One of the benefits of being a man is having the ability to easily pee standing up and hence urinals were developed. Which brings me to prostates. I often drink at the Feathers bar, which is not a really Courtenay Place ‘cool’ bar but just a decent place to have an after work beer or to watch the rugger or whatever. Lots of older men frequent it – the over 50s, semi alcholic, have to be dragged home to their wives kinda drinkers. And their prostates are packing up big time.
I can go into the Feathers’ pisser, piss out my last three beers in what seems like 20 odd seconds (a flash in the pan so to speak) while these poor buggers are hovering over the urinal struggling with getting out a tea spoon's worth of dribble.
All because they have an enlarged prostate.
Aging is one mean mofo.
My granddad once candidly described to me his prostate examination. I can recall him talking about the technician ‘shoving a wire up it’. Not exactly typical granddad/grandson conversation but I guess it was more interesting than feeding the ducks.