'Jingle Bells' or 'Paedophile'?

You decide!

Something for the Ladies # 29

Ladies: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk @ googlemail dot com. We shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

Analonymous writes: I’d like to ask you a question about anal sex – not ‘should I do it?’, as I and the guy I am currently fucking like it very much. However, I’m a bit worried about the potential mess it could create. I’m super-clean, neat and orderly, but due to his length he can achieve some pretty impressive depths. I’ve always wondered – as a man, do you worry about the occasional mess, or once the fucking starts do you gloss over any potential disasters and just appreciate what’s going on?

'Mr Sex' says: Hm. You'd completely asked the wrong chap here, me duck, as my anal sex experiences extend only as far as shoving things up my arse for the sex toy review section of this very blog - so I'm definately going to have to punt this dilemma out to our lovely, lovely readers who know far better than I.

However, your concerns are valid and universal; unless you fancy having a go at that scat thing you've seen on the internet, you're aiming for a highly intimate experience, not an IRA-style dirty protest circa 1975. Going by the experiences of some of my friends, which have been related time and again in pubs, I would surmise that there's a minimal risk of wrongery occuring - but when it does go wrong, it can be amazingly spectacular (my favourite tale ended with the phrase "When I pulled out, the next thing I saw was a roostertail of shit"). Obviously, an experience as traumatic as that could possibly put you off for several lifetimes.

Let's demolish the main myth about anal; there's no guarantee that you'll end up with a shitty dick, which puts a lot of men off. After a few goes on a prostate stimulator, I've discovered that - as long as you're not busting to curl one off - there is very little (if any) fecal matter on the end of whatever you're shoving in there. Yes, there's loads of lube (and its occasional by-product, Santorum), but it's nothing you can't handle. I'd say that you should always prepare for the worst, so if it does happen, you can deal with it as quickly as possible. When I'm testing prostate stimulators, for example, I always have;

A massive beach towel over the bed (in case the worst happens)
A roll of kitchen towels or bog roll (so I can wipe anything that needs wiping)
Easy access to a carrier bag in a waste paper bin (to lob everything into and seal)
An oil burner on the go (so my room doesn't whiff of anything it shouldn't)
Something heavy wedged up against the door (because I live in a shared house)

Now, I don't really need all of that rammell, but it calms me down. After all, if you're tensed up, you might as well try to shove a baseball bat through the eye of a needle. So I suggest that you get your own emergency kit on standby, and enjoy worry-free bum-sex.

Sam says: Apart from being surprised that 'Mr Sex' is still an anal virgin, my advice is simple. The main selling point about anal sex is that it's still seen as dirty - both figuratively and (in certain circumstances) actually. 'Mr Sex' is right about the general un-ickiness of the rectum, but if your man is as long as you say he is, there's the potential for an, um, accident.

The best thing to do is to sit down and have a talk about it. Point out that you love anal as much as he does, but make clear that you'd relax and be able to enjoy it even more if you had a clean-up routine, should the worst came to the worst. I think it's totally fair for him to take charge of that particular matter, seeing as you're the one who will probably be in most need of the loo afterwards - and when it comes to anal sex, from foreplay to afterplay, the recipient should always be the one who takes charge.

And it goes without saying that you should use as much lube as possible, and for God's sake use the toilet beforehand if you feel the slightest inclination to. But you already know that, right?

Readers of TT - comment!

Sex Toy Review: Tenga Flip Hole Black

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'Mr Sex': Oh God, it's HIM again

Whilst performing his quarterly task of going through all the shit in the cellar, 'Mr Sex' came across another letter that was sent to a porn mag, that he rescued from the bin. And - would you believe it? - it was from the reigning champion of the TT Porn Letter section; the Groundskeeper Willie soundalike who enchanted us all a while back with this missive, and this beautifully constructed bit of prose.

I must warn you, however, that the following letter takes his oeuvre into an entirely new Solar System of wrongness. Seriously. You may not want to read this while you're getting through the contents of your lunchbox, lest your monitor be blanketed with gobs of semi-masticated sandwich. You have been warned.

MY DARLING MONIKA

I wish I could plant a thousand KISSERS XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX upon your gorgeous sexy BUM. I think about you always and. I guess I just canie resist yor sweet beautiful FIGER oor your charm too. MONIKA you ARE THE Moast Beautiful sweethearts I KEN/KNOW oor Indeed I have ever seen. Yer just a GORGEOUS Beautiful sexy GIRL and Boy. you sure do excite Me to the point I nearly pee mysel. It almoast happens nearly every time I see you in MAYFAIR. AW MONIKA yer've got a BEAUTIFUL FACE. and you deffinatly need NO MAKE UP as YOUR GORGEOUS jist the way you are. you've got the MOAST Beautiful eyes and GORGEOUS Beautiful sweet lips. aw MONIKA I'm wishing I was the cludgie/Toilet seat that you sit your BUM on. then at least I could see yer sweet cuteand VERY sexy BOT. aw MONIKA your just so fuckin Beautiful and OOO what a GORGEOUS PAIR. I also wish I wis YER PANTIES so I could be close up to your ever so juicy pussy. aw MONIKA. yer would have smiled this morning. aw us well hung laddies had Big Big HARD ON'S as we were all in love with you. but Me I just want to BATH and Wash and Soap that sexy BOT of yours DARLIN just so much. I carn't stop mysel DREAMING of you and then sometimes when I ken I'm going to CUM I manage somehow to always shoot it over my sister's BUM.

MONIKA your no stuck up like the other COWS in MAYFAIR. I widnie even suck their TITS dry o MILK. Nope MONIKA yer just so genuiene Sweet Sexy GIRL and I'm just So in loth whith you. there's Somethin about youer BOTTY that I just carn't resist. Must be your nice PERT BUM cheecks. I have always wanted to tell you MONIKA just how much you Mean to Me. I guess yer no that now. I Just wish they'd Make a FUCKIN POTTY nice and Confy to sit yer BOT upon, then. I'd be SAT all day Wanking over you. My SPUNK flying everywhere eh. Your just a Very Special GIRL MONIKA to Me. before I set eyes upon you I didn't even KEN/KNOW What A Wet Dream Was like. Oor to be able just to MASTERBATE too.

Other lassies are FUCK ALL MONIKA compared to you. I used to Smell My Sisters KNICKERS Quiet a helluva lot and then I would get a funny feeling and SHOOT my CUM in them. I have never Really Appreciated a GIRL before not untill MONIKA I saw you. Now I no I'm lookin at a Real STUNNING GORGEOUS Beautiful Sexy GIRL. I have nere telt any WAN this afore MONIKA but when I had my first Girlie I just couldnie Wait tae get her Knickers off. I took her in tae the Cludgie/Toilet and I pulled her Knickers down and I saw a string. Course I pulled it there wis blood alover her pussy so I made love to her. aw MONIKA it was great after she peed over my cock. I use to finger her PUSSY tae make her JUICERS Flow. Then I licked my fingers. they tasted BRAW/GREAT. Noo MONIKA. I've fallen FUR YE/YOU. Sweetheart tae me MONIKA yer beautiful MONIKA. I feel so much Love for you DARLIN MONIKA. I just love and adore you. And I think YOUR SO PRETTY. aw DARLIN now, I must snuggle down in my Bed and HUV More Sticky Dreams MONIKA OVER YOU.

