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.

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.

Bollocks to God

My genitals prove God doesn’t exist.

Look at them. What kind of hyper-intelligent super-being would create a set of organs like that?

For a long time I’ve thought male genitals – or menitals – to be the most gruesome, pointless, unreliable and untrustworthy collection of objects outside of parliament.

But let’s start with God. This is a being who can – we’re reliably assured by lunatics wearing tin-foil hats – clap his hands twice, shout “Alakazam”, and conjure up a planet, a galaxy, a universe, and all the beings that live in it. He can read the thoughts of every human alive (and dead), know what’s in our hearts, and send us cute little psychic messages like “Abraham, take your son to the top of the hill and almost – but not quite – murder him with a big fuck-off knife”. He can be vengeful but merciful at the same time, and he loves us all but drowns us all, and he can even turn Himself into a burning bush, his own son, and a holy goat… or was it ghost? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.

Are we really claiming that the best this all-powerful God could come up with as a mechanism for passing sperm into a lady is this: a mangled group of things hanging off the front of my body like a parasitic alien?

Take my penis (so to speak): it’s a droopy tube of fat with a hole in the end, and a head like a wizened old man wearing a leathery turtleneck. Even when it gets angry and wants to fight, it flails around blindly, unable to find where it’s meant to go and needing constant guidance and encouragement. If God is so fucking smart, why didn’t he just give me plastic tube and a little plunger to press when I want to dispense semen?

Instead I’ve got to manage with this fugly arrangement, which reminds me of nothing so much as a grumpy and unpredictable sea-cucumber.

At any given time it can either finish too soon, finish when everyone else has long since got bored and started a Sudoku, or decide to not finish at all, give up and go to sleep. Frankly, I find it damned offensive. And when it does deign to grace us with its presence, it’s either so sensitive that it can reduce me to agonized, doubled-up whinnying, or so insensitive that it takes four long, grinding, sweaty hours of Olympian pounding to make it “be sick down your lady-passage”.

If I can keep myself oxygenated for long enough to get to “the point”, I often find that I’m all keyed-up for a monumental eruption, lasting 90 seconds and sending a fountain of little soldiers all over the lucky lady… and instead, for absolutely no reason at all, I produce a watery dribble that reminds everybody involved of a very small, very milky baby sick. And that’s not an erotic thing.

And when I think there’s going to be no more than a dribble, it comes out like a tsunami, knocks over nearby ornaments, permanently ruins the curtains, and blinds somebody.

But this mindless, pug-ugly object can regularly beat my actual brain into dumb acquiescence and make me follow nice bottoms around the supermarket for hours at a time. It can make me forget to work so I can fiddle with myself, and drag me away from minor things like cooking and eating and sleeping so I can maintain a hands-on relationship with my pork-truncheon, and make every day “palm Sunday”.

And then there are the testicles. You can tell what people’s attitude to them is by the fact that the words gonad and scrotum are almost perfectly designed as insults. You can yell them at any annoying teenager, and he’ll want to stab you for “dissing” him. And I don’t blame him for taking umbrage: the whole arrangement is a fucking mess.

Two balls of pain hanging in a sack of skin that looks like off-cuts from Walter Matthau’s last neck-surgery. The entire region is a morass of tubes and pipes and valves, any one of which can block up in a heartbeat and render the whole arrangement defunct. They swivel around inside you, and rise and fall like the Assyrian Empire. They stick to your thigh or drift painfully downwards until they’re trapped in you trouser leg. They swell and droop and contract, and sometimes draw up into your body in a way that convinces people who watch you climb out of the pool that your clingy swimming shorts are covering the smooth, flawless inanity of a Ken doll.

But, with notable exceptions (such as my little visit from Mr Kidney Cancer) at least they don’t bleed for days on end, spread pain throughout your abdomen, back, hips and boobs, or give you violent mood swings.

Q: How many women with PMT does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: One.

Q: Why?

A: It just fucking does, alright!!!

Masturbation for beginners

Women’s magazines fascinate and horrify me.

