All posts in category: Sex

No, it’s not an illness nor a condition... it’s lack of self-control

October 18, 2019
Entertainment/Media/Arts Fasion Health & Beauty Finance/Law Kids/Family/Relations Sex Sport
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Why...

Is everything bad that happens to young people not their fault or beyond their control? However, if anything good happens, especially by blind stupid luck (yes, you lottery winners & Love Island/ Big Brother) it is all down to destiny and a well-deserved reward from society ‘for being me’... especially if I am lazy and lack a nanogramme of skill. We have created a generation that is obsessed with the self and values just existing as a reason to enjoy rewards, regardless of any talent (a bit like the succession in the monarchy....). When growing up, my generation wanted to have a talent to allow us to be an astronaut, athlete, Rock God, movie icon, Wall Street Titan or porn star. Ambition was about having talent. A recent survey showed that the most popular ambition now is to be a reality TV star; i.e. not bother with learning to fly, run, play an instrument, sing, act, count or keep a hard on for a day! Basically, you just permanently shop, make vacuous statements and put your name to a line of cosmetics to get paid buckets of money. If you have butt cheeks between which you could park a Harley Davidson, even better.

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How you treat your servants will predict how long you will live

Why...

Do we treat those who help us with such disdain? History tells us what happens. All empires fade away... usually about the time the home help gets pissed off. Take Ancient Rome. There are only so many orgies you can clean up after, a limited number of vomitorium’s you can sluice out, before even a slave decides “screw this for a game of coco, I’ve had enough”. Their debauched and jowly bosses were so far removed from the granite hard soldiers who founded Rome that sure enough, before you could say Barbarians at the gate... it all came tumbling down. And not one slave or servant shed a tear. It is in fact a little scary to note that the sudden rise in the transgender ‘population’ almost exactly coincided with the collapse of Rome, but that will be another blog.

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I’m not interested in meeting my heroes, but I so want a dinner party with people I love to loathe

September 19, 2019
Entertainment/Media/Arts Food & Drink Politics Sex
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Why...

Have a boring dinner party? They say you should never meet your heroes, as everyone has feet of clay. Clarke Gable’s and George Washington’s false teeth always fell out, Teddy Roosevelt had halitosis and there are countless movie stars short enough to mistake them for a table and I’d end up placing a drink on their head. For me, I would have unbridled glee if I was allowed to meet my villains. In the unlikely event they turned out to be charming it could reaffirm my faith in mankind, but I suspect Al Capone, Heather Mills (McCartney), Benito Mussolini, William Randolph Hearst, Piers Morgan, Kim Kardashian and even Putin would live up to billing and make a spectacular dinner party guest. Far more interesting and livelier than the normal wish list of Jesus, Einstein, Gandhi, Mohammed, Shakespeare and Mother Theresa (especially as some hardly drink and others have special dietary needs). What really makes the ideal dinner guest from hell is the certainty that whatever they say is right and their barely concealed contempt for anyone else. Add to that the cry that the world has misunderstood them, and they are the victims. Of course, one guest like that is a real nightmare but a collection all together would be a dynamite evening.

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Not only do most men not understand ‘female plumbing’ but we underestimate the vital importance of the ‘manny peddy’ at our peril.

September 13, 2019
Fasion Health & Beauty Food & Drink Life Sex
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Why...

Does nail upkeep score so high on life’s necessities for women and are just a short chore to men? During one of those lulls in a dinner party conversation after I had chatted for twenty minutes on politics, shopping, Love Island and varicose veins with the woman on my left and now waiting for a chance to break into conversation with the woman on my right, I heard the most extraordinary exchange between two women sitting opposite each other. “… Yes. Ruined it. Can you imagine?” “Oh my God. Disaster. What did you do?” “Well. I had to have a drink just to keep me from screaming and losing it. No choice. That night I had to wear closed toed shoes and came back first thing next morning before anyone could see. I mean. It was horrific.” The cause of this tale of woe was not frostbite, a malignant verruca or even an in-growing toenail. The nail varnish that had been so lovingly applied to this lady’s big toe had not dried properly before she left the salon and when she got home found her shoe had smudged the scarlet varnish and left a wave effect on her nail. With this severe handicap, open toed shoes that night were clearly not even a remote possibility. The fact the other lady expressed equal shock, drove home to me the importance to women of the upkeep of their hooves. Something men cannot comprehend. Every so often my wife remarks I could play the banjo with my toenails and I take three seconds per toe with clippers to prune them. That’s it.

