Each is­sue, Esquire com­mis­sions an un­spar­ing in­spec­tion of Will Self’s body. This month: the groin

Esquire (UK) - - Contents -

The award-win­ning writer’s monthly anatom­i­cal check-up reaches the groin

It’s groin day here at my lit­tle Bru­tal­ist, ex-coun­cil flat in south Lon­don. No, re­ally, it is. In­deed, if you’ll for­give the ne­ol­o­gism, it’s so very groiny chez Self this morn­ing, that I be­lieve this date should hence­forth — and in per­pe­tu­ity — be known as “Groin Day”. Ac­tu­ally, the very flat is it­self some­thing of a groin, tucked as it is into the right an­gle of the build­ing, and I’m won­der­ing if it isn’t this that’s sum­moned up such a lot of groin is­sues.

A cou­ple of weeks ago, I was in Paris, wan­der­ing along the Boule­vard des Ital­iens, and star­ing about me in that be­nighted way an English­man al­ways does in La Ville Lu­mière, when I walked smack-bol­lock­ing-bang into one of those bollards which are ran­domly dis­trib­uted about the Parisian pave­ments, the kind fea­tur­ing a steely ball atop a steely stalk. Luck­ily, the ball missed my scro­tum, but it did slam straight into my groin. Pain? I should co­coa, and of an in­ten­sity to match Me­la­nia’s or­gasm when Don­ald does that thing with his twit­tery fin­gers.

Bruises bloomed within hours and over the next few days my groin went black, then pur­ple, then faded to a jaun­diced yel­low. So far, so pre­dictable. But the day be­fore yes­ter­day, cur­so­rily ex­am­in­ing the area — which is a con­fus­ing part of the male body, isn’t it, what with the swell of thigh and pu­bis and the ob­scur­ing cloud of wiry hair — I dis­cov­ered a lump about the size of a small chicken’s egg. What the fuck!!! Was it re­lated to the Paris in­ci­dent? Or per­haps some mon­strous bubo, en­gen­dered by sweat and fric­tion, as through­out the night I’d tossed… and tossed some more? I felt the lump gen­tly. It was ten­der but didn’t hurt as much as I ex­pected.

I thought about can­cer which, in my ex­pe­ri­ence, ev­ery mid­dle-aged man thinks about ev­ery seven sec­onds.

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