Ben Elton - Inconceivable

Now it turns out the man’s got bigger bollocks than all of his patronizing male descendants put together! Spunk is a diminishing commodity. George Formby had more than Tom Jones, who in turn has more than Liam Gallagher. Amazing. Dixie Dean had more capacious testicles than George Best, who had bigger ones than Gazza. Actually, thinking about it, that’s probably why old-time footballers used to wear those huge shorts, it was clearly to fit their bollocks in. In fact it’s probably why when you watch an old pre-war game on film it always looks so slow and uninspired. It was probably as much as the poor bastards could do to drag their enormous scrotums up and down the pitch.

Recently I’ve been feeling slightly old, which is ridiculous at thirty-eight. Except is it? I mean of course I can realistically say that I may not even have lived half of my life yet, but come on, my sixties and seventies are hardly comparable to my twenties and thirties, are they? I mean I may have as many years left, but will there be as much life in them? No bloody way. I already get buggered knees if I play too much tennis.

I don’t like thinking this way. In fact, I don’t really like thinking at all. I’m not really an introspective sort of person. It’s writing these stupid bloody letters that’s making me all self-conscious. Perhaps I should cut down on the booze a bit. I’ll have a drink and think about it.

Dear Penny

I’m afraid Drusilla’s visualization class was a complete and utter washout. Why is it that anything interesting and different always has to be championed by the most unprepossessing people? Honestly, I’m trying to be nice here, but the types at this class made Drusilla (who is madder than the Green Room at the National Theatre) look positively sane.

I arrived at the Community Centre and a large woman with more hair (hennaed) than an old English sheepdog and breasts like Space Hoppers asked me if I wished to purchase some washable hessian sanitary napkins! I mean I ask you, Penny! Ugh, or what?! I’m happy to recycle glass, collect newspapers and rinse out tin cans but I do draw the line at recycling sanitary pads. If that is to be the price of saving the world then I fear that the world must die. And hessian? It would itch, I mean, wouldn’t it? Surely? These hippy birds must have fannies like tanned leather.

I nearly turned around and ran for it there and then, but I’d made the effort so I decided that I’d better give it a go. There’s no point being snobbish about these things, after all. Well, first off there was a “greeting session”. This involved us all sitting in a big circle and chucking a beanbag at each other and whenever you caught it you had to say your name. A simple enough exercise, one might have thought, but it was astonishing how difficult some of them found keeping the rhythm. I doubt if any of them had ever been on a Girl Guide camp.

Anyway, after that the leading lady (who was American) took us on what is called a “guided fantasy” which was quite relaxing really when you let yourself go. You have to imagine a cool forest and a path by a stream and things like that, damp mist, a green canopy above, you know the sort of thing. An infinity of calm. I rather enjoyed this bit and nearly nodded off, which was nice because I feel absolutely buggered at the moment. Of course if Sam had been there he would have made some smart Alec comment and ruined it, but if you don’t try to be clever some of these alternative things can be quite good.

Anyway, once she’d got us feeling all sort of “drifty”, the American lady told us to try and visualize an imaginary baby being welcomed into our wombs. Well, I’m afraid that was where I lost it. All the relaxation disappeared and was replaced by anger and frustration. My cool forest suddenly turned into London as of now. I tried to get it back but I opened my eyes and looked round the circle at all these other sad, silly women, who were just like me (except I occasionally get my hair done), and I hated them. And I hated myself for being one of them.

Afterwards I told the American lady that I really didn’t think that this was the right approach for me. I told her that I spend most of my time trying not to think about babies because when I do I upset myself. She said that she understood but that I have to allow myself to want, to dream and if necessary to grieve over my current lack of baby. She said that I was fighting my body, resenting it, seeing it as the enemy of all my hopes and that this self-created tension might in fact be getting in the way of conception. Actually, it did sort of make sense and I ended up rather liking the woman, but I still shan’t go again. I just get too frustrated. I keep screaming inside, why the hell should I have to imagine a baby? Why can’t I just have one! Far less nice people than me have lots, and it’s just not fair. I know that’s a wicked thing to say but I know I’d be a much better mum than half the women I see letting their children put sweets in the trolley at Sainsbury’s. And as for these people one sees on the news who seem to have children for the sole reason that they might go on to terrorize entire housing estates and become one-boy crime-waves. Well, the injustice is almost too much to bear. I’d read my child Beatrix Potter and Winnie the Pooh and the only glue it would ever get involved with would be flour and water for making collages.

When I got home I found there’d been a letter in the second post. It was from Melinda sending me photos of when we were round at her and George’s place with new baby Cuthbert. I’m holding him and he looks so sweet and it looks like he’s mine. I look like a mother with a child and I’m not. I nearly cried but I remembered my resolution not to be obsessive so I had half a bottle of red wine instead.

Sam’s sperm test is looming. I had originally thought that he was taking it well but now he does seem to be dwelling on it rather.

Dear Self

I had lunch with Trevor and George from work today and was determined to touch on the subject of sperm. Pick their brains, so to speak. I mean George ought to know something. He produced Cuthbert and I wouldn’t like to meet the sperm that fathered him. Trevor’s gay so God knows he should have some opinions on the subject, having encountered the stuff face to face, so to speak. All in all I had been looking forward to airing my fears re my upcoming (if that isn’t too loaded a phrase) sperm test.

I didn’t get the chance, of course. We talked shop. We always do. It’s a funny thing about this biz we call show: whenever people involved in it get together they can talk about nothing else. I’m as bad as anyone. I believe that in the army they have a rule in the officers’ mess of no talking shop over dinner. It sounds like a great idea but it wouldn’t work for us, we’d just sink into an awkward silence. Telling people in showbusiness not to talk about showbusiness would be like telling the Pope to lay off the religious stuff.

We were lunching in Soho at a posh place called Quark. All restaurants in Soho are posh these days. Those nice, rough and ready little Italian diners are just a distant memory. I’d already made an arse of myself, of course. I arrived first and the waitress (wearing a skirt that was little more than a big belt, why do these girls torment us so?) immediately put this plate of prawny things down in front of me. I said they must be someone else’s because I hadn’t ordered anything yet. Well, she actually laughed at me! Amazing, she laughed and said they were “for the table”, a complimentary pre-appetizer appetizer. “Don’t worry,” she said, “you won’t be charged for them,” like I was some sad tourist way out of his depth and worrying about his budget. God, I felt every type of turd. My own fault, of course. Silly mistake. Particularly for a professional eater of the sacred meal called lunch like myself. I tried to recoup by cracking a little joke. I asked her for a biro so that I could write “Prat” on my forehead and, get this, she fucking gave me one.