Twonked in the niddles.. thank God for women on International Women’s Day…

When you are seven, catching your winkie in your zipper is not the worst thing in the world.  It hurts like hell, but better to learn that lesson early while you still call it a winkie rather than later on in life, if you catch my drift.   It is definitely one of my most vivid, tear to the eye memories and certainly one of the most embarrassing.  The embarrassment was because while I couldn’t extricate my doodlums from its metal penis fly trap, neither could my mother so she enlisted the assistance and observations of not one, but two other neighbouring mammies.  I’m still mortified just thinking about it.

Tear inducing moments in many forms have caused me grief over the years.  I went arse over face on my racing bike when I was fourteen and I ended up with the brake handle embedded in my stomach. I had to pull about five inches of metal out of my belly which luckily didn’t do any serious damage.  Then there was the time I was walking along the railings that divided our house from the next door neighbour and I did the splits…  A sharp sucking of air between the teeth if you don’t mind…  I say the time, but I repeated that failed stunt so many times, I don’t know how I didn’t castrate myself.

It is no secret that us boys are most precious about our undercarriage.  Thwacks and wallops’ to the neither regions are always top of the Oooh factor that is for sure.  Playing lots of sports I was twonked in the niddles with a variety of balls of differing shapes and sizes.  I was kneed, kicked and punched in my grimbles, mostly by accident playing sports and even trollied myself in the knackers playing swing ball all by my lonesome.

It has to be a design fault.   You’d think that something that needs taking care of, protecting if you will would be tucked away a little more safely now wouldn’t you.   A dog once leapt up and caught me by the crotch of my trousers.  Luckily it was during a loose-trousered fashion phase and he only got a mouthfull of material.  There was a period in my young life where jeans had to be painted on if you weren’t to look like a twonk, so it could have been much worse.

Aah 70’s jeans – now there was a challenge for your grollops.   It was hard enough to breathe once you got them zipped up.  They were like a product of the Spanish inquisition I’m telling you.  In fairness they gave the vague impression that I actually had a bit of an arse, which I hadn’t so I thought they were cool and that trumped comfort every time.

As a small chiseller in primary school, I had Nurse Ratchet give my warbles a good fondling as indeed we all did, to see what had or hadn’t dropped.  We were promised a sugar lump (laced with polio vaccine) but in a time when I was grateful for a free bit of sugar, it wasn’t nearly enough that I prostituted myself to a cold, cupped nurse’s hand on a chilly winter’s day without a proper explanation.  I hadn’t a clue what the hell they were doing.

“Drop your trousers” they said and I did. “Bend over” they said and I did.  Then the icy cold hands of the countrified nurse, grabbed me by the goolies and they said “Cough.”  Cough?  I could barely catch my breath!

I’ve cross-barred my gonads and worse.  I have even deep-heated the poor fellas with wintergreen after I had a groin strain playing basketball.  I didn’t understand the effect the topical application of such medication might have and while I wasn’t applying the said ointment to my jewel filled pouch, there was cross contamination due to the proximity of my injury.  Sweet Lord above!  I remember trying to get my whole kit and caboodle into the sink to drown the burn with ice cold water.  Not a pleasant sight I would imagine, but luckily enough it was not a moment for sharing.

Of course as you get older, you learn to be more careful with your knap sack and perhaps you are not just cautious but more sensible.  Certainly the ‘lesson learned’ thing kicks in, for when you have swing-balled yourself in the cojones once, you tend to remember that it is not something to be repeated.

Boys will be boys of course so as long as there are nads to be knackered, it seems we have to learn lots of specific, impact related lessons, before we stop putting our plums in the firing line.  You’d think once would be enough, given the eye-watering nature of the pain we go through.  But no – we don’t seem to learn all that quickly.  As an overly confident  sex within a supposedly intelligent species, one would think that protecting the very tools required to procreate would mean we would be a little more careful with them.

Of course that’s why we need girls.  Without their wisdom, tolerance and direction, us lads would basically walk off cliffs.  We would be found wandering around in fields full of rakes, stepping on one after the other and wondering what to do next.   We need women to limit our degree of stupid and to guide us so we don’t throw our huevos on the fire the first chance we get.  We can’t depend on our fellow men to help.  How could we?  After all there is nothing funnier as a lad, than  to see another lad scraggle his fraggle and you can’t help your best friend when you are rolling around laughing on the floor.

So while it took me a while to get to it and while discussing the delicacies of the male anatomy may be an odd vehicle to choose to express it, I would just like to say thank you on behalf of my entire sex, to all the women out there on International women’s day.  Long may you continue to keep us honest and protect us from our stupid.   Where in the world would we be without you?

Max Power’s books include, Darkly Wood, Darkly Wood II The woman who never wore shoes, Larry Flynn, Bad Blood and Little Big Boy

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