Put ’em away, love

There are too many breasts in the world.

I know, it’s a controversial opinion, and few men would automatically back me up. Steven Fry, perhaps, who has been public about how the sight of a pair of boobs makes him squeal and run away. But not many others.

Let me qualify it a little: there are just about the right amount of breasts in the world, but many of them are far too visible. I’d like to say it’s all women’s fault, because, frankly, I like to say everything is women’s fault. I’m not sexist, I just really get a kick out of annoying feminists. They look so hot when they’re angry.

I’m told that a woman’s breasts have a massive effect on how she feels about her sexuality, which is a pretty important part of life. It’s the equivalent of a man’s feelings about his penis, and if you fellas are anything like me (and you definitely are, because all men are essentially the same), you’ll have a lot of self-esteem tied up in your trouser-pouch.

Imagine opening the Guardian every morning and seeing a young, attractive man sporting  a thick, hard, lightly oiled, glistening 11 inch erection, with a caption proclaiming his opinions about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Imagine if you became persuaded that this so-called perfect body was not only “the norm”, but that it’s the only thing women wanted.

Granted, it’s unlikely that The Guardian would publish it. It’s more of an Independent kinda thing, embodying sheer bloody-mindedness and a distinct desperation for sales. But you get my point: a constant bombardment of images of an imagined perfection is very damaging to your self-esteem.

I happen to think the effect of porn on men is quite similar. All men see is images of perfect women and men with hilariously deformed genitals – because that’s what a pornstar penis is, in reality. It’s a grotesque, malformed, mutated version of what we all have. It’s the equivalent of finding somebody with a 9 foot long leg, but the fact that we’re sold this illusion that it’s [a] normal and [b] the apogee of pleasure for all women is very damaging. The truth is, most women would find it very uncomfortable to be vigorously shafted by a truly massive cock, and many porn actresses have to undergo reconstructive surgery on a regular basis.

But overexposure to porn has made men desperately unhappy with their perfectly natural, perfectly normal 5.5 to 6.5 inch penis. It’s making a generation of men feel sexually inadequate, and that leads to all manner of dysfunctions.

But those images aren’t being delivered to our family doorstep every day: you have to Google them in secret. Unlike Page 3, which is broadly accepted by millions of people, and delivered daily in an uncensored, supposedly-family-friendly newspaper. You can be exposed to these images from the moment you pop out of your mum, and by the time you’re 15 you’re likely to have 4,600 photos of topless women plonked onto the breakfast table. Worse than that: many times these women are barely of legal age, and the Soaraway Sun even does countdowns to their youngest models’ 16th birthdays (whilst running heartfelt campaigns about paedophilia on Page 1).

It endlessly demeans women, and undermines their self-confidence. I don’t think even smart, self-aware women are totally immune to the pernicious influence of this sort of image, because it’s relentless. Even if it’s not making you feel demeaned, it’s making you feel angry.

But it also damages men, because it gives a false impression of the value of women, and I actually think women are incredibly valuable. Ignoring women’s brains, values, opinions and imaginations is a sure way to diminish your life. You’re cutting yourself off from half of what life is about, and all so you can look at some norks over your porridge.

And that’s why I’m saying No More Page 3.

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About luck

I was 40 when I got cancer.

I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink excessively, was reasonably healthy, but still managed to end up with a malignant lump on my kidney that was as heavy as your hand-luggage allowance. I’m fine – I was lucky to have a good surgeon and lucky the cancer hadn’t spread, and lucky that I’m having wonderful care in a first-world country with a marvellous health system.

It was just luck.

Of course, getting a massive, rare cancer is also quite bad luck. I’ll give you that. Granted.

But all of this plays into my thesis: luck is an incredibly important factor in life, and we tend to underestimate it. We especially underestimate good luck, or at least we ignore it and assume we deserve good things that happen to us: it’s down to some attribute of ours which others simply don’t have.

If you’re a generous spirit, you might say, “hey everyone, this wonderful thing happened to me, so it can happen to you”. But that’s disingenuous, and the same kind of lie the National Lottery uses each time it says “it could be you”. Yes, it could. There’s a 1 in 14 million chance, and you’re 5,000x more likely to be murdered by your wife. But it could be you.

