JOHN MARTIN'S TALES

I am spreadeagled on an adjustable chair with tubes up two of my orifices (hint: neither my mouth, nor my ears, nor my nostrils — which is comforting because it probably means my urologist knows what he’s doing.)

I am here for a bladder pressure test and the date is mid-to-late 2025.

My brain plays childish jokes with my bladder, you see. It sends a message that I really need to urinate — but when I get to the loo, I realise I don’t. I can almost hear the whiny little voice in my head laughing at me.

“Gotcha again. Na na, na-na na.”

But enough of that.

Here I am in this tiny room with my urologist, feeling very awkward, when a movie starts on a big screen mounted on the wall to my left.

It feels surreal.

The movie is The Naked Gun.

Not the original starring Leslie Nielsen.

But the 2025 reboot starring Liam Neeson.

Lots of Dad-joke gags delivered in a deadpan voice.

I feel, though, that popcorn would have enhanced the experience.

I quickly realise the movie is there to distract me.

It does work to a degree, but I never quite forget I have tubes up my clacker and old fellow.

Odd description, old fellow. Even when I was a young fellow, it was called my old fellow among males — which makes no sense … unless I’ve had a transplant, like in the 1971 movie Percy. But surely I’d remember?

Anyway, it’s too late for me to go looking for my donor’s former girlfriends.

My old fellow really is an old fellow these days. Dressing gown. Slippers. Warm cocoa. And it shouts at crossword puzzles.

But I digress.

Back to my impromptu cinema room — me feeling like a train line, complete with tunnels.

I get the feeling my urologist has seen this movie before because he laughs just fractionally before most of the gags.

Which means he probably knows how it ends.

Unlike me.

The procedure ends before the movie does, so I never get to see the curtain go down.

Fast-forward to June 2026 and I am back in that same little room with the same urologist.

I had opted to have my initial treatment in a surgical unit so I didn’t have to see what they were doing.

I know they injected Botox into my bladder to fix that problem and gave my prostate a UroLift — allowing me to have a crack at the world record for peeing to the highest point on a wall.

The problem with Botox, however, is that it wears off.

Which is why I am back in that room.

No anaesthetic this time, not even a stick between my teeth.

Just me and my urologist, face to face.

But if I’m hoping for a continuation of The Naked Gun, I am sadly disappointed.

He plays something entirely different on the wide screen.

Starring …

… me.

Jules Verne sent his heroes to the centre of the Earth.

My urologist sends me to the centre of my bladder.

And I see it in colour too.

I watch as the veiny walls are injected multiple times with Botox, sending puffs of blue into the saline that has been delivered into me along with the camera, light and whatever the injecting gizmo is called.

I watch the whole thing.

And unlike The Naked Gun, this time I get to see the ending.