Righto, chaps. I know I’m not terribly famous for holding back unwanted details - but this is the only real content warning you’re ever likely to get. If you want to be 100% sure you’ll be able to look me square in the eye without feeling mildly uncomfortable from this day onwards, feel free to skip this post.

As for everyone else - I’ll expect a seductive wink and a cheeky squeeze next time I see you.

Of course, who can resist a warning like that?

But seriously, last chance.

Right. Cards on the table, then. Over the last few weeks I’ve been taking part in a study for The Sun, in which I was required to provide a semen sample for analysis,  detailed information about my lifestyle, as well as - crucially - a picture of my face (two pictures of my face, to be precise - ‘happy’ and ‘sad’. You may see where this is going.)

It’s yet to appear in the paper, but this post is a fairly detailed story of the experience so far. Honestly, I really wasn’t fucking about with all that ‘last chance’ nonsense, you know.

First up, let’s deal with answering obvious question number one: I decided to take part primarily for one reason - having a newspaper with a circulation of three million readers print a photograph of my face that clearly certifies the fact that i’m a wanker is far too amusing a prospect to pass on. Secondly, taking part in a test like this is exactly the sort of thing that most men would be interested in knowing the results of, but would subsequently put off for about 10 years. I’ve always been a believer in the idea that knowledge doesn’t change the reality of a situation, so fuck it - I might as well find out now.

In answer to the highly concerned look on your face: Yes, I know. I’ve actually seen the results in advance - and whilst nothing entirely devastating popped up, I’m already well aware of how the results are likely to be portrayed to fit the article’s overall purposes. Thankfully, I can’t see myself wanting to impregnate any regular Sun readers anytime soon - so I’m not too worried.

Still - with the UK’s largest national newspaper likely to be reporting about my low sperm count soon enough, I might as well tell you all about the fascinatingly awkward details behind the whole procedure, eh?

I attempted to pop out and provide the sample during my lunch break, which at the time seemed like a reasonably achievable feat (it doesn’t take that long, RIGHT LADIES?). Unfortunately after a bus ride to the location and a quick double-step I realised I was already running short on time. After discovering that ‘The Embassy of the People’s Republic of China’ wasn’t innuendo, I finally managed to find the actual entrance to the clinic, approaching the middle aged woman at the reception desk to quickly check in.

Handed a clipboard full of documents to complete, I gestured towards the sofas in the waiting room to my left. “Shall I go over there on the sofa, or shall I just do it here?” I enquired, following up to clarify that “I meant the forms”.

I then shuffled over to the sofa feeling slightly awkward about my awkward dealings with the receptionist, and utterly horrified about the fact that I appeared to have temporarily become an excerpt from Danny Wallace’s Shortlist column. It helped tremendously at this point to then spot the fantastically cliched delivery the clinic had just recieved:

In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder if this scene might be present in every clinic in the country: The family clinic equivalent of the having freshly baked cookies in the kitchen. Chuckling away at this, I would later realise that distracted by the surrounding scenario, I had failed to provide the correct email address - undoubtedly resulting in someone else receiving some frightfully well detailed junk mail later that afternoon.

After a fifteen minute period of being able to work out exactly where to put my hands, I was then asked to accompany a young woman to down the corridor - being led to what a plaque on the door described as a ‘men’s room’. Checking my watch again, I realise I’m running considerably late - by all accounts should be on the bus back to work by now. Attempting keep my cool however, I smile and thank the woman, opening the door to the room myself before striding in with the kind of clear and defined swagger reserved exclusively for MEN WHO MEAN BUSINESS.

The momentum is soon lost however, as the woman begins to engage me in a series of confusing questions and updates. She hands me an additional form to fill in, whilst simultaneously complimenting me on my choice of T-shirt, showing off her mastery of the classic ‘good cop/gay cop’ technique. Wedging the door open at a 45 degree angle, I attempt to close off the communications as quickly as possible whilst still retaining my friendly demeanor. I am both confused and awkward. The bank of previous experience knowledge-bubbles in my head tell me I should simply apologize, tell her that I’m busy, and shut the door. Logic chips in quickly to remind me that whilst all those Jehovah’s Witnesses over the years may have had their suspicions, there’s really no way they could have known I was just about to have a wank when they rang the doorbell.

