Burdizzo: A lamb castration clamp (100) comprising: a pair of jaws (102), each jaw comprising an inner contact surface (110) and an outer engagement formation (112) for force to be applied to the jaws; hinge apparatus (106) connecting proximal ends of the jaws such that the jaws are movable from an open position, in which the jaws are spaced apart to receive the neck of the scrotum of a lamb, to a closed position, in which the jaws are close together so that the contact surfaces crushingly clamp the spermatic cords and nerves in the neck of the scrotum so as to stop conduction of the nerves and blood flow to the scrotum; and a retaining element (108) for retaining the jaws in the closed position.
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Yes. If only I were a little broader, thicker, I had thought, recalling the look she’d had in her eye when she had re-emerged from the dark garden leading this shadowy figure with one hand as one leads a horse, this hulking figure, with her other hand clutching her shoes and her mouth pursed in affectation of embarrassment but contorted by a secret pride. It was the look that did it, the look on her face that made my pelvic floor draw tight, and for years after I would revisit the sting of that memory when I was alone and wistful, comparing myself to his darkened shape, lit by the flame in her eyes that wasn’t mine, until his face disappeared completely and he was just a shadow, a kind of form, and after a time I could see that relation everywhere, the relation between the look on her face and his shadow, and I could feel that same tug at will, that little throb, and I fondled that queer feeling so regularly it grew within and throughout me like a cancer, until one day out of spite or rage or maybe resignation I joined the gym. Barbell press, lateral raises, shoulder press, cable flies, leg press and squats, picking things up and putting them down over and over until my hands blistered and I couldn’t walk for the DOMS. Bro-split, push-pull-legs, five by fives. In the beginning I mostly used the machines, in part because I didn’t have anyone to show me how to use the dumbbells but in truth because I refused to stand in front of the mirrors for fear of losing myself in them the way I’d seen the biggest guys stood there staring themselves in the eye, lips curled, as they curled one arm at a time, veins creeping over their pulsing forearms and biceps like vines over trees. I was different to them, I reasoned, I only wanted to be a little stronger, this was a means to an end, I had a plan to stick to. But there are no windows in there, no clocks, all hours, no talking, no interaction with the other animals at the waterhole, grazing amongst the machines that stand like great steel insects contorted to the vectors of their operation, the range of motion of the human body, articulated arms strung with cables, converting the directional force of gravity to the optimal orbits and curves of movement for tensioning the ligaments and muscles and the repetitions, edging muscular failure, close to but never reaching the absolute limit but tailoring that limit to the perfect number of reps in reserve, somewhere between eight and twelve. And on Sundays I put steaming broccoli, plain mince, and boiled chicken into little plastic containers, weighing nuts and seeds, stirred my egg-whites each morning with the striations in my forearm like tumescent cables coiled beneath my skin. I recall now that in the beginning I had had an idea that I would stop sometime, that there would be a natural end to it, when I would go to the beach and pull off my shirt and say ‘enough’, but over time I began to enjoy the ritual monotony of it, the dedication to growth, catching sight of my hulking form in windows, under tubelights, until one day I must have forgot and everything else fell away entirely and there was nothing left except the pump, the gains, holding the tension on the eccentric until my biceps threatened to burst from my skin, and for me the whole system swayed and thundered onward and me with my face flush before the fire as I cast my tithes to this project, exhilarated by the sheer waste of labour and work for incremental muscular gains, and I stopped measuring time in months or seasons but rather in bulks and cuts, gave up on clothes, just bought stringers and sweatpants, hoodies for pump-covers, designed a stack all on my own, a little Test, some D-Bol, Anavar, sometimes Sarms and Tren, scrolling Youtube clips in my car, sculling bright-blue dextrose in my sweat-soaked shirt, watching over and over clips of Jay Cutler, Ronnie Coleman, Rich Piana and Dorian Yates at the ’93 Olympia when his conditioning was so grainy, so bone dry, that they said when he moved it was like he had sandpaper under his skin. And when I lifted I grunted, and I didn’t care who heard because I had built a temple that meant I belonged there in front of the mirrors, and there were no ends anymore, just means, and I walked through the world taking up more space, my body the corporeal residue of mountains of chicken and rice and whey protein, the detritus of the monastic pursuit of my own secret ideal, and when I slept I dreamed, and it was always the same, emerging from the shadows, as if a flower, yes, unfolding in the dewy light, a hulking form waiting for the spotlight of her eyes to ask me, yes, arms draw me in, yes, so I can feel her breasts, all perfume, yes, and my heart going like mad and yes, she says, yes, I will, yes.
Fergus Porteous