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Don’t talk to me. I’m breathing and I can’t do two things at once

Why...

Is the law about to stop me talking? (Hooray you all cry.) I see there is legislation being pushed to stop people using a hands-free phone whilst driving as it disturbs concentration. The idea that you are incapable of driving a car and having a conversation is absurd. And the idea that a phone call requires more concentration than talking to your passenger is equally daft. Let me tell you, I have to concentrate far more whilst conversing with my passenger, especially if it’s my wife, than chatting on the phone. For a start, I can’t pull a long face, flick her the bird, put her on mute, mutter obscenities under my breath, pick my nose, fart or even ignore her, like I can a voice in the ether. If communication whilst operating a vehicle is so dangerous, how come pilots who are constantly on the radio, don’t veer off to Iceland when on the way to the Costa Brava? Ships heading for Rotterdam don’t end up at Pismo Beach? The real problem of course is that a couple of generations have grown up whose idea of a conversation is texting. People just don’t have conversations, especially in a car. Usually there is a stereo blasting away so loud it makes your ears bleed. So, when a call does come in, an inordinate amount of concentration is needed to hold a conversation. Or worse they text. Result… car crash. Perhaps as part of the driving test, the examiner should have a heated debate on politics or religion. Or the person taking the test should take a call from the Boss.

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Why hasn’t Viagra saved the rhino?

Why...

Are rhinos still being hunted? I read with some joy that a bunch of white rhinos from different European zoos are meeting in Prague for a few days of R and R before being shipped out for their club 18-30 holiday village in the wilds of Rwanda. It is hoped the traditional summer holiday spirit of fornication, so alive from Fort Lauderdale to Magaluf, will also turn our teen-age rhinos into sex machines and help build back their numbers. Apparently, rhinos are polite beasts and like a ‘getting-to-know-you’ cocktail party before deciding to mate. Hence the Prague get together. Rhino courtship is in fact quite complex involving a lot of pooh smelling by the males to determine which fragrance most pleases them. I can just imagine the chit chat over a gin and tonic: “I say, Griselda. I was mighty impressed with the aroma of your pile back there. I wonder if you would care to accompany me for a stroll in the forest once we reach our holiday destination?” “Why thank you Herman, yes I spent several hours choosing the right food to leave that bouquet. How gallant of you to notice. I’d be delighted to take a walk with you. Meanwhile can you pass me some of those pineapple and cheese chunks on a stick and top up my drink?” Now a rhinoceros is in fact quite a peaceful thing. However, when you reckon they weigh 2,300 kilos and run at twice the speed of Usain Bolt at full tilt, it’s best not to piss them off. Coz you ain’t getting away from them. I spent a pleasant afternoon with some in Nepal not long ago. One did bear a big gash over a hind quarter, but the guide assured me this was a result of a little light foreplay before getting down to some serious rutting rather than ramming a tourist vehicle! However, their ground up horns are highly prized to cure erectile dysfunction. Daft really as it’s made from hair, not bone and thinking hair can help an erection is like thinking you can play snooker with cooked spaghetti. This dust, however, costs as much as Viagra. I do not understand how there is a market for an expensive piece of witchcraft that does not work as opposed to a little blue pill that does. Surely the easiest way to stop this trade is to make Viagra available at deep discounts in those parts of the world that believe this nonsense... and cut the Johnson off anyone stupid enough to buy rhino horn instead of the pill, as they clearly have no idea how a willy works. I suspect by adopting those two simple ideas, the rhino poaching problem would be solved.

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Time travel exists... if you can splash the cash

Why...

