Inconceivable

by Ben Elton

  Yanton Nabokobovich did the interview, I recall, and called Doddy a true subversive. ‘Isn’t every joke really a small revolution?’

  Yanton enquired. ‘An act of rebellion undermining the status quo?’

  ‘If you like, missus! Ha ha!’ said Doddy.

  Brilliant telly.

  Of course Nigel’s got a sense of humour and he’s a bloody good bloke as well. Old Nige won’t let me down.

  Had a fascinating debate with the Complaints and Standards people at the Weekly programme briefing. George was in the chair and we were debating acceptable names for vaginas.

  Amazing. There we were, five men earnestly debating whether ‘fanny’ was an acceptable term to use before nine o’clock. I told Lucy about it and she went back on her old thing about men being intimidated by fannies. She pointed out that there are any number of words for penis that can be used pretty much with ease on the Beeb knob, willy, percy, portion, member, todger, tackle, dangler, sausage, John Thomas, Dick Dastardly, meat and two veg and Uncle Tom Cobblers and all. However, when it came to female genitalia almost everything was too rude. She’s right, of course. ‘Vaginas’ are ruder than ‘penises’, even ‘fanny’ is on the edge. ‘Muff’ might pass, but again only just. The meeting was quite stumped. In the end we came up with ‘fou fou’, which is a term somebody’s mother used. I can’t see our tough young lady comediennes buying ‘fou fou’. We’ll be lampooned in the media section of the Independent before we know it.

  Still no news on the sperm test, or did I mention that?

  ad nauseam.

  Dear Pen Pen,

  Drusilla came into the office today and caught me having a cup of coffee. She says caffeine is the enemy of womankind and insisted I drink a cup of squeezed lemon juice to purge myself. Then she asked if I’d given any more thought to the business of the Primrose Hill ley lines, because there’s a full moon next Thursday and the long-range weather forecast is good. The woman is out of her mind.

  I also had lunch with Melinda and baby Cuthbert. He really is gorgeous and I’m sure that the slightly disconcerting impression of a permanent scowl will disappear as his mouth gets bigger. We ordered our salads (followed by cake) and inevitably Melinda produced her photos. Even though Cuthbert was sitting right in front of me in the flesh (and such a lot of flesh too, great folds of it), Melinda insisted that I look at nearly two hundred pictures of him. Which was nice (because he really is gorgeous, although slightly like a miniaturized Reggie Kray), but a tiny bit tiresome. How I wish we lived in times when the taking of a photograph was a rare and precious thing. When five or ten images sufficed to cover a person’s entire childhood. Nowadays people take millions of shots on computerized cameras and then reel them off on their home printers

  Besides which, now that video cameras come with little playback screens it’s possible for people to show you their ghastly videos as well, sometimes while they’re actually recording them. Melinda didn’t go that far, but she had had an entire set of prints done for me, which really is too much.

  I did think about showing Melinda a picture of Gertrude (just the one from the

  Big Issue, not the glossy one) but decided I wouldn’t. I thought that she might think it sad. Not that she’d have any reason to.

  After about half an hour Cuthbert started crying and when I say crying what I mean is attempting to reduce London to rubble by the sheer force of sonic vibration. Melinda breastfed him at the table, which I thought was very right and feminist of her, although I do wish she hadn’t burped him quite so vigorously afterwards. Most of it hit the floor but I fear a splash or two of milky vomit may have landed in people’s food.

  Actually, I had thought that you weren’t supposed to burp them any more.

  I can’t deny, though, that it all made me feel broodier than ever. Despite Cuthbert not having a volume-control button and his indiscriminate vomiting and his slightly moth-eaten-looking patch of coarse black hair, looking at him did make me just long for one of my own. Particularly when I saw his little Peter Rabbit jumper. It was just so sweet. All my life I’ve looked forward to rediscovering Beatrix Potter via my children, so that did hit me rather hard. I must say, though, that I didn’t much like the baseball cap Melinda had bought him from OshKosh. It had ‘Yeah, I know I’m cute’ written on it, which I thought was a bit sickmaking (and sadly not

  entirely true).

