Day 79

5.02: Yesterday it was Victor Hugo’s pubes, and why stop flogging a horse before it’s dead? Let’s talk Pepys’ testicles.

Pepys had dodgy kidneys like me, except his came from having pebbles rolling about in his tubules, rather than his grandfather’s crocked genes. By the time he was 25, he couldn’t stand it any more and decided to have them yanked out by a surgeon. Which was no Sunday pint-and-chpis decision.

This is how they got them out.

There were no anaesthetics yet, so they tied him to a table, and a crew of burly men held him down. Then they cut him open somewhere in the hinterland behind his scrotum while at the same time feeding a long pointy thing up his urethra, and by some nimble chopstick-work, used the pointy thing to force the little stone into the grip of a pair of forceps they’d thrust through the hole in his undercarriage.

Painful eh?

“But we were promised testicles,” you cry. Indeed you were.

Well, according to the normally stern and schoolmasterly historian D’Arcy Power, the reason that Pepys’ never sired a son, in spite of bonking anything that raised its skirt in a dinghy, was ‘due to the left ejaculator having been divided at the time of the operation whilst the right one was so bruised by the system of dilation then employed that it afterwards became occluded.’

So he was able to carry on merrily bonking away, and writing about it, quite without consequence until he went blind.

Which is a whole other kettle of fish.

6.55: Better progress this morning, though I was largely writing about two chaps drinking coffee in the dark – roughly what I’ve been up to as well, only  with half as many chaps. Spinnaker out now and sailing surely towards the finish, but doubtless there are still a few high seas to bounce through first.

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~ by David Thorley on April 20, 2010.

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