Ben Elton - Inconceivable

Except when he’s pissed, of course, then it’s the other way round, then it’s all cuddle and no chance of a seeing to.

“ I love you I love you I love you,” he dribbles. “I really really honestly love you.”

I mean, I ask you. As if any woman desires the sweet nothings of a sad sack of beer and flatulence?

But anyway, I do feel a bit rejected. This evening I tried to snuggle up when we were watching Channel Four News but when Sam watches telly he really watches it, no distractions allowed, even during the adverts. It’s amazing. There he is, concentrating on the golden crispiness of a packet of fish fingers or the sheer joy of driving a Fiat Uno and nothing must intrude. If I put my arm round him or my head on his shoulder I can feel him tense up and if I should dare to ask him to massage my feet or some other such pleasantry, well blimey! It’s like I’ve demanded that he sacrifice his entire existence for my comfort. I suppose I must just accept that he is not, nor ever will be, much of a cuddler. I don’t think many men are. At least I hope it’s not just him.

Yesterday I had one more go at the visualization class. Drusilla made me. She said it was absurd to do it just once and that if I didn’t go again then I might as well not have gone at all. So I gave it another chance, but it really isn’t for me. We’re all supposed to know each other now so the American lady was a bit bolder and she hopped straight in with some cathartic roleplaying. She made us all cry like babies. Ten grown women sitting in a circle, crying and wailing. I think the idea was to physicalize and project our need for children and hence stop us feeling like it was some kind of guilty secret. That may have been it. Anyway, it was bloody embarrassing. After that we had to hug each other and offer comfort, sharing our sadness and recognizing that we are not alone. Well, I tried to be communally supportive but it was pretty gruesome. I ended up clamped to the bosom of a woman who smelt of dogs. I really shan’t go again now. I wouldn’t have gone at all if I hadn’t been feeling so helpless.

One strange thing, though. During the meditation bit of the class (which happens at the end – we have to sit around and go all dreamy) I found myself thinking about that appalling hoity Carl Phipps, you know, the Uhoaa from work. Can’t think why, I don’t even like him or find him attractive. Although he does have a nice smile, that is when he deigns to bestow it upon one so lowly as I.

Dear Book

Trevor and I played squash today. God, I am so unfit. I coughed up something that looked like it lived in a pond. I hardly smoke at all any more but I do like a drink. I think I’ll try and switch to Spritzers. The beer is beginning to lie rather heavy.

Anyway, I talked to Trev a bit about my impending examination re sperm and we both agreed that it is not a test of my manhood. A poor result, a thin scrotal mix in the pot, does not mean I am any less of a man. Trevor pointed out that I have always prided myself on my liberal outlook and have never had any respect for all that macho bullshit. He was actually very sensitive and nice. He asked me whether I’d think him any less a whole man if it was him who was suspected of having a sad sorry sack full of bugger-all banging betwixt his legs. I said of course I wouldn’t.

But I would ! I know I would. I’d pretend I wouldn’t but I would. “Poor old Trevor,” I’d think, “not much going on in the bollock department,” I’d think, “something of a testicular void”.

And that’s what he’s going to be thinking about me when I fail.

I told Lucy about my fears and, here’s a funny thing, she burst into tears, which I wasn’t expecting at all. I mean, after all, I’m the man with the suspected empty balls, aren’t I?

So I said, “Hang on. I’m the one with the suspected empty balls, aren’t I?”

I thought she was going to hit me. She said that I was already thinking in terms of “fault”, which was pathetic and destructive! She said that the truth was that the problem was far more likely to rest with her than with me because a woman’s tubes are a lot more complicated than any stupid horrible little knob and that if my sperm proved acceptable our infertility would henceforward be her “fault” and I would blame her! This was of course followed by more tears.

“Well,” I said, “a: I don’t care whether we have kids or not and…” I didn’t get to b, because she called me an insensitive shit, redoubled her wailing and weeping and ran out of the room.

I hate seeing her cry. It really makes me sad. On the other hand I do think it’s a bit much that I can’t worry about my sperm count without her turning it all back on to herself. I mean, I’m in on this too, aren’t I? Or aren’t I?

But life goes on. There is after all more to it than my bollocks, although I do tend to forget that fact with a sperm test pending. But turning to other subjects, I’ve been thinking about the conversation I had with Trevor and George at Quark about our job titles. Perhaps I should be moving on from the Beeb? After all, there’s so much independent production going on and what with my Beeb experience, I’d probably be in huge demand. Of course I would. And I must say that I quite fancy a bit of that indie cash that’s swilling about the place. Honestly, I see children making five times what I make and all because they’ve rented three square feet of carpet in Dean Street, a secretary with a nice belly button and commissioned a witty documentary about chalet girls on the piste or something equally blindingly obvious. I mustn’t get resentful, but on the other hand I must get off my arse.

Of course what I’d really like to do is write an original script myself but since even coming up with an initial idea seems to be beyond my creative powers I might as well do my present job but for a decent salary, which means the indie sector.

Only eight days to go until the big test and I am definitely feeling quite relaxed about it. In fact, it’s actually seven days and thirteen hours, so what’s the problem?

Dear Penny

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

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

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

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

But with a woman! Well, a woman’s plumbing is like… well, I don’t know what it’s like, I’m trying to think of something really complex but also very beautiful. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, for instance, or Paul Simon’s Graceland album. There’s a hundred things to be checked and every single one of those checks involves a gang of doctors placing something up one’s doodah not dissimilar to the equipment they used to build the Channel Tunnel! How could he wish that upon me?