MONIKA TAK CARE DARLIN
ALL MY LOVE HUGS EN KISSERS
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

LOVE YA SEXY BUM

Cage-fighting Cross-Dressers 2, Pissed-Up Window-Lickers 0

It's the 11th anniversary of the cowardly attack on Matthew Shepard, and sad to say, things haven't changed that much since then. However, the following news story and accompanying CCTV footage might just make your day - if not year. Please look out for;

* Spiderman getting started on
* The fat mong Hulking himself up, as if chinning someone the weight of his last dinner was something to be proud of
* The streak of piss with his shirt off deciding to have a go at someone in drag
* Said someone in drag picking his handbag up after the comprehensive battering.

Well done, chaps. Maybe you could combine two of the biggest entertainment phenomenons of the decade by doing a burlesque show before knocking the shit out of each other in a cage.

'Mr Sex': HEAR ME NOW!

If you're in Nottingham this Saturday, Oct 3rd, 'Mr Sex' would like you not to bother with Goose Fair (it's nowhere near as good as it used to be) and extends an invitation to clock his first spoken word gig. It's part of the mammoth LeftLion Circus Extravaganza, a FREE all-dayer spread over nine venues in the Canning Circus area of God's favourite city, featuring loads of bands, plenty-plenty artiness, a bouncy castle, loads of people dressed up as dead celebrities and more spoken word than you shake a stick at.

I'll be pulling a double shift upstairs at the Hand and Heart on Derby Road from about 6.50pm. First off, I'll be in conversation with Rebecca Dakin, a former escort who has just dropped the autobiographical The Girlfriend Experience and has already been misquoted and fucked over by the News of the World, which is a sure sign that you've properly arrived as a writer. We'll be having a natter about her book (which pisses all over Belle De Jour), and how one can enter the world of the sex worker and come out the other side without being a casualty.

And then, about half seven, I'll be reading out a selection of sex toy reviews, letters sent to porn mags, and a few things I haven't even posted yet. So if you're knocking about, come and say hello. And if you can't, have a listen to the Write Lion podcast where and me and Rebecca talk shop and moan about how rubbish it is to pull in Nottingham (about 52 minutes in - and oh dear, judging by the quality of my reading, I'd better get some practice in...)

'Mr Sex' and the Brick Shithouses of Scunthorpe

Of all the stripping gigs I ever did, the scariest by far were always the nightclub jobs. Two words; Mixed Audience.

The women - who would usually go mental at the mere thrust of a groin - would keep themselves in check. The men, to a man, saw you as a threat to their womenfolk and wanted to punch you in the face, over and over, until it splintered like a mouldy coconut. Half the audience were cowed into silence, while the other half stared at you in sullen rage. You used to laugh at the perils of stripping at all-female gigs - the gouge marks in someone's bare arse, someone's glasses being mangled by having them crushed against a jacked-up, Wonderbra'd-to-death cleavage, or a G-string wedgie. When we laid out our kit in the back room of Mr Fisters, Glassers, Peter Sutcliffe's Astoria or any other divey club that any sane person would usually cross an ocean to avoid, the laughter stopped. The danger was omnipresent.

Plenty of near-maimed incidents stick out in my mind, but I'll just tell you about one for now; Scunthorpe. No disrespect to anyone from that particular part of Lincolnshire, but it's mainly known here for three things - being the only place in the UK that contains the word 'cunt', an article in The Sun that unfairly claimed that the place contained the ugliest women in the country, and a terribly misguided attempt by a local nightclub to prove said paper wrong by running a Miss Scunthorpe competition, which - to put it mildly - failed to argue its case ever so slightly.

The same nightclub we were booked at. Oh dear.

As it turned out, the gig passed off without incident. Sure, if looks could kill, we would have been smeared right up the back wall with the words 'DEATH TO PONCY STRIPPING WANKERS WHO THINK THEY'RE SUMMAT' daubed in our own blood, but glasses remained unlobbed, and the women looked no different to anywhere else.

After we'd packed up and loaded the van, the last and most important bit of business remained; legging it to the nearest chip shop before it shut. Problem was, I had to go back to the dressing room to fetch me jacket.

On my way back, desperate to ram as many slivers of deep-fried potato into my maw as possible, I saw them coming the other way. Six brick shithouses from Scunthorpe. And fucking hell, they were massive. Massive slabs of pissed-up Scunthorpians, who had obviously not pulled that night. Mainly because they'd spent an entire hour of their lives being in the same room as us, being made to listen to You Can Leave Your Hat On. I nodded at them, and walked past.

And then one of them turned around and bellowed loud enough to set off all the car alarms in Lincolnshire.

"'EY! YO'!"

Oh, shit.

"Ah know yo', dun't ah? Yo' were one of them fookin' strippers, wan't yer?"

"Er, yeah mate"

Fucking hell. What did I say that for? God, I wish the others were here. That would prolong my life for another five seconds.

"Yeah, I seen yer in the club. Where your lot from?"

"Er...London"

Christ on a crisp packet, did I really want to die that badly? I might as well have said "From your Mam's house, where I've just been giving her one. Up the arse"

They moved in. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

"So did yer get any fanneh, then?"

This is it. This is where I die. In Scunthorpe.

"Er, no mate."

Long pause. My bollocks have now shrivelled to the size of Cadbury's Mini Eggs. Brick Shithouse No.1 turns to his mates.

"Fookin' 'ell, you heard this? This poor cunt's come all the way from fookin' London, and he's bin up on that stage there wi' 'is cock aht and all sorts, and even 'ee's got nowt, because" - and here he takes a deep breath - "ALL AAH WOMEN ARE FOOKIN' PIGS AND HOONDS"

They all grunted in agreement. And it dawned upon me: this man is actually apologising for the quality of his local womenfolk.

"You goo home, mate, and you tell 'em that paper wor fookin' right. They're all fookin' MOOSES raand 'ere. They're not worth a WANK. Ah wish ah could come with yer, mate - I bet there's some right proper fanneh dahn there, in't there?"

And he shook my hand. And then his mates did.

And then I whimpered with teary-cheeked jags of relieved laughter, in the back of a mini-bus, all the way down the M1.

Nobody puts 'Mr Sex' in a corner

Right, so I was due to get back on the Sex-Horse this week after an extended layoff and a holiday (which I'll tell you about later), but recent events have forced me to ask a question that's been on my mind for ages; what is it about women and Dirty Dancing?