But most people aren’t that generous or well-intentioned, and tend to start acting like twats as soon as they get a bit of cash. They are better human beings than you, and you’re all layabout scum who need to have their benefits scrapped and their children pushed up chimneys.

The sheer, enormous, gallumping good luck of being born in Chipping Norton to a stockbroker father who sent them to Eton doesn’t occur to the fortunate: they got there by the sweat of their smooth, egg-like brow.

But it’s not just the rich. Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for class-war, especially as the rich have been winning the class war for a generation, and it’s about time we fought back a bit, rather than voting against our interests because we’re idiotic enough to believe we have a chance of being let into the exclusive club at the top. But this isn’t a dig at the entitled, landed gentry. This is a dig at those who attribute their success to skill, rather than chance.

My brother is an example of misattributed good luck. We work in the same industry (web stuff) but he’s so rich he spends his evenings making paper-aeroplanes out of £50 notes, and throwing them into one of his many solid gold fireplaces. Whereas I earn the average salary, rarely get paid on time, and spend most evenings scraping burned cheese off a baking tray so I can have some sustenance to gnaw on as I warm my fingers around a guttering candle. It’s positively Dickensian round here.

Yes, he’s worked hard, but so have I, and so have you – but he’s managed to be lucky too, and that makes all the difference. He is, at best, moderately good at programming and fairly smart – although we shared the same teachers, and every one of them said I was the smart one, and my brother was the future accountant. I’m not boasting, I’m just trying to place my brother in context.

(But I am dead smart though.)

He wanted to work with computers, but he dropped out of university after 6 weeks, and took a job at the nearest place to home: he was lazy and didn’t want to travel. Luckily that company, which only employed 3 people at the time, grew over the coming years, and he remained senior because he was there early. He didn’t make it grow. He was just a functionary. It just grew under him.

So dumb luck ends up pushing him into being a director, because all of the first intake of staff were made directors. As a director-by-politeness he wasn’t really trusted to have responsibility, and didn’t have a department to run or any great strategic role. But it worked out OK for him anyway: he was on £75k, and when the company was bought out by a larger organisation he took home a cheque for an additional £128,000. And because he was a director of the small company, he remained a “director without portfolio” at the larger company, got a 50% pay increase and 7 weeks holiday per year.

That’s how it is for directors – no lack of money up at the top, folks!

After a few years of this he was head-hunted, because he was a director of a big company, so must be good, right? Well, not really – he’s kind of average, but the fact that he’s been lucky means he’s in a position that appears to demonstrate some kind of skill. It’s why Keira Knightley still gets acting jobs – she’s absolutely awful, but she was in that thing that made money in spite of her presence, just because she was lucky to be born to a casting director (there’s that luck again!). So people think she’s a safer bet than… well, practically anybody else. And as a result, she keeps being given roles that the hedge in my garden would be more convincing in.

It’s not skill. It’s luck. I just don’t have a lucky hedge.

So my brother was head-hunted, and is now a director (again), this time of a very large company. I won’t tell you their name, but they trade autos. Trading autos is what they do. They are, you could say, auto traders.

Does he have to work hard or be inventive or do anything to earn his position there? No. They don’t invent new things, they don’t employ a million people, they don’t help with Britain’s balance of trade. They’re what’s called an “agency business”, which takes a slice for putting customers in contact with suppliers. He doesn’t make cars, that’s done by a proper economy in Germany (where they don’t leave every damn thing to the market, they go out and try to make the market function for the good of all, so everyone is benefiting and feels they belong).

As a director of this massive business, my brother doesn’t even need to go out and find new customers, or even run a good website (just look at it – it’s gruesome). He is, entirely by chance, sitting at the top table in a business which dominates about 95% of car buying in this country.

But ask him, and he’ll tell you he earned all of that. He, alone, was able to achieve those things, and deserves £160k (plus bonus) for sitting in an office while you buy cars he doesn’t make and doesn’t even sell. It had nothing to do with just happening to live close to a company which needed a cheap junior programmer, it was just skill and dedication and a hidden, secret knowledge which the rest of us have no access to.

I like the guy. But he’s a real cunt.

Businesses rely on serendipity just as much as people do. When a company employs a guy, it takes a risk that he’ll be good at his job. Most are competent, some terrible, but occasionally you’ll get lucky: you’ll employ somebody who has connections, and they’ll land you more work. It’s not your skill, or his skill – it’s luck that he’s connected to the right people, and those people are also lucky (often by birth, race, sex or location) to have strings they can pull.

