) I am moving out . . . again; this will be my fifth residence since starting blogging in November '11.

2) I have a new job.

But my run of good-fortune did not end there.

Oh no.  Indeed, I got a rather welcome supplement in the post from Inland Revenue stating that I was owed nearly £500 in tax return, and that, after complaining that there is no way Derby City Council had correctly estimated that I owed them £898 in Council Tax after living here for five months, they amended it . . . to £68.

And yet, as usual with me, it's a case of 'one step forward and two steps back' . . . and as the Desert Rose Band surmised, 'nobody gets too far like that'.

Nope. In the space of a month, I had two previously held notions that seemed could not ever be topped were abruptly shattered, which were the following;

Notion 1) That the most demeaning, belittling and soul-destroying experience I would ever have to endure would be on a vibration plate at Clay Cross gym.

Notion 2) First, I must stress how much I loathe announcing as such, given my ardently prudish nature - that the most mortifying thing I would ever hear said to me after *ahem* some 'jiggery-pokery' would remain "wait 'til my mother hears about this!"

I know . . . hearing that was very . . . 

Where do begin with this tale of woe-is-me?  Probably from the beginning . . . and with the aid of Spiderman and Gengar.  So let us go back-a-ways to the heady heights of Derby, 2008, when I was a 21-year-old student and, surprisingly, looked nothing at all like 'the cousin from Hot Tub Time Machine' which is the latest comparison I am subjected to at work.

That's me aged 21.  Proof that I was once fabulous and slim.

Anyway, I shall stop basking in a vanity-riddled flash-back and continue the narrative.  So yes, whilst most of my time was spent between Bailey, Grace, Oblivion, Marxist-Leninist theory and a dissertation on the pan-slav movement, amongst all of this I discovered an oddity . . .

So after much a-bullyin', I went to see the healer from an Eastern land . . . Grace came along too, and asked if I wanted her to come into the room with me.  Now let me think; my current girlfriend, watching me have my bean-bag poked by a middle-aged Asian doctor.  The verdict?  Take it away Spiderman.

I hastily beat my retreat - and naturally changed doctors- when I was told all was normal, and suppressed the memory deep down at the bottom of my own personal jug of self-loathing, never to be brushed on again.


And now back to Derby, present day




Not much has changed, except a new bus station, and with a different girlfriend in the impervious-to-Siberian-climates Kittie, who just so happens to be a student nurse.  Anyway . . . y'know . . . the birds and the bees an' all . . . and . . . well basically, she made some comment about the lump . . 

Alright, steady on there fella

. . . and when a student nurse tells you something is abnormal, you tent to assume that something is abnormal.  This is Factor 2 shattered.  So back I go, to a completely different GP's and yet still have an area only dogs like to stick their noses investigated by yet another middle-aged mustachioed Asian doctor, who this time said quite the contrary to my previous privates-prodder, and confirmed that rather than it being nothing, it is something quite major.

Roughly a week later, I had to head to the Royal Derby Hospital to let another chap admire my genitals (his opinion: "I can't seem to find a lump") and then a week after that I had to go back to collect my results - and obviously have just the one plum examined by someone else - who actually said that the scans showed up something rather major, and that it is likely to be something quite serious.   Having my unmentionables examined by - so far - four different gentlemen - shatters Factor 1.

Thusly, I am booked in to have an operation on the 8th August at 7am, which is just wonderful as it combines two things I despise - hospitals and an early morning.

Oh don't worry Picard, I'm not.  I mean, I'm not that worried, mainly because plarin' over it all really doesn't change much at all. True, I do fully suspect it to be the absolute worst-case scenario - what?!  I'm a Chesterfield fan, preparing for the worst outcomes is in my nature - but unfortunately there is no way of knowing whether or not it is cancerous until the err . . . thing itself is . . . removed.  

Not impressed left teste.  Not impressed at-all.

Anyway, like I say, I fully expect it to be the worst case scenario.  Mainly because I've been blighted with pains . . .

Ay naah then I've warned you enough times now

. . . for as long as I can remember, but just assumed that it was perfectly normal. . . except that one time I was just getting money out of a cash machine and it genuinely felt like someone had just thrown a brick in a place exhibited often by Gengar.  Let's be honest, it's not the sort of thing you can mention without being ridiculed amongst friends.  Secondly, I do wonder whether my blacking-out episodes were linked to it - I mean it has had four years to become something rather nasty.  And lastly, I was researching into testicular cancer, and what should it say to be another sympton.  Lower back pain.  What did I complain about in my last blog?  Lower back pain.

Oh well.  To be honest, for me personally the most upsetting part is not losing a part of my anatomy and possibly my chance of ever having children - gotta love the irony in there, considering the whole Poppy fiasco - but actually my rather luxurious hair.  

Anyway, you may be wondering why I'm writing about something so personal.  Let's be honest, I'm going to come for so much stick for having something in common with Hitler, but I'm not writing this for sympathy at all.  I'm writing it (a) because I'd like to think that maybe I can help someone diagnose any problems they may have in an area they would rather not go discussing, and (b) I have come up with some absolutely cracking jokes about it over the last week, and want to see if anyone can come up with any better.

Meh. As my beloved Birgitte Silverbow said, "if you're facing the chopping block, toss the headsman a coin and tell the audience a joke."

I feel that I should apologise that what started out as a fairly light-hearted and jovial blog may end up being  about any further revelations I may have regarding an area that will see me steering clear of skinny trousers for a while (I did my best to avoid the "I'm currently writing a magazine now and it's all about my balls" quote from the song "Being A Dickhead's Cool)

So that is basically it until I come out of hospital, and I'm lead to believe that I am going to be weaker than one of Kittie's cups of coffee for the next two weeks.  But seriously anyone, if your . . . 

. . . just go to the doctors and have 'em touched the once, rather than the record-breaking score I'm racking up - and one of these times will be with surgical equipment.

Oh well, as that famous prophet Meatloaf exclaimed,

"two outta three ain't bad"