Thursday, 17 June 2010

Mr Sex: World Cup Willy

So, the World Cup's on, and the northern half of Todger Talk is dead, dead, dead excited about it. And also painfully aware that he hasn't tossed up a blog post in ages. Obviously, the thing to do is to lob up something that links the two. But what?


Cicciolina e Moana ai Mondali - known to the English-speaking world as Sex World Cup - is one of those films that you hear about but can't believe was actually made. Not only is the only World Cup porn film in existence, but it's also the only wank film that any man has actually watched, all the way through, to see how the plot turns out. So, whether you like proper football or not, you can't deny that this film bears scrutiny.

So...let us return to the offices of the Italian Football Association, as they prepare to host the 1990 World Cup finals. Obviously, as host nation, they're desperate to win it. But how do they go about this - by pulling the squad from club games and forming a cohesive, match-fit unit? Making sure all the other countries hotels are surrounded by mental locals with klaxons? Fixing it so the hosts are the only team used to a rounder-than-ever-before match ball?

No. You get in La Cicciolina and Moana Pozzi, the absolute front rank of late 80's Italio-Grot, which isn't much of a surprise as it said all that in the title. Obviously, they've been drafted in to sort out the teams' dietry requirements, as well as proffering tactical advice on getting out of a potentially tricky group that contains Czechoslovakia, the USA and Austria...

Oh yeah, forgot. Porn film.

So, the plot is set up; La Cicc and Moana have been entrusted with the hopes of a nation by nobbling - with the emphasis firmly on the 'nob' side of the word - the star players of the opposition. So who is, ahem, first up?

Well, bugger me buttocks if it isn't Lothar Mattäus of West Germany. European Footballer of the year, captain of the team and the very rock of the German midfield (as well as someone who takes a very liberal, carefree European attitude to the donning of trousers). Moana cunningly disguises herself as an extremely sluttish chambermaid, gets into his suite, and offers him a portion on the eve of a crucial group match. Being an efficient professional to the tip of his toes, Lothar surely isn't going to expend vital energy in a pre-match workout, is he?

Actually, yes. A bit of stock footage from the 1982 World Cup later, and Germany take a tonking from Italy, who are played by France. 

So far, so good. But what follows next is, quite easily, the greatest moment in the admittedly minor genre of proper football-porn crossover films, as the next target is none other than Greatest Footballer in the Known Universe/coke-addled cheating bastard, Diego Maradona. And who do they get to portray this vital role?

That's right - Ron fucking Jeremy. As you can see in that totally-grot-free, not-going-to-get-you-bollocked-at-work video, there's something completely wrong - yet somehow wonderfully right - about having the most famous sportsman of the era played by porn's most prominent cock-on-a-gut.

Somehow, La Cicc and Moana manage to break into Argentina's training camp (which looks suspiciously like the back of West Germany's hotel) and offers him the chance to get his Hand of God on some porn star bod...

...which leads to an outstanding banana shot...

...and Diego left so pleased with his performance, he applauds and kisses his own nob, uttering "Bravo...bravo" to himself. More stock footage from eight years previous, and it's bye-bye Argentina.

So, West Germany and Argentina are out, and a very pissed-off Lothar and Maradona make an official protest to FIFA. What will FIFA Bloke In Bad Wig do? Offer to replay the games, at vast expense and inconvenience to the tournament? Or point out that no-one was actually forcing them to have it off with a couple of southern Euro-strumps and it's their own bleeding fault, really?

Bonus point if you said 'Get a couple of second-division Italian porn sorts in, to pad the film out for another quarter of an hour'.

Now then, we're reaching the climax of the World Cup, and only one team stands in the way of the Azzuri and ultimate glory. No, it's not England (and thank God for that - the sight of a Gazza lookalike getting his end away would make me want to sever my genitalia and throw it into the back garden for next door's cat). It's the reigning European champions themselves, Holland. Which means that there's only one candidate for some World Copulation...

...Ruud Gullit, portrayed by American porn chap (and not the WWF wrestler) Sean Michaels, who remains to this day the only male porn actor I've ever met who was actually dead nice and not an arrogant twat. La Cicc - posing as a reporter - goes all Paula Yates on our hero...