As a lucky company, which felicitously employed somebody who, by good fortune of birth, has those connections and can land new contracts, you will be able to make money. And sometimes you will make enough money to let you start crushing rivals. In time you’ll dominate to the extend that luck stops playing a part.

Luck is a throw of the dice, but if you dominate 95% of the market you own the dice and the table, and are guaranteed to win. That’s what globalisation has brought us: a dozen lucky fuckers who now own the casino, and appear to own governments too. Every party must be “business-friendly” as though being helpful and sympathetic to normal people is a sin, but being friendly to blank-eyed, environment-destroying, soulless money-making machines is a cardinal virtue.

And that’s why the neoConservative, Tory, Republican view of the world is bullshit: they want to be “business friendly”, and reduce taxes for those who are successful in the belief that it will encourage more success. But most success is dumb luck, and you can’t legislate for luck. So all they’re really doing is ensuring those who are born into that club (which, let’s face it, is most of the members) are well rewarded for being incredibly fortunate that they fell out of a wealthy womb.

A response to the guest post. And also, my last will and testament

We had a deal: she wouldn’t tell you about my invisible pet dinosaur, and I wouldn’t tell you she was born a man.

I guess that deal’s blown out of the water, so anything goes now. Not that I’m upset about her guest blog! I laughed, I wept, I hurled, but most of all I was just impressed that she managed to stick to the English language.

Because speech is a thing that my beloved has trouble with. God knows, she tries. You can’t say she’s not giving it her best effort. She’s a sensitive soul, and I suspect she feels deeply for those poor people who are struck dumb, so she’s doing her utmost to say all the things they want to say. All of them. All of the time. Thankfully she’s got a special way to stop my ears from melting in the onslaught, which is to give me regular “wet willies”, interspersed with loving smacks around the head.

Even performing the wet willy doesn’t silence her. In fact I think her record for being quiet is about as long as it takes her to take a breath, and even sleep isn’t enough to stop her completely. Her nighttime blabbering would keep me awake if it wasn’t for the fact I’m usually already awake because of her mattress fascism.

What, you may ask, is mattress fascism? I’ll tell you. When I first moved out of my parents’ home I got a double bed, thinking that I might lure women into it (I didn’t). But when I eventually did get somebody drunk enough to get in my bed, I realised a double bed isn’t big enough: I’m a stocky fella, and it’s hard to fit a normal-sized woman into my bed with me. So a year or two later I got a king sized, and that seemed to solve the problem. The lucky lady had enough room to sleep off her shame, and I had enough room to sleep off my smugness, and everybody was happy apart from the poor girl who’d just experienced me in the nude.

But the size of bed makes no difference to my little angel, because my little angel is a mattress fascist. She’s determined to invade and take over every inch of the bed, regardless of who it belongs to, and is quite prepared to employ magic to ensure it happens.

Within 30 seconds of lights-out she does something I thought was impossible: she rolls clockwise to wrap herself in the entire duvet, leaving none at all for me; and she simultaneously rolls anticlockwise across the bed, shoving me into a 4-inch wide strip down the edge of the mattress. How can she rotate in both directions at once? Clearly she’s a witch.

Burn the witch!

Her sex face. You can see why I prefer doggy style.

(I could take her into the back garden and burn her with the leaves, although with her skin colour – slightly paler than an albino polo mint –  just sending her outside on a sunny day would do the trick, and nobody has to tell the police. Deal?)

So I can look over the body of my beautiful, comely, sweetly-sleeping mattress fascist, and see acres of empty bed, inviting and cool and spacious… and utterly unavailable to me. I’m trapped in the nocturnal equivalent of Gaza, and she’s blockading my sleep. Can’t Kofi Annan do anything about this?

And then the gibbering begins. I’ll be lying there, wide awake, being baked by her hot body (in both senses) squeezing me off the edge of the mattress, and feeling utterly oppressed in my own bed; and she’ll suddenly announce, “motorbike underfelt carnival handbag”, like it’s the beginning of a lecture, and then fart, hit me with her hair, and snore loudly.

