The Myth of the “Head End”

Years ago I worked beside an Australian guy who was going to be a father for the first time. He was touchingly keen to be all New Man about it – that’s how long ago it was: New Man was still currency.

“Are you going to be in at the birth?” I asked. “Sure,” he said emphatically. Then he paused. Then he repeated, “Sure…” only this time with a little less conviction. There was another, longer pause, after which he added, patently aware of the horrific magic lantern show that had begun to flicker in both our minds’ eyes, “At the head end, of course, mate. Head end, definitely…”

From that moment on, the concept of the “Head End” consoled me through any contemplation of childbirth. And I’d like to pass that consolation on to you now. I’d really love to. But the thing is… well, let’s just explode the myth of the Head End once and for all.


1. Head end? What length is your wife/partner if you can stand at one end of her and have absolutely no sight of a baby emerging from between her legs? Is she related to the Welsh one out of the Fantastic Four?

2. You think you will have a choice as to where to look? What else is there in the delivery room that will distract you from a woman who will have grasped you so firmly by the throat that her fingers will be meeting behind your Adam’s apple? Not even the spectacle of the two surviving members of The Beatles jamming by the birthing pool with the two surviving members of The Who will tear you away. (It would work, that, too. The Beatles and Who thing, I mean: drummer and bass player (Ringo and Paul), singer and guitarist (Daltrey and Townshend). Whether they’d be called The Whotles or The Boo is a debate for another blog.)

3. Midwives can smell male squeamishness at fifty paces. And, when it comes to men, they can be a merciless bunch. The withering looks and well-honed satire of a tired midwife will leave mental lacerations deeper than the sight of any labour ever could.

4. NB. Try not to deploy the phrase “Head End” around your partner/wife too often. She already feels more than a little bit like a big, fat cow, and such agricultural, indeed objectifying terminology as “Head End” (see also “Business End”) can tend to exacerbate her need to knee you in the “Testicles End” – an act of violence that she can chalk off to hormonal confusion. And, as we all know, there’s not a court in the land that would quibble with hormonal confusion in pregnancy.