...and things get properly Ruud. Job done. FORZA AZZURI!

But WAIT! After a girl-on-girl tuppence-licking session that drags out the film for another ten minutes, the girls get a phone call from the Italian FA, saying that Ruud is still not completely shagged over, and he's fit to play in the final. There's only one thing for it...

...a break-in into the Dutch dressing room right before the match. Strangely enough, Ruud is on his own, and the facilities are shocking. Look at that - one plastic bench, and a bought-from-the-market rip-off Italia '90 banner. Bad enough that the Dutch team were nobbled by a German newspaper in 1974 that claimed that they were having a massive orgy in their hotel before the final and pissed off the wives so much that Johan Cruyff swore he would never play in another World Cup, and being fucked over by Argentina in 1978 by a junta that made sure that no-one but the home team was going to win that one.

Oh yeah, sex blog, sorry...


If this film has achieved nothing else - and it has - it's finally answered the mystery of what happened to Ronaldo just before the 1998 final. Not surprisingly, Italy batter Holland, and get to hold up a trophy that looks fuck all like the World Cup...

...and the winning team gets treated to a slap-up celebratory nosh.

Alas for the Italians, things didn't go quite to plan. Although Holland had a disappointing run (which ended in this less erotic exchange of body fluids), they were knocked out of the semis by Argentina (which Maradona scoring a penno, but not with his ridiculously self-suckable cock), and eventual winners were Lothar's West Germany. And Gazza came home looking like this. Sadly, this is the first and only porn film set during the World Cup, although footy-grot appears to be very popular with gay lads - and now that the players themselves are doing things like this, it looks like we'll never see its like again.

Now if you'll excuse me, Nigeria v Greece is almost done, and I have a sack of crisps to work through. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

'Mr Sex': Danny Dyer is a Worthless Cunt

...and 'Mens' magazines in the UK are shit.

Tuesday, 27 April 2010

'Mr Sex': Billy Three-Pens, the Phantom Sticker-Upper of Mansfield Road

I dunno about you, but bollocks to the Internet - random scrawlings on subway walls and toilet doors have always been where it's at. How many times have I not been run over by a bus by going right out of my way to nip down to a subway so I could find out who got fingered by 'Tabby' there (with exact date and time), or who is a 'SLAGG who sucks COCKS for 20p' (or, indeed, what number I should ring '4 SEX')?

(My all-time favourite is the one in six foot-high letters just on the outskirts of town, the first thing that Southerners see when they enter Nottingham; 'SUCK YOUR MUM')

I'll tell you; loads of times. So you can imagine my reaction when, in the process of taking my nephew to the barbers the other day, I came across this on Mansfield Road:

Before we go any further, and for those of you unfortunate to not live in Nottingham, there's two things you need to know about Mansfield Road;

1) It's near the red light area

2) It's renowned for having dead nice pubs and being festooned by absolute mentalists. The other night, for example, I came across a bloke walking up and down the street with a massive peregrine falcon on his arm. At midnight.

So where do we start here, then? For starters, the author is a very civic-minded person. No defacing Council property for him, or having to hold up a torch and look over his shoulder for the coppers; he uses massive stickers. Secondly - and more importantly - he has a pencil case

As I had the foresight to take side-view pictures, here's the full version;


Oh dear. I dunno about you, but I need to wash my eyes out with Strong Dissinfectiant. But what does it actually mean? Is this the plaintive cry of a man cursed with what other men desire, railing against the one-size-fits-all mantra of modern-day production? Who - or what - is 'Triffle'? Does he mean 'trifle'? Is there any significance to the use of the red marker pen? And should I be calling the police about this?

