Monday, 11 April 2011
(Sittin' On) the Dock of the Bay
It happens to us all - time catches up and things don't do what they used to do - as well or, in my case, at all.
Apparently some men lose testosterone from their bodies (how) after the age of 50. It's a recognised medical problem. Doctors regularly see men of a certain age complaining of listlessness, lack of drive (sexual and otherwise) and often they're misdiagnosed as depressed. But they're not, it's all because they suffering from the andropause.
It's a bit like the menopause but, because it happens to men, it's much more serious.
They now offer hormone replacement therapy; to boost the little ol' male thingies so you can do what you used to be able to do but now just roll over in bed and say "I'm tired". But this has its side affects: death, baldness and infertility in order of severity.
I learnt all this on a fascinating Radio 4 programme "All you wanted to know about Bollocks", or some such title. No, listen, one of the symptoms that patients present to doctors is a falling off of night time erections. I jest not!
"Well doctor it's like this. In the past I would frequently awake because I'd turn over in bed and get stuck. I found I could not turn over completely because my knob prevented me from so doing. It was as stiff as a post (and throbbing).
Me (and the missus) have noticed of late that all this has stopped. Frankly, I'm ok with that; but the wife heard something on Woman's Hour and thought I should see you about it. She's outside if she's required."
It's our own fault. Men are so bad about their bodies - give them a woman's and they're all over it. But ask a man where his kidneys, pancreas or bowel is and you might just as well ask him to solve Fournier's Last Theorem.
Visiting the doc's, for a man, is like having to go to the headmaster's study for a caning. Not something you do voluntarily, if at all. By the time you've screwed yourself to the plate whatever was wrong with you is no more and you feel a prat for wasting his time, or else you're rushed into Emergency after being scolded for ignoring the life threatening symptoms.
So as far as most men are concerned, except the worried about being worried about their health, death is much the better option.
Which brings me back to me. Not death but the slowing down of faculties due to Andrew Marvell's Time's Winged Chariots ( I did it for "A" level so I know it off by heart).
My new phone is a quantum leap, a marvel of technology, a paean to man's ingenuity, and my over reaching myself. It connects with the outside world and the Internet through 3G, which I thought was some smutty reference to minimal under garments. But, no this is the speed at which messages whizz from my phone through the aether.
Had I fully understood that I would have been less hasty in my desire to demonstrate my phone's amazing abilities to our dinner guests on Saturday ( It went extremely well, thanks for asking).
I was demonstrating the ease with which one can move from one program to another. I think I said something like:" If I want, I can play a high definition game -like this." The next few seconds are rather a blur, but I do recall a large message flashing up "Buy Now -Yes/No" and for some reason, I'd pressed "Yes" and £5 was added to my phone bill.
But to return to the effects of time on the human body and brain.
It's quite clear to me at least, that these new smart phones are designed for and aimed at the younger generation.The lucky sons and daughters of Albion whose lithe bodies and supple limbs have not been ravaged by experience, life and too many fags and too much claret.
My reactions were just not quick enough. My brain, littered as it is with acres of nonsense and irrelevances just could not trip whatever switch needed to be tripped quickly enough to stop me from buying a game I had no intention to buy. The irony is I was made to look stupid by my smart phone.
All I can offer by way of comfort is the thought that my finger is not on the nuclear button - that is if we still have one.