More balls from the researchers
But this time, in a good way. It was reassuring to have my own prejudices confirmed – namely that those namby-pamby ‘new men’ with their bleeding-heart liberal sensitivity and unhealthy obsession with sharing the housework, are endowed (if that’s the right word) with tiny testicles. Of course chaps like me, with more impressive trouser furniture (that requires the appropriate care when adopting the seated position), have long accused these traitors to the male cause of lacking balls, so it’s nice to see a study confirming just that. They also used a brain scanner to demonstrate that the bigger the balls, the less interest their owners showed in their offspring. Which probably accounts for the fact that my own children – well, the two official ones – were still unclear about my identity at the time of the divorce.
You’re my best mate, you are…
Now I know that this has already triggered a mention on this site, in some deeply unfunny corner, but you wouldn’t expect me to pass it by when looking for this month’s example of research into the self-evident. In the event, of course, I found a better example (see below) and in any case, these researchers, unlike those vilified in previous columns, were being deliberately silly, and were rewarded by the Ig Nobel Prize committee, who are piss-takers after my own heart.
If these researchers wanted any further confirmation of their theory, they would only have to consider the fact that the Bearded Dweeb Johnson managed to cop-off with a woman. Every morning, the knob jockey looks in the mirror and sees a face sporting a beard which displays a visual record of the last three meals eaten, and a complexion that looks like the ‘before’ part of an advert for Roaccutane, and yet he actually felt able to approach the future Mrs Johnson (admittedly no oil painting herself) and ask her out. That this happened at a mess party when she was as pissed as he was explains a lot, and confirms Bègue et al’s findings.
Well, who’d have thought it? When it comes to necking Viagra, the country-dwellers put us urban types to shame. As one of the turnip bashers said, they have to have something to do at night out there in the sticks. And, as he failed to point out, those sheep can be quite demanding. Interestingly, the City of London has the lowest consumption of erectile aids. Load of bankers.
Good on ya Brucie
Sir Bruce Keogh (apparently ‘the most senior doctor in the NHS’ – wtf does that mean? – is he the oldest?) tells us that more heart attacks and strokes should be treated at home. Too bloody true! Free up some beds for proper surgical patients, who can actually be treated and returned to productive life or, more likely, benefit scrounging. Not to mention generating a few quid for surgeons in overtime payments and PP fees. Incidentally, I was never offered £370 an hour for overtime work. Perhaps I’ve been a bit too quick to cancel my GMC direct debit and take up journalism?
Should definitely have considered medical management looking at the Brucie Bonus at number 4 in the list. Haven’t earned that sort of money since I was on the board of that hospital car parking firm…
The EE bloody C doesn’t get much right, but insisting that all health professionals have indemnity insurance is something I can support. If I had to cough up £15K a year to the MDU, why shouldn’t everyone else? If that means that the hairy-legged independent madwives can’t practise, that’s OK by me – there’s a reason no-one will insure them. And if women wanting home births have to go it alone, so what? A reduction in the number of potential Guardian-readers surviving the birth process could be considered as Darwinism in action.
What? – unfeeling? Me?
No shit Sherlock
I’m uncomfortably aware that this column is turning into one of those Bad Science exposés, but I mean, come on! – did we really need someone to tell us that ‘sober knowledge does not necessarily translate into responsible judgment while intoxicated’? Now I would be the first to admit that I’m not without personal experience in this context , but I can’t believe that anyone, no matter how abstemious, really needs telling that decisions made when rat-arsed may require revision the following morning.
Often, of course, such revision is not possible; for example, when the decision in question relates to the advisability of stapling an anaesthetist’s foreskin to the desk in theatre sister’s office during the annual Christmas party. OK, Dan the FG had to stand there for two hours until sister dragged an uncomprehending FY1 into the office hoping for a quickie, and then release him (when she stopped laughing) with a forceful tug. She wasn’t best pleased at finding her in-tray and top drawer full of urine, but he should have exercised more self-control – some people just can’t take their drink.