Twats and Arses (or Black Holes and White Supremicists)

Thursday Evening

Either way you look at it, it's been a disturbing evening.

Firstly, the spectre of the-man-we-won't-name-for-fear-of-increasing-his-profile. Let's call him Twatface. Twatface is a well known facist fringe politician who recently secured a place in the European parliament. As a result he got himself a somewhat controversial seat on Question Time leading to extensive media coverage and frantic Twittering. The appearance was as expected - outraged mainstream politicians vying for votes and a winning place as 'most outraged democratic liberal type in Britain' facing a badly disguised bigot attempting to break into the public affection with poorly constructed and emotive statements about Winston Churchill and the impending demise of the British people (shaking hands and excessive use of blushing pauses underlying his ineptitude in an environment of such sophistication - and Question Time is pretty mainstream and lacking sophstication!). The voice of sanity and calm was writer and historian Bonnie Greer who's erudite and straightforward deconstruction of Twatface's ill informed arguments impressed even the racist himself. But enough about him, let's talk about me.

I curled up in bed feeling slightly disturbed at the possibility that Suffolk's answer to Dr Evil could end up running the country and force me to leave the soon to be mono-cultural English idyll of pig-eating, chip waving, bulldog tattooed NF dream for the comparitively cosmopolitan environment of rural Punjab. I picked up my pregnancy guide thinking that a spot of mental preparation for the birth of my unborn child would perk me up. I turned to the pages dealing with childbirth.

Let's start with the good bits - drugs. A selection of opiate-based and other medication is freely distributed once contractions kick in with suitable regularity. Now, the plan is to go as far as we can with self-hypnotherapy in a warm birthing pool with nothing but the soothing smell of lavender essential oil and soft lighting to disturb the natural birthing process as Mr Singh and I hold hands and welcome this new spirit into the physical world. The reality, I appreciate, might be considerably less cosmic and a bit more like a bad day at the dentist (with essential root canal work taking place in my undercarriage). And so I am preparing myself with a pecking order of narcotics to help along the way. Reading between the lines of vetran mums accounts of childbirth, anything that starts with 'I felt out of it and disorientated' sounds good, and anything that includes 'just don't let the father-to-be at it' works for Mr Singh. I'm not, however, quite so enthusiastic about anything that require tubes to be inserted into my spine through hollow needles whilst I hold completely still during a flange-ripping contraction. What's wrong with old fashioned needles a-la-Trainspotting?

And now the not-so-good bits. Why did no-one tell me before I got pregnant that there was a chance not only of my female parts ripping (given - just make sure it's not a student stitching me up and try to pre-empt this with a tactical snip) but that it can go as far as your ANUS! It is perfectly possible that you rip from your flange up into your bottom... require stitches and may (in extreme cases) lead to complicatioms defecating. WHAT THE FU@K?!?! Followed by the reassuring 'however, the chance of this occuring can be reduced by massaging oil into the perineum for 6 weeks prior to the due date, 'perhaps you could ask your partner to assist with this' (I think this was a popular suggestion as Mr Singh asked if we needed to start this earlier today....).

So with a heavy heart, I turned off the light ready to sleep. However I look at it, it was a day of arseholes (some more palatable than others).