After rapidly signing a handful of releases that would allow my sample to be used for wholesome purposes such as science and dinosaur resurrection, I eventually managed to get the room to myself - closing the door behind me to behold my temporary kingdom:

Scanning around the room, I recapped the brief set of clinical instructions provided: Wash your hands before and after, and if you do spill anything - let someone know. Fairly standard life advice, if you ask me.

Kitted out with a small HDTV and HDD video system, I was immediately quite surprised about how well geared up the place seemed to be. An A4 print-out carefully described how to switch on the video system and choose an appropriate film - whilst behind me lounged a faux-leather recliner. Looking at the list of instructions and checking the time on my iPhone again, I knew didn’t have time to take advantage of either. Opening Safari also pointed out that there was no bloody 3G in this place either, which any blokes reading this will realise severely stunted plan B.

Faced with the daunting sight of a tub that would take me the good part of an afternoon to fill, for the first time the deeply unpleasant reality of the situation suddenly set in. If you’re a man, then you’re either aware of the difficulties that can  arise when you’re under a large amount of pressure to perform, or you’re probably a liar. Regardless, give yourself a room the size of a cupboard and a three minute deadline and you really are asking for trouble.

Subsequently, I wasn’t surprised when the results in front of me looked pretty disappointing. A second attempt to raise the level of my submission (quite literally, I might add) was equally unsuccessful - something I was happily able to shrug off easily given my rather silly reasons for being there in the first place. Still, once again I was uncomfortably struck by how real the the whole experience suddenly felt. To be blunt I realised that wanking isn’t all that much fun when you’re being forced to do it. Whilst I was lucky enough to find the meager outcome somewhat hilarious, it’s pretty easy to imagine just how hellish this experience could actually be under normal circumstances.

After begrudgingly admitting that it just wasn’t my day, I placed my humble offering to the god of science in the magical two-way safe that was built into the wall. Apart from giving a bunch of scientists the ability to immediately fiddle about with the stuff, the main advantage here was that - having suffered a fair amount of indignity already - I was spared the awkwardness of having to directly put this dirty little jar into the hands of a human. A human who would no doubt attempt to retail a sense of professional detachment whilst I repeatedly assured them that I could usually make loads more.

Free from any more paperwork, queries, or fashion compliments, I left the building swiftly to try and jump on the first bus back to the office - painfully aware that the only genuine excuse I could offer my boss as to why I was 30 minutes late was that ‘it had taken longer than expected’, a truth which I feel speaks well of my occasional ability to be modest.

Relieved to be out of the tiny room, stepping out of the clinic gave me an immediate and bizarre rush of empowerment. I’d just been in that building and had a wank. And everyone in there knows. The lady at the front desk, the other guy in the reception, the friendly woman who showed me to my room; they all know that I’ve just had a wank. I’d just walked straight in to that building, cracked one out, then strolled right back out without a care in the world. Everybody knew, and yet nobody cared. It was totally fine. It’s a fucking strange reality to have come and visit, I tell you.

Anyway - I hope that those of you who’ve managed it this far have found this strangely compelling in a macabre sense at the least. Strangest of all, it hasn’t even felt all that uncomfortable sharing any of the above - I guess this is mainly because I’m very much aware of the fact that the final results are likely to be printed in the largest circulation newspaper in the UK tomorrow morning. There’s every chance my sentiments regarding this adventure will change rapidly following this eventuality, but hell - it’s an experience, eh?

Now - let’s see who’s brave enough to leave a comment…

EDIT: Link to the online article is here - but don’t forget to pick up a hard copy to frame too. Don’t feel too bad for me, as the ones I do have are very competent swimmers, apparently. Also, I have a massive cock. xx