'Mr Sex': I Can't Get My End Away And Its All Your Fault, Women

When I made the decision to pitch in on this blog, I made a series of vows to myself;

1. I wouldn't describe any of my past and present sexual partners in a disparaging manner.
2. I wouldn't rip into any of my male brethren for any sexually-related ignorance on their part.
3. I wouldn't bitch about any people in my Sexperty profession simply because they were talking out their arses.
   

I reckon No.1 is always going to be a safe bet (because I don't want my head kicked in). I'm probably going to break No.2 sooner or later. And after reading this bucket of wank, I'm going to break No.3 right now.

Meet Travis Stork. He's got a porn star name, he works in a casualty ward, he's been on some dating show on American telly, and he's got the kind of manly chin you could eat your tea off. What he hasn't got, however, is 'any'. Now, I dunno about you, but I know for a stone-cold fact that if I was as un-minging as him, had his job, and was on telly all the time, I would have to be wearing one of them exo-skeletons in Aliens so I could actually move anywhere, what with having ten women dangling off every one of my extremities. So I'm guessing there's summat not quite right with the lad's technique.

Normally, chaps in a similar parlous state counter this state of fanny anti-magnetism by sitting at home in their pants and taking advantage of a dry spell by climbing a few rungs on World Of Warcraft, erecting a scale model of the World Trade Center out of empty pizza boxes whilst treating the cooker as a huge and immovable cigarette lighter, filling an entire portable drive with more downloaded porn than they will never have time to look at in their life, and maybe even punching their fists in the air to repeated playings of Bitches Ain't Shit by Dr Dre on the stereo. Not Travis. Oh no.

Amazingly, he's brought out a relationship advice manual for women, which seems to point out that he can't get any because women are rubbish. And the Daily Mail - quelle surprise! - seem to be championing it to the rafters...

It's written by Travis Stork, a casualty doctor and expert in mental and emotional well-being, who starred as The Bachelor in a hit U.S. reality show of the same name that saw him date 25 women in a bid to find "the one".

He never did, but it gave him a real insight into women.

I'd say it gave him a real insight into women who wanted to be on the telly and didn't give a toss how they went about it, myself. But wait; there's more...

As well as this extensive dating experience, he regularly sees people at their weakest moments when they wind up in his casualty.

Christ on a crisp packet, that's a new one on me. I once saw a bloke in town flat on his back with blood pouring out of his head one night, with his missus understandably going berserk. What the fuck was I thinking going for my mobile phone and chucking me jacket over him, when I could have been gaining some solid relationship pointers that I could have worked up into a book?

Trav then goes on to predictably lump every woman into a narrow range of pigeon-holes that appear to be based upon every stereotype in the chick-flick canon. Like your job? That makes you a Working Girl , obviously chained to your desk non-stop. Been out with an abusive bell-end? You must be a Bitter Girl, then, with a grudge against the entire male population of the universe. Want to have kids at some point? Ooh, get Agenda Girl over there, with her Stalinist five-year plan to annexe some poor bloke and tie him down for life. Oh, foolish women! If only they could see that if they were to change their lives, they might just be the lucky one who gets to wriggle on Travis' chin.

I'm prepared to bet that more meticulous research into the female psyche was spent on the new range of Bratz dolls than in this book, but you have to take your hat off to Trav for his incredible ability to parlay male inadequacy into someone elses fault. I look forward to reading his follow-up, Girls Smell And Can't Play Football. Sod it; with cheek like this, I demand to read his cookbook (Where's The Ignition? WHERE'S THE FUCKING IGNITION?) and childcare manual (Look, It's Not MY Fault You Keep Shitting Yourself).