About 10 years ago my business partner, who I shall call Steve, came to me with a conundrum: he’d just started a relationship that he felt was promising, but at the same time a magazine article was about to be published which would embarrass him. Through a friend in PR, he’d been selected to appear in Marie Claire as one of Britain’s three top bachelors.

Believe me, I know the man, and if he’s a top bachelor then I’m the Duchess of Argyle. He’s a balding 50-something gnome with skin like a papier-mâché scrotum, permanently broke, and bears a queasy resemblance to a cartoon Keith Chegwin. Honestly, he’s one of my best mates, but if women are flocking to him the only explanations are witchcraft, or that he’s secretly the world’s greatest scientist, and has created a thermonuclear fanny magnet.

I even have a photo of Steve wearing exactly this outfit. And it’s not a good look, Steve, it really isn’t.

Steve’s conundrum was that his ego was being stroked sensationally by being described as a top bachelor, but he was no longer single, and couldn’t take advantage of the sudden publicity. What to do, what to do?

I told him exactly what to do: totally ignore women’s magazines! You could leave one open for a month at the bottom of a parrot cage and it would end up containing less shite than when you bought it.

I realise that’s half the fun. I’m not saying women are all hemi-demi-semi-wits with a brain 1/3 the size of a man’s and mostly full of a large, pointless, free-floating bone. I’m confident there are plenty of males who are quite spectacular dullards – in fact I know there are, because one of them lives in my house and keeps staring at me out of mirrors.

So women’s magazines aren’t stupid because women are stupid: they’re stupid because, like all of us, women like to feel better about themselves, and reading something that sucks the IQ out of your skull like a brain-hoover is jolly satisfying. Everybody needs something to rant about, otherwise blogs like this wouldn’t exist.

(I should say that this particular blog only exists because a lady of my acquaintance pointed me to this article, and inspired me. It’s not, I should point out, the first time she’s inspired me to consider masturbation…)

It’s an article in Cosmo called “Masturbation for Beginners”, and I feel bad for even linking to it – you might assume it’s a recommendation, but it’s more like a grim warning. It manages to make the humble wank sound like you’re a timid but desperate sex-offender, tentatively grooming your own body ahead of a tearful violation.

Apparently you have to do the following things:

  • take a leisurely bath and light candles
  • caress your own face and massage your scalp
  • gradually work your hands down your body using featherlight touches
  • tease your abdomen
  • just as you’re about to get to the good bit, pull away until you’re ready to take things further

Let me put this in context. Before your great, great, great grandfather was born, before even his eldest relatives had been born, just as the Reformation was happening and the Enlightenment was bringing about the modern world, deep in a forest in eastern Europe a single nut fell to the floor and lay, waiting for the spring to come. It sought deep minerals from the rich soil, and crept out of the ground through the seasons that followed. For 250 years it swelled with the sun and rode out the winters. It thrust down into the soil and strained up to the sky, and it performed a miracle of quantum mechanics, transforming sunlight into energy, and energy into branches. It formed a verdant canopy, protecting men and beasts from nature’s fecund blessing. It fed birds and bees, and bloomed into a symphony of colour when the summer lay blissfully upon the land. As the icy fingers of winter crept into our sinews, it dropped leaves and nuts to the ground, furnishing woodland creatures with food and shelter. For a quarter of a millennium its abstract arboreal art had breached the drab horizon and thrown up one of nature’s greatest achievements – the glorious, random tangle of branch and leaf that is the mighty elm.

And then some cunt cut it down to print a Cosmo about having a wank.

I wouldn’t mind if it was quality writing, but it’s so bad it makes me want to destroy language. It makes me want to invent a time-machine, flip back to 1440, and shoot Johannes Gutenberg in his beardy little face.

Forget all that bullshit in Cosmo: here’s my advice:

  • Look in the mirror. Are you Barbra Cartland? No? Then forget all that folderol and trumpery about bathing and candles and caressing.
  • Don’t make an attempt to “tease yourself” unless you have a multiple personality syndrome, because guess what: you probably know what you’re going to do next. You can’t tease somebody who knows exactly what is about to happen.
  • Your body isn’t going to rear up and gallop away like a startled horse. So don’t “seduce” it, just put your fingers on the bit that feels good, and keep rubbing until it feels even better.
  • Clean up before it dries and goes crusty.