Can’t I have my own flux capacitor in a Delorean car, like Marty McFly in Back to the Future? There are a couple of people whom I would love to revisit in the past and give them some sound investment tips; Atari, Pan Am and Bernie Madoff! However, in the real world anyone who actually wants to experience time travel simply has to go to a National Health Service A&E department at the nearest hospital to remove the saucepan stuck on their toddler’s head. By the time their infant is extricated he or she will be a teen-ager and the parent will be eligible for a pension. If however, they had shelled out for private A&E they’d be home in time for tea and the private hospital would no doubt scrub the saucepan before returning it. Same result... decades apart! Now, before you all yell at me that this is a disgrace and elitist, I fully accept there are people who have no option but to use the NHS. However it’s £100 for this service privately. The same as a family dinner, a football ticket or a couple of months of Sky TV. Plenty of people can afford those. It’s really about priorities and our sense of entitlement. It’s no different from buying a priority boarding pass on an economy airline so that they can cattle-prod you to the front of the queue. For me it’s worth it not to sit next to a gaggle of hen party revellers or be lectured by an expert on Brexit for three hours. And the same journey can feel like it’s taking twice as long if seated next to someone listening to rap music but without headphones rather than a pretty girl asking what she should do all on her own at her new destination. Well, that’s the theory of relativity explained for you. The only equaliser amongst us all is time and how we allocate it. Having spent a week bouncing around North America, then a week unpacking furniture, had I the money I would gladly have paid other people to do either.

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Legs eggs and stupid regs

April 19, 2019
Animals/Pets Food & Drink Friends Life Sex
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Why...

Is Easter so weird? In reality of course it commemorates the trial and death of Jesus Christ. Yet in a deft bit of marketing mixed with heathen tradition it has become all about birth, sex, spring and chocolate eggs. Of course to kick all this off we have all the Mardi Gras parades, the hottest of which is of course the Rio Carnival. I have the utmost respect for the Brazilian Catholic’s. They managed to turn the beginning of 40 days of fasting mixed with sackcloth and ashes into a bacchanalian extravaganza. In fact during the carnival things really do go with a bang. The amount of cocaine consumed is so vast that there are discernible traces in the air! No wonder even your grannie can samba for a week non stop.

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Just show me ... don’t write it

March 22, 2019
Entertainment/Media/Arts Life Sex Technology
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Why...

Have written instructions survived? Whenever I buy anything, I am required to download instructions or manuals as if the digital video age never happened. You can download a video on everything from how to get to the next level of Minecraft, to poaching a peacock, or sticking false eyelashes on your goldfish; so why can’t all instruction manuals be videos? Yes, if I really want to get down to the minutiae of how my MP4 player can change the space time continuum or my mobile phone will connect with the dead, I can read up on the fine print. However, 90% of people (and 100% of normal ones) simply want to know the basics of how their latest toy works. So please, let’s just have a video showing me? It would certainly make buying the odd sex toy more interesting! Part of the reason I find digital currency so complex is not the theory of having a secure method of payment outside of the clutches of government or banks but the assumption the guy in the street understands how to actually go about the process. It’s Gobbledigook. Double gobbledigook if you tried Das Coin and the electronic WebWallet nonsense via NetLeaders. In an age when FaceTime, Zoom, Skype and Instagram are the communication medium of choice, why am I still asked to download a PDF on how to work a camera! I mean it’s a camera. Visual medium. Which bright spark in marketing thought: “Well, once we have sold this, let’s send a booklet to read that’s a couple of hundred pages long....” Show me how and I might even buy some of the bolt in extras like telephotos etc.

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Eat drink and be merry ... for tomorrow you can diet!

Why...

Is every avenue of pleasure depicted as a path to Armageddon? This time of the year I must admit I cram too much food and drink into my stomach, but does this really mean the grim reaper will be sharpening his scythe? Christmas overindulgence needs to be balanced with a feeling of wellbeing, a grudging love of fellow man and slipping a few extra £,$,€ into the collection box. But happiness is not a terminal disease. Nevertheless, TV presenters wearing Elf ears or Santa hats, give out dire warnings of all the drawbacks to the holiday season. Frankly if I live a couple of years longer without ever having eaten a chocolate eclair or enjoyed (in my bachelor days) a memorable Christmas Eve in Manila in the warm embrace of a pair of Air Stewardesses and some wakky baccy, I think I would have missed out. As Hunter S. Thompson said, “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”

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If God was a woman, celery would have more calories than chocolate and white wine would replace water

Why...

