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Hello dick doctor

So, after many years of getting then-girlfriends to get themselves tested (you know, to save us both the hassle), I thought it was maybe time to get myself a little STI test.

So, after many years of getting then-girlfriends to get themselves tested (you know, to save us both the hassle), I thought it was maybe time to get myself a little STI test. You know, just to put my mind at rest. I haven't been reaming £10-a-go amputee prostitutes in the arse or anything, but, you know, better to be safe than sorry and all that noise.

Anyway, last Saturday I went all the way to Homerton Hospital in Hackney to discover (after walking through the whole hospital) that it doesn't open at weekends. It is open for walk-in visits only on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Not the worst thing in the world – at least this trip didn't involve me showing my dick to a stranger at least.

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Tuesday came and I slept in. Fuck sexual health, sleep is way better.

Wednesday came and I went all the way there to find it was fucking shut (it doesn't open till midday on Wednesdays). Fuck. Totally lame. Another wasted journey, but still, my old boy was nestled warm and cosy in my boxers like a little hibernating squirrel – not being fondled by the gloved hand of tall faceless man (this is what I had imagined the doctor would look like).

So today was the day of reckoning. I tore myself from my bed (it was so warm and cosy and bereft of concern involving my genitalia) and from there began a morning of extreme trepidation – "Are these boxers okay?", etc. (I'd used my best two clean pairs on my two wasted trips). Somehow I managed to get there by 10 AM and the queue wasn't too bad – a mixture of gay guys, rudeboys and straight guys who were obviously there at their new girlfriend's request. Not sure which box I ticked amongst them all but I just kept looking at the "I love my gay son" poster for some reason. Both that and Phillip Schofield (who was on This Morning interrogating a woman who was molested by her mother) kept my mind off jap's-eye swabbing and the like.

First I had to fill out a form. My housemate said that if I thought I had something to be as vague as possible on the form as the chick on the desk who reads it back to you is a "very fuckable 30-something mum" and that it would lead to embarrassment had I written any pre-supposed ailment down. I did anyway and she wasn't even nearly hot.

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After more Schofield/"I love my gay son" poster staring, my name got called. More trepidation. Slinking out of my chair, I followed the pretty nurse to her lair of penile displeasure. We had a chat, which was nice. She asked if I was gay. Then if I ever wore protection. Both nos. This was the first real interaction of the day and within a minute it was time to show her my johnson – which, you'll be glad to know, she said was fine. I was having a blast. It was the first time I'd ever shown the old guy to a woman who wasn't planning on giving it a temporary, velvety, if slightly damp, home since I was a kid.

Next, she handed me a cup and told me to put a "sample" in it and leave it in the toilet she had led me to. Whilst on the subject of the cup, a girl I dated a while ago pulled one of these out AT HER HOUSE, saying she'd picked it up for me and I should fill it up! Needless to say I refused.

Pissing into the cup was a bit of a test. It must hold about only 50ml, which meant it was kind of hard to pee into. So I let a few drops fly in there – which barely covered the bottom, but I didn't wanna let rip in case I got piss all over the outside of the receptacle and its newly written sticker with my number on it. I now have become a number by the way. I then let the rest flow into the toilet, but thinking that maybe the good stuff was at the end I threw a few more drops into the cup for good measure. It looked pretty healthy to me.

Then I went back to the waiting room. Hello Phillip Schofield interviewing 55-year-old divorcee whose new hobby is weightlifting. She looked cute. (I managed to ignore Holly Willoughby, by the way.) Oh hi there "I love my gay son" poster.

Then I got called for a blood test. I don't know why I took this as I (hopefully) don't have AIDS or syphilis, but when they asked I said, "Yeah, why not. I'm here, aren't I?", which gave her a chuckle. A quick prick in the arm and I was done.

An hour, a short penile examination, a piss in a cup and a blood sample was all it took. Now begins the "waiting game". Five working days of slight anxiety. Well, Tuesday or Wednesday next week apparently. I call up the number on the card I was given and quote my new number identity and all will be revealed. What will it be? Chlamydia, gonorrhoea or the big A? All will be revealed next week.

DICK VAN DYKE