I just ignore it now, but the first few times I thought the gibberish meant something. It’s understandable that I would: she’s almost as nonsensical when she’s awake, and half of our time together is taken up by me wrestling with the mangled syntax she hurls at me. (The other half is spent simply wrestling).

You see, she does terrible, terrible things to the English language. Perhaps it’s because she’s a Celt. She was born over here, in leafy, moneyed Cheshire, where she learned to kill foxes, shoot guns and speak in a nice, if highly creative way. But she could barely be more Irish if you found her eating mud in a bog in Donegal with a pig under her arm.

She has that lovely Irish skin too: it’s the colour of the stuff that peels of the bottom of my feet after I’ve spent too long in the bath. And there’s the Irish hair, which responds pretty well to a severe industrial ironing every couple of hours, but left to its own devices manages to look like it was dragged through a hedge and look like the hedge it was dragged through. Clever trick that.

So English might be her mother tongue, but I doubt it’s her grandmother tongue, and in her case her ancestry is taking over her glottis. Throwing caution to the wind, she’s running (with scissors) through the dictionary, cutting-and-pasting as she goes. As a result, she manages to inventerise wordments at every juncticle, like Stanley Unwin after a few too many sherrys, deepjoy.


I may be painting her in a bad light, and I realise this might all sound a bit mean-spirited. But it’s not: she’s actually rather lovely, but in ways that it’s very hard to make any sense of. Examples:

  • She recently spent half an hour loudly performing whale-song to my scrotum, in the belief it might make it go smooth. It didn’t, I just laughed so much I wet the bed.
  • She lured me into a long confusing discussion about whether it’s possible to smash two ducks together in a vast underground accelerator, at close to the speed of light, in the hope that the collision will produce a high-energy chaffinch.
  • She has an odd habit of licking the inside my nostril or, for variety, putting my whole nose in her mouth and blowing until I emit a strangled parp like a tuba being raped. That’s normal, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
  • Alarmingly, this future primary-school teacher, who is sensitive to the needs and concerns of our nation’s young, responded to my taunt that she was born a man by shouting “Yeah, and my dick’s bigger than yours too” in front of several 8 year olds.

I believe her about her dick, but my tits are bigger than hers, so it’s swings and roundabouts.

Lots of things about her are quite male, actually. She’s got quite a blokey brain, and surprises me with her knowledge of carburetors, her sense of direction, her hairy back, and her charming habit of lifting one cheek and gurning when she farts, which is often. And then she laughs like a drain, and smells like one too.

Don’t get me wrong: it’s a lovely bottom. It’s got the kind of tiny, imperceptible bouncy wobble that makes my mouth dry up and my nether-regions spasm, and she oscillates it beautifully every time she walks away to commit chemical atrocities in my spare bathroom. It wasn’t a spare bathroom until she started using it, but now I dursn’t go in there for any money. I call the hallway leading to that bathroom “Chemical Alley”.

So there’s a permanent “no naked flames” rule near her, in case you ignite something noxious and burn off her… I was going to say “her eyebrows”, but that’s not quite right. “Her unibrow” is a better expression. Because the other thing about her which makes me think she’s a man – specifically Liam Gallagher – is her solitary eyebrow. It’s like Groucho Marx’s moustache has taken residence on her forehead. She’s getting a strimmer for Christmas.

I’m aware that some people who read this blog are my friends, and are probably concerned for my wellbeing at this stage. I’ve just described a possibly mental, definitely violent, crypto-transvestite fascist furball, who is in control of deadly recto-biological weaponry and knows where I sleep (because she’s the border guard). Not only that, she’s half my age, half my size, twice my speed and twice my kidneys; and as a resident of one of the wealthiest towns in Britain she’s got ample experience of shooting peasants and hunting foxes (and ladies, I’m one foxy peasant, ding-dong). So there’s very little chance of me getting away from her if she chooses to attack.

Me, on date night.

But rest easy, friends: she chooses to attack almost hourly, and so far I’ve survived. Even when she’s being loving and gentle, it somehow often leads to a painful knee to the dangleberries, a bite on the face, a blizzard of tickling and being flicked on the head, or a thorough test of whether it hurts more to be punched in the kidney or in the place where my other kidney used to be. I put it down to her having an enquiring mind, and a penchant for bloodthirsty experimentation.