I swear down that whenever two or more women are gathered together in the same room, that film goes on the DVD. You could lock Germaine Greer, Myra Hyndley, Margaret Thatcher and Kali the Hindu Goddess into a living room, and five minutes later they'd be in their pyjamas, ramming enormous slabs of Cadburys Dairy Milk into their maws and bracing theirselves for a goz at Patrick Swayze's arse.

No disrepect to our female readers, and certainly none to Mr Swayze either (apart from saying "You were in Red Dawn, the worst film ever. Ugh!"), but here's the male perspective on Dirty Dancing; it's a bag of old ringpieces. Let us go through the plot; I've never actually seen the film in full, but I've walked past the living room to the fridge enough times whilst tutting loudly to get a decent handle on it;

* Some girl called Baby arrives at a posh Butlins on her holiday with her Mam and Dad. (and before I say anything else, you need to know that I would kill to know someone called 'Baby', as it would give me licence to talk like this all the time)



* Obviously, because this is a film about some bird on holiday, she runs into Patrick Swayze at a party, sees a bit of the old Dirty Dancing, and gets a wide-on for him. But let's stop just just there a moment to make a brief comparison. This is Dirty Dancing;



So are these lads;



And this is outright filthy;



This, on the other hand, is not. Ooh look, he nearly brushed against her tit! My senses is inflamed! I'm sorry, but I find there's far more erotic interplay and sexual tension between Barry and Yvonne in Hi-De-Hi. And how bitterly ironic that, while the females of the world were watching this, their male counterparts were wanking themselves bandy over Debbie Does Dallas and Electric Blue 14. God hates people.

* Anyway, Patrick Swayze has got a cob-on because his dance partner has got pregnant and is going to have a backstreet abortion that goes wrong. Don't know if they do a dance routine in that scene. Wouldn't be surprised.

* Patrick Swayze predictably teaches Baby how to dance, and they start nobbing each other (hm, an older man slapping it about with someone called 'Baby'; I'm not sure this film would be made today, eh readers?)

* Some other stuff happens

* Time Of My Fucking Life comes on, and Patrick Swayze picks Baby up and lifts her into the air. This, apparently, is the scene that the entire film hinges upon - whether a grown man can pick up a slip of a girl and raise her above his shoulders. For fuck's sake. So you've basically spent an entire film waiting for something that would have happened in the first 30 seconds of Britain's Strongest Man.

(And let us never forget, chaps - this film is totally responsible for the fact that we have to go to bleedin' Salsa classes if we want to get our ends away nowadays)

* Then Patrick Swayze comes into Baby's factory in a white Navy suit, lobs her over his shoulders, and walks out while Joe Cocker murders Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong. Or something.

And yet, despite all the evidence I've laid out here, something about it strikes a ridiculously tremulous chord within the womenfolk of this planet - including huge chunks of the intelligent, alternative, feminist ones. Consider the facts; first video in the world to sell over a million copies. $213m grossed from a film that cost $5m. God knows how many DVDs. Countless millions of pounds pumped into the brewing industry due to males going "Oh, not this shit again, I'm going to the pub".

So, ladies - please - educate not only me, but any other chap who just doesn't get it. I understand there may be some rite-of-passageness going on here, but when there are so many films just like this knocking about, why this one? Why? Why?

'Mr Sex': On yor INTERNETS, beeing a PEEDO

It's despicable enough for a man from Florida to get caught downloading child porn. Absolutely outrageous for him to pin the blame on a poor defenceless pussy cat. Mind you, my cat - the lovely yet vicious Sharon - is always using my phone to send pictures of her genitals to that massive tom on the other estate, so I hope this man gets a fair hearing.

Something for the Ladies # 28

Ladies: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk @ googlemail dot com. We shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

This week's question...

Anonymous writes: My boyfriend and I have been together two years. However, we had a brief break-up a year ago when he had a drunken fumble with a mutual 'friend' of ours.

I'm about to move to France with work for six months, and we were positive about continuing long distance for that time. However, I have just found out from one of his friends that he is about to move into her house (with several others) as her father owns the house and has offered them cheap rent.

Upon questioning, he said he was putting off telling me as was worried about my reaction, and he's only doing it because of the cheap rent. He's offered to pull out and live somewhere else if I'm not comfortable with it but I'm not sure that offer is sincere, plus I know he really needs somewhere with cheap rent.

I'm tempted to cut and run, as I don't want to have to be in France wondering if he's got pissed and shagged her. Or am I being unreasonable?

‘Mr Sex’ says: Yes. You are being totally unreasonable. Here would be the reasoned, thought-out and rational response to such a development;

1) Punching him right in his twattish face for even knocking about with this woman after what happened, let alone thinking about moving in with her

2) Kicking him squarely in the groin for not having the balls to even tell you about this – not because he was worried about your reaction (see how he turns it all onto you?), but because he knows he’s wrong

3) Taking a hammer to his kneecaps for being a deceitful, cowardly mingebag

4) Nobbing him off entirely, and shacking up with, I dunno, a mime artiste. Or some bloke in a Breton shirt who sells onions on a bike.

That may sound a bit harsh, but come the fuck on, me dear. The first rule of post-affair relationship-mending is that the offending party has to take steps to cut the other person out of their life as completely as possible. The fact that he’s intending to share a microwave with her suggests to me that he’s either still up for a portion off her, or he’s thicker than Barry White’s shit on Boxing Day morning. Either way, he’s completely disrespecting you at a time when you’re going through massive upheaval in your life.

You obviously don’t like this woman, and the idea that she’s still hanging about gets your hackles up – so if he can’t see that, he’s being ridiculously insensitive, and the fact that he's offering to backpedal is more to do with him being found out than him having a scrap of decency. You’re obviously going to be wound up to buggery while you’re away in any case whether he moves in or not - so give this bell-end his P45 of Love, get yourself over the Channel, and help yourself to a hefty slice of French Fancy.

Sam says: Let's face facts, here; you are in a rubbish relationship. And, if you choose to stick with it, it's about to get even more rubbish. Yes, long-distance relationships have every chance of working out, but only when there is a very high level of mutual trust and respect. You are getting - and will continue to get - neither from this bloke.

As 'Mr Sex' points out, when you've been tempted in a relationship, you have to remove that temptation. He's already put his hand in the fire and gone 'Ow'. Now he's giving himself every opportunity to put his hand back in again and again, leaving you with a charred arm of a relationship. My advice; dump him, move on, and go and find someone who will treat you with the decency you deserve.

Readers of TT: Comment!

'Mr Sex': Turtle Power!

Show me a man who can't recognise a little bit (or a lot) of himself in this video clip (as well as fear that his partner reacts in the same way as the female does), and I will show you a liar.

WARNING: not suitable for work (if you happen to mind the till in a pet shop)

Americans - hear the voice of 'Mr Sex'...

