Tuesday, 31 March 2009

Here's your Sam Update

Ahoy hoy. 'Mr Sex' here, apologising for the lack of postage over the past week (other shit to do, alas), but more importantly, updating you on my sex partner (but not in that sense) Sam, as I had a natter on the phone with him the other day.

The fact of the matter is, Sam had a massive stroke at the beginning of the month and was nearly taken away from us and spirited off to Sexpert Heaven, where the clouds are made of fishnet and the angels pluck at dildos and talk about anal masturbation techniques all the livelong day. (actually, no joking on this - he had an extremely lucky escape)

The good news is that the man is making a very rapid recovery and is starting to walk about and get to grips with all the everyday stuff we take for granted - he asked me to tell you that you wouldn't believe what a luxury showering alone can be until you've had a stroke. He also said that he is exceedingly grateful to his lady friend and her mates.

The absolutely brilliant news is that all being well, he'll be checking out of hospital in the next two weeks, and we're putting together a plan of action so he can be hitting you off with Samly advice as soon as he's ready to. It's gonna be a while before he's back on proper form, so sit tight and keep sending those good vibes in his direction.

Thank you,

'Mr Sex'

Tuesday, 24 March 2009

'Mr Sex' Despairs at the Youth of Today

If there are any youngsters reading this blog (and seeing as there are no pictures of fannies, God knows why there would be), I'd like them to pull their trousers up from around the bottom of their arses, brush their twatty Emo fringes out of their eyes, and listen to Uncle Sex. Because standards are dropping considerably.

Let's start with graffiti. Once upon a time, upon the bus shelters and subways of my homeland, erotic creativity bloomed. My generation made statements about the world and where it was heading by drawing big cocks with all spunk coming out of them, disembodied tits (usually annotated with an arrow pointing to them, that helpfully said 'TITS'), ridiculously hairy fannies, and arses with turds dangling out of them.

These masterpieces had a threefold purpose; they linked directly to the very dawn of Humankind with their earthy sensuality. They captured the local zeitgeist ('TABBY FINGERED KAZ ERE, 7/8/82'), and they made statements about where the world was heading (generally, they predicted that we were going to be overrun by massive cocks).

Here's just an example; there was an outstanding poem that was on the wall of the subway between my school and the shopping precinct for years that was set to the tune of the Cadbury's Fudge advert that went like this;
A finger of Fudge is just enough
To give yourself a frill
A finger of fudge is just enough
So stick it up your grill*
And underneath, the footnote;
*Grill = Fanny
Fast forward a couple of decades, and the once-timeless motif known as the Big Cock With All Spunk Coming Out Of It appears to have fallen by the wayside, replaced my mouth-breathing GangstaTwats writing their fucking stupid made-up name that no-one can even read, over and over and over again. And I wondered why it had disappeared. I thought it must have been because today's youth probably have a more mature, responsible attitude to genitals, or they're far more blase about sex than we were.

But then I read this news story, and realised the truth: it's because they're fucking shit. Look;

Seriously...what the fuck is that supposed to be? A bomb? A torpedo? Because I can tell you what it's isn't: a COCK. What's going on with the bollocks/shaft scaling? Where are the hairs on the bollocks (minimum three per testicle, maximum five)? Is that supposed to be a piss-hole? And where's the spunk? WHERE IS THE SPUNK?

(and yeah, on first reflection you'd say that you'd have to admire his cheek, but when you find out that it's his own house, and therefore he had all the time in the world to get it right, it's not at all impressive

His dad is now saying that he's going to be made to clean it off when he gets back from traveling, which means we now know where the son gets his fuckwittedness from. If he was any lad of mine, the following would happen;

1. He'd get my hand across his face.

2. He'd be made to clean it off.

3. Then he'd be made to do it again, but properly.

4. He'd be made to take a letter to school that read; 'Dear Headmaster, my son is a mouth-breathing bell-end, and I blame your school for it. I demand that you keep him back at school to look at pictures of big cocks for the next term, and announce this in assembly'.

You might think I'm overreacting on this, but you know I'm right. Yes, I believe that children are the future, but I also believe that if a person can't draw their own genitals properly, that person has absolutely no right to possess any.

Monday, 23 March 2009

Danonymous Dan: Snot The Fuck?

Staring at the sun is a stupid thing to do, because you’ll go blind. I am of course talking about goggling into the real ball of flames in the sky, not newspaper-induced Page Three masturbatory blindness.

The body has various options at its disposal to stop a person looking directly at the sun. You’ll feel pain, dizziness and - of course - you’ll sneeze like a bastard, which generally forces you to shut your eyes and look downward away from our friendly hat-wearing Mr. Sun.

There is a clear benefit to a reflex mechanism for saving the sight of idiots, but what the hell is the benefit of sneezing when thinking of sex?

If I think sexy-time thoughts, the type of thoughts that would make Southern Baptist ministers attempt an exorcism, I start to sneeze. Massive, great fucking embarrassing sneezes. It comes at the worst times. I could be sexily kissing my way down towards a lady’s lovely love lips, or perhaps watching as she undresses with my mind racing over the racy possibilities, and suddenly one of those ‘in-out-pre-sneeze-but-can’t-quite-sneeze’ things will start up.

Irritatingly, I have to then concentrate on stifling the sneezes – yes, plural – as stealthily as possible and hope she doesn’t realise what I’m doing. Yes, theoretically I could just stop and ask for a tissue before she’s even touched my nob, but blasting out your brain fluid does kill the mood - and it’s a bad idea to release your nasal ejaculate mid-muff-munch.

I noticed the phenomenon when I was in my early 20’s. Strange, because if it were a ‘nerves’ thing then I would have expected it to manifest itself earlier when I was much less sexually confident and mature.

