Inconceivable by Ben Elton Page A

honestly love you.’
    I mean, I ask you. As if any woman desires the sweet nothings of a sad sack of beer and flatulence?
    But anyway, I do feel a bit rejected. This evening I tried to snuggle up when we were watching
    Channel Four News but when Sam watches telly he really watches it, no distractions allowed, even during the adverts. It’s amazing. There he is, concentrating on the golden crispiness of a packet of fish fingers or the sheer joy of driving a Fiat Uno and nothing must intrude. If I put my arm round him or my head on his shoulder I can feel him tense up and if I should dare to ask him to massage my feet or some other such pleasantry, well blimey! It’s like I’ve demanded that he sacrifice his entire existence for my comfort. I suppose I must just accept that he is not, nor ever will be, much of a cuddler. I don’t think many men are. At least I hope it’s not just him.
    Yesterday I had one more go at the visualization class. Drusilla made me. She said it was absurd to do it just once and that if I didn’t go again then I might as well not have gone at all. So I gave it another chance, but it really isn’t for me. We’re all supposed to know each other now so the American lady was a bit bolder and she hopped straight in with some cathartic roleplaying. She made us all cry like babies. Ten grown women sitting in a circle, crying and wailing. I think the idea was to physicalize and project our need for children and hence stop us feeling like it was some kind of guilty secret. That
    may have been it. Anyway, it was bloody embarrassing. After that we had to hug each other and offer comfort, sharing our sadness and recognizing that we are not alone. Well, I tried to be communally supportive but it was pretty gruesome. I ended up clamped to the bosom of a woman who smelt of dogs. I really shan’t go again now. I wouldn’t have gone at all if I hadn’t been feeling so helpless.
    One strange thing, though. During the meditation bit of the class (which happens at the end we have to sit around and go all dreamy) I found myself thinking about that appalling hoity Carl Phipps, you know, the Uhoaa from work. Can’t think why, I don’t even like him or find him attractive. Although he does have a nice smile, that is when he deigns to bestow it upon one so lowly as I.

Dear Book,
    T revor and I played squash today. God, I am so unfit. I coughed up something that looked like it lived in a pond. I hardly smoke at all any more but I do like a drink. I think I’ll try and switch to Spritzers. The beer is beginning to lie rather heavy.
    Anyway, I talked to Trev a bit about my impending examination re sperm and we both agreed that it is not a test of my manhood.
    A poor result, a thin scrotal mix in the pot, does not mean I am any less of a man. Trevor pointed out that I have always prided myself on my liberal outlook and have never had any respect for all that macho bullshit. He was actually very sensitive and nice.
    He asked me whether I’d think him any less a whole man if it was him who was suspected of having a sad sorry sack full of bugger- all banging betwixt his legs. I said of course I wouldn’t.
    But I would ! I know I would. I’d pretend I wouldn’t but I would.
    ‘Poor old Trevor,’ I’d think, ‘not much going on in the bollock department,’ I’d think, ‘something of a testicular void’.
    And that’s what he’s going to be thinking about me when I fail.
    I told Lucy about my fears and, here’s a funny thing, she burst into tears, which I wasn’t expecting at all. I mean, after all, I’m the man with the suspected empty balls, aren’t I?
    So I said, ‘Hang on. I’m the one with the suspected empty balls, aren’t I?’
    I thought she was going to hit me. She said that I was already thinking in terms of ‘fault’, which was pathetic and destructive!
    She said that the truth was that the problem was far more likely to rest with her than with me because a woman’s tubes are a lot more