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Monday 26th November 2012

Exciting news. My willy brush arrived today. I went upmarket and bought the version that comes in its own wooden box (mainly because I didn't really realise how much cheaper the non-boxed version was), but at least this also includes a little bar of soap. There's no point in brushing your willy if you're not going to stick some soap on it. I did not feel very much like trying the brush out. I kept picturing the man at the factory whose job is to check that all the brushes are working properly. I am sure there is no such man and that the brush has not been in contact with anyone's genitals, but I couldn't help picturing it.
My wife and her friend saw the box on the table and assumed (as any right minded person would) that it was a shaving brush. "My grandad used to have one," said the friend. "I don't think he did," I replied.
Or maybe our grandads were all pretending that their little bathroom brushes were for shaving when in fact they were all for cock-cleanliness. At least one of our grandads must have wondered what the brush would feel like against this more sensitive areas. Or one might have been shaving his balls and discovered the second function accidentally. Perhaps this is how the willy brush was "invented".
The brush comes with a leaflet describing the brush, explaining what smegma actually is and decrying the practice of circumcision. You can't help thinking the willy brush people have an agenda there. They need foreskins to remain attached so that desquamated epitelial debris collects in the subprepatial space. It's in their interests to ensure that still happens. You circumcised fellas are saving yourselves a fortune in soap and brushes.
As I plan to use the brush in my show (and maybe even one day give it away as a prize - possibly to the stinkiest cocked man who comes to the tour) I don't think it is appropriate for me to try the brush out. Also my penis is always clean enough to eat your dinner off (a chat up line that has, as yet, persuaded no women to eat their dinner off it). So for the moment the brush is staying in its box. But it's like the old Billy Connolly tea cosy thing isn't it? Can you trust a man who is left in a room with a willy brush and doesn't even try see what it would feel like against his willy? If so, for the moment, you can't trust me. But curiosity must surely get the better of me. And anyone who wins this brush should probably consider that!
In more odd penis related matters I had a medical today for insurance purposes. I met a doctor who without further ado gave me a small sample bottle and asked me to wee in it. My second interaction with him was to present him with a vial of my warm urine. If I did that to anyone else in the world I'd probably get into all kinds of trouble, but he took it in his stride. Isn't life odd? Here's a vial of my wee. Yes of course. That is normal.
The medical was fairly basic and mainly involved me answering questions that I had answered before and that the company could have checked via my medical records. I thought my wee might be sent off to a special wee laboratory (presumably next door to the semen one that analysed and categorised the various spunks that were found in Marc Almond's stomach according to the clearly fallacious urban myth). But the doctor tested the wee in front of me. It wasn't enough that I had given him some of my wee, he now wanted to pour it on a little tester and dip a strip in it in front of my face. Perhaps by gauging my reaction he could tell something about my mental health. I suppose if I started masturbating then the jig would be up.
One of the tests was able to tell if I was a non-smoker (as I had truthfully claimed). How can they tell that from your wee? Unless you're smoking cigarettes in a very unusual way or unlikely orifice (presumably the slim ones). I was told that my wee revealed that I wasn't a smoker. Which I already knew, so the wee isn't all that clever. He should have used my wee to tell me something that I didn't know. The date of my death would have been a useful thing to know for both me and the insurance company. That test might exist but it wouldn't really be in the insurance company's interest to carry it out. If they knew for sure that we were going to die in five years then they wouldn't insure us and if we knew for sure that we'd live to 90 then we wouldn't want to be insured. The wee would obviously have to be able to see the future, rather than just give a medical result, and know if we were going to die in an accident.
Would you dare to harness the predictive power of the wee?
Was this the basis of that old Lionel Nimrod sketch? I can't remember now.
Anyway I am not a smoker and I passed the other wee test too, thoguh I don't know what that was for (it might have been the death predictor one). If so I guess if the insurance company accepts my application then I shouldn't bother taking it and if it doesn't then I'd better start partying like there's no tomorrow. Because there might not be. My wee has spoken.

So far 71 of you have donated money to the Warming Up 10th anniversary SCOPE collection. Thank you so much - that's nearly £1000 in just a day. I hope there's more of you out there than that and if you feel like giving a tenner (or less or more) to a great cause in return for this self-indulgent tosh then I'd really appreciate it. donate here.
And in less charitable news, here's my pre-Christmas newsletter. BUY MY STUFF!

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My new stand up show, Lord of the Dance Settee will be on at the George Sq Theatre at 10.45pm every night of the Edinburgh Fringe Buy tickets here.
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