Why can't I ever visit my doctor without being asked to get my trousers off?

I’m sure it’s part of some elaborate gambling scheme they amuse themselves with – each GP betting on how many patients they can make do it in a day

"There is nothing that you can go and see a doctor about that doesn’t end up with them asking you to strip to your pants" (Rex)

“How do you feel?” The doctor looked at me in a mildly disinterested manner over his untidy desk. I was here to be checked over after my traumatic trip through Panamanian jungles. I’d been told there was a strong chance I’d picked up some horrible bug, or worm, or parasite and that it was best to find them before they could do their worst. Nevertheless, I loathe going to the doctor, as I know it will only be a matter of time before I am asked to strip down to my pants ... for no reason. I tried to block him off at the pass.

“I feel fine... except for the horrible sandfly bites that I received. They are slowly disappearing however, except for the ones on my hands.” I emphasised my hands by waving them at him, so that he would know that my hands were not covered by any clothing and that there was absolutely no need for me to strip. I could just show him my hands and we could move on.

“Right... well if you can just pop all your clothes off, put them on the back of that chair and lie down we’ll have a look.” Unbelievable. There is nothing that you can go and see a doctor about that doesn’t end up with them asking you to strip to your pants. I’m sure it’s part of some elaborate gambling scheme they amuse themselves with – each doc betting on how many patients he can make do it in a day.

Nevertheless, like a compliant sheep in an abattoir: I nodded, stripped off and allowed the doctor to inspect my hands while dressed only in my underpants. We both knew that he had won, and that this whole charade was ridiculous but we kept up our thin veneer of normality as we chatted about the inclement weather.

Finally he moved away and back behind his desk. Nothing was said about putting my clothes on but I retook the initiative and started to get dressed. The doctor looked disapproving but said nothing. Once fully clothed I felt human again. I sat down opposite him, an equal, but only for a moment. He had a trump card to play. He opened a drawer and removed a plastic tub, a spatula and an envelope.

“This is for your stool sample...”

There was a long silence. Eventually I had to say something. “You want a stool sample... now?” This was worse than the Spanish Inquisition.

“No, not unless you can. You can take this home and then, when you next do your business, pop some of it in this tub and post it in the envelope.” He smiled like this was a totally normal thing to do.

Two days later and I am at home dreading the inevitable call of my bowels. Surely sending people poo in the post is illegal? What if I’m involved in an accident on my way to the postbox? The newspapers would have a field day. “The comedian Dom Joly was involved in a minor road accident this morning. Upon arrival at hospital he was discovered to be carrying a small plastic tub of his own faeces.” It’s the stuff of nightmares.