  I’d never buy a cap like that for a child because what a parent is really saying with that kind of stuff is ‘Look how beautiful my baby is.’ Which is not really on, not for the British, anyway. It’s not how we go about things. Or is that a wrong thing to say these days?

  Also Melinda had just bought one of those ‘Baby On Board’ stickers for their Fiat. Sam says he’s astonished that George allowed it, and that nobody buys those any more. I must say, I can’t say I like them overmuch. I mean, what is the parent trying to say to other road users? And what are other road users supposed to make of it? ‘Thanks awfully for the tip because I’d been thinking about driving into the back of you, but since you’ve got a kid in the car I’ll cover the brake.’ It’s absurd. I’m going to have my own sticker made. ‘Sadly my husband and I have not yet been blessed with the divine gift of a child but we’d still prefer not to die in a car crash, thank you.’

  Anyway, when we’d finally exhausted all the photos and cleaned the vomit off everything I got round to telling Melinda all about my strangely daunting encounter with Carl Phipps, or Heathcliff as I often think of him. I know I was only going to tell you, Penny, but I just could not keep it to myself. Well, guess what? Melinda thinks I should shag him! Yes!

  Shag him. I couldn’t believe it! Melinda of all people. She’s normally so proper. But she said that this was different, that these were special circumstances on account of the fact that Carl Phipps is acknowledged as one of the most dishy men in the country. Did I think, Melinda enquired, that if Sam got the chance of slipping one to Sharon Stone he would pass it up?

  ‘Yes, I bloody well do!’ I said. Rather too loudly, in fact, because people looked.

  I don’t think Melinda really meant it. I mean, she’s never been at all indulgent of the idea of infidelity. I remember one New Year’s Eve George gave me a kiss and she got quite funny about it. I mean it was quite a long kiss, I admit, but it

  was New Year’s Eve and the bonging takes a very long time if you start at one and go on to twelve.

  Reading between the lines, my guess is that George is probably not seeing to Melinda’s needs properly at the moment. I believe this often happens after a baby. The hubby starts to see the wife as a mother not a lover and feels strange about lusting after the thing that is feeding his child. Also, Melinda hasn’t quite got her figure back yet (poor thing). That’s understandable, of course, it’s only been a couple of months and it’s

  far too early for her to worry about that sort of business. Although I did think that three cakes was a little bit reckless. I only had one and a bit.

  Anyway, I told Melinda that I had no intention of betraying Sam because I love him and that sexually he gives me everything I need. Which is

  basically true, on the whole, I suppose. Certainly it’s true about loving him, anyway. Although sexually I must confess to being not particularly satiated at the moment. The problem is that he seems to think of nothing but the result of his sperm test. In fact he’s obsessed with it. Which is not, I have to admit, particularly attractive in a man.

  Yo, stud!,

  Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!!! All RIGHT! Result, my son! Here we go, here we go! Result! Re-flipping-sult! Sorted. Oh yes! Sorted for sure.

  Passed! Passed my sperm test. The letter arrived this morning.

  At first I didn’t want to open it. It was just like my ‘A’ levels. I remember I was grapepicking in France and I had to ring home and get my mum to open the envelope. I can remember walking round that French phonebox for half an hour, too nervous to make the call. Of course I couldn’t hang around for half an hour this morn
ing because I had to go to work, but I did make Lucy open the envelope and read the letter for me. As she slid a knife along the crease of the paper everything seemed to be in slow motion. I can remember thinking that now at least the waiting was over, whatever fate might bring.

  I must say things started pretty grimly. There was no personal element at all, no ‘Dear sir,’ no ‘Brace yourself, mate,’ no ‘Better get yourself a drink, you sad pathetic excuse for a man, because you have no sperm.’ Just a printed form on which they fill in your results with a ballpoint pen. So much for our more caring society. They do not even offer counselling.

