Oh God, No
So, I spent two post-vasectomy months fapping myself stupid until nothing but dust came out, clearing my system so that I am officially jaffa.
Fifty-seven times, including the world's worst hand shandy – the one into a pot for the pathology lab, knowing Mrs Duck is downstairs watching "Cash in the Attic". Go on, you try to think dirty when you're trying to hit the target - it's like trying to roll jelly up a mountain, an ordeal closely followed by the embarrassment of presenting a jam-jar of your own man fat to an attractive young lady at the Dorset County Hospital.
And presently, I get a letter signed by the very man who had, back in August, attacked my meat-and-two-veg like a hungry diner attacking his meat-and-two-veg: "Your sample showed sperms present".
The little, wriggling bastards. They've built a bridge, haven't they?
"Wankers' Cramp. D'you get it?"
Wrong kind of Bush
Since I've just wasted the best part of two months developing a twitch and running a Bic Razor over the palms of my hands, I suppose I had better spend some time in recovery. Kate Bush, who appears to have spent the last decade running a pie shop, has musical product in the shops today, and it had better be good, or I shall seriously consider not taking the vacancy of freaky celebrity stalker.
This is, however, the wrong kind of bush entirely, and likely to get me arrested.
In summary: Bush.