And next time you’re tempted to look at Cosmo, go outside and look at a tree instead. And if you get bored with the tree, look at somebody you think is fit, and go home for another wank.

Isn’t that typical of a…

Nothing in the world could convince me to become a famous person.

I can’t think of a worse torture than being a movie star, being looked at and talked about and admired. To me, the centre of attention is where Tom Cruise lives. It’s therefore something to be observed from a great distance, ideally through the scope of a high-powered rifle.

If you met me you’d probably never guess that I’m an introvert: it’s just that you’re unlikely to meet me in the first place, so it’s a moot point. Most people seem to live their lives hoping to be invited to parties, but I live my life grateful that I’m not. Being surrounded by people exhausts me, which is why I never take part in orgies, and why fame is a terrifying concept.

So it was strange to find out recently that people I don’t know had been talking about me. Well, its a kind of fame, I guess. I wasn’t exactly thrust into the spotlight, I was just told that 2 strangers who follow this blog had discussed me, and had decided I write like a girl, which was fine, and I wasn’t crying, I just had something in my eye. It’s actually the second time I’ve been told this, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s any truth in it. Being of a analytical and scientific bent I did some experimenting, and after pulling rhythmically on my penis for around 15-20 minutes I realised two things:

  1. That it was definitely firmly attached, and not a strap-on at all; and
  2. That I really should have fetched the tissues before I started my experiment: waddling into the kitchen with my pants round my ankles and one messy hand is undignified at my age.

So quod erat demonstrandum I’m not a girl, but apparently I write like one. And I’ve been trying to work out what “writes like a girl” actually means.

Perhaps it means that I gleefully admit to regular catastrophic failings, which is a singularly un-male thing to do. Most men are so busy competing with each other to crawl to the top of the sexual pile that they daren’t admit for a moment that the view from half-way up the pile is good enough, and that they’re actually quite tired and want a sit down.

But I’m not at the top, and from my disadvantage-point halfway down the pile I can look right up the noses of those who do get to the top, and can see how full of mucus their heads really are. Awful people. Constantly competing. It’s just misfiring synapse telling them to endlessly battle for sexual dominance, and to be “the best”. It’s what leads to David Cameron unless it’s nipped in the bud early on. Who wants to reach the top if you’re surrounded by people like him? The middle is fine. All the best comedies are about being trapped in the middle, and that’s where I am – in the middle, and laughing. Join me, and ignore those gobshites at the top, battling for sexual supremecy until everyone hates them too much to want to see them nekkid. I’d rather put a smile on your face than my balls.

OK, maybe a smile and then my balls.

Moving on… I think the “he writes like a girl” theory is probably right. I probably do. But I think it just means I’ve recognised there are some things a woman can say which a man can’t get away with. For example, if a girl blogs that size is really important, and that she can’t form a relationship with a man who doesn’t have a throbbing sea-beast living in his trousers, she’s considered a modern, go-getting woman who has standards and needs, and ensures they’re met.

But if a guy says he only wants to date women who have huge tits, he’s a troglodyte and needs to drag himself out of the 1970s and recognise that women are more than just a pair of breasts… exquisite breasts.

Experiment time again!

But not many guys actually say that sort of thing about tits. I’m sure more of them think it than say it, but I’m equally sure a lot of men don’t even think it. I don’t believe that men automatically think like men and women think like women: there’s a continuum, and we’re all somewhere along it.

Personally I don’t get pissed or punch people at weddings or do anything else celebrate my monkey heritage, other than read books by Richard Dawkins. I don’t shout “oi oi” at passing scrubbers, or even think women are scrubbers (except for cackling women who quaff Lambrusco in the back of a stretch Hummer, but that’s a perfectly fair assumption).

My next-door-neighbour, who has a Manchester City flag pinned above his front door, has no idea how to relate to me. The moment I moved in he asked which team I support, and when I told him I didn’t follow football he gave me a look as though I’d just announced I live on the blood of freshly killed goats, and travel everywhere by magic carpet. To him I am undoubtedly a “man who writes like a girl”, but I suspect he thinks anybody who writes (or reads, for that matter) has suspect masculinity.