Example: during a recent motorway trip, she decided to show her affection by squeezing my head as I drove, and in doing so managed to shove her thumb under my eyelid, leaving me blind at 70mph in heavy traffic. This is normal for us. This is every day.

Any trip with her in a car is a risky enterprise, because when she’s not blinding me she  subjects me to a torrent of pokes, kicks, tickles, bites to the shoulder and head, and drooling tongues shoved in my ear. Not in a sexual way either: just to annoy me.

So I’m wondering if we’re in love, or in a war. It could be either, but it’s probably both. I’m only telling you this stuff in case I’m found dead one morning: the chances are, it was an accident, but no coroner would come to that conclusion if they found me battered and blinded, with my head covered in bites, freezing in my own bed, and possibly with a thing inserted in my bum and abusive notes left on my bedside table. For the record: all of that is perfectly normal and above-board.

Consider this a legal statement, because when she reads this I suspect I’ll need one.

Guest post – Living with Dick: a survivor’s guide

The light of my life has decided she wants to explain what the hell she’s doing with me. I’m kind of interested in that myself, so here’s her guest post. Enjoy.

First of all: I exist. Honest.

There’s good reason to assume I don’t exist. I wouldn’t blame you, especially since Dick revealed his history of having an invisible pet dinosaur. His mum even told me that he left it tied to the railings outside nursery, and they had to go back to collect “Hubert”.

OK, he was 3 at the time, but he hasn’t developed a great deal since. He’s just chosen a better name that “Hubert” now, and his invisible friend is a Mole Rat.

I’ve been mentioned a couple of times in this blog, and as I follow Dick on Twitter I’ve noticed a few sniffy people who seem offended to discover he’s no longer single. Frankly, if you felt any distress at Dick being unavailable you need to take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror… something I can barely do any more. The shame, the shame.

Calling you “sniffy” is a bit strong, to be honest. A few of you seem to have the impression that Dick is charming and funny and attractive, but I’ve seen him up-close, and I can assure you that his unavailability should make you about as “sniffy” as going to Aldi and discovering the strange tins of Polish something-or-other have suddenly been moved. You didn’t know what they were, they were cheap and disappointing… and now they’ve gone. Somehow I think you’ll get over it.

I, however, probably won’t. You see, I’m his girlfriend. It’s taken me some time to come to terms with the fact that I am romantically connected to this man, although I think “romance” might be a strong word too.

What do you imagine when you think of Romance? Maybe some of you will visualise a Hugh Grant character calling round with a bouquet of red roses, champagne and chocolates. He stands there gazing lovingly into your soul as he declares his adulation for you in rhyming couplets, and explains that he’s decided to whisk you away to be wined, dined and soixante-neufed in a Parisian hotel, while a bevy of penguin-suited violinists play Hearts and Flowers.

Or maybe you have in mind some of those small personal gestures of intimacy that make you know – absolutely know – that he’s thinking about you. I could describe some examples, but they’re all personal to me or to you. If you’ve experienced it, you’ll know what I mean.

But that’s not us. Oh no.

It’s not that our relationship is bereft of romance, it’s just that we measure it by different standards. His equivalent of handing me a dozen red roses is passing me the bog-roll when he’s “finished”. Well, he thinks it’s finished. It’s usually around the time I’m getting started.

I don’t want to make anybody chunder, so I won’t talk about our bedroom times in any great detail. But I want to assure you’re practicing safe sex. Not in the sense you think, not with condoms or (God forbid) femidoms – it’s not really necessary to check for infection when he’s being investigated by vast teams of doctors every couple of weeks. And at his age we don’t have to worry about pregnancy, because his little soldiers have all turned to dust, or retired to the Dunswimmin Retirement Village. His ejaculate reminds me of a lizard having a coughing fit in a talc factory.

No, what I mean by safe sex is that we take everything very, very… very… veeeery slowly. His dicky hip and sciatica mean we do things at a glacial pace, so there’s little danger of cardiac arrest. And just in case it all gets too much for him, I’ve got 999 on speed-dial, and we keep a gallon of Lucozade and a tin-foil blanket nearby in case he’s overwhelmed by the pressures of inhaling and moving at the same time.

