Oh great. I'd forgotten about this til now.
When I was just a young sack, I didn't like p.e. very much. Although it wasn't the primary reason, the fact that I somehow did myself a rather embarrassing injury while running around trying not to get the ball passed to me added to my loathing of those two hours a week.

I remember we were in the dance studio, for some reason, and I fell. I fell backwards and landed on my arse. I got up, dusted myself off and wondered why my knackers hurt. Being a young pup, I thought nothing of it and waited for it to subside.

Two days of clawing agony later, I told my mum. Acknowledging the fact that I even had knackers to my mum was not an easy thing for a twelve year old me to do, but utilising ventriloquism (don't ask) I managed it.

My dad doesn't like hospitals. He decided in his infinite wisdom that he would have a look himself. Don't be alarmed and think this was some sort of weird "wicker man" style abusive childhood scenario, the shame was tangible in that room as he surveyed my conspicuously uninjured-looking bollocks. As I had had a root around myself and reported finding a "lump", but he could see nothing, he grudgingly conceded a doctor should be called.

So there I am, in the local hospital. They pop me on a table and whip my clackers out. A cursory examination by the much loved family physician (who was another person who was seeing my pods for the first time that week) and a mystery person who I still have no idea why they were there, and the conundrum was solved. I had twisted what he described to me rather horrifically as my "third testicle" which was growing lovingly from the side of what presumably was my second testicle (although until that point, I had never had cause to allocate them numbers). Apparently, half of all men have an extra tadpole factory sprouting from their spuds, a tiny little added extra which is usually never noticed unless, as in my case, it becomes twisted. Then, as your face turns as blue as the air around you, it generally gets noticed pretty fast.

They gave me two options. Or should I say, they gave my mum two options, being that I was twelve. There is a marked difference there, as the option I would have chosen would have been the "wait until it goes away (though it might happen again)" one. My mother, though, in her infinite wisdom, elected to choose the "get dragged into hospital, have your pea-pod split open, your bollocks laid on a table and your newly discovered mutant-power hacked off" - although they worded it differently.

Manly as ever, I fainted.

Cut to however long it took to schedule my divorce from bollock number three, and I'm laid in a hospital bed. Everyone in britain by this point had had a gander at my nadgers, which remained, despite their agonised state, disapointingly twelve-year-old-sized. The fateful hour arrived, and I was wheeled off for my surgery, wracked with fear that the anesthetic wouldn't work on me. Then, suddenly, all the fear evaporated and she was there.

They wheeled me into what appeared to be a cupboard. A man was eagerly shoving a shunt into my little hand when this beautiful nurse entered, and the place lit up. Her golden hair shone as she spoke to me, and she giggled as she popped a toffee in her mouth, saying she would make me jealous as I hadn't been allowed to eat for 24 hours. I was mesmerised. She was, to my terrified twelve year old eyes, the most beautiful thing in the world.

The world which came crashing in a second or so later as she whipped back the sheets and said "lets have a little look then.... aaaaah yes." and toddled off back out of the room.

After that, I am genuinely amazed the surgeon managed to find my bangers to operate.

I got out the same day, which was blessed relief as the little cunt in the bed next to me was attempting to commit suicide by watching bedknobs and broomsticks until he exploded.

I learned something from that whole experience. Dissolving stitches do not fizz and bubble in the bath.

Length? The scar is less than an inch, which provides a unique point of reference down there.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 1:26, 2 replies)

You're lucky they didn't swell up
I've looked after lots of blokes with swollen scrotes and none reported any great feelings of peace.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 14:58, closed)

It did feel
as though they were like two pulsating space hoppers, but without the aesthetic effect :(
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 15:22, closed)