But I couldn’t give a wobbly tartan fuck about his opinion. To you he may be a proper man, but to me he’s a proper chimp. For Christ’s sake, he stands in his garden with a beer and a fag, and watches City play through his front window, because he’s got a 72 inch wall-mounted TV in the living room. He should be shot. Twice.

Is that a man? Yes, by some standards. By my standards I’m a big northern bloke, who used to box, pronounces “scone” the wrong way, and has absolutely no fear of Salford. But I also have a healthy, if slightly cynical respect for women, enjoy recondite words like recondite, like to paint pretty pictures, and feel fine admitting that Amelie warms my cockles. I’m on the “male” continuum, I’m just in a different place from him.

And on the “female” continuum? Well, I’ve never met @katy_red (AKA Honey) but my guess is that she’s not a florid, flouncy girly-girl, who drives a yellow Beetle with a flower in the window and clads herself in more pink than Barbara Cartland’s clitoris. You could argue that makes her “less of a woman”, but what’s a woman anyway? And what’s a man? We can all take our clothes off and find out, but I don’t like orgies as I mentioned earlier, so I’ll just accept your word for what happens next. Write a blog about it, I don’t care if it’s a girly one as long as I get to (ahem) “experiment” again. Kleenex, please.

I’m tired of typical. Typical is so boring. Typical wears a shell-suit and gobs on the street. Typical beats his wife. Typical is down the pub when he should be reading to his kids and helping clean the house. Fuck typical. I’ll keep writing like a girl, screwing like a man, and confusing the neighbours.

Tits

Katy raises some important philosophical points on her blog. And speaking of points… can I see yours please?

When I was 14 the single most important thing in the known universe was putting my hand on a breast. I hadn’t done it, but I knew I wanted to, and it obsessed me.

Now I’m 41, and the only thing that’s changed about me is the order in which the numbers 1 and 4 appear. Boobs still fascinate. I accept that it’s stupid, and that men are simple creatures, but there you have it.

Favourite joke.

Man: Can I weigh your boobs?

Woman: If you must.

Man: (grabs boobs) “Waaaaaaaaay”.

Women, I think, have a more sophisticated set of things which appeal to them. I recently read that a man’s forearm is a lovely thing, which was news to me, and pleasing because – unlike, say, a huge cock – I actually have forearms, so might be in with a chance. And I’ve known for a while that shoulders are good. You can touch a man’s arms or shoulders in public, on a date, or even in a business meeting while shaking his hand, and nobody would say a word.

But one handful of mamm, and a vintage “ar-ooo-ga” car-horn noise, and suddenly you’re in a tribunal… where’s the justice?

If I woke tomorrow morning and found I’d grown breasts, I’d stay in bed playing with them and do nothing else until the smell of my rotting corpse made the neighbours raise concerns with the police. And I’d die a happy man. Ladies don’t fully understand the power of their physique.

And it doesn’t have to be a huge pair of perfect pornstar globes. Tiny mounds, mid-range hillocks, bouncesome bazungas, they’re all good. Small hard nipples are my personal favourites, but that’s like choosing your favourite way of killing Simon Cowell – they all do the job, so bring it on. Large pale ones. Pink, brown, pierced, everything works a treat. Just let me do that thing to them. You know what thing, don’t make me type it.

I draw the line at grotesque fakes, or the kind of fleshy roll that is indistinguishable from the fleshy roll of the belly that is usually below it. Michelle McManus, as Katy mentioned, is not high on my list of mammarian manupulation. Sorry Michelle, I’m sure you’re heartbroken.

So I am, as most men are, in love with your funbags. And, in case they’re feeling left out, with your buttocks too.

But for the life of me, I can’t see the appeal of many of these Urban Dictionary claims (see Katy’s blog). Does anybody really – really – play testicle-tennis with your norks and your chin? I can’t see what you’d get out of it, and I can’t see what I’d get out of it either. Sounds like guff to me, and when it comes to guff I’m a man who knows a thing or two. You wouldn’t believe how much of it I’d say in order to have a little squeeze of your chesticles!