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.
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”.
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.
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.
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?