Afterwards, if I’m not too traumatised by what just happened to me (the thing that he – but nobody else – refers to as “sex”), I entertain myself by counting his grey pubes. Actually, that’s a fib: I keep my eyes well and truly shut when I’m close to his gentleman’s area. Fortunately he can’t see over his belly, so he still assumes he’s getting a wet blowjob. It’s actually my tears, and sometimes a little bit of sick.

(He suggested that some dirty sex talk might spice things up, but now he’s complaining about it. Apparently “think of a happy place, think of a happy place” isn’t what he had in mind).

In his own special way, I guess he shows affection. It’s similar to how a gibbon would show affection to its keeper: a selection of grunts, snorts and hand-gestures (often of the two-fingered variety). And if he’s feeling particularly loving, or is just light-headed and forgetful, he’ll let me have a Hobnob.

My lovely car cake, complete with crushed front-end, dead pedestrian, and bloody aftermath. Nice.

Actually he did, thoughtfully, present me with a cake to celebrate me buying my first car. This is a photo of it. He’s a twat.

And here’s another example of what all you lucky ladies are missing. Once, in one of the rare post-coital moments when he wasn’t too sweaty to stay in the same room as, he did a little pillow talk. You might think he was whispering sweet nothings, but in actual fact he just bluntly asked how many of my fingers I could fit into one of his nostrils. The answer is two. Easily. His nose is huge. It’s got an echo. I think I heard somebody in there recently, calling for help.

All of this is very entertaining, and probably the only reason I’m still around. Because most of the time, he’s just annoying, and barely house-trained. If a dog repeatedly piddles on your lino, you’re supposed to rub its nose it it. But nobody did this with Dick, which is why he still dribbles on the tiles when he goes to the loo. I’ve banned him from having a stand-up wee, although surely it shouldn’t be necessary: he’s got a piss-tube (it’s not much good for anything else), so why doesn’t he just use it? I’m tempted to rub his nose in his mess so hard that the marble tiles break, but they’re such nice tiles.

His bodily functions are irritating, but his personality is downright infuriating. If you’ve read his blogs, you’ll have a pretty good idea of what he’s like: a filthy, dry sense of humour, good with words, and constantly argumentative.

A diagram of Dick’s brain, inside Dick’s head. I didn’t say “dickhead”. I didn’t need to.

And he knows everything, which is really annoying. I like to wind him up because I have a degree and he doesn’t: but then he watches University Challenge and casually gets 97% of the questions right, then sits there looking smug and waiting to be punched. There’s literally no end to the amount of pointless trivia he can store in his vast head.

And that, I think is the only reason I’m with him: he’s pretty much guaranteed to win a £30 drinks voucher every time we go to the pub quiz. Hey, something’s gotta pay my way through teacher training, and I’m not doing it sober!

Just for laughs

The best sex is like a Frankie Boyle joke.

It should be enjoyed in the privacy of your own home, never be mentioned in front of your mother, and should make you feel ashamed and delighted in equal measures… and it should cost you £35 for two hours, plus taxis. Hey, if I’m gonna pay for it I want a damn good deal.

Don’t worry, I’m still talking about Frankie Boyle. Although I have some stories about prostitution, since we’re on the subject. That’s a sentence that could raise a few eyebrows, so let me explain: I sometimes go to London on the train, and park my car at Manchester’s Piccadilly Station, right in the heart of the red light district. Coming home late at night I’d often get propositioned by strange, haggard women with voices like a choked drain, asking me if I want business. That’s how they do it: do you want business?

The first time somebody asked me that, I didn’t realise she was a hooker because it was winter, and she was dressed just like anybody else on a freezing Mancunian night. Sex with her must have been like 45 minutes of pass the parcel.

Anyway, I didn’t know she was a prostitute, and she was just wearing a coat and scarf, so I assumed she was lost. I thought I’d somehow misunderstod her, and she was asking me about some sort of business.

Her: Do you want business?

Me: What business is it you want?

Her: Want some business?

Me: Sorry… who are you looking for?

Etc

I wasn’t getting any closer to a comprehensible answer, and her – in hindsight – heroin addled speech patterns weren’t helping. So I decided to ask what the business specialised in, hoping this would help matters.

That certainly clarified what it was she was offering. Few, if any, businesses in that area specialise in anal for an extra twenty quid and a lift back to Harpurhey afterwards. As the saying goes, I made my excuses and left.

