Fetch the butt-plug Mr Cunterblast

WordPress just told me that I missed our anniversary. That means I’m even disappointing software now.

The 15th of January marked a year since I started writing this bullshit, and tradition dictates that I should have gone out and, in a fit of irony that would even trouble the descriptive powers of Alanis Morissette, bought some paper for my blog service.

Remember paper? Crikey, it all seems so long ago.

So in an effort to make WordPress forgive me, tonight I took my blog out for the evening instead. First I took it my ripped-off copy of Wurd to see how many words I’ve typed; and then off to a word-cloud generator to see what it’s been about. I now know that my blog is twice as long as the novel The Life of Pi, and that I’ve spent an unfeasibly long time talking about cancer, sex and Simon Cowell.

(I also know that I’m likely to get arrested by Microsoft for having a ripped off copy of Word, but I spelled it Wurd, which is bound to baffle even the greatest lawyer. And in my defence, practically everyone else on the planet has a ripped off copy of Word too).

As a result of my research into my own blog, I’ve come up with some findings, and have decided to adapt The Naked Mole Rat into a $100 million 3D Bollywood epic, in which I’m stuck in a boat with a CGI version of Simon Cowell and have to decide whether to have kinky sex with him, or give him an aggressive and painful cancer.

It’s a real conundrum.

Actually, it’s not much of a conundrum. Simon’s getting no sweet, sexy lurve from me, which leaves him with the choice of death or death. A nation grieves. But the reason he’s not getting sweet, sexy lurve from me is because at least one of us (OK, let’s face it, it’s exactly one of us) is a raging heterosexual. And because all my romance is being directed to the lady in my life, who repays it by manipulating my head, as can be seen in this graphic depiction of our relationship.

She's so manipulative.
She’s so manipulative.

I rarely speak about my private life in detail, but for once I’m going to spill my beans and tell you that our relationship is about to go to new places. Specifically, Scotland.

I’m very fond of Scotland, and of all the people from there who I’ve met. I can’t say it’s been a representative sample, or that they’ve liked me very much. But I liked them.

It’s unrepresentative because I tend to meet Stots when, in exchange for a stuffed sheep’s stomach and a night in their bothy, I give them with enough money to buy a small island up there (approximately £78). And that kind of transaction always brings out the best in people.

And it’s hard to say if they liked me because it’s often hard to understand a bloody word they’re saying.

But I still like them. I like their attitude. On a drive up in the highlands once, I stopped at one of the tiny all-purpose stores you often find in deeply remote areas. It was a post office, off license, petrol station, butcher, fishing supplies depot, lumber-merchant and record shop. (Not a greengrocer. It is Scotland after all, and if you want to eat greens they’ll contemptibly direct you to a tuft of thistle by the roadside). The shop had the obligatory wall dedicated to tartan and shortbread, and an entirely startling wall dedicated to Native American Dreamcatchers, which seemed unusual until you realise how many Americans visit Scotland, and how gullible they are.

The shop was miles from the nearest plumbing, and the only member of staff was a short, incomprehensible object of indeterminate sex, radioactively ginger, and with webbed fingers and an advanced case of athlete’s head. So I didn’t hold out much hope when I asked to use the bathroom. It was in a lean-to against the side of the shop, and I expected a wet hole in the floor, at best. But in fact it was a fully fitted bathroom and shower, with soaps and shampoos and fresh towels laid out for anybody who needed them, and, wonderfully, a small pile of socks beneath a sign saying “help yourself”.

The climate up there puts pressures on anyone daring enough to be caught outdoors, and a shower and warm, dry socks can turn a walker’s life around. I’m taking the piss out of Scots because I take the piss out of everybody: but the shower, towels and socks were provided with generosity, and I honestly have no expectation of anything less from people in the top half of the British Isles.

I hate to say it but that open, welcoming, selfless approach to life becomes more common the further north from Westminster you get. Actually, I didn’t hate to say it at all: I like it. I like the fact that true human nature emerges if you simply leave people alone to be people, rather than forcing them to be greedy brutes in a greedy, brutal capital city. Whereas in the wilds of Scotland they have a different attitude: if you don’t hang together you’ll probably hang separately. So be nice.

I’ve expressed this opinion to people in the South of England, and been told that I’m a mad socialist fuckwit who is living in the 70s, and that the Scots are all violent thugs and a drain on the poverty-stricken folks of Surrey. And I’ve reported those conversations to people in bars in Scotland, and been told that the Scots don’t actually hate the English: they just hate the southern English.

Not that I’m any more romantic about Scots than I am about my anniversary with WordPress or my forthcoming week up there with my girlfriend. We’re going to be there on Valentine’s Day, but that’s just an embarrassing scheduling error. We’d both forgotten Saint Valentine existed (because he didn’t – even the Pope who canonised him recognised that “nothing is known about his life”).

Anyway, this 14th Feb there will be no violins or flowers, and I’m not just saying that cos she’ll read this blog, and I want to lay a false trail. The best she can hope for is that I won’t tie the ropes too tight, and will clean the ball-gag before it’s applied. And the best I can hope for is that she’ll apply plenty of lube before she does that thing to me with the object that’s slightly bigger than it looked on LoveHoney.

