Friday, 15 July 2011
Ante-not-laugh-unless-they-fit-natal Classes: Part 1
I HAVE to write a post now. It's been a biblical distance since the last post and I'm starting to forget what the symbols on the plastic rectangle in front of me actually do.
So, in typical I-haven't-got-a-funny-subject-so-here's-the-boring-shit-I've-been-up-to style, let me tell you about my recent adventures...
Last week I went for my first antenatal class. What a madcap caper that was. Myself and the missus went down the hospital without a clue where the class was meant to be held and what to expect. Whilst eventually finding the venue, in a some random seminar room, we watched a proper variety of society take up their places in a pre-booked audience. One person of note was a fella who had literally had 37 bells of shit kicked out of him, sporting an nicely battered face including a broken nose and very black eyes, to the extent they had little bits of blood entering the whites. Clearly a right hiding. Great. NHS, quality crowd. Other randoms consisted of a guy that struck an uncanny resemblance to no other than Moby, with his Asian wife and some Kiwi fella that could have doubled a Hurley from Lost (the barnet certainly, though he wasn't as fat).
The Midwife leading the class went about describing all manner of hectic birthing manoeuvres, from the bizarre to the surreal - although nothing Mrs Coggblog hadn't seen on one of her many pregnancy or birthing TV programmes, One Born Every Minute being a prime example. She also managed to avoid pissing herself laughing at the diagrams the Midwife was drawing on her board. The Midwire drew an asterix, an actual star, for the lady's arsehole when explaining the dimensions of what was what going on during labour. I'm trying very hard to maintain composure, though this a challenge. This didn't phase me despite being sometimes surprising, certainly nothing to shock or bamboozle. However, we got to one stage where the dynamic all changed.
As we were sitting at the front of a U shaped crowd, constantly looking forward and toward this woman's artistic display of various parts of internal female mechanics and her endearing reference to the "mucus plug", the first question from the audience came as a slight surprise. We certainly didn't expect the origin - and most definitely not the content.
"Excuse me!" said the shocked voice from the crowd, as everyone looked around. Moby, of all the observers, had started to fit. Not a little fit, a full blown spastic plugged into the mains, I'm going to swallow my tongue, please take my bellend out of this broken toaster, mong fest. As his eyes rolled back like prices at Asda, the "Midwife" asked the class: "Has anyone got any medical training?". Brilliant. You're a medical professional with not the faintest, foggiest idea of why this poor civilian is buzzing out of his mind at the slightest mention of "mucus plug". How reassured we were! The guy with the battered face added an important suggestion: "Shouldn't you just let them fit?". Happy days, surrounded by experts.
Whilst Viscount Kwikfit gurned and contorted, the Midwife asked someone to fetch the poor chap a drink. I naturally obliged and ventured out of the seminar room toward the water fountain to grab the man a beverage. I got to the fountain and pulled two cups in one from the stack. I thought, it might be a good idea to fill both, hand him one to drink and dash the other in his face - old skool revival style. I declined. This was no time for heroes.
When I got back to the room, Moby was starting to come round. He looked paler than a Japanese anaemic in polar camouflage. As his eyes started to focus, he looked up to see a room full of pregnant birds, a fella with a totally battered face and a Midwife 10cm from his eyes asking him if he was OK? His response was nothing short of golden.
"I don't know where I am???"
Cue the ignition of our internal laughter nuclear reactors. YOU WHAT MATE?!!? This was meant to be a serious, educational setting in front of a random collection of co-preggers civilians. Myself and the missus were ready to crumble in tears of sheer hilarity we had never experienced. We so nearly collapsed and wept when we'd seen the star for an arse - now this was too much. I had to bite down hard on the corner of my fist to prevent myself from literally shitting with uncontrollable laughter. Dorothy, or whatever was the Midwife's name, carried on as if nothing had happened. Pro. Or maybe not.
The rest of the evening was spent teetering on the edge of buckling whilst Hurley from Lost kept relentlessly asking stupid questions. I managed not to screamingly rip the piss out of the defeated brawler - or his pale faced amigo cowering in the corner after his magnificent performance of an electrocuted epileptic. Needless to say, the latter won't be coming back to the next class if his pride is remotely stronger that his resistance to middleweight gore. God save the NHS. Until next time...
Posted by F-DAAT! at 00:03