Oh yes, chaps. Tonight, at about 1pm Pacific Time (whatever that is), 'Mr Sex' will be settling down in a leather armchair in his smoking jacket, with pint of sherry in hand, and will address all you Colonials about the proper manner in which to give someone a nosh on Playboy Radio, on their Afternoon Advice show. It's all to do with the publication of The Going Down Guide, which came out in America last week and is dead good. Why not buy a copy for your Dad, or your rubbish partner?

Or, even better, actually buy me one, seeing the only copy I had left has been nicked out of his house, he can't remember what he actually wrote, and is currently shitting breeze-blocks about this interview?

Manbits #15

*** If you're male, and you want a bit of advice on your sexy, sexy mither, drop us an e-mail at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com ***

Geordie writes: I'm in my late thirties and in a long-term relationship. It's a good relationship, except the sex is utterly crap and that's down to me. I sometimes get erections, but can't sustain them. Never have been able to. NEVER.

I've done all the usual man tricks for sorting this out. First, I ignored it. Then I finally went to my GP. Eventually got around to asking to be sent to see a specialist. I've been seen by urologists and endoctrinologists. Had my tackle examined intimately, testosterone measured, testicle size (yes, done by an attractive female endocrinologist) taken. They reckon that everything seems OK and to take Viagra or similar. The problem with Viagra is that it gives me headaches and a "buzzing" kind of flush that really turns me off.

I've been prescribed the other anti-impotence drugs too, but they're just the same. You can imagine the number of relationships this has killed, and at least one ex thinks that she must look awful naked because I didn't get (visibly) turned on.

The doctors have also recommended sexual therapy. Now, I'm willing to do this, but my girlfriend is dead set against it and certainly wouldn't go along. I really don't know whether it's in the mind or not. I'm at the stage now where I've been able to comfortably talk about it (with a female friend and even told my current about it as soon as we met). I even had one GP appointment with a trainee that was being videotaped for training purposes. I really don't think that talking about it has really helped though. Any suggestions as to what to do?

Dr Ayan says: You're not alone, mate. I see so many guys with similar problems.

We always want to rule out physical causes first, so that means: knocking booze and fags on the head, increasing your amount of aerobic exercise, making sure your blood pressure is normal, ensuring that you're not overweight or diabetic. I'm assuming you've done all this. If you haven't, you need to address this before anything else - even if it is only two pints a night or five fags a day - it really can make a massive difference to some people.

Then we look at the psychological side of things. Are you under huge stress? Did you have any difficult sexual experiences? Are there things from your youth that may be affecting your sexual performance or confidence? This is all a bit touchy-feely, but can only be explored through psychosexual counselling which is generally very useful. The therapist - sorry for the Americanism - will carefully listen to the words you use, listen to your story and delve deeper into any issues that may arise or be relevant.

Usually, these 'issues' are beyond your own conscious realm of understanding. A case I remember hearing about years ago was about a young athlete who just could not stay erect or ejaculate when he was with any of his many partners over the years. It turned out, after some therapy sessions, that he had a disabled brother who died when he was a child and that subconcsiously he was 'withholding' his sperm in case he created a sick child. Once he'd acknowledged this, his problem disappeared.

There's no way you can get to the bottom of this kind of thing in just one GP consultation, as the issues are so deeply buried in the back of the mind. If you go through the counselling and there's STILL no joy, then you can try other drugs or even try surgery as a last resort but give the counselling a go - it may change your life.

'Mr Sex' says: Well, I can't really add much to that, apart from addressing your partner. Seriously, and in the nicest way possible, what the fuck is up with her? Does she not want a seeing-to off you, then? While I totally understand the reticence of certain people to get counselling for relationship issues, I think she's being well unfair to you here. After all, you have gone to great pains to point out that it's your problem, it's a problem that has fucked over other relationships in the past, and you don't want it to fuck up this one.

It's pretty obvious that you are asking for her support and nothing else, and if she's not prepared to give it up - whether she goes with you or steps back and gives you the time to do what you need to do to get over - then unfortunately she's another obstacle in the way. Harsh, but true. And yes, this cuts both ways - plenty of men assume that a long-seated sexual problem that their partner is going through is something to do with them, and it'll be their sexual performance that'll be up for scrutiny, the sucky sods.

My advice? Listen to Dr.A.

Readers of TT: comment!

Normal Service Shall Be Resumed Shortly

Er, yes. Apologies for letting go of the reins of the Unstoppable Sex-Horse, me dears - Sam has been busy picking his way along the path of recovery, while 'Mr Sex' has been unavoidably detained. Sit tight. Back very soon. Promise.

(image courtesy of the wonderfully twisted Rob White, illustrator extraordinaire and occasional colleague of 'Mr Sex'. Check his website out, it's mental)

Sam: You know you're getting better when...

When I first came out of surgery and was in recovery, one of my best friends came to see me. He asked me how I was, and apparently all I could say was "ARRRGGGHEEERRRUUUUGHHHHH".

The other day, I spent 47 minutes on the line to a bureaucrat who kept asking the same questions over and over because apparently the system was broken. I had to really bite my tongue and stop myself from saying; "Yes, I fucking know the system is broken".

The reason I was on the phone for that long was to apply for a programme that will help me get back to work and provide the assistance I need, but good Lord - expecting someone who's disabled to spend 47 minutes on the phone is ridiculous. But when you can get through an ordeal like that, you know you're getting better.

As opposed to; "ARRRGGGHEEERRRUUUUGHHHHH".

'Mr Sex' sees the writing on the wall

A Young Friend of 'Mr Sex' regaled me over the weekend with information about the house she's just purchased, but unlike every other story I've ever heard from someone whose just bought a house, it's actually interesting.

Before I relay it to you, a minor proviso; we were both pissed up when the tale was told, so my recollection may be a little shaky - but the main point is absolutely, unquestionably true. I have pictorial evidence.

Now then, said mate purchased the house from a couple in their seventies; a chap called Tony, and a lady whose name I didn't catch, unfortunately. They'd been there for nigh on 40 years, and the house was in good nick, although a bit chintzy. So, when she got settled in, she got on with the job of availing the walls of manky 70s wallpaper, with a view to putting up something that someone else would find disgusting and dated sometime in 2041.

Whilst removing three layers of wallpaper, she chanced upon the following letters;

I L

Awr, she thought, trying to imagine Tony and his new bride moving in at the start of their married life, picturing him tucking his kipper tie into his Bri-Nylon tangerine shirt to avoid splash-back as he proclaimed his love for his True Intended, waiting to see shards of unadulterated glee explode from her little face when she came home from work and saw it. Then she scraped back a little bit more;

I LIKE

Hm. That's a tad noncommittal, isn't it? But no matter; gripped with an almost religious fervour to discover the hidden message, just like that scene in The Da Vinci Code - even though I've not seen it, but I bet there's one anyway - she set about the wall with the scraper until every shred was removed.