Other than that, it’ll be the usual mixture of visceral abuse about my hairy back, six-hour fights about how the duvet is shared out, and vain attempts to make her murder look like a tragic accident. I’ll be as cheeky as a 6-foot six-year-old can be, and she’ll respond with a torrent of abuse and profanity, and many, many slaps about the head and neck. I just hope I can persuade her to save her filthy mouth and spanking until we get indoors and naked, where her vocabulary is rich, varied, and remarkably inventive. I flatter myself that I have a wide lexicon and a seedy mind, but she still manages to startle me rigid. It’s a rigidity which comes in handy, when it works.

Damn being old!

I’m not old old, not like the mad racist who lives upstairs and must be avoided at all costs. We popped round to ask if he needed anything from the shops during the recent snow, but after 3 hours all we’d learned was that black people are ruining this country. I’m not there yet, and you have my permission to throw me down a well if I do. But I’ve reached the point at which my body starts to disintegrate, and indeed I got a head-start with the cancer that kicked off this blog a year ago. I’m grateful to the doctors, but have decided to never see one again after accidentally catching an episode of House.

Hugh Laurie, House
No wonder he’s grumpy: he’s wrong almost all the time.

This week, a man went to see House with hiccups, and after getting his diagnosis wrong five times the so-called “best diagnostician in America” finally worked out that the man’s marriage was doomed, along with his liver. He did this in much the same way as the people in CSI solve crimes, and the people in Church work out how the universe was created: random guesswork and a lot of mumbo-jumbo. This week’s patient thought he had hiccups, but apparently he had something which, from memory, had 3000 syllibals and ended in “itis”, and which every actor on set looked proud to have memorised.

I don’t know why anyone goes to see House anyway. He diagnoses patients without even seeing them, is wrong 9 times out of 10, and it’s pretty much always cancer. So House’s oncologist mate could solve the problem anyway, if he wasn’t too busy being slightly cross-eyed and wetter than a turbot’s handbag. And when the guest-star disease isn’t cancer, it’s something you’ve never heard of; so it’s a bit like reaching the end of The Usual Suspects and being told the villain is a Mr Ted Cunterblast, a total stranger who wasn’t mentioned during the previous 2 hours.

Ted Cunterblast is mentioned by Hugh Laurie though, in his previous career as a purveyor of amusing japes and elaborate swearing with Stephen Fry. (If you’ve never seen their terrific sketch show, imagine Armstrong and Miller, but with Armstrong and Miller being replaced by somebody who can be arsed doing a different sketch every week).

My girlfriend could learn a lot from Fry and Laurie, and I fully expect her to call me Ted Cunterblast upon our next meeting. Although part of me hopes she saves her filthy mouth until we’re on our own in a bothy in Scotland, so there isn’t a repeat of that time she loudly called me a twat in the children’s section of Ikea. I don’t think the Scots are ready for her vocabulary.

Of course, it’s perfectly possible the Scots have learned how to swear by now. I seem to remember Frankie Boyle using a bad word once, and Billy Connolly too. Not as bad as the word I used about him today, when I read this article in the Guardian, in which he was given a free £5,000 holiday and then proceeded to bitch and moan about the whole thing. Well don’t fucking go then! Give the money to some poor kids from Glasgow.

The acquisition of large amounts of money seems to turn even the best person into an utter bastard. Take Sean Connery, a man who bestrides Scotland like a colossus… from his home in tax haven of The Bahamas, where he pays not a penny in tax to support the nation for whose independence he vigorously campaigns. Why do so many nationalists have such a strong objection to spending any money at all on the country they claim to love? The Tories are the same, wrapping themselves in the Union Flag and bellowing at Johnny Foreigner for having the temerity to introduce laws to protect British jobs. But ask that noble, blue-rinsed defender of the UK to pay a single penny more tax to fund his own country, and he’ll let his wife out of the kitchen long enough to fetch his shotgun and let the dogs out on you.

I do find it galling to have the Tories “protecting” Scotland from independence at the same time they insist on “protecting” Scotland from the support of Europe. The EU seems to have funded 90% of the bridges north of the border, and if I were a Scot I’d kick England out, get married to Europe, and stay happy. If they do, I’m going to campaign for Manchester to be officially recognised as a district of Dundee, cos I don’t want to be trapped here with David Cameron.

So there you have it: my 91st blog, and the end of my first year as a blogger. Next year it’s the cotton anniversary and I’m going to get WordPress some knickers, but the year after that it’s the leather anniversary. Stick with me, cos then the filthy sex will really start to get interesting!

George Michael at Christmas

A very messy Christmas to you all.

Yes, messy. It’s not a typo. It’s the same with orgies: the invitations should read “the more the messier“, not merrier. Messy is so much more fun. After all, who wants a clean orgy, or a clean Christmas? We may long for a white Christmas, but not a clean one – and we only want a white one so we can piss in the snow. I imagine some orgies end the same way.

I like my Christmas like I like my sex: we don’t have to get up too early in the morning, but as soon as we do let’s get on with the action: tear off the wrapping fast, get as messy as possible, laugh, shout, play with all the toys, and make sure the neighbours have reason to complain.

I probably won’t get that type of Christmas this year, because I’m suffering from Empty Nest Syndrome – and I don’t even have kids! I was hoping to spend Christmas drunkenly practicing the baby-making procedure in every room in my flat. Not too drunkenly, obviously. There’s a perfect amount of alcohol for sex: it should make you able to ignore the carpet burns for long enough to get the job done, but should not make Mr Happy become Mr Floppy. And it should definitely not make anybody accidentally sick into my mouth because they went on top.

