I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t allow any person to stick their fist into my anus. I’m sure there are people who love it, and I’m sure evidence of that is a brief tap of the keyboard away, but I’m afraid it’s not for me.

I wonder, do the people who enjoy this activity look at me with pity, as though if I would only arch my back I would understand the ecstasy it can bring? Do they share stories of their own gaping arseholes with similarly bucket-reared friends, just loudly enough for the closed-minded likes of me to hear? Do they talk about me when I’m not there, perhaps even run through pro-fisting arguments they can try on me to show me the error of my ways?

Entirely unrelated, I also don’t want to have children. At this point anyone reading this who has children will have their ears pricked up like a dog in a pitch-black room sensing another animal sniffing its ringpiece.

I’ve just seen something that I now have to quote as read, to share the unmistakable taste of stomach acid tickling the back of my tongue.

“I am a father. I have one child – a little girl who is almost 2. She is absolutely amazing and means everything to me. Being a father is very special. However, being a father to a little girl is such a unique and amazing relationship.”

It’s the word ‘special’ I object to (most), much the same way as I object to ‘awesome’. If everything is ‘awesome’ where do we have left to go? I like things that inspire awe, but like kebabs and wanking I don’t want one every few minutes.

And if being a parent is so ‘special’, how come there have been so fucking many of them? I know science has moved on apace lately but the number of people who have had a father is still exactly equal to the number of people there have been, as I understand it.

I’m at the age when not having kids is seen as weird so I’ve decided now I’m going to explain to everyone who starts on this fucking never-ending subject that I have a double varicocele, a swelling of the veins that has drained both my testicles of the all-important juice that only lucky men can use to create a civilisation with one single shot. There’s no known cure, though it’s possible to squeeze a tiny amount of ejaculte out past my throbbing capilliaries if I make sure I fill my life with enough drink, drugs, gigs, holidays, unwanted electronic devices, trips to the cinema and people to do the cleaning for me. Exactly the kinds of thing parents can’t afford, but we all have our crosses to bear.

I will go into as much intentionally gruesome detail as you need about the massive red disease that has snuffed out my only chance at life’s main pleasure and ultimate goal, right up until the point you shut the fuck up about your children and how I really should help cure the world’s human shortage. I’ll stop explaining how I have to milk and milk and milk myself in ever more mind-bending positions the moment you admit that your obsession with children is a pathetic attempt to obtain the immortality you feel you, yes you rather than just your genes, deserve.

Either that or I’ll agree to have kids immediately if you lube yourself up and bend the fuck over. Your choice, daddy.