You know,
It almost feels like with the ML about to be granted, you could finally gently cup your balls and with huge relief slowly lift them up and out from the drawer that has been menacingly threatening to slam shut for years now. Sometimes that draw has had a big hairy sweaty hand on it and has looked like some sadistic bastard was about to slam it shut slowly moving it back an forth, but so far every time it looks perilously close we have heard a calming voice as we look over our shoulder, its Nigel.
He arrives places a hand on shoulder playfully comments on our dishevelled state as he proceeds to carefully and with precision shave our haggard and weary balls, thoughtfully placing a hot towel on them and removing the menacing hand from the drawer we feel intimately safer. He then produces from what seems like nowhere a moisturising cream to rejuvenate our fatigued war-torn family jewels, much better you say out loud, but he has already gone......however we realise we are still standing here still with balls in the drawer ffs, but they do feel great, I must ask him where he gets that moisturising cream from.
Once again a hand is on the drawer, vexatiously threatening once more to slam it shut. "Nigel, Nigel where are you I shout...."
(Disclaimer, if this is thought to be in bad taste I will take it down and apologise)