This is what she discovered. Round about the same time that the Americans left a plaque on the surface of the moon, this is what someone in my home town had similarly hewn for future generations to discover and ponder the meaning of. This is what my mate has to stare at until she gets the right wallpaper sorted out.



Naturally, there's been ramifications. For one, my mate absolutely dreads the approach of workmen to her door, and is shitting bricks that one of them will be called Tony and will think she's trying to tell him something. Even worse, Tony's missus has found out, courtesy of a neighbour who still knows her, and it's safe to say that Tony is in for some shit. Possibly because it's taken her this long to find out, when it's too late to do anything about it.

Personally, my sympathies are completely with Tone. Being the romantic that I am, I choose to see him as a crusader for the sanctity of the female orgasm, stuck in a dark age when cunnilingus was considered as something that only depraved women would want and even more depraved men would offer, unleashing his inner turmoil with a passionately anguished flourish of erotic samizdat. Because if I don't think that, I'm led to the more prosaic conclusion that he'd been working through a crate of brown ale and flicking through a copy of Titbits while his missus was at the bingo, and it was all too much for him. And I don't want to think about that.

So, lovely readers of TT - what disgusting filth have you secreted for future generations (and possibly aliens) to discover? I'll be the first to confess; there are more than a few drawings of cocks with all spunk coming out them in the lift shaft of the TK Maxx in the Broadmarsh Centre attributed to me, when I was a lift boy and it was a Co-Op. There. I feel much better. Your turn.

(Oh, and Tony, if you're reading this - why didn't you rely on Manbits to get you out of this awful situation? I would have advised you to style your way out of it by telling the wife that you were only expressing your love for Fannetone, a made-up pasta dish that came in a packet in the early 70s...)

Dan: Flyering Low

Being the director of a company should have gravitas, should come with power and should drip with respectability. A live events production company no less, a funky business that deals in comedy, live music…you know, fun stuff, with cool people who wear massive sunglasses that hide the dark circles from the coke-fuelled parties the night before.

In reality, I spent yesterday handing out flyers for an event we’re running in Madame JoJo’s in Soho and getting ignored. By far the worst were the looks of utter disgust from office girls – you try offering a flyer to a girl dressed in work clothes and looking all ‘pouty’, and see what reaction you get. One pair of girls actually laughed at me, with one saying as she walked past, "obviously can’t get a real job" which I felt was rather…well, nasty.

It’s funny as well, because the traits a lot of women like (or seem to) involve hard-working, dedicated and outgoing types, not forgetting GSOH. Lets look at the evidence here: I run my own company, I’ll do whatever it takes to make stuff work including flyering or dressing up, and I do my own stand-up comedy during the week. I’m all over those qualities, surely – and also, I'm flyering for a charity event with five major UK charities being represented (RNLI, Teenage Cancer Trust, Oxfam, Centrepoint and International Medical Corps) so I’m giving too! Although I confess the phrase ‘kill two birds with one stone’ popped into my head. But there was no loose masonry nearby.

It always gets my goat when people dismiss others – especially when it’s me!

Anyhow, if any of you lovely readers would like to come down tonight, all the details are here at www.crowntheclown.com - and if you turn up on the door mentioning 'Todger Talk you can have the £8 price usually reserved for those who book on-line. All the door takings are donated to charity so you can have a good laugh and give something.

Manbits and Something For The Ladies

OK, the good ship Todger Talk is slowly coming back together, but you may have noticed that our advice sections - Manbits and Something For The Ladies - have gone a bit AWOL. I can only surmise that either;

a) all our readers are in completely brilliant relationships

or;

b) you need a gentle reminder/kick up the arse.

So, once again...

Ladies: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. And chaps; If you're male, and you want a bit of advice on your sexy, sexy mither, drop us an e-mail at - you guessed it - todger dot talk at googlemail dot com.

As a treat - or possibly punishment - here's a lovely video Dan came across when he was dossing about through YouTube the other day. God knows what he put in the search engine to get this, but it's nice to see that someone in Prague is Thinking Of The Children;

'Mr Sex' watches smoke leave his lips and fill an empty room

Readers of TT may be pleased to hear that while Sam's inner cynic has died, mine has been ripped from the grave, reassembled itself like Terminator 2, and is currently lurching around and scaring kiddies, utterly impervious to bullets and guided missiles.

Long story short; for more years than I dare admit, I have been wondering with creeping dread about how I would react when my ex - the woman who I consider to be the love of my life, the first and only I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you, I-can't-wait-for-you-to-meet-my-Mam-and-Dad, when-are-we-having-kids partner, the one I still dream about and tell friends never to mention in my presence, the one who it still feels like I'm cheating on whenever I'm with someone else, the one who... fuck it, THE ONE, full stop - got married. I have spent an embarrassingly huge chunk of my adult life with a self-imposed gun to my head, waiting for the bullet to strike.

Said bullet arrived six weeks ago, approximately 110 pixels tall by 200 pixels wide, due to an accidental click of a mutual friend's Facebook profile and saw a thumbnail I could have done without seeing. So that's it. The door - that was slammed, locked and bolted a long time ago - has now had a lorry-load of wet concrete deposited against it. There is absolutely no coming back from this one, even though I knew there never was.

So, this is how it feels;

1. You feel numb as fuck.

2. Then, you have a million questions, even though you know that the answer to any of them would be like a knife in the chest. What song did they dance to? (was it something I introduced to her?) Was her Mam happy? (I hope so - I miss her almost as much as I miss her daughter) Did her Dad (who never liked me) lump me in with the abusive shitbags she went out with before and after me in his speech? Did I cross the mind of anyone there who knew me?

3. (The one question you don't need to ask, of course, is 'Who did she get married to?'. Because it doesn’t matter. There's only one proper answer to that; 'Not me')

4. Then you want to thank all those mates there for not telling you beforehand, as you don't want to think about what you would have done that day if you'd have known.

5. Then, when its sunk in, you refuse to talk about it, for fear that 'Yeah, I heard my ex got married' will come out as 'Oh, by the way, I really fucked everything up, did you know?'

6. Then, you resist the urge to mentally lacerate yourself by playing this, this, this and especially this.

7. Then, when some semblance of lucidity returns, you calmly and rationally despise the world and everything in it. And then, through a process of elimination, you whittle that number right down to one; yourself.

8. Then you feel the urge to apologise to every girlfriend you’ve had since, for pissing them about and letting them go because – despite the fact that they were all attractive, intelligent, considerate and understanding – they all committed the crime of Not Being Her.

9. Then you feel the urge to apologise to every one of your mates who went from one relationship straight into a better one, as you realise that, no, they weren’t being heartless bastards while you were keeping the faith – they were behaving like grown-ups while you were continuing to be a hopelessly naïve martyr.

10. Then, you let on to your friends why you’re being such a horrible, pinch-faced shitbag, and try to accept their sympathy with as much grace as possible, even though none of then could ever understand your predicament because what you’re going through has never been experienced by anyone else, ever. And you bite your tongue when they try to cheer you up with videos of fat dads dancing really badly, not realising that every clip is set at a wedding reception (it made me laugh, though).

