Farmer T was a fussy, fastidious farmer.  This isn’t a criticism, it meant that his calf pens were immaculately bedded, the feed and water was always fresh and any waste was quickly removed to reduce rodents in the shed.


Consequently, he didn’t want me to drop testicles on the pen floor next to where they were removed, as was my usual practice.


“Could you just toss them over the fence onto the concrete outside of the pen so that I can pick them up afterwards?” he asked politely.


I agreed, of course, and we began work.


These calves were much younger than the previously mentioned patients.  Their testicles were like walnut sized marbles with a varying length of pink, sticky spermatic cord attached to them (think of a meaty conker on a sticky string).


Castrating young calves is quick work and I quickly established a rhythm.  Inject the local anaesthetic, clean and sterilise the scrotum, incise, ligate, remove, throw testicle…. Next testicle.  Local anaesthetic, clean and sterilise scrotum…..etc


I even developed a bit of showmanship, removing and then lobbing the detached goolie in one fluid movement with a theatrical flourish.  I would stand and watch admiringly as it sailed gracefully across the straw pen and over the fence before landing with a satisfying squelchy plop as it hit its target on the swept concrete path that ran between the pens.


We were rattling through the calves and I was engaged in a lively discussion with Farmer T about the previous night’s football.  I turned to throw the latest testicle in my practiced smooth motion but to my horror, as I turned, I came face to face with Mrs Farmer T who had stealthily appeared carrying a tray laden with cups of tea and a variety of cakes and biscuits.  


My eyes locked onto hers and I tried to stop myself but it was too late.  My momentum meant that I couldn’t abort the swing and to my horror the testicle left my hand.  All I could do was watch as the projectile hurtled through the air in what seemed like slow motion on a crash course for Mrs Farmer T’s head.


Mrs Farmer T had not anticipated this turn of events and reflexly dropped the tray as she put her hands up to block the incoming gonad.


She was too slow and the body of the testicle slapped against the teeth in her horrified open mouth whilst the fifteen centimetre length of spermatic cord traced a sticky, diagonal line across her face, starting in her mouth, crossing over her nose then traversing her left eye before finally tangling in her mass of curly hair.


Mrs Farmer T screamed and flapped at the nut that was stuck to her face and then screamed again when she realised what it actually was that I had just thrown at her.


Farmer T thought it was the funniest thing that he had ever seen.  Mrs Farmer T didn’t.  I had to maintain a degree of professionalism (or as much as someone who had just thrown a bollock into a client’s mouth is able to) and managed not to laugh (even though it was very, very funny).  I did miss out on cake though, which was probably fair.