  Well, Book, I am here to tell you that at first I thought that all was lost. The very opening line (under the deceptively bland heading ‘motility’) said ‘30% sluggish’. Honestly, that was the very word they used. Sluggish. A horrible, horrible word, reminiscent of slimy snail-like creatures that can’t be bothered moving their arses on garden paths in order to avoid being stamped on. Sluggish! It’s such a loaded term, not clinical at all.

  I wanted a doctor’s reaction, not a critic’s! And if they’re going to use unscientific language couldn’t they have thought of a more friendly expression? Like ‘relaxed’, perhaps, or ‘unhurried’? If they’d told me I had relaxed sperm I could have handled it. Cool, laid-back sperm, sperm that liked to hang out and chill with the other guys. That would be fine. But ‘sluggish’? It’s almost as if they were trying to be unpleasant.

  Anyway, the next line was worse! Yes, worse! I nearly cried. It said ‘41% swimming in the wrong direction’! I mean, what a thing to say about the very stuff of a man’s loins! My head was spinning. I thought, I’ve got stupid sperm! The stuff’s backing away up my dick all these years! Then I thought, ‘Hang on, this is ridiculous!’ This test is rigged. How are they supposed to know what’s the right direction, for heaven’s sake? They’re in a plastic pot! I had this vision of all my sperm desperately groping about hither and thither, banging their heads against the sides of the container, lashing their tails around like fish in a bucket, thinking, ‘We’re genetically programmed to find an egg here. Where is it?’

  By the end of the letter I was ready to slit my wrists.

  In conclusion it said, ‘90% useless’! Bad swimmers, poor motility. A load of rubbish in general.

  So now the full and terrible truth was upon me. I’m not a man.

  I’ve failed my sperm test!

  I was already asking myself whether they’d let me take it again.

  If it was like your driving test, I mean I had four goes at that when in actual fact I should have passed on the first time except that my examiners were a bunch of total Nazis. Then of course it dawned on me that the sperm tester must be a Nazi too! A jealous, small-minded petty official dedicated to ruining the lives of better men. A hopeless and inadequate man, embittered because his own sperm were small and sickly and couldn’t find their way out of his trousers. A man who took his revenge upon society by becoming a sperm tester and failing anyone who came up with the real goods.

  That had to be it. Give a fellow a sperm tester’s uniform and suddenly he thinks he’s Hitler!

  I was on the very point of phoning my MP and demanding a full recount when Lucy pointed out that stamped at the bottom of the form in big letters was the word NORMAL.

  Oh, the relief! It turns out that my pathetic percentages are par for the course, that pretty much all sperm is 90 per cent rubbish.

  Apparently there’s only a couple of decent wrigglers in an entire wristful. For all the macho pride and posturing of us men, most sperms just simply aren’t up to it. They’re sluggish. They’re stupid. They’re always wandering off in the wrong direction. They don’t know where they’re going.

  Lucy said they sound exactly like a pub full of blokes, which was quite funny, I suppose.

  Anyway, that was it. Passed. Normal. I was so pleased I danced round the kitchen and spilt my coffee.

  ‘Normal!’ I shouted. ‘Oh yes! Normal! Ordinary! Run of the mill!’

  Then I thought, hang on, normal? Ordinary? A bit disappointing, really. I mean, let’s face it, ‘Superb’ would have been a better result. Probably just an off day. Still, whatever, I’m off the hook.

  Dear Penny,

  Well, I must say I did laugh at Sam’s letter and not just because it nearly made him cry either. The bit about 41 per cent swimming in the wrong direction! Well, I

  you. I’m surprised it wasn’t 100 pet cent. What woman doesn’t know that sperm swims in the wrong direction? We certainly don’t need to invoke the hard-pressed resources of the National Health Service to find that out. Not if you happen to cough half an hour after a bonk and ten million of the little swine headbutt your gusset.

