The Story That Welcomed Every Girlfriend
How a childhood zip disaster became my grandfather's favourite party trick
The Lure of Nan's Kitchen
When we lived in Blaenymaes in the 1960s, I would visit my grandmother in Mayhill as often as possible. She always had food, and not just any old food. She always had a jar of Heinz Salad Cream. I’d put it on everything: chips, chicken, beef, lamb, and sometimes even on salad. My speciality was a simple salad cream sandwich: just plain bread, dripping with the stuff. (Today, I live in Italy, where salad cream is nowhere to be found. How a country can consider itself civilised but lack salad cream is beyond me. Out of pure desperation, I once paid €23 for a jar on Amazon.)
One day when I was about ten, I was at my Nan’s while she was being visited by her sister, my great-aunt Lilian. This was a bonus, because visitors meant Nan brought out the biscuits. Biscuits were like gold dust in our house. Even better were her custard slices: a flaky pastry base, a thick layer of custard, and a slab of icing on top. They were amazing. (Because I’m now a fat lazy fucker with Type 2 diabetes, if I ate one today, I’d immediately go into a hyperglycemic coma. They are that good.)
A Moment of Agony
After a while, I needed to pee. Up I went and did my business. I wasn’t wearing underpants; I didn’t have many pairs, and the ones I did have were usually waiting for my mother to wash them.
I pulled up my zip, and then it happened. Agony. The worst pain I think I had ever endured. I’d caught my foreskin in the zip, and I mean really caught it. I tried to pull it down, but that just unleashed a new wave of intense, searing pain. There was nothing for it. Crying and bawling, I ran downstairs, willy in hand, to my Nan.
Nan and Great-aunt Lilian
The Aftermath
She immediately realised what the problem was and sprang into action. Out came the Germolene—a grandmother’s universal remedy for cuts, scrapes, boils, and, apparently, willies caught in zips. She gently applied the cream, gave the zip a soft tug, and I sprang free. It was a small cut, but nothing serious.
My great-aunt Lilian was muttering something about how all boys should be circumcised. I had no clue what that meant, but when my Nan tried to explain that it involved cutting off a bit of my willy, I begged her not to let it happen to me.
I made the most of the situation. My Nan, in the great British tradition of solving any crisis with a cup of tea, made me a cuppa and let me have a second custard slice.
The Secret that Wouldn't Die
I never told my parents about the incident, and certainly not my brothers and sisters. I would never have heard the last of it.
However, one person did get to know: my Grandpa. He said nothing at the time, but years later, when I brought my first girlfriend around to meet my grandparents, one of the first things he said to her was:
“Did Paul ever tell you about the time he got his willy caught in his zip?”
I was horrified at first, but it became his ritual for every new girlfriend I introduced him to for years afterwards. It was his little joke, and I loved him for it.