But at least it’s not as bad as my uncle Harry, who stopped at the lights on the way home from the butcher’s shop, and had a street prostitute hop uninvited into his car and sit on his gammon. That’s not a euphemism, by the way: she actually sat on the gammon he’d just bought. He threw it away and went to the chippy instead, but since then, “sitting on his gammon” has become a little euphemism in my family. Keep it, if you like it. It’s a good one.

Another favourite euphemism comes from something I heard on the radio. A woman reported that her child’s teacher had told her this: the child was asked to write a story about “what I did at the weekend”, and wrote that she’d woken up having a nightmare, and gone into her parents’ room for comfort, but that mummy and daddy were on the bed “having a quiet fight”.

Having a quiet fight, such an excellent phrase. Although personally, I love noisy sex. If it’s not noisy enough, I just turn down the telly and press a glass against the wall.

Now, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this blog isn’t my sex life, or about paying for sex. Perhaps I should have mentioned that earlier, but the introduction has kind of blathered on a bit. Sorry about that, and I hope you’re not disappointed that I’m no longer talking about sex. You probably are: my statistics show me how perverted you are.

I should explain that my blogs usually arise from something annoying me slightly. Sometimes they arise from things annoying me a lot, like when I hear about Republicans using made-up science to justify “legitimate rape“. But sometimes it’s just things that annoy me slightly, like Formula 1. But sometimes I decide to do a blog because Katy Red or Girl on the Net have posted something salacious, and it makes me want to reply. And when I do, I get about 100 times more visits, simply because it’s about sex. Don’t worry, I won’t let you down – there’s more sex stuff later on. But first, I want to tell you why Formula 1 annoys the hell out of me.

Lewis finishes another fine demonstration of his driving ability. Next on his itinerary: a shag with a tart.

Let’s pretend I’m Lewis Hamilton. I get in a stupid car that has no luggage space or stereo, and is covered in adverts for cancer. I noisily drive 120 feet, crash, and demand £1million

That, as far as I can see, is the definition of Formula 1. Really, what else happens? Yes, you’re right: as many times as 3 per season a car will overtake another car, sometimes successfully. But generally they all stay in the same order for what seems like days, giving the viewer the bizarre impression that they’re watching a car park travelling at 200mph.

In the process, the CO2 of a small city is spewed out into the air, and when the so-called race eventually ends a millionaire gobshite wastes a bottle of champagne and wanders off to fuck a Pussycat Doll.

Fucking a Pussycat Doll is not like fucking a prostitute. I may have started off talking about hookers, but now I’m talking about Pussycat Dolls. Not the same thing at all. In no way does the fact that she only dates very rich people mean her sexuality is influenced by money. In no way are these 5 ladies putting the “filthy” into “filthy lucre”.

The difference between these 5 talented musicians and 5 strippers is approximately 5 square inches of latex.

Actually…. just look at them. At times my moral centre goes slightly off-centre, and I forget the fact that I have no respect for them. They don’t have much respect for themselves, so why should I. Yes, they’re borderline hookers, but…

Goddammit, why have I given up sixsomes?

Anyway, I might be persuaded about certain favourable features of the Pussycat Dolls, but not about F1. Honestly, tell me I’m wrong. Actually, don’t. If you’re a big fan of F1 you may feel moved to comment about how wrong I am. If you feel moved, move, and keep on moving. I don’t want to know I’m wrong, because I’m right.

Anyway, this blog isn’t about sex or prostitution or Formula 1 or the Pussycat Dolls, in spite of the fact that I keep being dragged back there to look at that photo. It’s actually about those things we shouldn’t laugh about, but which we do anyway. I don’t know why, but apart from Frankie Boyle the undisputed masters of this art are old ladies. For example, today my girlfriend asked her nana whether she’d been watching the Paralympics, and her nana replied, “No – I hate to watch them struggle”.

I’m sorry, I know it’s very very wrong, but I have to laugh. Not at the Paralympians, who are without doubt majestic and inspiring. But at old ladies, and their startlingly wrong view of the world. It takes a special kind of special. And I don’t mean special like that.

It’s hardly a scientific proof that only women can do this, but most my the stories about mad things said in all seriousness feature a women.

