Secret life of rotten eggs and shrunken testicles, By: Martin Kelner
"If you were looking for a single phrase guaranteed to deter men from taking anabolic steroids "testicles the size of peanuts" would appear to fit the bill"
Monday August 21, 2006
If you were looking for a single phrase guaranteed to deter men from taking anabolic steroids "testicles the size of peanuts" would appear to fit the bill. This significant shrinkage was suffered by the body builder Steve Michalik after prolonged misuse of these drugs. Steve found himself in early middle age, having already suffered a heart attack and a stroke, with "the testosterone level of a 12-year-old girl" alongside the Lilliputian reproductive equipment; and whereas miniaturisation on this scale in, say, a chocolate bar might be called fun size Steve was clearly finding his low testosterone/shrunken gonad combo anything but fun.
Not that his story was the most shocking in a grisly but compelling documentary in Channel Five's Hidden Lives series, The Man Whose Arms Exploded. That came from the man himself, Greg Valentino, whose arms did not so much explode as balloon to hideous, dangerous proportions like two bin bags full of coconuts.
At this point, Greg, decided to operate on himself, at the same time recording the whole unpleasant business on video (that, in itself, seemed evidence that too many steroids can disturb the balance of the mind, although Greg, a fast-talking New Yorker with a penchant for colourful hyperbole, may have been slightly bonkers in the first place).
The footage of Greg with syringes hanging from him as he drained blood and pus from his infected muscles was undoubtedly the most gruesome sight on TV this week, narrowly edging it over Esther Rantzen and Lynne Faulds Wood on Old Dogs, New Tricks. As Greg himself said, it was "like a murder scene," with blood everywhere. The job had to be finished in hospital, where, in the words of the overblown narration - which seemed as though it might have had the benefit of a little gear itself - "Greg's world-beating biceps were hacked to pieces."
Greg, I gather, is not universally popular in body-building circles, having not only given steroids a bad press but also let the world in on some other unsavoury aspects of the sport. "Anything in excess is going to cause side effects," he said, "Even taking a protein powder. You're shitting every five minutes, blasting farts all day. Ever been around any of those guys? You're smelling rotten eggs all the time."
This adds a whole new dimension to those contests you occasionally see on TV, knowing that when the well-oiled guys in the posing pouches parade, it stinks not only metaphorically but possibly literally as well.
Mick Hart, a bull-headed body builder from Barlborough was the programme's obligatory voice of dissent. He runs an information service directing fellow posers towards "safe" drug practices, despite the fact a fat-burning drug he used himself turned out to be liquid ecstasy and he went from taking a tiny bit on a spoon to two tubs a day (all loved up and with tiny testicles - the irony) and ended up having to pull out 12 of his own teeth.
Mick also suffered a heart attack in 2005 which he ascribed to stress and "having the odd pint too many," rather than prolonged steroid use.
His diagnosis sounded pretty weak weighed against that of Michalik. "Steve first knew something was wrong when he started passing blood in his urine," the commentary informed us. (Yes, I guess that would do it.) "His liver was dissolving." Steve maintained it was impossible to control steroid use. "It's absolutely addictive. It absolutely is."
Greg concurred. "I sold my soul to the devil and I had to bend over when it was time for him to collect. I stuck my ass in the air and I told him: 'Be gentle.'"
As a rule I steer clear of documentaries with titles such as The Woman Who Ate Her Own Stomach or The Man With a 200-Pound Tumour because I know that at some stage an unfeasibly large syringe will be inserted somewhere inappropriate and I will end up watching from behind the sofa wincing like a little girl. But I caught this one while waiting for John Barnes's Football Night - or The Man Who Couldn't Read The Autocue, as I expect Five will start calling it soon.
While Barnesy remains in no immediate danger of being dubbed The New Des Lynam he does seem to be managing the Autocue glaze and fixed smile a little better this season and at least presenting a programme could be said to be a proper job (sort of), which is more than can be said for Alan Shearer, trumpeted on Match of the Day on Saturday as "our big new signing".
Shearer eschewed a coaching job with England, preferring instead to be on TV "analysing" their performance with such deathless verities as: "You can only beat what's put in front of you." Admittedly this did enrich me to the tune of £5, having won my bet that Shearer's analysis of England's comfortable victory over a poor Greece would run exactly along these lines, but it makes you wonder what he is playing at.
Though he is perfectly acceptable sofa fodder you would not say a glittering career in TV beckons. I do not see Shearer presenting How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria or anything similar in the near future so we must assume the former England hero is in it entirely for the money. In the light of what The Man Whose Arms Exploded said about selling your soul to the devil, that conjures up an image almost too painful to contemplate.