  Anyway, armed with both our test results I took an hour off work and went to see Dr Cooper and he said that having established that nothing obvious is wrong with either of us, the problem might be that we are incompatible (I felt like saying that this thought hod crossed my mind too, but I didn’t). Dr Cooper says that my juices and Sam’s sperm may simply not like each other. That my body may be poisoning his tadpoles as they try to ‘swim up my Amazon’ as Sam calls it. All this sounds completely gruesome but Dr Cooper assures me that it’s absolutely fine and normal, normal, that is, in sad infertile old bags like me. Actually he didn’t say that last bit but it’s how I feel sometimes. I have this vision of my insides as a wrinkled old prune. It’s funny. Sometimes it all seems so unreal, like a dream. Me? Possibly infertile? Surely not. There must be some mistake. I want kids, I’ve always wanted kids, my whole life has been built round the anticipation of bringing up kids, this can’t be happening. Why me? Why bloody me! Oh well, I suppose we all think that, don’t we? We desperate ones.

  Anyway, back to Dr Cooper and his incompatibility test. I must say I was a bit taken aback at the thought. The idea of all Sam’s seed drowning in agony in the hell waters of my poisonous vagina made me quite teary. Like a murderess. Well, it seems that in order to discover whether this horrible possibility is in fact the case we must do a postcoital test. Which basically means Sam and me having it off and then a doctor having a look at the aftermath. Quite frankly, one of the most horrible suggestions anyone has ever put to me.

  When Doc Cooper first explained it I thought he wanted us to have it off

  at his surgery which would be not on. I just couldn’t do it. However, Dr Cooper said that he would not be doing the test, for which small mercy I should think he is eternally grateful. I imagine that he’s absolutely sick of the sight of my nether regions by now, he’s been up them that many times over the years. And the thought of encountering them while they are gorged with Sam’s sperm is almost too horrible to contemplate.

  Anyway, what has to happen is that Sam and I must get up early on the appointed day and get straight down to business. This is

  not regular morning practice for us, I hasten to add, both of us preferring a cup of tea and a slice of toast first thing. Besides which, the memory of Sam’s efforts at morning masturbation are still painfully fresh. Once I’ve been properly serviced and stonked up, so to speak, I have to go to some ghastly specialist clinic or other (which will no doubt look like something out of Solzhenitsyn’s Cancer Ward) and up me the doctors will go. Surprise, surprise. Who would be a woman? Looking back over the years of smear tests, non-specific infections, fertility bizzo and all, my poor old muff has definitely been a well-trodden path for the medical profession. Sometimes I think I should have a revolving door fitted. Anyway, as I was saying, the specialist, having had a jolly good poke around (with what will no doubt be a piece of frozen metal the size of a grill pan), will then be able to inform me whether or not my insides are filled with dead sperm.

  Ugh!

  God, I hate this. Why can’t I just get pregnant!?

  I rang Drusilla from work and asked her when exactly she’d said that the next full moon was. I’m not going to do it, but I can’t afford to discount anything.

  Dear Sam,


  Going to dinner at Trevor and Kit’s tonight. Had the usual hoo- hah about what to wear. Not me, of course. I know what to wear.

  Trousers and a shirt. But Lucy finds these decisions much more perplexing. What’s more, she insists on dragging me into her dilemmas and then blaming me for them! She stands there in her underwear and says ‘Which do you think, the red or the blue?’

  Well, I know of course the clever thing would be to refuse to answer, because there’s no chance in this world or the next of saying the right thing. Nonetheless, inevitably I have a stab at it.

  ‘Uhm, the red?’

  ‘So you don’t like the blue?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I was going to wear the blue.’

  ‘Well wear the blue, then.’

  ‘Well I can’t now, can I? Since you obviously think I look horrible in it…Now I’ve got to start thinking all over again…’

  Madness, absolute madness, particularly since it’s only Trevor and Kit, for heaven’s sake. George and Melinda were invited too but they couldn’t get a babysitter. I pointed out to Lucy that that sort of thing will happen to us if ever we do score. I don’t actually think that she’s thought the whole social side of having babies through at all. Not being able to go out or get pissed when we want to, all spontaneity wiped from our lives in one single act. I said to her, I said, here we are, two highly educated, fully rounded people and yet we are desperate to totally subsume our existence in the abstract concept of a being who will suck us dry physically, emotionally and financially and will not even be able to form a decent sentence for at least five years.