According to a new report from the Fatherhood Institute, maternity units tend to lavish all their care on mums, while cruelly neglecting the dads.This could be detrimental to bloke/baby bonding, which means that medical staff clearly need more training, yada yada yada . . .

I might have more sympathy for this view were it not for the chap I heard on the radio representing the institute's gripes. He was shut out of his wife's emergency Caesarean for a whole hour without so much as a cup of tea or even any advice on how to get Sky in the patients' lounge. OK, it is ghastly knowing your loved one is being hacked about next door while you gnaw your knuckles. But, in an emergency situation, on an understaffed unit, it boils down to what you'd rather have held - your hand, or a life-saving pair of artery forceps?

In the more sedate, less bloody world of general practice, life is very different: there's absolutely nothing preventing men from accompanying their loved ones into the consulting room. In fact, the average male may well exploit these opportunities. Maybe his usual reticence and embarrassment are diluted by the fact that he's been on toddler-taming duty throughout the consultation, feeding the little chap crisps and restraining him in a headlock while mum discusses junior's poor appetite and lack of energy. Whatever. As young dad helpfully puts my room back together, he'll typically say, casually: “While I'm here, doc, could I show you my testicles?” No, not unless you think there's something wrong with them. And even then I'd prefer you to book a proper appointment so they can each have the five minutes they deserve.

This tendency to muscle in on appointments isn't restricted to men, though. The doctor-patient interaction, far from being sacrosanct, seems open to all-comers, from morally supportive consultation buddies to concerned partners dragging in doctor-avoiders. For example, I often get visits from the domineering woman with a reluctant man. The latter forlornly takes centre stage while the latter prompts his lines. “Go on, tell the doctor. You snore . . . You sweat too much . . . You've got wind . . . And you always have a headache.” Weird - by this point, so have I. This litany of malfunctions is usually a prelude to the real issue, which is impotence.

To keep my sanity, I cut to the chase and offer Viagra. If I'm right, it saves time. If not, I pretend it's good for snoring, sweating, wind and headaches anyway. Worst scenario of all, though, is when Granny is wheeled in by her concerned family. That's estranged family from Surrey, by the way, who have popped over today for the first time in aeons and are horrified to find that she's arthritic, housebound, lonely and depressed. Which is how she's been for years, despite our best efforts. But to show how much they care, they want “something done” now so they can get back on the M25 with a clear conscience. If I had my way, I would use the maternity approach of locking the family outside the room while I shoot the breeze with Gran. But, as I say, general practice isn't like that. So I cave in to the demands and console myself by daydreaming about the father-to-be still stuck outside the delivery suite, trying to attract attention. Why doesn't he just offer to show his testicles?

Dr Copperfield is a GP in Essex. He also writes for Pulse magazine and Pulsetoday.co.uk

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