Low life
Clinical
Jeffrey Bernard
waiting room. But last week I didn't see anyone I knew and the waiting room was only remarkable for the absence of the face I caught the infection from. As I say, this was a simple bladder infection, painful but not the dreaded dose, but how odd to sit down in a waiting room surrounded by people with one form of clap or another. Logically, of course, it shouldn't be any- thing to be more ashamed or confused about than catching a cold but there's no denying the fact that the feet do tend to shuffle a bit. The first thing of significance I noticed was that eight out of ten men there were reading the Sun and the one woman only in that waiting room was reading the Guardian. You may have read in last Sunday's papers that the mass murderer, Dennis Nilsen, wrapped up a head in a copy of the Guardian. Beware people with a penchant for social work.
Upstairs in the treatment department I was examined by a very nice, caring, lady doctor. She said, 'I don't think you've got urethritis, but, to be on the safe side, I don't think you should have sex for another week. Do you think you could bear that?' I told her that I thought it might be a blessing in disguise and she sent me to see a male, Indian nurse who took a blood sample from my arm and a smear from my
penis. (Why are the respectable medical words so much more obscene than slang?) Now, the shock horror of the smear was the fact that the two hands of the smear- taking nurse had 'love' hate' tattooed on the fingers. Obviously another Sun reader and probably a Millwall supporter. And one puts one's life in these people's hands. Dear God.
While I waited for the results of the smear from the house microscope we were joined by three more women in the waiting room. I have to- report that in spite of the Guardian and that haunted look that health-food, jogging, liberal-minded freaks have, they were extremely attractive. There is something of a paradox in finding yourself fancying four birds in a clap clinic but then I suppose there's less chance of getting clap if you happen to be seriously ugly. As I was eyeing the best-looking one of the quartet she looked up and smiled at me. I couldn't help thinking, you've got a bloody nerve, but then I was smiling at her too, wasn't I? Could this be a new way of meeting people and making friends? Could Norman be wasting money in joining a Jewish escort agency? £50 it cost him and all he ended up doing was taking a middle- aged dog to a first night.
The only nasty thing about the clinic, though, was three Jack the Lads who seemed to think that clap was something to boast about and a couple of repellent poofs camping it up and discussing their ex- aminations in graphic and loud terms. It drove me out for ten minutes and into the nearest boozer. You wouldn't want to drink a glass of water in a place like that and the doctor had already told me that alcohol wouldn't negate the antibiotics, 044.40ft-4 only add to the irritation and pain. One for
the road and what a bloody road it's been. Looking back on the people one's cavorted with in Soho, Barcelona, Cheltenham and Cairo, it's a miracle that one is still alive. Mind you, I did have a couple of drinks in a gay bar in New Orleans last November so heaven alone knows what's lurking in the blood stream. But I keep wondering what on earth that lady doctor must think of men. The Dog and Duck in Frith Street used to be infested with gynaecologists from the Women's Hospital in Soho Square and they were absolutely besotted with women to judge by their conversation so I suppose my public parts are like water off a duck's back to that lady. Either that or does she bite on a bullet all the time when she's off duty? Yes, I think God is trying to give us some sort of message and I don't think much of the package it arrives in. Having got the all clear I found myself eyeing someone in Wheeler's last night. But I still felt like a kamikaze pilot.
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