The Death of Sperm

50% drop in sperm count.

May 29, 2025

At the last squiggly-head count, the average sperm concentration was down 50% over the last fifty years.

With each passing day, the chances of making a baby are slipping through men’s fingers and going down the drain. Even those young lives that survive the daily self-care routine don’t have much hope. The plot of a dystopian novel is unfolding below our belt buckles - and, apparently, nobody gives a morning toss.

Now, if the whole world is working with a testicle’s less fertility, that collective ball must have been dropped somewhere. Gentleman, think carefully before you empty a blank clip at the wrongdoers, especially at close range. Listen out for the microplastics clacking away in your testes, like two wrinkled castanets, ushering in the end of the days.

Studies also suggest prenatal exposure to plastics and phthalates* - chemicals that make plastic bendy - cause infants to have shorter penises and perineums. Phthalates: nothing with four consecutive consonants ever left humanity any better off, see: angst, Welsh towns, Countdown.

As a society, we’re ok with trading inches off our future kid’s genitals for the, admittedly, very stretchy, convenience of Saran wrap.

I, hesitantly, speak for a generation of unborn children’s truncated penises, when I say:

I hope that very-slightly fresher, though still congealed, leftover spag’ bol’ was worth it, pops?

Regardless of race or creed, not wanting a smaller pecker is the single unifying belief that could bring together men across the world. Brothers, lay down your arms, we now have a common enemy: cling film.

There are very few things I would trade an inch of downstairs length for - maybe, the lives of my family? By the time, I’ve saved my mum, dad, two brothers, and the dog, I’m almost out of bargaining lumber.

At the risk of being any more crass, I am rather well-endowed in the perineal department. Though I expect the gooch is a less precious commodity wherever this ungodly trade is taking place: cartel hostage drop? Day of reckoning? Heinous bazaar?

For some of my extended family, I would consider renouncing a stretch of haggled taint. However, this would be on a case-by-case basis (subscribers are prioritised, of course). Christ, I’ve stretched this premise way too far, like home-brand plastic wrap- Now I will never find the end.

As for myself, my sperm count can be tallied on one hand - and, invariably, is. After consulting two of the world’s most trusted medical professionals, Google and ChatGPT, my en-suite prognosis is not looking great.

The running of my gamete is the world’s shortest endurance race. My sperm accepts a competition with a failure rate of Japanese gameshow and aggravated-assault course, Takeshi’s Castle. Even the supposed winners collapse over the finish line in a pitiful clump.

Every attempt I’ve made at a blockbuster sexual finale, ended up with me tracing around an encouraging partner’s body with a temperamental glue pen.

For every friend that scrapes together a lifeform from the embers of their party years, I’m sure I’ll get the less-sticky end of the reproductive stick. Still, I’ve never sought the verdict of the plastic cup of fate. I just don’t have the balls.

Not to worry, in another half a century, we’ll all be puffing out cool dust and empty bluffs.