11. Then you don’t feel like updating your sex and relationship blog for ages, because you don’t want to think about either. Ahem.

12. Then you write a massively rambling post, stating that you’ve finally realised that you can’t live in the past, what you had is gone forever, it’s never coming back, and you know that. Yes, you’re still numb, and you know that one night - when the beer’s been consumed and someone says the wrong thing or the wrong song comes on - it’s going to properly hit home with an outburst of remorse and regret and snot, but at the end of the day, there’s still time to find what you really want, the world is rammed out with amazingly brilliant women who could make you happy, so you’re going to have to remove the crushing weight of your past, get hold of one and do it right this time.

13. Then you start worrying about how you're going to react when you hear she has a kid.

Sam: Death of a Cynic

Before my stroke, my view of human nature was pretty hard-nosed and cynical. Essentially, I was sure we were all just self-interested animals, only focused on eating, fucking, carving out territory and then protecting that territory and our own self-interest.

I survived my stroke, but strangely my cynic has died. In leaving hospital, I have been astounded at the incredible kindness shown to me by so many of my family and friends, particularly my mother and father-in-law, who have come and helped out with my recovery literally every other day and some of my very loyal friends, who have slept over when times are hard and spent days on end “working from home”, which really meant running around catering for my little needs during the day. And my extraordinary soon- to-be-wife, who has been a mixture of Wonderwoman and Supergirl, being incredibly loyal, loving, seemingly indefatigable. And many members of my own family overseas, including my mother who came all the way from Australia to visit me. And my stepfather whose wise words and steady character have helped keep me on course. Enough American-style gushy sentimentality!

My new view of the world adheres more with that of one of my great intellectual icons, Desmond Morris, who still says we are all animals, but that we are programmed to want to co-operate and help other members of our own species. Our brains are rewarded when we help other members of our own tribe.

A huge thank you must go to Mr Sex, who has pretty much single-handedly kept Todger Talk alive, kicking and thriving. So dear readers, in the comments section, can you please lavish your appreciation on Mr Sex.

And lady readers, if you live within commuting distance of Nottingham and you fancy lavishing more than words or you would like to make his next visit to London more exciting, please remember that Mr Sex is that rarest of men: he is single, can make you laugh, can talk about his emotions openly and his first published book was nothing less than ‘The Going Down guide’. I mean, ladies, what more could you want in a man? You can contact him through his blogger profile…

Sam: Not Such Morning Glory

Morning Glory - the circumstance whereupon a man wakes up with an erection - is something that every man should celebrate. Because it means that his penis is still working. I've just discovered in hospital, unfortunately, that there is little glory attached to it. At all.

There are various disadvantages, because at a cetain point a nurse will come along and require you to pee into a bottle. Have you ever tried to put an erect penis into a bottle and peeing into it? It's very, very difficult. And that's not even including the embarassment of greeting your first nurse of the morning with a good (or even feeble) erection. My tip - wait until it's died down a bit before even thinking of summoning anyone to your bedside.

Now I'm out of hospital, I'm more grateful of my Morning Glory than ever before. And gentlemen of the world, so should you be. Of yours, that is. Not mine.

Dan: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…

(...and especially an insecure woman who thinks she’s been scorned)

Forgive me for being silent for so long. I’ve been so busy I’ve barely had time for eating and sleeping. While thoughts of sex have never been far from my mind, they’ve not had a hugely thoughtful edge to them. I didn’t think six paragraphs of ‘I want some, I want some, I want some, I want some, I want some’, would be particularly interesting reading for you.

I was treated to an interesting display of ‘female scratch-cattery’ the other week during a meeting that turned into a bit of a night out. I’m doing some work with a friend – lets call him Pete – on a new charity comedy night. After the meeting finished, we met up with his girlfriend, a mutual female friend of ours and a few others who joined us later.

This mutual friend is lovely – good looking, husky voice and interesting with a brilliant sense of humour. She is also a natural flirt. Guys who first meet her usually think she fancies them because during conversations she will touch you on the wrist or shoulder, sometimes even your leg. She never seems bored of what you’re saying, always asking more questions to learn more – smiling as she does so.

(A pet peeve of mine is people who can’t hold conversations, and in my experience, a lot of people can’t. Ever had that situation where you ask somebody something; they answer for about five minutes while you nod looking interested; and then they just let the conversation die by not asking you something in return?)

In short, she is very engaging and so you want to engage with her in return. She buys drinks for people too - not standing on outdated etiquettes. All this – coupled with lovely eyes and a winning smile – mean sex appeal radiates from this girl like a shockwaves from an earthquake.
It also means that any girl who happens not to know her doesn’t realise she is happily in a relationship and sooooo not interested in that girl’s boyfriend, and therefore loathe her instantly and instinctively. I’ve seen it several times – it’s almost comic.

Ladies have a sixth sense for threat, I think, and evidently Pete’s girlfriend felt threatened because she did the ‘anti-vaginal magnet hug’. You’ve all seen this before – usually between two girls who know each other but don’t like each other – they hug, pretending to like each other for the benefit of everybody else in the group.

But if you look at the hug, it’s like their pelvises have strongly opposing magnets in them so the only parts that get remotely close are the head and arms, so they briefly resemble an inverted ‘v’. If you haven’t seen it, watch out for it – any time there is a power struggle in a group of women that hug is evident, as neither lady wants to be seen as the ‘bitch’ in the group.

Anyhow, so there we were, everybody laughing and joking. We all ended up back at my mate’s flat for a few drinks and then the mutual friend makes her excuses and leaves. So far, I’ve not really spotted any issues during the night - people have all been chatting, and conversations have been flowing like expenses cash into Hazel Blears’s bank account.

But almost as soon as the front door closed, my mate’s girlfriend kicked off worse than Drogba on a diving course, accusing my friend of carrying on and practically fucking this girl on the coffee table.

‘You’re such a dick… how dare you? – you know what you’ve done! blah blah, yadda yadda, call me a taxi now you pig, I’m going to sleep at mine tonight!’ (A really stupid tactic, it seems to me, if you are actually worried about losing your boyfriend to another woman).

Jealousy is a pretty ugly thing when rendered in such stark and obvious form (whichever sex is the one on the jealous spree – and guys defiantly do it too!). Pete was perplexed because he and I had spent most of the evening chatting about business (very dull of us) and the rest talking with the other people who had joined us later. At no time had Pete’s girlfriend taken him to one side and simply asked him about any perceived over familiarity. In the end, her reaction just made her look ridiculous and monstrously insecure.

All this after Pete has told me he and his lady had discussed marriage. God forbid the bridesmaids are even remotely attractive, because somebody might get injured. Can you stab somebody with a bouquet?