Wednesday, 14 April 2010

'Mr Sex': Primark, the Hammer of the Paedophiles

There are a lot of people in this country who are currently ripping into Primark for their decision to sell bikinis with padded tops for girls as young as seven. Some of them are expressing shock that the company have found a way to exploit even more children than the ones they employ in their sweatshops, while newspapers, in their usual calm, measured tones, are going as far as to say that these items of beachwear are actually promoting paedophila

I'm sorry, but this is absolute piffle. I would like to be the first to congratulate Primark on their bold stance, which - in my opinion - actually deters paedophiles. Think about it; imagine, for a brief moment, that you're Gary Glitter in a raincoat, prowling Skegness beach, when you espy what you imagine to be a seven-year old girl in a Primark bikini. Just when you start doing that wiggly-finger gesture with both hands, you notice the top - and stomp off in anger when you believe that what you thought was a child was actually a very small grown-up woman. Surely this is what Primark were thinking when they conceptualised, designed, and then cleared the selling of a bikini with a padded bra for children - because the alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

So while other people continue to lambaste this fiercely ethical company for their courage to tackle the vital issues that other clothing companies shy away from, I applaud Primark for not at all being exploitative fuckwits in the slightest. And why stop there? Why not stitch fake hair into the bottoms while you're at it, Primark? Why not introduce a range of split-crotch knickers with Winnie The Pooh on them? What about My First Rabbit, or rub-on transfer slag antlers? 

(and by the way: who actually bought this shit?)

Saturday, 10 April 2010

'Mr Sex': That's it, I'm retiring

See, this is what happens when you don't keep your sex blog updated: a young pretender jumps in and knocks you out of the saddle. Warning: possibly not suitable for work, and definitely not suitable for eyes;

So let's review the art of, ahem, 'Pu$$y Eating', in case you missed anything;

1. Put on the kind of music you'd hear at a Berni Inn, or the lobby of the Crossroads Motel

2. Mouth the words 'I Love You', in the style of Derek Smalls during the middle eight of Listen To The Flower People

3. Sensuously suckle upon your partner's massively long forked clitoris

4. Pretend to have taken a sheet of LSD the size of a queen-sized quilt cover

5. Mash the breasts that have suddenly appeared around your partner's fanny

6. Generally, as my Nana used to say whenever I was playing Pac-Man on the Atari, 'not hold your mouth right'.

Update: And ladies - if you've ever lain abed at night fantasising about men erotically eating a miniature hunk of Lidl stollen to third-division Techno, your wish is my command...

Friday, 9 April 2010

Sam: "That's not a Dad - THAT'S a Dad"

One of the most difficult things that I’ve had to confront in having a stroke involves some of the fundamental issues concerning my manhood and being a man. 

Let’s put this in context and give you some background: In Australia, where I come from, men are men.  For my 14th birthday, I was taken walking in the Gammon Ranges by my father, where they only have rain about every 200 years.  We went with his best friend - a real man’s man who goes walking in the Olga Ranges with only a bow and arrow, making his living by hunting feral goats.  

So, on my 14th birthday, we climbed a mountain in the Olga ranges and we camped at the top.  It actually snowed there for the first time in 200 years. Masculinity-wise, it was all downhill from there; nowadays, I'm an office and TV studio-bound laptop-masher with one arm that doesn't work, who currently can only get around with a stick. 

As you can imagine, my image of what a true man is doesn't exactly match my current situation.

The real question I have to ask myself is; are my Dad and his mate a valid picture of manhood?  It’s certainly a very macho picture of manhood, and I have to realise that I won’t be Crocodile Dundee after I’ve had a massive stroke.  Probably a better question is; do I have to be Crocodile Dundee to be a good father?  I think I’ve come to the conclusion:  ‘No’.

I had a talk to one of my best friends about fatherhood, and he said that while most men are - obviously - physically capable of being a father, most are completely emotionally incapable and inadequate.  If there's one thing that my stroke has done is force me to become more emotionally adequate - so after much deliberation, I feel that in the end I have come to the conclusion that once you have had a stroke you can still be a man and become a real father.  And actually, I might even end up being a better father.

So what do you think?  Do you have to be Crocodile Dundee to raise a child?

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

Introducing Todger Talk TV

We've been meaning to sort this for ages, and now it's finally been put together. Yes, me dears - now you can see what we (actually, Sam) looks like, in the pilot broadcast of our very own video section.

In this episode, Sam has a natter with Andrew Rosetta, a male escort with something between his ears as well as his legs. Not only did he do Thingy Whatsit for money, but he also won Escort of the Year at the Erotic Awards, is a sex worker union rep for the GMB, and wrote Whatever She Wants, a biography of his decade-long career in the pay-for-play trade...

(Special thanks to the chaps at WhatWho TV for putting this together)