QUALITY GENES GUARANTEED
Michael Kelly's Sperm Surplus is the only volume gamete-dealer to research genetic heritage thoroughly.Over at ronsangels.com, Doctor Mengele makes a great hoo-ha about selling eggs from beautiful models in hopes of producing a beautiful child. But what were the models like before surgery? And what do their parents or siblings look like? What if one of their grandparents has a hump like a whale's with a hole in the top that whistles every time they breathe? Suppose you shelled out fifteen grand for an egg and you had an ugly child? Would Doctor Mengele take it back? No. You'd have to drown it, or leave it on an ugly family's doorstep.
Likewise with sperm banks that purport to offer donations from the world's most intelligent men. How do you know that's who it's from? More likely they have a horny teenage delivery boy attached to a Hoover. But even if you could personally witness the likes of Roger Scruton or Stephen Hawking wanking off into a test tube, it would be no guarantee of the quality of DNA you were getting, although it would definitely be worth the money. A man being a genius does not necessarily mean intelligence runs in his family. Einstein, for example, had a giggling idiot brother named Zog, whose idea of intellectual curiosity was to stick his tongue into a mousetrap or attempt to wee up his own nose. Then he would go and show Einstein what he had done, a mousetrap hanging from his tongue or urine dripping from his nostrils, gurgling merrily the while. "Fuck off, Zog," Einstein would say. "Mum, Mum, Zog's got loose again, and I'm trying to do me equations."
There is none of that uncertainty with Michael Kelly's Sperm Surplus. I have researched my family for three generations and assessed their genes frankly. They are not all supermen by any means, but at least there are no outright monsters. (Well, there is cousin Frank, but that sort of thing isn't likely to crop up again for a few generations, and besides prehensile tongues can be useful.) Moreover, you are welcome to come and visit my family to check on them personally. While you are here I will also give you a tour of my facilities. What the hell, we might as well do the fertilization as well.
MY FAMILY
GRANDFATHER: Jimmy Stewart
My grandmother lived near an American airbase during the war and was impregnated by James Stewart. At least, that's who he told her he was, but there was a blackout at the time and she never actually saw his face. 'He was like a wild animal,' she recalls fondly. 'He slapped me into submission and took me brutally with no thought but his own pleasure. And he slobbered a lot, bless him.' Frankly, I am not convinced it was James Stewart. For one thing, my Gran says he was 4 foot 6, spoke with a Cornish accent and had a hump on his back that whistled when he breathed. After the war he never answered any of her letters, but she still has her memories. I make no extra charge for the James Stewart genes.
MY GRAN
My granny has always had an enviable appetite for life (see also 'The Lost Art of
Seduction'), although in recent years she has had to curb this somewhat due to arthritis
and the restraining order Robbie Williams took out on her.
These days her interests
centre around prescription pharmaceuticals and her collection of used bus-tickets,
unrivalled in Western Europe.
FATHER:
A self-made business man, my father is a man of strong political
opinions, some of them more liberal than Genghis Khan. A budding career as a Conservative political candidate
was cut short when, the worse for wear at a fundraiser, he headbutted the guest of honour, a very
frail and elderly Harold Macmillan, apparently having mistaken him for a man who had sold him a dud ferret.
He is able to fart the theme tune from Z-Cars, when the mood takes him.
(Not actual size)
ME MYSELF:
All-round Renaissance man, except I can't make statues and don't fuck little
boys. (I did once get a boner when I saw the lead singer of Hanson, but I thought he was a girl.)
The living answer to Freud's question, 'What do women want?' No flaws at all, really.
The occasional bit of difficulty with childproof aspirin bottles, but that's about it.
Oh, and there's that spasm thing where I suddenly fall over and start singing I Am The
Captain Of The Pinafore in a Peter Lorre voice, but I think I know what's causing that now.
What else can I say? For the past ten years I have been living with my parents
and signing on at the dole office every two weeks, so any child of my seed will be a home-loving
type who is able to keep appointments. It will tend to stay put when you leave it somewhere
and so will be easy to find.
SISTER: Doris
My sister Doris is a very physical girl who enjoys lots of activities, both
outdoors and in the back of cars. I have been unable to persuade her to offer her eggs
for sale, but if you come round to our place she'll let you fertilize them yourself
for a few sweet words and a bag of crisps. 'Kettle Chips, mind,' she instructs me to say.
Any child who gets Doris's genes will have large breasts, fetching on a
girl, a talking point on a boy.
SMOOTH UNCLE SIMON:
Uncle Simon had a distinguished war service and fell on the beach at Anzio.
He fell within the first three feet, actually, having a bit of gyp from his trick ankle,
but selflessly encouraged the others to go on without him.
Since then he has lived on his wits. Any child inheriting the Uncle Simon gene will be born with a dashing
moustache and an MG Sports Coupe. They will be adept at cajoling strangers into cashing
a small cheque for them.
UNCLE TARQUIN:
My uncle Tarquin is a dreamer and an idealist, a man of wild enthusiasms
and unpredictable moodswings. He first made his name as an astronomer when he rang world
leaders to tell them an insect the size of Mars was heading towards the Earth, although
it turned out to be a bee trapped in his telescope.
For many years he was a popular columnist on his local paper,
where he led a campaign to alert the public to the dangers of eating sellotape,
something he learned from bitter experience.
He is the pioneer and chief proponent of Tarquinomics, an alternative
currency system based on pebbles. If it ever comes into general use he
will be a very rich man as he has half the Fylde coastline stashed in his bedroom.
MOTHER
During the 60s my mother was a figure on the hippy scene noted for hosting
free-wheeling counter-cultural salons and once pulled a train for Jimi Hendrix, Leonard
Cohen and Bertrand Russell.
Although she has not completely abandoned her youthful radicalism
and spends a great deal of time investigating conditions in deprived parts of the world
such as Milan and St. Tropez, these days my mother devotes much of her energy to
parapsychology and has opened the world's first pixie sanctuary.
GRANDMA BETH AND GRANDPA SETH
I never knew Grandma Beth and Grandpa Seth
as they died before I was born, but I have been researching
their lives. They grew up together in a small village in Dorset. Remarkably,
they seem to have been born with the same surname and raised in the same
house. I suppose some things are written in the stars.
GRANDMA ELSIE
Hang on, I appear to have three grannies. What gives here?
(Actual size)
COUSIN FRANK
Lots of wild accusations have been levelled against Frank over the years
but no-one has ever proved anything. It was probably a wolf that dismembered those
sheep, and he could have bought those scalps they found in his room.
While I have always found Frank a charming man in spite of his eccentricities and...defects,
I recognize that a child that takes after him may not be everyone's cup of tea.
On the other hand, pinhead babies are easier to give birth to. Tell you what: if
anything truly Frank-like pops out, I will pay for
the modifications to your cellar and throw in a rhino-hide whip. Can't say fairer than that.
UNCLE JACK
Father's twin brother. So identical we had put to put a label on his forehead
to stop him eating my father's tea and sleeping with my mother. In their youth they would
pretend to be each other and played
a game where one of them would burn down a factory while the other established an alibi.
For many years Jack worked as a mule-wrestler, until
someone pointed out that it wasn't actually a job. Currently he gets by importing
illegal immigrants into the country by wrapping them in brown paper and mailing
them. He works them on his pig farm and rats them out to the authorities
when it's time to pay them. Cousin Frank is the product of a
youthful fling, although he never knew who the mother was.
28th May 2001