That’s the amount of alcohol I had planned to consume – just the right amount to make everyone involved forget how they got those bruises the next day, but not enough to require a trip to hospital. And the moment I reached that perfect level of blood-alcohol, I was going to rip off my girlfriend’s knickers (because they’re really cutting into my hips) and make the beast with two backs.

Or at least the beast with one back and a front that’s bent over the kitchen table with a wooden spoon gritted between her teeth.

But it’s not going to happen because of somebody else’s empty nest syndrome, namely my wobbly old widow of a mother, who has inveigled her way into my flat for three days this Christmas, turning it from a sex den into a …. den. And I’m 42. What do I want with a den?

Actually, I very nearly made a den in the living room last week. The lady in my life has recently been pretty lifeless, and rather unladylike too. She’s had a cold, leading to a small tsunami of snot, a great deal of frustrated swearing, and some justifiable moping. And that’s just from me, cos I’ve had the horn and she’s been very much Out Of Bounds. The only way to make her feel her usual perky self has been to build a den out of the box my drums came in, or to put on a Harry Potter movie.

I did think about making a den, but the result would have been sitting in a small, warm box in my living room next to a plague carrier, waiting for her nose to explode all over me and make me sick during Christmas. So she can fuck off with her den: we’re watching Harry Potter.

I quite like Harry Potter. I’m far too old for it, but it served the same formative function in her adolescence that The Lord of the Rings and masturbation served in mine. You never get over that stuff, and to this day a quick wank over the mental image of Arwen and Galadriel lezzing up is enough to make me feel like a contented 12-year-old again. So although Harry Potter will never mean as much to me as it does to my girlfriend, I’m perfectly OK watching the last 6 movies. The first two… not so much. It says much that they’re amongst the worse things John Cleese has been in recently, and he was in the Liberal Democrats.

I even went with my girlfriend to the Harry Potter Studio Tour, which was jolly good fun and rather exciting for a movie buff like me. I wandered around it, amazed by two things:

  1. The level of craftsmanship and imagination involved in making a movie like that (I’d argue the design imagination is at least the equal of JK herself)
  2. Rupert Grint

The mere fact of Grint still amazes me. If he wasn’t famous and I told you I knew a ginger boy called Rupert Grint, you’d say “oh, the poor sod”. It’s like me telling you that the manager of my local MFI store was called Finlay Gentleman (he is – I saw it on a receipt once). You’d wince and laugh, and then wonder why his parents hated him so much. Grint’s name alone is enough to make him extraordinary and dismal. He’s the only person in the movies who has a real name more outlandish than his character.

But beyond his name there’s his face, and his hair, and his voice, and his… there’s no other word for it than this… his talent. You can determine the level of Grint’s talent by measuring it against what his two child-star friends have achieved.

Daniel Radcliffe has appeared naked in a challenging play on the London stage. He’s been rather good in a rather successful horror movie. He made a pretty good fist of being on QI, and has sung a complicated Tom Lehrer song about chemicals on live television. And he achieved all of this in spite of looking like a man who is learning facial expressions from a book. Have you seen him smile? I imagine that’s what Gordon Brown looked like before somebody released the bulldog clip that kept his face tight.

Gordon Brown, aged 19
Gordon Brown, aged 19

Gordon Brown
Daniel Radcliffe, aged 106

Emma Watson went to a top American university where she managed to avoid being killed by an American for 3 years, something few people can do. She then returned to the screen in a moderately good adaptation of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, in which she attempted a bold strategy for of shaking off her reputation for being every online pervert’s favourite teenager: she took off her sexy clothes off in a sexy dance while looking sexily at a sexy boy. And all of this despite being cursed with the vocal quality of a distressed and menstrual cookery teacher in the 1950s, and wild and irrational eyebrows that look like they’re attempting to escape her face and run amok across the moors of England.

Rupert Grint.
Milky Grint. Bad at snorting coke, or good at giving blowjobs? You tell me.

Rupert Grint, by contrast, is being paid to smile in an advert for Sky.

That’s all the Grint they want. Thank you. You can leave now.

He’s not invited to do any acting – God forbid! They just wanted to borrow his head for 3 seconds so they could use it to sell things, like a misshapen orange billboard. The Milk Marketing Board pulled the same trick a couple of years ago, leading to a spate of upchucking women as Grint-besmattered busses trundled by. To this day, the term “Milky Grint” can churn the stomach of the hardiest woman. Show your lady-friends this photo, and slowly whisper “Milky Grint” to them. I bet they shudder and make an expression. I bet they do. In fact, I’m off down to Ladbroke’s now to place that very bet.

Yet despite this, Grint’s net worth in 2012 is £24 million. You’d have to work for a thousand years to get that much money, and who has the time?

I’ll tell you who has the time: Grint has the time. After all, his diary is looking pretty empty. I suspect it always did, even during the Potter years…

Grint’s diary, from the set of “Harry Potter and the Ocelot of Disappointment”:

Tuesday: Said “Bloody hell, Harry”. Got paid £3 million. Did double maths. Hated self.

In truth, it’s a small miracle that any of them grew up to become even a moderate actor: they were between 9 and 11 years old when they began their movie careers, plucked from obscurity because they looked less gap-toothed than most of their contemporaries. Americans are, as we know, more terrified of gap-toothed people than they are of 200 million assault rifles, and the Potter movies would definitely have failed if the lead actors had standard British teeth.

But the kids had good teeth. It’s just the rest of Grint which was substandard. And when they started out they just looked like Cabbage Patch versions of themselves, which must be weird for them to look at now. You think it’s embarrassing when your mum shows your new partner photos of you aged 11? Imagine if you had a whole movie series, and every girl you ever meet thinks she knows exactly who you are, and what you can do with your “wand”. Engorgio!