Has the law of natural selection seemed to have passed by foodstuffs and things I enjoy? How come a yummy, light and fluffy chocolate eclair, something every sinew in my body urges me to eat, is bad for me at every level, as opposed to a vomit inducing kilo of brussels sprouts which my nutritionist says is bursting with goodness? In everything else our natural urges ensure our survival; be it wanting to have sex to procreate, nonstop chatter thereby ensuring protection by being tribal, a natural aversion to snakes or Politicians or any of a dozen natural instincts that Mother Nature instilled in our subconscious for our own good... except consuming calories, tobacco and alcohol. What happened? Depends who I ask. The Catholic’s and Jews have a thing about guilt. It’s a guilty pleasure to consume single malt whisky or puff on a Cohiba cigar so Yahweh or God, in his infinite wisdom made these things bad for me to test my faith. But that kind of logic is as cracked as the Grand Canyon. It also explains their puritanical views re sex (I like it but cannot have it unless under very strict conditions, passed down by the Almighty, often to people who are forbidden to have sex). If you ask Tom Cruise and his Scientology friends, they may say that liking things that are bad for us is an instinct passed on from the Thetans who visited Earth and had hanky panky with a lot of us humans. So, we inherited their love of all that’s bad as clearly on their planet they all indulged heavily in narcotics, sugar, ciggies and alcohol. All I can say to that is lead me to their planet and explain to me if they are such superior beings, they left their own nirvana?

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New York hotel bank of Elevators win gold at synchronised swimming and why my etiquette rules can mean death

Why...

Can no one programme elevators so they don’t all go up and down in unison? It is nearly fifty years since man started leaving litter on the moon, yet we can still spend a lifetime watching a bank of elevators all going in the same direction and stopping at the same floors... at the same time. I’m no early riser so can cut leaving a hotel a little fine to get to an airport or meeting on time. I once spent 15 minutes in a New York hotel waiting for an elevator to make it up to the 35th floor. Rather like waiting for a bus, long periods of nothing happening, then suddenly all six elevators arrived at my floor at the same time. I suspect to this day if you dusted the elevator call button for fingerprints, mine would come up as I had pushed the damned fluorescent decent arrow so often in exasperation they must still be engraved on it.

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I am sorry, if you want to be in a ‘cowboy outfit’, please come dressed as an incompetent and dishonest plumber

Why...

Can’t I dress up without a dressing down? I understand the Student Union in Edinburgh have come out with a long list of what is no longer acceptable to wear at fancy dress. Students have been warned that costumes “based on racial or cultural stereotypes” are banned including those portraying Native Americans, Arabs, Nazis, a woman in a Burka, Buddha, a Mullah or a Catholic Priest, (although for some strange reason a nun is OK). They have now added the ‘Cowboy Outfit’! Whoever is President of the Student Union needs to donate his or her body to medical research so we can try and find out how God managed to remove the humour chromosome. This is the thinking that got rid of Kleenex Man Size tissues and will no doubt tell us ‘the time of the month’ is now when females wo-menstruate. Students are meant to be stroppy, rowdy and obsessed with big hopeless causes; saving the polar bear, stopping melting ice caps, ending world poverty or getting Simon Cowell to quit Botox and white T-shirts. They tilt like Don Quixote at these windmills of impossible dreams until the real post graduate world bites. Your bolshy economics student grows up when he has to go spend their cash on white goods (washing machine, fridge, freezer) rather than a few tabs of E. But fancy dress! Is that a needy focus of undergraduate ire?

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Nice outfit. Where do you keep the fire extinguisher?

September 28, 2018
Animals/Pets Entertainment/Media/Arts Sex
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Why...

