ONE - ENTER YOUNG NOBSON

4 May 1961.  The Royal Bremner Hospital in Wincheston was being battered by an unruly storm.  The rain came down in spiteful spears, the wind blew like a demonic fart bursting from the buttocks of Hell and the chill in the air cut into the flesh with relished venom.   And yet, atop the external tumult an agonising scream rent the air from the 4th floor of Maternity Ward 10 accompanied by language not even fit for the lugs of ye olde Beelzebub himself.  Within the stated room, that was quickly steaming up despite the opened windows, a scene of unruly embarrassment was taking place, especially for one Hilda Nobson of 223 Fairfax Grove, Cudley.  Being held prostate with maternal smock raised and legs held wide, a brace of trainee midwives tugged at the spongy bloody structure of a new born head that was vulgarly bursting from Mrs Nobson's rather tender and somewhat grotesque private quarters.  Striving with all their might to pull a fully-developed baby into the big wide world  the midwives took hold, tugged, lost grip in the glutinous mush and fell base over apex into the onlooking eyes of the rather ruffled Dr Flange (an irritable customer indeed with a perversion for all things 'gynaecological' - it isn't a good combination).  Several times this event occurred, each time the midwives were left with ruddy, perspiring faces and great fistfuls of dark, matted pubic air and of course, general gunk.

'Tis no good' stated the rather perturbed Doc, 'we must go for the full on ear grip and, to put it quite blatantly - pull like buggery'.

With a resurgence of hope, a quick wipe of the hands and a look of steeled determination the two tuggers took up their positions and grabbed a lug apiece.  They looked at the doctor for the countdown, all the while Mrs Nobson tried to squirm into an agony free position and ease the uncomfortable lump from 'down below'.  An occasional spasm from the sprog brought more wrenching hollers, the baby was getting restless, time was now of the essence.

'And after 3', issued the rather wound-up Doctor, ' 1 and 2 and 3 - pull, pull, pull ladies, give it all you have got girls'.

Meanwhile...

In Waiting Room 4, a Mr William Nobson the 3rd was on his 4th untipped Woodbine of the hour, had already become cuticle-redundant and had developed a facial spasm of the most distressed order.  With each holler the twitch became worse, with every minute that passed our waiting father-to-be seemed to visibly lose weight and stature.   At 5ft 3 inches these were dangerous times indeed but the creator of the cacophonous calamity above his noggin was not one to crumble easily and as he puffed and paced and squeezed his sphincter he stood firm and awaited some good, relieving  news.  For 2 hours he hung around in an anxious stupor as the inhuman oral expulsion grew in intensity and whilst the Old Spice underarm deodorant he had applied that morning grew less and less effective as the furrows in the brow and the clouds of noxious tobacco smoke became and more more noticeable.

Suddenly, and in fact quite ominously, a silence came, the storm outside had abated, the horror-show up above had seemingly died a death - Mr Nobson caught his breath with fag in mouth, stood quite still for several minutes before the cigarette burnt down and singed his puckered lips.  A spit of the dimp, a somewhat mild expletive given to the circumstances, a stamped foot and then a cry - a cry of a new borne babe, a cry of fresh life, a cry from the seeded creation of the proud father to be.  Mr Nobson stood upright, his chest swelled and when the nurse arrived to congratulate him on the birth of his baby boy, he duly wept like a good un' - ooh the big daft sod.