In which our bearded protagonist’s reproductive organs are the subject of some controversy

You may not know this, but I was born with a genetic condition that afflicts about 50% of the earth's population. I -- deep breath now, you can do it -- my name is Stuart and I have a willy; my chromosomes are XY; and I'm a member of the heterogametic sex. Oh, I feel so DIRTY! Now according to some top medical sources this predisposes me to growing a beard, scratching myself, putting up shelves and watching football. Well, three out of four anyway. According to others it means I can get nominated for awards too! How cool is that?

Of course, those same people are also saying that my man-winky is a bad thing -- which is a shame, as it's never done anything to them -- because it's stopping those without willies from getting nominated. And so I feel ashamed.

How can my gentleman's-relish ever show its face in public again? It will have to hide away in the shadows, never to be seen again. Much to the disappointment of the Oldmeldrum Women's Rural Institute.

A fellow sufferer D Terrenoire ESQ, in-between posts about pubic topiary, is schlepping his shameful trouserparts to the clinic next week to see if they can't do anything for him. I would go, but I can't afford the bus fare from the north east of Scotland, much though I'd love to. So I'll just have to wish David good luck instead.

But there is hope -- a specialist says that my genetalia are not the source of all evil after all. Which is nice. In fact she goes on to state that none of those on the shortlist are there because of their shameful men's bits. And that, you know, the judges just liked our books. Scary, but there it is.

So once more David, I, and all the other sufferers can stand erect and shout from the rooftops: be proud of your willies, they don't matter in the great scheme of things*!

* Wait a minute, that doesn't sound right, does it?