Are we obsessed with safety in all things, except what can actually kill us? Last Christmas my wife and I attended a carol service in London. Before the service started with a candlelit procession and a lone voice singing out ‘Silent Night’, we got a safety announcement. Yup. All the lights were switched on, organ music stopped and the priest in full air stewardess mode pointed out where the fire exits were in case a candle ignited a choir boy’s cassock or some incense managed to set fire to a pew. This in a building that had survived over 1,000 years and never so much as had a runaway candle singe an altar cloth. However later this year my wife has organised a huge charity bash here in Malta to save the Valletta Skyline starring the world’s best ABBA Tribute Band, Revival. So it’s time for fancy dress… out with blue eyeliner, bellbottom trousers and platform shoes. As I am not quite the snake hipped love god of 40 years ago, my old clothes are a tad snug, so I need to hire an outfit. There is a smorgasbord of ABBA costumes available to buy on the web... most of which have a small warning saying stay away from a naked flame or the wearer will turn into a Roman Candle. So there you have it. Come to a church made predominantly out of stone and be subjected to a fire drill, but buy some clothes that can toast you like a marshmallow and tough luck. Yo-yo (You are on Your own).

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Love me, love my dog

August 31, 2018
Animals/Pets Friends Kids/Family/Relations Life Sex
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Why...

When you come to my house do I suggest you don’t criticise my dogs as I won’t judge your children (at least not out loud).

Now I completely accept some people don’t like dogs... in the same way I accept that some people believe Elvis Presley is alive, well and riding Shergar across Area 51.

The thing about dogs is their love is unconditional. Even Hitler’s pet Alsatian Blondi no doubt thought Adolf a loveable chap who fed him scraps and gave him a splendid kennel complete with a swastika weathervane. That pooch was always pleased to see Mein Fuhrer, even after a hard day’s genocide.

In fact dogs are the ultimate sycophants. They laugh at your jokes, look at you admiringly, even perform tricks on demand... of course in return they expect to get food and shelter.

Dogs have indeed come a long way from their wolf forebears and many are more metrosexual with clipped nails and smart coats than flea infested hunters of old. In fact were man to become extinct in a haze of radioactive mushroom clouds, I’m afraid man’s best friend would follow pretty shortly afterwards.

The idea that Pepe the Chihuahua would survive in a post apocalypse world is farcical unless the radiation allows him to develop thumbs to open any tins of Kanga Chunks that he might uncover in the ruins of the post atomic blast.

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Casting call for Aliens in next Star Wars movie. Only real Aliens need apply!

Why...

Is there now a huge gerfuffle over actor Jack Whitehall being given a role as a gay character in a Disney movie? Not because Disney are giving a prominent role to a gay character but because in real life he is not gay so some say he should not get the role.

When I was a Producer casting for roles, I chose the actor or actress best able to portray the character. Doh! It’s called acting.

So does this current nonsense mean that John Hurt should never have played The Naked Civil Servant, a multi award winning production about the first real gay activist Quentin Crisp?

Sean Penn (a renowned swordsman) got an Oscar for playing the gay Harvey Milk.

On the other side of the coin Rupert Everett has played a hunky heterosexual numerous times and gay Cynthia Nixon played Miranda Hobbes, one of the man eaters in Sex and the City.

This debate is utter nonsense brought on by people whose IQ matches their shoe size. Please would someone with some real credibility in Hollywood stand up and tell them to shut up.

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Oh, come on... what happens in Benidorm stays in Benidorm

Why...

When I went on my first solo summer holiday, was the hottest part of the day always after dark? I remember reading that in the 1980’s such was the lure of ‘a quickie in Magaluf’ that over 35% of single people had sex with a stranger within two days of starting a package holiday on the Costa Brava. I suppose if you ground out 50 weeks a year in a damp typing pool in Wigan, some rumpy pumpy in an exotic locale had a very strong appeal. I mean all those hormones, no parents and no prying phone camera from your friends to tell the world what you had been up to. My holiday snaps in the 1970s were taken on the last day to show my Aunt the sea view from my room and the plane I flew home on; taken with a camera loaded with one roll of film with 12 shots (ASA 100 - Remember those). Today’s racy photographs that cover snapchat like acne would never have been developed by my local Boots. Instead I would have found a note inside saying these pictures were unsuitable to print! I can assure you that what I was looking for on those first holidays was not a UNESCO World Heritage Site or a basket weaving co-operative. So I was somewhat staggered to learn that young people on their first solo holidays nowadays seek out exotic locations as opposed to locations where they indulge in something erotic. Cheap and cheerful holidays have been replaced with earnest young people wanting to load up on Instagram a photo of a three toed armadillo or four eared fruit bat. Students and the first time employed apparently now yearn to sample the delights of a warm oil colonic irrigation whilst eating mung beans in an Ashram. Fun seems to be a ten mile trek through some mosquito infested swamp with the reward of a tofu burger and cup of tepid fruit tea, rather than an all-night rave and enough E to fill a giant size bag of M&Ms. The kiss me quick traps of the Baby Boomers and X Generation have suddenly gone quiet. The locals in great swathes of Spain, Italy and Greece are actually nostalgic for the old days of sluicing away the vomit from the night before’s over indulgence or collecting abandoned flip flops, thongs and condoms that once littered the beach in dawn’s early glow. Wolfing down paella with chips followed by binge drinking Raki with Sharon from Skegness has faded from memory like the sepia pictures that hang in the mock rustic tavernas. Now, whilst I am the last person to deny some culture to our youth, where has fun gone? I worry today’s youth are not being misspent.