In retrospect, £24 million seems like reasonable compensation for what fate has done to Grint. He can stop being Weasley, but will always be Grint. He will always be awful and look like he knows it.

Mind you, for the first few movies none of them looked comfortable in their own skin. Who is, at the age of 13? Your skin is your enemy at exactly the moment you most need a friend, and fame and fortune are no protection against the ravages of youth. I watched Romeo + Juliet recently, and Leo’s face seems to be undergoing a meteor shower. I think he spent half his salary on concealer. He looks like he’s been coated in Polyfilla in a few scenes, which I’m sure pleases a lot of blokes who were negatively compared with DiCaprio in their teens. Every generation throws up a pretty boy for the girls to idolise, and all the boys hate whoever it is. Right now it’s Beiber. Before that it was DiCaprio. My own nemesis was George Micheal.

In 1986 boys my age were considered cool and attractive if they wore a cross in one ear, strutted around in white jeans and cowboy boots, displayed several days of beard growth, and had bouffant hair with blonde highlights. Hard to believe people assumed it was the dress sense of a heterosexual man, but that’s what Gorgeous George wore, and he was very definitely a heterosexual man in 1986. He said so in Smash Hits, so it must be true.

My teenaged attempts at looking like George Michael weren't very successful.
My teenaged attempts at looking like George Michael weren’t very successful.

I don’t give a fuck about being fashionable now, as anybody who knows me will definitely confirm. But I can remember how ostracised I felt back then for being unable to grow sufficient stubble or persuade my mum to let me get my ear pierced. I want to seek out Darren Gilmore, my college’s number one George Michael lookalike, show him a photo of Wham! and shout “I told you so” into his unrealistically handsome face. Except by now his face is probably like mine: gradually sliding down his skull like a slow-motion avalanche. I can’t really blame him for being fooled by Wham! I was as fooled as anybody else, I just had my ambitions stymied by my mum and some terrible NHS glasses.

More than quarter of a century later, and my mum is still pissing on my chips. My Christmas will be polite, with only moderate consumption of wine, absolutely no spanking paddles or handcuffs; and then bed before midnight on my second-best lumpy mattress.

Thank you Jesus, you absolute twat!

I thought Pentecost was bad (I received the Gift of the Holy Spirit, but I don’t have the receipt, so can’t take it back and swap it for a cardigan). But Christmas is going to be a wash-out. So Jesus, I’m sorry to break the news, but your parties are always shit and I’m not coming to any more of them. I’ve given up on a rowdy Christmas, and all I can say is: roll on New Year. Because believe me, I’m definitely going to roll on someone at New Year.

Brace yourself dear.

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?


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?

Dirty weekend

This could be my very last blog, because it appears I’m about to die.

I know this because my girlfriend just called up to call me a slagbag and drop some hints about my impending doom. It was only a matter of time. Most people want me dead, or at least don’t give a Bernard Matthews Turkey Twizzler if I’m alive.

This is normal, by the way. I’m not suddenly depressed, even though I did see myself in a mirror earlier today. Most people won’t be very mourned. We’re all the stars of our own little lives, but of the 6,973,738,433 alive today, 6,973,738,400 won’t know you’re gone.

I think of this when I’m damn near killing myself to please a client: if I actually went one step further and did kill myself to please a client, the result would be the following thought in the client’s mind:

  • Oh dear… who’s going to finish building my website?

So my philosophy of life is to laugh in the face of death, at least until death starts to laugh back. I’m going to live forever, or die in the attempt.

But it seems I’m going to be killed soon. I don’t yet know the full details, but my loving girlfriend clearly has plans: today she called me up to tell me she’s been speaking with an undertaker to find out if my 44 inch chest requires an extra-large coffin. I’ve checked all over my body, and can’t find an expiration date, but she’s definitely got one in mind.

In an odd way, it’s touching how much she cares: checking that I won’t be cramped in my box shows that at least she wants me to be comfortable when I’m a corpse. Although she’ll probably still steal most of my burial shroud, just like she steals most of the duvet every frikking night.

What, as stand up comedians often ask, is that all about?

Fortunately I like to operate a lot cooler than she does, which is why I haven’t yet died of frostbite in the night. (I can assure you, that’s the only cool thing about me).

As far as I’m concerned, I function at a normal temperature, but she disagrees. Every time she gets in my car she’s immediately struck by how cold it seems, and I’m immediately struck for letting it get that way.

Apparently the correct ambient temperature for the inside of a Ford Mondeo is just below the temperature at which my face melts. If she becomes cooler than that, steps must be taken: and that’s why she needs 97% of the duvet, and I only need something the size of a handkerchief.

She’ll definitely kill me now.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being dead. Some of the best people are dead, including, sadly, Neil Armstrong. He stood on the moon. Let’s just think about that: he stood on the fucking moon! You and I would think it’s a big deal to go to Spitzbergen, and we’d tell everyone about it for years. If we climbed Kilimanjaro we’d bore our relatives into a coma (I speak from experience, as the brother of a man who has climbed Kilimanjaro, and has bored me into a coma). But Armstrong didn’t just go to another country or stand on a tall rock. He went in a rocket to another celestial body, and looked down at the earth from 240,000 miles away, and didn’t once feel the urge to boast. In fact the most memorable thing he said since coming back from the moon is probably unknown to you all, but is rather ace:

As I sat on the launchpad, the thing that went through my mind was this: I’m sat on 3000 tons of explosive kerosene in an experimental rocket, every component of which was made by the lowest bidder.