'Mr Sex' (and Any Major Dude With Half A Heart): Songs for the Dumped

So do you want another example as to why women have a far easier time with relationship issues than men? Go to the karaoke, and I guaran-damn-tee you that there will be at least one woman making a dog’s arse out of I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor, proclaiming to the world that she’s finally over that twatty ex and is a strong, independent woman who won’t be held down by rubbish blokes ever again (before ruining the effect by going off for a crying jag in the toilets or clamping herself to some random Jeremy Kyle guest in a Lonsdale top).

All well and good. But what about those of us who have penises? Where’s our I Will Survive – songs that allow ourselves to roar with pride that we’re not being dicked about by exes anymore and have moved on with grace and dignity without resorting to outright misogyny (whilst simultaneously letting the female population of the pub be aware of the fact that they can queue up for a portion)?

Having been kept awake for ages at night going through the Guinness Book of Hit Singles of my mind, I finally snapped and sent out the Sex-Signal to my esteemed musical blog-chum, the amazingly brilliant Any Major Dude With Half A Heart, asking him to come up with five tunes men could fall back on. Not only has he come up with ten, he’s also got them ready for download (and he whipped the best ones, as he’s a thousand times more organised than I). His ten are here, mine are below – but first, please be aware of the following provisos;

1) This list is written under the assumption that the bloke running the karaoke has a ludicrously eclectic range of songs, and not just the usual rubbish.

2) It’s also written under the assumption that said karaoke is not rammed with the usual bumfluff-‘tached Oompah-Loompahs who want to do fucking Angels, or the mad old trout who demands to sing Crazy at least seven times.

3) It’s really, really hard to find male versions of I Will Survive, as you will soon discover. Most of the songs I’ve settled on don’t quite match the sentiments of the former – and some of them are not the most right-on in tone - but they all manage to carry off the impressive feat of sounding triumphant in defeat.

4) I reserve the right to swear a lot when you come up with glaringly obvious suggestions that are miles better than mine.

AMDWHAH’s Top Ten

Ben Folds Five – Song For The Dumped

Song For The Dumped really is the national anthem of embittered dumpees. Ben Folds has been discarded with pitiless diplomacy: “So you wanted to take a break, slow it down some and have some space…” He stood no chance; you can’t argue yourself out of that one. How would you respond? And how would you like to respond. Probably like Folds: “Well, fuck you too.” Less than considerate? Perhaps. But, man, he had just BOUGHT HER DINNER. Now he wants his money back, “and don’t forget to give me back my black T-shirt”. Yeah! Give him back the black T-shirt! The new girlfriend is getting cold!


Tom Waits – Who Are You

Ben Folds wants to her to give back the T-shirt; Waits wants her to TAKE BACK what she gave him: lies. And he’s only getting started in what might be the greatest fuck-off song from the male perspective. “Did my time – in the jail of your arms.” Oooh! “Go on ahead and take this the wrong way, time’s not your friend.” Ouch! “Are you pretending to love? Well, I hear that it pays well.” Oooof!


Godsmack – I Fucking Hate You

It is fair to say that Godsmack’s repertoire of scathing zingers is rather more slender than that of Waits and they do lack Ben Folds cutting drollness, but they sing from the heart. Not only was that horrid ex apparently lying to Mr Smack, but she also impugned his good character (and we must trust that his integrity was entirely unimpeachable before), as the lyric suggest: “And every day I’m gonna blame you, even if you justify every fuckin’ bullshit lie…it only makes me want to break you.” Inarticulation often accompanies a broken heart, which might explain the lyrical descend to the levels subsequently occupied by Paris Hilton on her excursion into the world of popular music: “Don’t ever look my way. Don’t even think I’m playin’, cause I fuckin’ hate you. You’re such a liar; I love to hate you” (punctuation is mine; as conceived by the lyricist, none might have been intended). And with that out of the way, we can finally deliberate on the heart of the song: “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” And why not? Sometimes that is all that needs to be said.


Justin Timberlake – Cry Me A River

The song apparently was a riposte to Britney Spears’ alleged infidelity. Likewise, our notional karaoke singer might have been the blameless party in a split generated by a betrayal. He might have done the dumping, but the betrayal was hers. Either way, the relationship is over, no matter how much she begs. “Girl I refuse, you must have me confused with some other guy. Your bridges were burned, and now it’s your turn to cry, cry me a river.” The sentiment, of course, borrows from a much greater song by the same title. That one is more commonly sung by women (best heard in Julie London’s version).


Hank Williams – Your Cheating Heart

Where Timberlake is piqued over Britn… the girl’s infidelity, Hank Williams (the first one, not the McCain-lovin’ son) navigates the byways of false empathy as he sketches out what emotional turmoil awaits the indiscreet ex. “Your cheatin’ heart will make you weep. You’ll cry and cry and try to sleep.” Just reward for cheating on the doubtless scrupulously faithful Hank. Of course Hank may just be hoping or projecting; the girl might well be pleased to be rid of him, and perhaps with good reason. But just in case she isn’t, he adds: “You’ll toss around and call my name.” And wouldn’t that just settle the score?


Lou Rawls - You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine

Where Hank Williams wishes psychological suffering upon his ex, Lou is more sanguine about love lost — and he can afford to be, since he was only rejected, not cheated upon. His cheer obviously is a mask: when he says she won’t ever find anyone as good as him, he is bathed in anguish, and not making an intrepid foray into the dark art of divination, his rebuff of “ifs and buts and maybes” notwithstanding. He’s not “bragging on myself, baby”; it’s just inconceivable that anyone can love her as tenderly and completely as he has. She’ll regret rejecting him. “Late in the midnight hour, baby — you’re gonna miss my lovin’. When it’s cold outside — you’re gonna miss my lovin’.” His whoa-whoas serve to underline the hopeful taunt. He’ll get over her in good time, and when she realises what she has lost, it’ll be too late. Take that, you wretched waster of good love!

Any rejected fool in love will know precisely what Lou is talking about. Twenty years ago, I was such a fool, suffering from unrequited love, a distressing case of frienditis, with Elizabeth (not necessarily her real name). One night at a club, You’ll Never Find... came on. While she was dancing with some random other, I whispered to my friend: “And I dedicate this song to Elizabeth.” Our mutual friend emphatically agreed with the sentiment. Well, Elizabeth just didn’t love me that way. The way she did love me was expressed by ramming a stake through my heart while cackling viciously like a particularly sinister witch in Macbeth as portrayed by an overacting diva as she told me that we should just be friends. I recently caught up with Elizabeth. She is happily married to a nice man who clearly adores her, and she him. So Lou proved to be less than prescient. But at the time, his anthem of defiant self-validation in which she, not he, was the big loser helped to shake the heavy dust of lovelorn despondency off my shoulders. And within only a year and a half, I was even over her…


Whitesnake – Here I Go Again

Some men are accumulating experience at being dumped, much like our present friend as he goes again here. He won’t waste much time mourning the old relationship. In karaoke mode, he is proclaiming himself ready to be swept off his feet by the next knightess in shining lycra. And what woman of compassionate spirit would fail to give the man a chance when he philosophies: “I’m just another heart in need of rescue, waiting on love’s sweet charity. And I’m gonna hold on for the rest of my days, ’cos I know what it means to walk along the lonely street of dreams.” Sure, the poetry is risible, but he probably will get laid tonight.


