Warts and all
Jeremy Clarke
On New Year’s Day I was sitting in the waiting-room of the genito-urinary clinic (the genital warts have flared up again) reading a book of selected writings by Carl Jung. I was very relieved I had taken something to read because I had to wait over an hour before being invited to show my warts to anybody, and all there was to read in the waiting-room, meanwhile, was a pile of dog-eared gardening magazines. I’m not a follower of Jung or anything. I just thought I’d try him, that’s all.
One of the pieces selected for the Jung reader was an essay called ‘The Plight of the Individual in Modern Society’. In it, Mr Jung suggests that ‘for every manifest case of insanity there are ... at least ten latent cases who seldom get to the point of breaking out openly but whose views and behaviour, for all their appearance of normality, are influenced by pathological and perverse factors’. In a stable society, this excitable and not insubstantial constituency is held in check by the rational section of the population — which Mr Jung pessimistically puts at a mere 40 per cent. But if that society becomes unstable, he warns, the latent psychotics, punching far above their own weight in a climate of uncertainty, could take over the state quite easily.
If true, it explains an awful lot. It explains the Hunting with Dogs Bill, for example. It explains the more lunatic aspects of political correctness. And, in a way, it explains how I got to where I am today. To take my mind away from the insistent desire to scratch my warts, I tried calculating the size of the psychotic and latent psychotic community in our area. In our nearest town, you can’t move for psychotics on market day. Even Sharon’s been going out with a married manic-depressive for the last fortnight. She doesn’t fancy him, she says, but she enjoys being on the receiving end of his mad spending sprees. To boost her finances still further when his depression sets in, she’s thinking of joining the local Bi-polar Action Group. And last year’s magic mushroom crop increased the psychotic constituency as it does every year: one young lad carted off to hospital claiming to be Jesus Christ and another insisting he’s Jimi Hendrix. If Jung’s estimated ratio of ten to one is anywhere near the truth, there are as probably as many latent psychotics in our area as there are rational people.
When it was my turn to go in and show my warts to the nurse, I took my book in with me and placed it on the desk, title page uppermost. I wasn’t showing off; I had nowhere else to put it. There was another woman in the consulting-room. I saw her and the nurse exchange an arch glance, as though it was highly unusual, or perhaps undesirable, for a person with genital warts to have an interest in psychology. The other woman was a student nurse. Would I mind if she also examined my warts? The more the merrier, I said.
I dropped my trousers, noticing as I did so that the price tag was still on. Another exchange of glances. Then I gave them a short history of the warts. I first contracted them five years ago. Some authorities say that the virus causing them is incurable; others tell you a strong immune system will see it off. After five wart-free years, I thought I’d got rid of mine. They came back at Christmas. ‘Eeurrgh!’ said the student nurse frankly. ‘Quite an infestation!’ said the qualified one, poking about in them with a latex forefinger.
What they did next was point a fire extinguisher at my groin and blast it with dry ice. Then I had to stand there for ten minutes, then brace myself for another lot. To while away the time between icy blasts, I read some more Jung. ‘Can you really understand that stuff?’ said the student nurse, referring sceptically to the Jung. ‘Bits,’ I said. ‘I’m just trying him, that’s all.’ While I was reading, a hospital dinner lady entered the room, stared at my frozen groin, laughed, then went out again. ‘It’s not funny,’ I said. ‘You haven’t seen yourself,’ said the student nurse. ‘One more blast and you can pull your trousers up and go home,’ said the qualified one, taking aim. ‘Brace yourself!’
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