  • My mum, watching two great whites attacking tuna on a David Attenborough programme, said “Gosh… you can see why they call them sharks!”
  • Also my mum, being checked for symptoms which ended up being Parkinson’s Disease, but at the time were suspected brain cancer: “Well, they gave me a brain scan and found nothing”
  • My sister-in-law, waking up as her flight was descending into Heathrow: “Are we landing? We’re a bit low, aren’t we?”
  • Also sister-in-law explaining why she wasn’t keen to live in a particular house: “I wouldn’t want to not live there if it wasn’t so unprivate”.

Honestly, I’ll give you a Nobel Prize if you can work that out in less than 10 minutes. I still get lost in the quadruple negatives. Perhaps women actually do have great brains: not only can they make sense of that convoluted gibberish, they can also say it out loud without laughing.

But I mustn’t be sexist about it. As I say, my small sample is hardly scientific, but then again neither is my mate’s mum, who won’t tie knots in the plastic bags for loose vegetables, because “knots make the bag heavier”.

Women: what on earth goes on in their pretty little heads?

I’d love to be a real sexist, but I’m not; I just like poking feminists, which is why I write things like that. It’s not that feminists are wrong, it’s just that anybody who takes themselves excessively seriously is great fun to poke with a stick.

But to be fair to feminists – which is something I rarely like to do, because they look so hot when they’re angry – men are idiots too. In fact, to be honest, it appears men are far more idiotic than women are. Looking beyond the everyday tragedy of women working as prostitutes – even the Pussycat Dolls – there are men who pay for it.

But what’s the point, when these delightful things exist? Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the greatest sex toys in the entire world.

First, may I present this special, special… item… it’s hard to call it a toy… which is designed to make it feel as though a girl is licking your dangleberries while you’re poking your tallywacker into another lady.

I’ve had one or two interesting evenings in my time, but I don’t need to tell you about them. However, without revealing too much, I can tell you that such occurences can be pleasurable, as long as nobody gets hit in the face with a swinging bollock, or accidentally bitten on fast-moving nether regions. And I’m confident that many men have a fantasy of experiencing this sort of thing. So I can almost see the point in this invention – but I can’t help notice that neither girl has a head, torso, arms or legs. In fact, with its excised pudenda and disembodied tongue, what we have here is the very thing that Jack the Ripper was trying to build at home. And I suspect that knowledge will tend to reduce your enjoyment.

Next is this wonderful item. I don’t think I need to explain what the gentleman (if we can use that term for the buyer of this merchandise) is supposed to do, but let’s place it in context: rather than imagining it floating in pristine space, as the photographer has, let’s place it on your carpet.

Now what does it look like? It looks like a partially buried girl is attempting to raise the alarm by farting loudly.

And is it just the influence of the Olympics, or can you also picture it with the Union Jack painted on each latex fingernail? No? Okay then, that’s just me – reaching rock-bottom, and then starting to dig.

Next is this…

If this was being shown as part of Ricky Gervais’s stand up show, he’d simply project it on a screen, point, and let you laugh for 3 minutes.

I know the world is full of strange and unusual fetishes, but I didn’t realise “discarded concept from the art department of a David Cronenberg movie” was one of them. I’m not entirely sure what sort of demented mind comes up with stuff like this, but the website where I found it describes it, with amazing optimism, as “life-like”. It’s only life-like if your life consists of your plastic surgeon getting high on crack and muddling up the breast implant he had scheduled for the morning with the arse reduction he had scheduled for the afternoon.

And finally, there’s this.

I’m speechless.

I’m trying to imagine what purpose this serves, other than being the single most embarrassing thing you can give to a friend on his stag do.

I’m aware of the existence of ladyboys, and assume there’s a market for shemale porn. I’m not criticising anybody for having their own highly specific sexual fantasies and desires. We’re all perverts in our own way.

And I know I’m not an expert, so I may not be qualified to comment. But to the best of my knowledge, most – if not all – ladyboys all have heads and arms and legs.

They’re known for it. So what the fuck is that all about?

So if you ever find yourself gasping and covering your mouth in shame as you laugh at a Frankie Boyle joke, just remember this moment. And remember that no matter how appalling Boyle tries to be, he can’t beat sex toy manufactures. The man can’t even shave off his beard: what chance does he have with all that latex?