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Do you wanna be in my gang?

June 22, 2018
Finance/Law Food & Drink Life Politics Sex Technology
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Why...

Do we seek solace mixing with people who on joining a group or club revert to stereotype? “I never want to be a member of a club which would let me in,” may be a classic Groucho Marx line and a cliché but for good reason... It’s true. I have been very lucky to have been invited as a guest to several clubs and they break down into the following seven categories. Back to school There are a handful of Gentlemen’s Clubs in London holding a male only policy. They are all in Pall Mall and St. James and distinctly different to other Gentleman's clubs that can only operate by having scantily club members of the opposite sex. The London Gentleman’s club is really just public school (private school in the US) for boys who never grew up and miss nanny. The place runs on old fashioned rules. The Nanny organises the social desk and membership fees but that’s the only woman you will see. You better turn up in a tie, shoes polished, nails clipped and hair brushed. Yes, you can drink, but do not get rowdy. Most of the food is what I call nursery menu. A perfect lunch would be: Windsor soup, Steak and Kidney Pudding, Jam Roly-Poly, & Welsh Rarebit. Conversation through the meal with other members sharing your refectory style table equally as stodgy and bland. This is followed with a port and a snooze reading yesterday’s The Times. These throw-back establishments work on handed down privilege, who you know and how you behave. I am sorry to delude new members who have fought their way up in society through hard work and brains to join but… Old Biffo and Squiffy in the corner still look down on you as nouveau riche; the same way they dismissed Johnny Foreigner as a new boy at Rugby or that boy with the flash watch as parents “working in trade”. Back to Basics Health clubs. No frills. Over sophisticated gym equipment and eye wateringly expensive juices, drinks and rabbit food. Staff preachy and superior with bodies buffed to within an inch of their lives. Off peak these caverns of sweat are filled with the bored and rich. These poor souls have nothing else to do except cheat on their partner and sneak off for plastic surgery to show the results of all the dieting and training they pretend to follow. Peak time it’s just an overcrowded dating agency. Back to the Future The Lovie playroom. Media based haunts are filled with overloud voices recalling their last meeting with Brad and Angelina, how genuine the Spielberg’s are and what a shame about Amy’s drug abuse. Always in slightly seedy parts of town set up by failed media wannabes who see this as their entree into the glitterati. The propeller head equivalent of techy clubs are full of earnest members trying to convince you to invest in some crypto crapto currency or hint they might get you into an angel start up fund with guaranteed returns. “So, you’ve invested yourself,” is a sure-fire way of getting rid of them... and leaving you with absolutely no one to talk to. Pointless. Back to the Wall The exclusive nightclub. Exclusive because there are only so many people willing to spend £10k a year for membership to an overcrowded noisy hell-hole that charges prices that are an insult and a door policy that admits only good-looking people with an IQ quota the same as their shoe size. To make it worse should you be insecure enough to have to order a five litre bottle of vodka or a jeroboam of champagne for £1,000, the staff bring attention to your vulgarity by having sparklers light up the bottles as they bring them to you and alert everyone else in the place who is tonight’s soft touch. If you have to go to one for a night of drug fueled fun, you never want them to have your real name anyway. Always make sure someone else is the member. Back in the saddle The Horsey Club. Filled with overweight florid faced men and woman who bray when they laugh. If you ask for the bridal suite it’s a large room full of saddles, riding crops and Gucci buckles and the last place you’d want to spend your honeymoon. If you can separate the bullshit from real horse manure you might get a good tip on a horse. The Back Nine What can I say about a golf club except I don’t want to join one. Ever. It’s a chance for you to dress up like an extra from a Blaxploitation movie, though ethnic minority representation still remains low. Members may slice their tee shots to the left or right, but politics is invariably to the right. I speak with some experience here when in Myrtle Beach a club member made the mistake of asking me my opinion on abortion. “The obvious answer is it is not really a man’s decision; though if it were men who got pregnant, I suspect termination would be so easy it would come from an ATM machine. “No religion recognises a miscarriage or the trauma that causes. So, until they do they cannot go on about the rights of a foetus.” He pulled a gun on me and called security to eject the “limey liberal pinko”! Back Inside There is a great line in the TV series set in a woman’s prison Orange is the New Black with a character greeting a new inmate saying… “Welcome to the 1950s”. The speaker is not referring to the building or facilities. But to the clubs. The Narco Mexicans stick to one group, The Neo-Nazis another, right down to the Nepalese Horse thieves or Belgian child molesters. Everyone has a group. It’s basic. It’s for protection. So, on that note console yourself that Bernie Madoff is not the wife of some 6’6” ex Cripps member but closely closeted with some other fraudster both cheating at monopoly but a least paying protection money to keep their balls.