What a guy.

So if/when my girlfriend does do me in at least I’ll be in good company. In fact, I reckon I’m well prepared for death: I learned a bit of Latin in school, and that’s a dead language, so, like a bilingual chicken, at least I’ll be able to communicate when I get to the other side.

And I’ve almost died a few times, which you could call being clumsy, or you could call unfortunate, but I call it practice:

  • Cancer √
  • Broken skull √
  • Hit by a car √
  • Falling onto railway lines √

And my brother once scribbled out those warnings they put on plastic bags, the ones about not putting it on your head, which I still maintain was an elaborate murder plot. I survived, which made him sad, but as I said at the time: being dead isn’t everything in life.

My brother belongs in that vast crowd of people who care not a jot for my life. He cares about only two things: making vasty heaps of money in his job as an evil capitalist stooge; and pretending to be blasé about climbing Kilimanjaro whilst actually being absolutely constipated with smugness about it.

But my girlfriend, in spite of her dastardly plan to kill me soon, actually cares. She must be nuts. I know she cares – or is nuts – because of the list.

You see, we’re going on a dirty weekend, and she sent me a list of things to take along. Now, I’m of the opinion that there is something wrong with women. All of them. I’m prepared to be shouted at by feminists for this outrageous slander, but bear with me.

You see, I go to Tesco with a vague idea of what I’ll want to eat next week. Sometimes, if I’m planning to cook something special, or try out a new recipe, I’ll jot down the things I need. But 99% of the time, I manage to walk around Tesco in a fairly efficient way, filling my basket with things I remember I need, or just think I fancy on the spot. The gentlemen in my readership will know that this is possible, because they will all have done it. And you know what: none of them have starved to death yet.

But ladies need a list. Most of them can’t go to the bathroom without making a note of the functions they’ll perform when they get there. And as they sit, ticking off “wee” “poo” and “small, squeaky fart that smells like kitten’s feet” on their special toilet-break list, they’ll probably write down how much loo roll is left, and whether they need more Veet.

It’s just how they are.

I’d like to say it’s just my girlfriend, but that would be a fib. It’s also my mum. And her friends. And my sister-in-law. And every woman on the planet. And if women had followed Armstrong to the moon, every woman off the planet too. They’d probably have taken a list with them too:

  • Go to moon
  • Bring back moon-rocks
  • Get talc

Lists, for men, are either a sign of obsessive planning, or of a demented propensity to worry, or of a big wet hole in the middle of your brain. But ladies make them all the time, and far be it from me to suggest women are obsessive, demented or have wet holes.

My mum has a special pad for making lists, which she keeps no more than 18 inches from her at all times, even though her Parkinson’s means she can rarely read what she just wrote. It honestly looks like she was making a list whilst tied to a pneumatic drill, standing on a washing machine, being driven at high speed across a carrugated roof, and having sex. But there’s always a list when I go round to do her shopping, and it’s always very comprehensive, if incomprehensible.

I’m starting to wonder if my girlfriend is the same. She’s listing badly captain! Not that I mind. I think it’s sweet, but it’s also slightly frightening. For example, as I mentioned, we’re going for a dirty weekend. You’d think by that phrase we’d need a list of lubricants and toys and ropes and goats and aubergines and marigold gloves and sink plungers.

But no: her list includes such fetishistic devices as:

  • Socks
  • Toothbrush
  • Shower gel
  • Hobnobs

And brilliantly

  • Savlon and plasters (just in case)

OK, maybe I misled you slightly for comic effect. The dirty weekend is actually a weekend getting dirty by scrambling up a waterfall in The Lakes, and all of the things she’s listed are practical, sensible and necessary. But still… socks? I’m 42. Do I really need to be reminded that I’ll need to wear socks?

Sadly, the truth of that is that I probably do. You see, 42 might not seem very old to you, but seems hysterically ancient to her. She’s quite convinced that at my age, my memory is going. What’s more, she’s quite convinced that at my age, my memory is going.

Mind you, if her plans for my forthcoming demise work out OK, I’ll soon be dead: and you don’t get older than that.

I’m Batman

Spoiler. If you haven’t seen The Dark Knight Rises, don’t read any further.

I’ve broken my spine. It’s actually broken.

Careful: this kindly old man is going to punch you in your shattered spine.

OK, maybe a bit of an exaggeration: I’ve actually got a touch of sciatica, and it just hurts when I move. I wasn’t slammed over Tom Hardy’s knee like Batman was, and unfortunately I don’t have a dishevelled Tom Conti here to dangle me from a rope and lovingly punch my spine back together.

I never went to medical school, so I’ll take Christopher Nolan’s word for it that this is the correct way to fix a broken back.

Actually I’ve got it worse than Batman, because even though he’s got no cartilage he has, as far as we know, both of his kidneys. So he’s allowed to take Ibuprofen, but I’m not. Sciatica with no anti inflammatory painkillers: it’s a pain, quite literally. I’m not even allowed whiskey, which was my painkiller of choice in the good old days, when I still had a full set of internal organs and a rock hard liver. Ahhh, Glenfiddich, how I miss you. You saw me through the worst of times. You usually caused the worst of times too, but we’ll let that pass.