Garth Brooks – Friends In Low Places

Being dumped for reasons of economic class just isn’t right-on. But this is what has happened to Garth Brooks (or the song’s first-person protagonist). He confronts her for a final time on her wedding day. And as he might in the rejected script for a rom-com, Brooks trespasses on the nuptials in his cowboy boots (and perhaps a 12 gallon Stetson), intimidates the alarmed groom, and tells the bride that he’s down with her new life — as turning up uninvited to an ex’s wedding invariably communicates. “I toasted you, said, ‘honey, we may be through’, but you’ll never hear me complain.” With bravado he celebrates having found refuge in drink among the flies at his local bar (here we imagine a joint where Achy Breaky Heart commands respect) populated by the cohort of low social expectations in the title. Brooks is, as we and his ex can guess, fooling himself. But at least he can get in a little dig as he makes his declaration of emotional independence: “Hey, I didn’t mean to cause a big scene. Just give me an hour and then…well, I’ll be as high as that ivory tower that you’re livin’ in.” At which point his lowly-placed pals join in the rousing, presumably alcohol-fuelled chorus.


Prefab Sprout – When Love Breaks Down

The dumped karaoke song for the more introspective, analytical man. It isn’t even clear yet that he has been dumped, or that the relationship is over. But our hero is already making plans for that eventuality, which he seems to regard as virtually inevitable. So, what happens when love breaks down? Firstly, you stop the truth from hurting you. Secondly, you lie to yourself (as some of our friends in the preceding songs have done). Thirdly, “you join the wrecks who leave their hearts for easy sex”. Which is why we are presently singing karaoke songs about failed relationship in a bar populated with women in first place.


New York City – I’m Doing Fine Now

At the beginning of the post I flagged Ben Folds Five’s Song For The Dumped as the national anthem for the dumped, but the real song of recovery, of liberation from the cast irons of a broken heart, is this glorious soul number from 1973. The protagonist is at a more advanced stage of recovery than our notional karaokist, but projecting an aspirational confidence that happiness will return with a new love certainly would do no damage to the prospect of getting laid or, depending on your temperament, strike up a rewarding relationship with a very nice girl. The opening verse updates us comprehensively: “Remember the day you up and left? I nearly cried myself to death, oh yeah. And then I met someone else. She made me stop and get a-hold of myself.” And here comes the taunt: “Oh girl, I’m doin’ fine now, without you, baby.” Repeated often enough to drive home the message: what the hell was I doing tormenting myself over you for?


‘Mr Sex’’s Top Ten

Iron Man – Black Sabbath

This song might sound like a big metal robot getting ready to kick the world’s face in, but don’t be fooled – the sentiments are as close as it gets to the male version of IWS. Ignore the rammell about being turned to steel in the great magnetic field – that’s Ozzy trying to say that he’s been chucked by a bird without his mates twigging and taking the piss out of him. Perfectly male sentiments, too – while Gloria gets over her ex by finding someone better, Ozzy can only purge his feelings of rejection by pretending to be 100 feet tall and putting his metal Doc Martens through a building. Because we’ve all thought that, haven’t we, chaps?

By The Time I Get To Phoenix – Isaac Hayes

And yes, it has to be the full Isaac Hayes version. While Glen Campbell sounds like a deadbeat Dad making a midnight flit with a barmaid half his age, Black Moses takes the time to explain that his ex was a right slapper who made him work triple-time so she could get her nails done, and only now does she realise how mint he is, ha ha. Problem is, he takes eleven minutes to lay this all out before he sings note number one, so you’re going to have to work your arse off to prevent a bum-rush by the woman desperate to sing fucking Crazy again and a hail of empty WKD bottles. Wearing a dressing gown made of gold chains might help.


Say Hello, Wave Goodbye – Soft Cell

Marc Almond might not be the most aggressively masculine singer in this list (and the opening line forces you to state that a) you’ve had a bit of a roar and b) you knock about in a pub called The Pink Flamingo), but don’t let that put you off, because the glee with which he lays into his rubbish ex is a joy to behold. Bonus points for the subtle allusion that you’re after a ‘nice little housewife’, as the pub will be full of ‘em. I’d mention the David Gray version, but I’d rather not, as I’ve never heard it.


Who’s Gonna Take The Blame – Smokey Robinson and the Miracles

Poor old Smokey seems to have spent the vast majority of his life being pissed about by women, but he clocked what the girl in this song was all about ages ago; a window-smashing, abusive cow who needed getting shot of. Naturally, said harridan becomes a ‘woman of the street’. Smokey charitably alludes that he tried his best, but he’s bragging, really. Moral – you’re going to end up having sex for money in graveyards for dumping me, you rotten cow.


Stone Free – Jimi Hendrix

It was either this or Roadrunner by Junior Walker and the All-Stars, because the sentiments are the same: I’m single because I go round the country (possibly as a sales rep), I can’t be doing with women putting me in a plastic cage (by making me stay in and watch Strictly Come Dancing), and I’m a wild spirit who needs to live his life the way he needs to, in order to be spiritually fulfilled (by downloading porn torrents, watching back-to-back episodes of Top Gear, and playing Football Manager until 3am next to a stack of pizza boxes).


Devil Woman – Cliff Richard

The standard get-out clause for any dumped male: She Was Mental. And Cliff (who has allegedly not had it off since rationing was stopped in the UK) is in full-on warning mode about his ex, who sounds a bit like that cat-woman in Conan The Barbarian who turns into a ball of flame after that romp in the cave, advising any other bloke sniffing around to LEG IT. Whilst subtly bragging that he’s been there, of course.


Get Out My Life Woman – Lee Dorsey

As you’ve noticed, the tone is changing very quickly from ‘I will grow stronger without you’ to ‘Oh, bollocks to you, then’. And this is probably the most elegant, understated OBTYT I’ve ever come across.


Jilted John – Jilted John

The most joyous, cathartic, triumphant I’ve-been-dumped song ever. She is a slag. And he’s a creep. She is a tart. He’s very cheap. She is a slut. He think’s he’s tough. She is a bitch. He is a puff.

(and Kid Jensen can shut his gob in that video, the cheeky bastard).


Fuck Off – Wayne County and the Electric Chairs

Say no more. But be aware the singer in question ended up having a sex change. There's getting over someone, and getting over someone.


I Will Survive – Cake

Sod it, why not? 99.99999% of songs don’t have genitals, and the ones that do can easily be operated on.

So what have we missed, then?

(and for more AMDWHAH musings of music and love, click here)