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The pink wee is alarming
Quote from: Nick (GC First Class) on October 15, 2013, 02:08:40 PMThe pink wee is alarming Don't look then
Quote from: boogs on October 15, 2013, 02:10:20 PMQuote from: Nick (GC First Class) on October 15, 2013, 02:08:40 PMThe pink wee is alarming Don't look then Maybe he had to change the sheets........
Quote from: Nick (GC First Class) on October 15, 2013, 02:08:40 PMThe pink wee is alarming Told you...
Quote from: apc2010 on October 15, 2013, 02:09:32 PMQuote from: Nick (GC First Class) on October 15, 2013, 02:08:40 PMThe pink wee is alarming Told you... For Pete's sake - DON'T CHECK OUT THE POOP!
Quote from: Marley's Ghost (Imbiber of Spirits) on October 15, 2013, 04:11:06 PMQuote from: apc2010 on October 15, 2013, 02:09:32 PMQuote from: Nick (GC First Class) on October 15, 2013, 02:08:40 PMThe pink wee is alarming Told you... For Pete's sake - DON'T CHECK OUT THE POOP!have you read Clarkson's account of that?Clarkson: My near-death toilet experience
Quote from: Steve on October 15, 2013, 05:34:53 PMQuote from: Marley's Ghost (Imbiber of Spirits) on October 15, 2013, 04:11:06 PMQuote from: apc2010 on October 15, 2013, 02:09:32 PMQuote from: Nick (GC First Class) on October 15, 2013, 02:08:40 PMThe pink wee is alarming Told you... For Pete's sake - DON'T CHECK OUT THE POOP!have you read Clarkson's account of that?Clarkson: My near-death toilet experienceabout:blank
Of course, most of my ailments are designed so that I can lie on a sofa while my wife brings me poached eggs on toast. I've never really thought I had cancer, so I've never really known what it must be like to stare the Grim Reaper in the face and know that time's up. Last weekend, however, all that changed . . . Now I want to make it absolutely plain before I go any further that I do not find bottoms or anything which comes out of them even remotely funny. I am not seven years old and I am not German. But there's no way of saying what I'm about to say without being lavatorial. I'm sorry for that. What happened, you see, is that after my usual morning's number twos, I noticed that the water in the bowl was red. Which meant of course that I had, without feeling any pain, passed a small amount of blood. Plainly, I had prostate cancer. I am aware of this disease. I know that it is the most common form of cancer among men and it is likely to strike when the victim nears 50. I even know what colour wristband you should wear to show you support it (blue). I knew too that I needed, urgently, to check mine out and so, armed with nothing but a well-oiled finger, went ahead and violated what for 46 years has been a strictly enforced one-way street. I shall spare you the pain and the humiliation of this hideous potholing expedition, but I feel duty-bound to explain that once I was in there, ferreting about, I realised that I didn't know what a prostate is, or what it feels like or where it is exactly. It's much the same story with the endless requests we get from doctors to check out our testicles for early signs of cancer. I'm sure this is jolly good fun, but unless you tell us what we're looking for, how will we know when we've found it? And skin cancer too. How can you tell the difference between a mole and a melanoma? I'm sure it's possible if you've spent seven years studying medicine, but what if you're a fork-lift truck driver? I've examined thousands of photographs of malignant skin growths and they all look like every freckle on my body. After a bit of research on the internet I discovered that a prostate is about the size of a walnut, that it's used to make fluid in which sperm is transported and that it lives "near" the rectum. And eventually I did discover something in my bottom that fitted the description. But with knowledge gleaned solely from the BBC website - which almost certainly will blame the rise in popularity for prostate cancer on either the Israelis or global warming - and with nothing to hand except a soapy index finger, I'm afraid I wasn't able to say whether whatever I'd found had cancer or was in rude good health. The only evidence I had was the blood, and that really was enough. I was finished. I wasn't even going to last as long as Syd Barrett. I heard the other day that 80% of patients, when told by a doctor that their tests for cancer had been positive, make a joke of some sort. Wearily, I went downstairs wondering what mine might be. Something about getting the spare room painted perhaps . . . And there in the kitchen was my wife. "Morning," she said cheerily. "Have you been to the loo yet, because that beetroot we've been eating doesn't half make it red." I've never felt so happy in all my life.