Anyway, that’s why I’ve been silent for a while: back-ache. I normally just need a subject matter that annoys me, such as Simon Cowell. Just writing his name annoys me. I once knew a Bassett Hound call Simon, and I thought he was lovely. But now the fact that the dog had 50% of Simon Cowell’s name just makes me angry at it, and I want to kick the beast in its saggy, drooly, soppy face.

Cowell infuriates me that much. I should write a blog about it. Oh, hold on, I’ve written about 900 of them.

Anyway, normally I just need the seed of an idea, or something to rant about, and then I can sit at my desk churning out these blogs with nary a care in the world, interrupted only by my body’s demand for coffee and the ever-present allure of porn.

A wanker in 1764

Isn’t it weird that the thing we use to be productive is also the thing we use to sag off work and wank ourselves into a husk? I have a mental image of a sun-dappled meadow in the middle ages, with a hoary son of the soil sucking on a piece of hay as he gently leads his plough up and down the field, cultivating the land and planting seed – and then looking furtively around, dropping his trousers, and having a speed-wank while trying to ignore the back-end of his horses.

Never happened. There’s nothing sexy about ploughing a field, and abslutely nothing sexy about a horse’s arse. If you disagree with my last statement, seek help. But where once we separated work from fun, now they’re blending into one, like the TV, phone and computer and inhexorably merging into a single device. Soon we’ll be watching telly, shopping, working and wanking all at the same time, constantly, through one piece of equipment, 24 hours a day.

This generation is doomed, and it’s all the fault of Sir Tim Berner’s-Lee. What was he thinking? Cunt.

But even without the lure of porn, it’s hard to write blogs (or drink coffee, or spank one out) when you’re flat-out on the sofa, groaning slightly and comfort-eating a hundredweight of Hobnobs.

So I’ve been ignoring my blog for a few days, but this morning I got an email notification telling me that some damn fool has decided to follow me –  I should be saying thank you, shouldn’t I? – and when I logged in to find out who the nincompoop is, I noticed some new search terms.

In case you didn’t know, WordPress tells me what search terms people have used to find my blog. I’ve had some doozies, my favourite being “huge hard morning wood throbbing photo”, which is just so specific. That man or woman… let’s face it, it’s a man… has no interest in huge hard penises at any other time of the day: just in the morning. Brilliant.

But today’s selection takes the biscuit. Here is the full list of terms people searched for when they found this blog during the last 24 hours:

  • my naked girlfriend
  • can you paper mache naked skin
  • naked mole rat it’s fucked basically
  • libido fetish
  • lost my cherry to the black taxi driver

In my mind, it’s one person who wants to find them all. He has a girlfriend, but she won’t turn the lights on during sex, so he’s never seen her naked. Therefore he wants to make a papier-mache cast of her body, but needs to know if it’s possible. Papier mache being what it is, it’ll probably come out looking as wrinkly as a naked mole rat, but he’s going to fuck it anyway; and why? Because he has a libido and likes fetishes. Don’t blame him: he’s been that way ever since he lost his cherry to that black taxi driver.

My only question is: was the driver black, or the taxi? I’m genuinely intriged, and if that person was you, I want to know more. But in the meantime, I’m going to spend an hour trying to put my socks on, which is tricky enough with a bit of sciatica. It makes you wonder how the hell they managed to get Batman out of his rubber costume and half way around the world with a broken back?

Cheers Chris Nolan: you’ve made Batman seem sooooo real.

Olympic sex

Athletes competing at this summer’s Olympics have been given a total of 150,000 free condoms.

That’s 15 each, which seems rather a lot, considering 15 condoms saw me through an entire decade from 18 to 28. After all, you’d hope that after years of training and preparation, the athletes would be focussing their energy on less sexual things; like mounting horses, tossing hammers, the breast stroke, the clean snatch and jerk, or pulling oars (a joke which works best if you say it out-loud in a cockney accent).

And the athletes are all ensconced in their village, so they’re only likely to rub up (or, indeed, rubber up) against other athletes; athletes who also have 15 condoms each. So either they’re double-bagging, or that’s 30 sexual encounters per person

Roger Bannister.
No, I don’t know what’s happening just below shot either.

Never mind the energy – how do they find the time? It’s OK for Usain Bolt, because if all goes well he’s got slightly less than 10 seconds of work to do this week, and after that he’ll probably have some chicken nuggets, a quick kip, and then go back to his attempts to drag Victoria Pendleton onto the stairs and show her what “Roger Bannister” really means.

But many other athletes are actually quite busy: they’ve got a packed schedule of signing massively lucrative sponsorship agreements, or bitching about not getting massively lucrative sponsorship agreements. In between that, many of them manage to fit in a marathon or two, or, if you’re a cyclist, approximately 200 separate events, none of which looks remotely different from any of the others.

So how do the competitors find the time for 30 shags each? I wonder if they’re checked for Viagra in the doping tests. Is it a banned substance? It works by oxygenating the blood, which I’d imagine is fairly handy for events which require oxygen in the blood, such as, well, all of them.

Mousetrap. Better television than the archery. Believe!

Actually, not all of them. The first week of soi disant sport included all the speed, agility and action we’ve come to expect from some extremely static people laboriously firing arrows at an extremely static target, while a stadium full of empty seats watched in monastic silence. The event could have been performed by a slightly modified game of Mousetrap and it would have been more fun to watch.

(My theory, by the way, is that they don’t bother testing for Viagra: they just make the athletes wear lycra and watch closely for any, ahem, pole vaulting).

