LAST UPDATE | 30 Jul

AT SOME POINT, most parents have the ‘chat’, are we done multiplying and adding to the human race? After years of nappies, late-night feeds (mostly her), and folding a buggy one-handed while clutching a chicken fillet roll in the other, it felt like time to think about long-term contraception.

We’d both taken turns over the years, but after all she’d achieved, I had to admit, this one was on me. So, I started (reluctantly, at first) considering… the SNIP.

Now, if you’re not familiar, “the snip” is a vasectomy. Or as some lads in my WhatsApp group call it — the ‘SCHNIPPPPP!’

Just saying it made me wince. I’d seen this before… twice. On my dogs. From what I could see, they survived, and they still chase sliotars … but if you ask me, something in their eyes changed.

My first suggestion for contraception to my wife was to just hide the Barry White CDs and cut out the wine. But let’s be honest, even without the romantic tunes and my self-professed heartthrob status, I wasn’t convinced my wife could resist me!

Enter: The Cork snipper

I did what any Irishman facing a major medical decision does: I asked the lads. Turns out, there’s a snip guy in Cork. Everyone knows him. Rumour has it he’s neutralised half the county.

I heroically signed up for the “Non-Scalpel Method”. Sounds nice, right? No blade, no stitches — just a discreet little job. I didn’t look too hard into the details. In my head, it was simple: the more I knew, the more the chance I’d abandon SCHNIPPPPP (sorry).

The real challenge came next: making the call. They told me there was a four-month waiting list.

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Perfect. A delay! I smugly kicked the can down the road and went back to pretending it wasn’t happening. Then, Boom!, they rang the next day. A cancellation had come up. Could I come in on Friday?

I panicked and said yes. My wife was thrilled. I think she just liked seeing me squirm for once after she’d done all the heavy lifting for three kids.

Game day

I arrived at the clinic. Five minutes in the waiting room. Then I was brought in, pants off, and small talk on. The doctor was sound in fairness. Very relaxed. He told me that once we did this, it was pretty much permanent. I nodded with confidence… not trying to show any fear to another man.

Then came the prep. The shaving. I won’t lie — I probably should’ve done it myself. But in fairness to him, he was a craftsman. Neat job. A bit too neat. I felt like a turkey being prepped for stuffing.

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Then came the anaesthetic. I was sure he said just one injection, but I swear I counted four. Not that the lads were so big they needed that many jabs but I will tell myself that was the main reason.

Either way, a few minutes later, I was numbed up, lying back, chatting about Premier League results, Liverpool, the doc’s family holiday for some strange reason, while he casually rearranged my future.

There was some snipping. Some sealing. A brief whiff of burning (Yikes). But I could feel nothing, thankfully. Then it was done. Quick as you like.

He told me to wear tight underwear for a few days. I’m a boxer shorts kind of guy, so the idea of squeezing into those tight French budgie smugglers didn’t exactly thrill me. To be honest, it sounded grim. I like to be loose and out in the breeze. But apparently, the beans needed to be locked down for about a week… so I played ball.

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I swung into Tesco and grabbed a three-pack of Y-fronts and drove home myself. I walked into the house like Walter White. My wife then insisted on inspecting the incision for some reason. Delighted with herself (the mad woman!), she had a nice little snip care package ready for me, so I couldn’t complain.

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The aftermath

Pain-wise? Honestly, it wasn’t bad. Felt like someone had tapped me in the stones with a rolled-up newspaper for a few days. Nothing major. No drama.

I lay around watching telly, occasionally shifting awkwardly on the couch, mostly from the manscaping the doc gave me, really! Two jobs left:

• Get back in the saddle: It might seem a bit basic to worry about that, but it’s probably the reason some men freak out about having ‘The Snip’ in the first place. Well, I can happily report that all went back to normal within a week. Let’s just say, everything still worked and passed its 1st test, thank the lord.

• Submit a sample in four months to make sure no mini Michael Phelps were still hanging around the pool: Awkward chat with the wife when she asked if I’d done the business, or as we jokingly put it, “a cheeky Hillary Swank”. The glamour never ends.

So, would I recommend ‘The Snip’?

Absolutely. I took one for the team.

And now the Barry White CDs and the wine are back — strictly for mood, not multiplication.

Lads, if you’re on the fence: book it. It’s grand.

A little weird, slightly smoky, but grand. You’ll live, and you’ll have stress-free relations with your happy other half. I call that a result.

The writer is a dad living in Cork with three kids, one wife and a fresh pack of white Y-fronts.