Like Adolf Hitler, I have been involved in a Channel 4 documentary about penises. I also share a love for watercolours and a partiality for Wagner but that, I promise, is where the similarities end.
But back to penises. The Führer’s genitalia – or lack thereof – is a feature of a new documentary, Hitler’s DNA: Blueprint of a Dictator. The documentary makers have examined a scrap of the bloodied fabric from the bunker sofa upon which Hitler blew his brains out and the long – but mostly the short – of the findings are that history’s most evil man likely had underdeveloped sexual organs, including a micropenis and an undescended testicle. So now we know that the popular wartime ditty ‘Hitler Has Only Got One Ball’, was rather closer to the mark than we previously assumed.
I’d always been a tad shy. If I could spend two weeks chatting to strangers about their penises, I might be cured
This news reminded me of my own brush with todger television. Back in 2019, I was kicking my heels during the long university summer holiday. Flicking through various Facebook groups, I stumbled across an internship for a documentary about ‘masculinity in the 21st century’. I’m a bloke, I thought, I have two weeks free and a CV that needs some padding. How hard could it be? I applied, survived a brief interview, and was told to report to a Tottenham Court Road office the following Monday.
Splendid: I had assuaged parental concerns that I was going to spend the summer moping about at home, and my nana was impressed enough to tell all the ladies in her retirement home that her grandson was destined for a television career. I was chuffed. Alas, I should have done a little more research.
On my first day the office manager sat me down to outline my exact role. Earlier that year, she told me, the company had put out a documentary entitled 100 Vaginas. The premise of the show – I explained that sadly I had been out that evening – was this: women of all shapes and sizes had their vaginas photographed and were then interviewed about what their vagina meant to them. I must admit to feeling both rather underqualified and a little nonplussed. What had this got to do with masculinity?
When I was told I would be working on a sequel, the reality started to dawn. For the next two weeks, my job would be to find participants for a potential follow-up, 100 Penises. I would need to find men willing to come on national television to have theirs photographed. A variety of gentleman sausages would be needed – from the substantial baloney of the unusually well-endowed to the cocktail counterparts of those with similar genes to old Adolf. A small mercy was that, unlike Hitler’s, my own manhood wouldn’t be the centrepiece.
This was not what I had been expecting. I felt shafted by the vagueness of the advert. When I returned home, I was evasive, disconsolately prodding my bangers and mash as the family tried to find out exactly what it was that I was doing. What 19-year-old self-respecting boy could look his grandmother in the eye and tell her that he was working on a cock doc?
As I headed in for my second day, I had an epiphany. I’d always been a tad shy. If I could successfully spend two weeks chatting to strangers about their penises, I might be cured. If I could ask David from Durham about what it’s like living with only two inches in your trousers, or Mark from Maidenhead about the exact ins and outs of his penis enlargement surgery, I could do anything. And so, with one eye on what it was doing to my browser history, I threw myself into the work.
I turned out to be a dab hand. Given a target list of particular penises each morning – ‘We’d like a post-op trans man, William, and a circumcised Muslim’ – I would trawl the internet to find suitable candidates. Some parts of the role were easier than one might expect. Ask a penis enlargement clinic if anyone on their books is willing, pre- or post-surgery, to have their manhood on camera, and you get a very positive response. People really are that desperate for their 15 seconds of fame.
Two weeks of investigating the nation’s penises gives quite a good insight into the state of play. Whatever its size, the phallus is usually a source of anxiety. Demands for enlargement are common, even for those with middling ones. Having one testicle is surprisingly frequent. For most, it just means a reduced libido, without an accompanying desire to plunge Europe into a genocidal Götterdämmerung.
Perhaps surprisingly, older gentlemen tended to be more comfortable than younger men when it came to talking about their old chap. Years of familiarity breeds an acceptance of one’s constant downstairs companion. Above all, I learnt it is impossible to say the word ‘micropenis’ down the phone without giggling.
Adding to the surrealness, the office was frequented by the crème de la crème of British documentary-making. I would get off a chat with a potential contributor, then turn around and see Louis Theroux or Lucy Worsley standing behind me. I switched straight from a call about a micropenis to asking Joanna Lumley if I could squeeze past her to make a cup of tea.
I ended up enjoying those two weeks immensely. While I don’t think any employer has ever taken any notice of the CV entry, it succeeded in building up my confidence, and for reasons beyond discovering that I had far fewer problems in the trouser department than a lot of my fellow Englishmen.
I must admit that I have yet to see the final documentary. I don’t think I’m brave enough. But I did eventually admit to the family what the focus of my two weeks had been (sorry, Nana). This prompted my dad to watch the programme’s credits to see if I got a mention. He reappeared a couple of minutes later, looking as white as a sheet. ‘Rathera lot of penises,’ he said. I don’t think he meant the production staff.
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