But many sports need a lot of oxygen. Distance running, for example, is dominated by people from East Africa because that part of the world is really just a massive plateau, 10,000 feet up, and with 20% less oxygen than you and I are used to. That’s why Kenyans seem so great at marathons – when they descend to London the air is so thick by comparison that it’s like breathing soup, and they’re so stoned on oxygen that they don’t notice their thighs have burst into flames. It’s also why most nations send their distance runners to Ethiopia for a few months before the Olympics: so they can train in those hypoxic conditions.

The British, always pragmatic, side-step the awkward and expensive problem of flying athletes to other countries by simply raiding other countries for existing athletes. This time around we asset-stripped Somalia for a certain Mohammed Farah, who prefers to go by the name of “Mo” so that he isn’t firebombed by the same Islamophobic fuckwits who are currently wrapping him in a Union Jack and boasting about how great Great Britain is.

I’m one of those rare people who thinks immigration is a good thing, and that, to quote Warren Beatty, we should all just keep fucking each other until everyone is the same colour.

One of these men is very happy about his Swiss bank account. The other is Jimmy Carr.

But surely it’s a bit of a cheat to simply purloin another nation’s athletes? What would we say if, for example, Andy Murray decided this afternoon that he was actually Swiss, and ran off with his medal? That Jimmy Carr fella would have won by default, and we’d probably look even more miserable than Murray does.

I didn’t know any of this about Mo Farah’s providence until I looked him up – and before you criticise me for my lack of Olympic trivia, you didn’t know anything about him a week ago either, so wind your neck in you smug git.

Let’s face it, all of the sports in the Olympics are a total mystery to you until about an hour before they begin, when the BBC dredges up an expert who tells you all about the scoring system, and how important it is for the competitor to keep his knees together at all times, wear a beaver-skin hat when the opposing player lobs the ball diagonally using a back-hand, and never ever let go of the banjo. And yet suddenly, you’re an expert and want to have a go yourself. Sales of banjos and beaver-skin hats go through the roof for one week; and donations of banjos and beaver skin hats overwhelm Oxfam a month later.

Frankly, they could drop 90% of the events next time, and you’d never notice. I think they should do that in time for 2016. I’ve been thinking about what events should be introduced instead, and I find myself inspired by Mo Farah’s website, which uses the delicious legend “Go hard or go home”.

Next time, it’s Brazil, home of the pared pudenda, the 2 sq inch swimsuit and the all-over tan. There will be 10,000 of the planet’s fittest people, all of them eager to “go hard or go home”. We have the world’s assembled press, and the very finest HD cameras. Effusive commentators can give us a blow-by-blow account of every sweaty moment, and the London Rubber Company are happy to provide them with enough prophylactics to waterproof Eamonn Holmes.

Come on people: let’s make 2016 the world’s first Porn Olympics. Go hard or go home indeed! We could have events such as:

  • Most copious spaff
  • Loudest fake orgasm
  • Ugliest neck tattoo
  • Most dead-eyed crack whore
  • Most terrifyingly vast talliwacker
  • Sweatiest, gurniest, most unpleasant sex face – I might be Britain’s medal hope in that event

Come on folks, what do you want to see: Chris Hoy riding a bike, or Chris Hoy riding Victoria Pendleton? On a bike? And of course, we could up the ante with mixed doubles. Or the team games, in which female competitors end up looking like a game of Kerplunk or a plasterer’s radio.

Don’t ask me about the equine events. No, don’t even ask. And stop thinking about it, it’ll curdle your libido.

You might think I’m being unduly sexist, in which case I wish to apologise to you darlin’, and invite you to go back into the kitchen and finish cooking my tea, there’s a good treacle.

These fine athletes demand respect

But in all seriousness, it’s not like sex isn’t already a part of the Olympics. One hundred and fifty thousand condoms! And if that’s not enough, I present the official photo of Brazilian synchronised swimming twins Bia and Branca Feres. I sincerely hope they had a say in that, because if they didn’t Brazil 2016 is going to be… well… OK, honestly, it’s going to be fucking epic.

It seems to me that we’re at least half-way to my dream of Porn Olympics, and going the rest of the way just takes a little will, and a great big willy.

It could be great. It would certainly be memorable. And, thankfully, it would be brief, because unlike real sex, every single competitor will be trying to come first.

It’s all kicking off in monkey-land

I’m mostly monkey.

But so are you. In fact, you’re not even mostly monkey – you’re mostly banana. A significant part of you is yeast, and I’m not just talking about that embarrassing itch (to quote the mighty Belle and Sebastian, “there are potions you can take to hide your shame from all those prying eyes”).

I say this not to promote one the greatest bands you’ve never heard of, but to tell you why I’m slightly apologetic about all this “women are whores” business. You’ve probably never heard of that either, so I’ll give you the run-down.

  1. @katy_red wrote a blog about things men shouldn’t do/be, which included a peroration about the horrors of “going Dutch”. Men, she said, should always pay for dates.
  2. In a reply on the Honey and Cream blog I made a crass, not very funny joke about women who demand payment for a date being – and in my defence I didn’t use the word – prostitutes.
  3. I then posted a very silly, utterly pointless, and deliberately irritating mock-apology, and assumed it was all done with, and we could move on with our lives.
  4. And now @girlonthenet has added her own take on it, which is smart and incisive and means there’s a chance it could rumble on, and everyone will start to feel slightly peeved. This is the internet – nobody wants smart and incisive, we just want trolls and tits.

