New Thing #12 – Try Viagra

On hindsight, I probably should have planned things better. As I sat at the dinner table at my sophisticated dinner party, surrounded by seven close friends and feeling slightly drunk, it suddenly dawned on me that necking a Viagra pill whilst cooking the starter was probably not my cleverest idea. I now had to maintain a civilised conversation whilst nursing the mother of all erections. My sophisticated dinner party just got grimy.

It’s worth me explaining that 52 New Things was always conceived as a project designed to push my personal boundaries and inspire myself to do things I’d always wanted to do but never got round to. Right back when I started fleshing out the idea for this project, trying the little blue pill was high on the list. I should point out at this point (sorry, in advance, mum) that I have no medical need for this wonderful drug yet as I am still blessed with *ahem* the man pyramid frequency of a teenager. However, like many other chaps I am sure, I was curious about this little pill that claimed to exercise almost magical control over one’s chopper, acting like a biological government, fiscally stimulating a flailing male institution.

Innocuous little bastard, isn't it?

I was looking forward to buying some cheap, knock-off Viagra through one of the many spam emails I’m sent from enterprising people in Eastern Europe and China. “This could be a Bonus New Thing,” I thought. But, as is always the way, once word got around about my plan suddenly everyone knew someone who could “sort me out”. But I didn’t want to be sorted out, I wanted some Viagra please. Eventually I relented and allowed an acquaintance to supply me with a pill. Alarmingly it was pink. And, apparently, Indian. “It’s fine,” I was assured, “Works better than the real thing.” Okay then.

Timing was important. I didn’t want to take this pill at the wrong time and find myself with a stonker at work. However with the 52NT calendar filling up fast, the weekend before Easter quickly became the ideal opportunity.

My first mistake was agreeing to cook dinner for some old friends on the Friday night, the second was forgetting about a family visit that would take up the rest of the weekend and was absolutely 100% not the time to start dabbling in erection-enhancing black magic. I was therefore in a quandary – do I take it during a sophisticated dinner party or do I postpone for a week and ruin the schedule? Well, as we now know, I chose the former.

Like many people I enjoy a drink whilst cooking. And with Mrs NT doing the main course, I only had to concentrate on the starter for my sophisticated dinner party. However, the nerves of the evening and my clandestine pill-popping got to me and I had a few beers. I’d read that you should take Viagra on a relatively empty stomach so I didn’t eat anything whilst cooking, something that only enhanced the strong continental lager’s effects. If I carried on like this I might just cancel out the powers of the drug. And so it seemed like a perfectly rational and normal idea to pop the innocuous pink pill just before I served my starter at my sophisticated dinner party. After all, it would take some time to kick in and who knows, maybe it would give me a little high or something.

And so I sat expectantly eating my starter (which was delicious by the way, kudos to me), expecting Little Nick to stand to attention at any moment. I engaged my oblivious guests in sophisticated conversation, punctuated the chatter with witty banter and generally played host like a normal person would, all without feeling the magical effects of Mr Viagra.

“This isn’t working,” I thought. “My sophisticated dinner party will remain sophisticated at this rate.” So, like any other man in my position, I drank. A lot. I drank some beer, some wine, some more beer and some port. And then some liquor whose name I can’t remember.

Don't try this at home kids. Or anyone under 60 for that matter

And at some point between the end of the main and half way through dessert, the cheap little pink pill seized the moment. It almost came out of the blue, such was the vigour and instantness of its appearance. I shifted uncomfortably, wriggled and twisted but nothing I did could relieve the sensation. I realised at one point that everyone had stopped talking and was watching me. I laughed it off with a quip about breaking in some new pants but my sophisticated dinner party was in serious danger of becoming a disastrous dinner party. I looked helplessly at Mrs NT who, having previously advised against this New Thing and had by now guessed my plight, was grinning and revelling in my stupidity. I was out of friends and out of options.

I squirmed my way through dessert and carried on drinking, desperately trying for the first time ever in the history of man to actually induce brewer’s droop. No such luck. If anything, the wretched thing seemed to respond positively to the booze, turning from pliable balsa wood to solid oak. I even tried smoking, hoping to God that maybe the horrific adverts plastered over the packets would bear some semblance to real life. Again, no luck.

My friends departed from my sophisticated dinner party mostly the none the wiser, although clearly a bit concerned about my antics. For my part, I let Mrs NT head to bed while I made myself comfortable on the sofa to contemplate my actions and attempted to conjure most vivid pictures of Mrs Thatcher, Dot from Eastenders and Clare Balding. Together. It was a long and at times painful night that saw me eventually resort to plunging my groin into cold water to relieve the muscle stress.

Sleep, and the morning, came blessedly quickly and thankfully the little pink pill had worked its way through my system. I woke having learnt a lesson and tried something new. I just shan’t be trying it again.

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