Sperm Aside

News has reached me of a sperm shortage that has devastated childless couples across New York. Having been blessed with a child of my own just seven months ago, this saddens me greatly.

But the city is not short of any old sperm. Perhaps not entirely surprisingly, classic hunky New Yorkers with surnames like O'Malley or Lombardi, are less in demand (yet in abundant supply) compared with their Scandinavian brethren. I mean, who wouldn't want to breed a son with the fighting quality of Jonatan Johansson, or the raw courage of Claus Jensen?

Now, I can trace my roots to the Baltics which, in a time of crisis, is close enough, and I've got the blonde hair which occasionally has me mistaken for a Scandinavian (I think you'll find it's German - Ed.). What better way to give thanks to my adopted city, than to quite literally sow the seeds of a brand new life there?

Thus it will be with a sense, not so much of willing but duty, that I intend to present myself tomorrow morning at the clinic, carrying nothing more than a specimen bottle, a photo of the wife and a healthy imagination. And after I have undertaken my duty, I shall gaze up at the Manhattan skyline, and recall the poignant words of poet, Rupert Brooke:

"If I should die, think only this of me,
That there's some corner of a foreign field,
That is for ever England."