First of all, you’re right: all of this is a pointless, narcissistic storm in a teacup; why should a bunch of intelligent people spend so much time having little squabbles like this, and then treating them to a Levison-style enquiry? I should just leave it alone and go back to my forthcoming treatise on what the fuck has gone wrong with everything in the world.

But it bothers me that people might think I actually believe that women who insist men pay for the date are tantamount to whores.

And that’s where the monkey comes in. You see, I’m mostly a monkey. A few thousand generations of rutting hominids later I can put on my own shoes if you give me a few goes, and if I’m accompanied by a responsible adult I can often be trusted to fetch a coffee.

But underneath all of that I’m still an ape. We all are, although not many have got a back as hairy as mine, so maybe I’m more ape-like than, say, Duncan Goodhew.

Before we were monkeys we were something else, and before that something else again, going right back to being lizards and fish and fruit and yeast. It’s all still in you, so next time you fancy a banana, remember that’s a very mild form of cannibalism. You can’t deny it, folks: it’s science.

Actually, a lot of people do deny it. I should, at this point, explain that I’m dating a lovely girl who is a student of disability rights, and she’s going to go mental about the term I’m going to use (and possibly about the use of the word “mental”). But anyone who denies evolution is either a Republican presidential candidate or a fucking retard.

I said retard. Now I’ve got another apology to write.

But you know I’m right: people who think a self-created creator said “alakazam” one morning 6000 years ago and – ping! – as if by magic,there’s the universe with every species fixed and unchanging, as though pickled in aspic? Those people are mentally subnormal in a way that hasn’t yet been classified appropriately by medical authorities. So in the absence of a better term, I think “fucking retard” is perfectly appropriate.

I’m in so much trouble.

The thing is, I’m a great believer in science. I think people with contempt for science are, by and large, utterly deluded, and overlook absolutely overwhelming evidence that science is, by its very nature, a method of finding truth. If the truth annoys you and your magical, invisible friend in the sky, that’s not science’s fault: science doesn’t have a doctrine except for “I want evidence”. Individual scientists might have an axe to grind, or a theory to promote: as human beings, not all scientists are bereft of self-aggrandisement or corruption. And science as an “industry” has made mistakes, although there are sound reasons for that (Richard Feynman, as always, said it better than anyone else).

But – and this is the important thing – rationality’s mistakes have always been resolved by more rationality. Whereas religion’s mistakes are never made any better by more religion. That just compounds the problem.

So as a sciency type of nerd, I naturally resort to a sciency explanation for human behaviour: a mixture of biology, physics, evolution and anthropology.

And this is why I think it’s entirely natural for men to have an urge to pay for dates, and for women to have an urge to sit back and let us do it. Many of our actions are just sophisticated elaborations on the actions of ancient ancestors. As a cave-man, the thing that would make me attractive to a mate is the ability to feed her. I would walk casually in through the cave entrance with a dead boar over my shoulder, throw it next to the fire, and lie back to be gratuitously, moistly “thanked” by a horde of hungry and nubile Raquel Welshes.

That’s me, paying for the date.

Men, you see, are hunters. And women are gatherers. So while my “sophisticated elaboration” has turned hunting for meat into handing my Visa card to the waitress, women’s “sophisticated elaboration” has turned gathering nuts and berries into collecting shoes.

Dammit, that’s another apology I’ll have to write.

It’s written into our DNA: paying for a date makes me feel like a “man” (whatever that is) in the same ape-like, laughable way that winning a fight in a pub car park does. It may not impress women as much as we want it to, but men are driven to act like this by primal urges that we simply cannot control.

Similarly, women want to be dominated… come back feminists, don’t be like that! I mean it. I’m talking in a totally general way, and about a primordial, anthropological set of behaviours that can be explained by our ancient ancestors struggling to survive on the Serengeti. It made evolutionary sense for females to seek out a man who was strong and powerful, and who could lead the tribe and provide food and protection for the young. That’s why female gorillas compete to be impregnated by the silverback – he’s the biggest, strongest, most dominant male.

Hence, women want a dominant man.

Hence, women want to be dominated sexually.

It’s just a fact. You like to be thrown across the bed by a big strapping fella, who then leaps on, holds you down, and refuses to respect you for half an hour. A man’s sex face is, by and large, a “sophisticated elaboration” on bearing his teeth and growing and looking fearsome. It’s dominant behaviour.

I’m obviously using “sophisticated elaboration” for comic effect in this instance. My sex face looks like I’m trying to have a particularly troublesome beer-shit after running a marathon.

But the fact that we’re all beasts isn’t necessarily something we need to be proud of or happy about, and it’s certainly not a fact that sits comfortably alongside estimable modern innovations like feminism and equality. Truth is, we’ve only been modern man for a few millenia, and that’s barely the blink of an eye in evolutionary terms. Our primal urges aren’t hiding below the surface, they’re bursting through all over the place, and make all of us look stupid sometimes.

All of which is intended to say that if I buy dinner, I don’t necessarily think that makes you a hooker (although a blowjob-of-gratitude would be nice). It simply means that deep inside me is an urge to provide. And deep inside you is an urge to find a provider.

But a good definition of the word “civilisation” is the ability to overcome primitive urges. Otherwise we’d all be constantly murdering strangers and sexual rivals, and honestly m’lud, I haven’t done that in ages. In other words, just because most of me is a monkey, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t occasionally offer to cough up for a round on a date. We’re struggling to leave behind all that ape-man nonsense, and preremptory demands that we give in to our baser instincts don’t help.

Go Dutch. If it’s good enough for the Dutch, it’s good enough for us.