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There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues

June 15, 2018
Animals/Pets Fasion Health & Beauty Life Sex Travel/Nature
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Why...

Is the colour of summertime really blue? Well, OK apart from the obvious colour of the sky and the sea. Let’s start with profanity. Yup. The redder the thermometer the bluer the language. It is beyond me how anyone in my youth managed to drive in the heat without air conditioning and not to lob a thermonuclear device into the idiots in front trying to read a road map. Remember those… only men could read them and only women could fold them while doing twenty miles an hour with an indicator that had been blinking for an hour. In London, on the days it gets really hot, a blind person cannot go on the tube. Reason? You cannot transport animals in a temperature over 30c (86f) and the subway regularly reaches 34 (93f). So whilst it was fine to gently poach a commuter, it was illegal for a guide dog to ride the tube! Aircon (again a blue colour) is so critical for comfort. How do London Black Cabs who again have no Aircon, not understand that in the summer they just give ground to Uber?

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In the old days we cooked real food and made our own entertainment

June 8, 2018
Food & Drink Kids/Family/Relations Life Sex
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Why...

Do some people in their sixties plus go all starry-eyed when harking back to the days before the microwave and streamed entertainment?

“When we were young, we played cards,” they moan.

So giving your kid a regular gambling fix is better than subliminal history via Vikings and The Tudors or world class fantasy literature of Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings?

“The family stuck together and entertained each other,” they pontificate, sniffing at Netflix, Amazon, Sky, etc...

“Which is why in some remote regions your husband, your brother, your cousin and your uncle were all the same people,” I reply. This is even an argument to allow easy access of porn to occupy Uncle Ernie rather than him insisting on a game of doctors and nurses with his niece and nephew.

However, I do accept that building a tree house, riding a bike without a helmet, a game of conkers or walking unaccompanied to school did generate a dollop of risk. No one I grew up with got away without a broken limb... if not two.

“And we had such innovative games. So much more involving than just a video screen.” True but...

I remember being given an Atomic Energy Lab from a toy company called Gilbert that had a small sample of polonium and uranium! At seven I had fuel driven planes whose propellers regularly tried to sever my fingertips, steam engine trains with boilers heated by methylated spirits (so you were stoned before your fingers got third degree burns) all jumbled up with catapults and a wicked gun called a Johnny 7. This little darling had seven different missile firing guns each capable or poking out an eye or pissing off the next door neighbour’s cat.

I never wore a seatbelt and quite often steered the car sitting on my father’s lap. (Please note we never had an accident... we saw dozens).

..and another thing (continue to read this post)

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