Day 10 - I'll show you mine...

...if you show me yours?

No, no, no, put that away I'm not talking lady bits, I'm talking scars of course!

No, scars!! Not Scar.

So why the sudden interest in areas of fibrous tissue that replace normal skin after injury? Well today was the day I got to take off my wound dressing and see my soon to be scar for the first time, and if you play your cards right I might give you a flash later missus.

There's nothing more manly than a scar. Better even than a tattoo, everyone's got a tattoo these days, but only the brave have got a scar.

One of the best scenes in Jaws has got to be the drunken exchange between Quint and Hooper when they compare scars. Yes more memorable even than the first appearance of the rubber shark.

For those of you unfamiliar with it, or just too young to have seen it, here's a cheeky clip...

HOOPER

Look here. (extends a forearm)

Steve Kaplan bit me during recess.

Quint is amused. He presents his own formidable forearm.

QUINT
Wire burn. Trying to stop a backstay from taking my head off.

HOOPER
(rolling up a sleeve)
Moray Eel. Bit right through a wet suit.

Brody is fascinated. Quint and Hooper take a long pull from the bottle.

QUINT
Face and head scars come from amateur amusements in the bar room
This love line here... (he bends an ear forward)
...that's from some crazy Frenchie, came after me with a knife.
I caught him with a good right hand right in the snot locker
and laid him out amongst the sweetpeas.

HOOPER
Ever see one like this?
He hauls up his pants leg, revealing a wicked white scar.

HOOPER
Bull shark scraped me while I was taking samples...

QUINT
Nothing! A pleasure scar. Look here --
He starts rolling up his own dirty pants leg.

QUINT
Slammed with a thresher's tail.
Look just like somebody caressed me with a nutmeg grater...
Brody is drawn into their boasting comparison.
He secretly checks his own appendix scar,
but decides not to enter the contest.


HOOPER
I'll drink to your leg.
QUINT
And I'll drink to yours.

Ha! That would be me, just like Brody wondering whether to pile into the contest with my very impressive ADR scar.

So are you ready for a peek at my scar? I must warn you, it's not a pretty sight, the swollen stomach that is, not the scar, which shows excellent sewing skills by Mr Harrison.

So what do you think? Is it likely to impress anyone? Probably not. 

My daughter told me that after the operation I could tell people I got attacked by a shark.  Yes indeed, a very neat and careful shark.

I don't know what it is about scars. For me they bring back vivid memories of fairground rides on Bonfire night. 

You'd be there with Susie your date, nervously wondering whether it is was ok to put your arm round her on the dodgems, when out of nowhere he appears...scar face. Your heart sinks. Bollocks, why did he have to pick my dodgem?! 

Yes there he is, standing on the back of your car one arm curled around the dodgem pole the other arm (muscly of course) draped casually across Susie. And what is the first thing she sees when she looks up at him? A damn big scar. Goddamn it! How the hell can I compete with that?! Answer...you can't. 

And don't even think about pulling up your jumper and pointing desperately at your belly and shouting "hey! think you're hard mate? Well take a look at this baby. Got this from a guy called Harrison in Windsor. Cut me up with a scalpel and then put his hand right inside and pulled out a bit of my spine!" Forget it. You've lost the fight before it even starts. And then in a blink of an eye he's gone again, leaving the faintest whiff of beer and grease lingering in the air, and stealing away Susie's heart forever. Sigh.  

At school I remember there was a phase when the 'lads' would spend their maths lessons carefully inscribing the name of their latest beau into their arm with a compass. It was terribly hard for me to suppress the urge to shout "Be careful Barry! I really don't think that compass is sterilised!" ...an early sign of my latter day obsession with hand steriliser.

I would watch in silent fascination as the blood oozed from their freshly scoured arms and then days later standing in the dinner queue I'd look in quiet admiration at those proudly displayed scabs, which would eventually turn into gloriously amateur scars.

I guess it was just lucky for the 'lads' (and their arms) that most of the girl's names back then seemed to be nice and short. Liz, Tina, Sam, Sue, Jane, Wendy, Pam, and so on. I did feel sorry, however, for one particular lad who had the misfortune to have a crush on Loretta, which is not only a longer name but easily misspelt. He made the school boy error (not too surprising really given that he was a school boy) and carved the name 'Lorretta' into his forearm. He proudly showed Loretta his dripping limb straight after maths, but she was so aggrieved at his lack of attention to detail that she immediately 'chucked him'.  A lesson to us all.

So maybe my new scar won't win any drunken contests deep in the bowels of shark catching boats, or impress the lads in the dinner queue, but it will always be a reminder of life post-ADR. Which will always be good enough for me.