Embarrassing Bodies; Another Wonky Week.

This week, our intrepid quacks get stuck into a bendy cock, an escaping brain and a mammary representation of Homer Simpson's face.
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This week, our intrepid quacks get stuck into a bendy cock, an escaping brain and a mammary representation of Homer Simpson's face.

I don’t know why I watch Embarrassing Bodies. It’s not that I’m squeamish – I made good use of the mirror when giving birth, even though it was a bit like watching my favourite pub burn down –but it’s more that the choice of phrasing has a lot to answer for. Words like ‘oozy’ and ‘puss-filled’ do not endear me to Lee’s manky head, nor make me sympathetic to Gary’s watery shits (which he’d been self-treating with curry. Curry. Dozy twat). But nothing sounded quite as wrong or obscene as Victor and his ‘wonky willy’. Despite the playful attempt at making it sound quirky, Victor actually had a cock as bent as a lollipop lady’s arm which had been pissing upwards for two years. The bad news was he would need surgery, the worse news being he’d ‘probably lose some length’ in the operation; happily, this didn’t seem to bother Victor, who was more concerned about the prospect of his tackle eventually meeting itself at the base like a snake trying to eat itself. Time to call in the cock doctor.

Well, what he actually said was, ‘in all my years as a consultant, I’ve never come across this before’. Which is obviously to be confused with ‘don’t worry, your daughter will live and you should go away and never think about it again’.

Next in was Rhiannon, who was suffering from the age old problem of ‘asymmetric breasts’. Or - to carry on the theme - wonky tits. Instinctively, my sympathy waned. All women have one breast bigger than the other, in the same way as one bollock is always slightly smaller than the other. No big deal. Get on with it. Oh, and then the relentless drone about how incapacitating it is, how debilitating, how embarrassing. She can’t bring herself to have a relationship or even go swimming with her mates. For fucks sake, they’re tits, who cares? But then she took her top off, and to be fair, they did look a bit like Homer Simpsons eyes drawn on a wet cushion by a sleepy child. Fair play. Dr. Christian sent her off to the tit consultant. You see, I can have sympathy with certain cases. However not so with Tamsin, who was suffering from a ‘crusty complaint’ on her feet; the ‘complaint’ basically being that she hadn’t been washing her mucky little trotters and had subsequently acquired an infection that made leprosy look like mild cradle cap. I’m not sure which was more disconcerting; the sight of Dr. McKenna using a scalpel to scrape the yellowing crusts from the balls of her feet, or her gormless expression like a bewildered dog trying to figure out where the smell of Chum’s coming from. Of course this had to be followed up with a feature on dirty feet, where a young girl vomited into her hood after being shown an obscenely large picture of creamy toes and toenails like shit-covered cuttlefish.

After a brief pause to bark up Pot Noodle over the sink, we then met Lee with a ‘distressing’ problem; postules on his head that filled up with blood and puss and ‘oozed’ over his bedclothes in the night. When he took his hat off, it looked like his brain had tried to escape out of his skull and vomited live clams all over his hairline; he was Worf in a Superdry t-shirt. After a visit to a Dermatologist, it seemed that the problem – which Lee had been suffering from for ten years – was not incurable. Better still, it was something he could manage himself. Yes, the problem was his hair clippers, the daft twat. It was little more than an allergic reaction that had become infected because the docile cunt had been shaving over the sore bits and making them progressively worse. The cure? Growing his hair. Well done, Confucius.

What’s interesting about Embarrassing Bodies is that I never realised how brutal surgeons were before, not just physically but verbally. Maybe ‘brutal’ is the wrong word, but hearing one describe Victor’s cock operation as ‘like skinning a rabbit’, and then a woman’s corrective spine procedure as ‘working with a rack of lamb’ did turn my stomach a bit. However, not quite as much as watching what looked like a badger’s placenta being stuffed into Rhiannon’s ailing chest like Peter Sutcliffe chucking his toolbox in the airing cupboard after a knock at the door. Thankfully the final patient was surgery-free; Saskia, a precocious wally of a girl with a straw boater and apparently, a squeaky heart that was keeping her friends awake during sleepovers. I hated her for her hat, I hated her for having sleepovers; she couldn’t win. ‘A squeaky heart? What does it sound like?’ asked Dr. Dawn. Mum thought for a minute before rocking on her chair and making a noise like a disappointed hamster ejaculating on its own paw. Turns out it was a heart murmur caused by a leaky valve, but nothing to worry about. I can’t help thinking that any use of the word ‘leaky’ in conjunction with ‘heart’ could potentially be fatal, but the consultant didn’t seem to think so. Well, what he actually said was, ‘in all my years as a consultant, I’ve never come across this before’. Which is obviously to be confused with ‘don’t worry, your daughter will live and you should go away and never think about it again’.

But then she took her top off, and to be fair, they did look a bit like Homer Simpsons eyes drawn on a wet cushion by a sleepy child. Fair play.

Fittingly perhaps, we end with Victor and his brand new cock. ‘Are you getting decent erections?’ asked Dr. Christian. ‘Well, it’s funny you should ask that’, replied Victor, his eyes shining with emotion. ‘I woke up at half three the other morning with a great stonker, so I took a picture and brought it to show you’. And there it was, jutting out as proud as a piglet’s snout at feeding time. Made me proud to be British, and he only lost a centimetre and a half. I can’t wait until next week’s episode; it features a women with gargantuan knockers, and what looks like an experiment involving collecting menstrual blood in small pots. Still, I’ve always got the Embarrassing Bodies website to visit if I start getting a bit fidgety in anticipation; it’s really great, you can type in any symptom and it’ll diagnose your problem straight away. It’s like hypochondriac porn wrapped in a munchausen’s wanking sock. I’m not sure how reliable it is though. I typed in ‘cough’, and apparently I’ve got engorged elephantitis of the crunk, leading to fever, chills and ultimately, death. I knew it.

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