Something somewhere in me is broken or cross-wired. If there is a Creator, then he’s lazy! (We know this to be true because he’s only ever worked for a week, not even whole one either as he had rest on the last day - sounds to me a like somebody from a temping agency). They say everybody is given a talent in life – what if this is mine? What if my talent is to sneeze all over ladies’ naked bodies while thinking about what I want to do to them and them to do to me? Is there a fetish for snot?

Up till around mid-December I thought this was a problem that I suffered from alone but then I saw this article and I sneezed for joy! I am exaggerating my issues a little for comic effect here; luckily mine is not as pronounced as the chap whose condition caused the Doctor to start doing this research. Mine appears to happen sporadically and in relation to two specific situations. Firstly, when thinking about stuff that I don’t normally do and am about to try or want to, and secondly, when I am in polite surroundings and allow my mind to wonder on to the topic of things wet and carnal.

My girlfriend just finds the whole thing quite funny, thankfully –it provides a fairly unmistakable sign that I’m enjoying what she’s doing.

Sunday, 22 March 2009

'Mr Sex', on Mothers Day

If I were to count the ways as to how skill my Mam is, we'd be here all millennium. I could go on about how she absolutely excels at all things Mamly. I could write reams and reams about the charitable stuff she does for people on her estate off her own bat. And I could tell you about the time she pulled a bra out of a dog's arse, while everyone else on the street watched (she doesn't know if the dog had eaten the bra, or some disaffected youths had shoved the bra up the dog's arse - I'm guessing the latter, because there's some right twattish kids knocking about round here).

But seeing as this is a sex blog, I'll pick out one example in particular; when I was 15, and had got hold of my first wank mag, after a flurry of trading negotiations that involved £1.50 and a bag of nicked lead figures from Games Workshop (Men Only, circa 1983: there was this one girl in it called April, who had long brown hair, eyes you wanted to swim in like a baby seal, and a long string of pearls. She had a telescope, and she liked to use it to watch other people shagging. Sorry to bore you, but you always fall in love with someone you see in your first wank mag).

I pegged it home with rapidly alternating feelings of excitement (because I was about to have my own nudey book for the first time), triumph (because it had took me ages to get hold of one), extreme guilt (because, well...y'know) and - bizarrely - melancholy (because it really felt like I was saying goodbye to my childhood, and I'd had a blinding one), with the mag burning a hole in my adidas holdall, only to run into me Mam. She seemed really pleased to see me. Really affectionate. Actually, too affectionate. At one point, she even said "Shall I get you some milk and cookies?" with a catch in her voice, like we were American or something. She had never, in my entire life, offered me milk and cookies, before or since.

I eventually went upstairs with a heavy heart, feeling absolutely mortified at the fact that her little lad was about to let his Mam down quite considerably. And then WANK WANK WANK WANK

Next morning, I woke up and had a bath before school. Whilst in the bath, I heard me Mam say ta-ra as she left for work. After I'd got dressed and went through my usual routine of playing Jam records dead loud, eating Toast Toppers and calling my sister a slag, I thought to myself; it's a quarter to nine. Hm. Better do me homework. Hm. No. Let's have a look at me wank mag instead. So I reached under the mattress.

I couldn't feel it.

I reached further. Then I lifted the mattress up. Then I lifted the mattress right up. Then I pulled the bed out. And then I thought, fucking hell, Mam's going to batter me, as she's only just made this bed while I was in the bath. And then I thought about what I'd just said. And then I looked at the bed. And then I reached over. And then I lifted the pillow.

And there it was.

I felt like those kids you read about in Take A Break, where their Mams wrap up a tin of Bostik and an empty crisp packet for Christmas to shock them out of glue-sniffing. And before I had time to scream, the phone rang.

It was her. She knew. She. Knew.

How the FUCK did she know?

After she had relayed the purpose of the call - to check that I was ready to leave for school, and confirmation that I hadn't burned the house down, thrown my sister through a window, etc - I couldn't hold it in any longer.


"WHY? What have you done?"

"Y'know...that magazine. I'm really sorry. I'll chuck it away"

"Oh, don't be so sucky. You're fifteen. You're old enough for that sort of thing"

"Er, OK"

"Now piss off to school, you prat"

"OK. Ta-ra, Mam"

And that was it. She could have called me a right dirty bastard and threaten to tell me Dad. She could have laid an enormous guilt trip on me about how those women were somebody else's daughters, sisters and Mams. She could have ripped the absolute piss out of me* and make feel about two inches high. But she didn't. She allowed me to make my own decisions, and draw my own conclusions. Nothing else was ever said about it.

And that, dear readers,
is just one reason why I love my Mam to death.

*although when I mentioned this to a friend the other night, she speculated that me Mam probably said; "Hey! I'm just going to ring Our Al up and take the piss out him. I found his first nudey book this morning" to her mates at the factory, and made pointy gestures at the mouthpiece of the phone and pulled faces for their benefit while I was shitting myself. I have a horrible feeling that she might be right.

Thursday, 19 March 2009

'Mr Sex': This is what it's like, nowadays

So finally, the UK catches up with the Developed World and has proper Google Map Streetview. And, by lucky hapt, one of the cities that has been mapped up to Ras is the Cradle of Civilisation and birthplace of your humble scribe. Consequently, the night has been pissed right up the wall.

I can look at my house, and notice that my fuckwitted ex-housemate has left the gate open again. I can register, with no little mortification, the fact that the entire world can see that my Mam and Dad still have their old-school satellite dish on the side of their house. I can tap the arrows like a bastard, and pretend that I'm running all the way to Lidl after ingesting a carrier bag full of speed. I've even seen the tranny who lives on Mansfield Road, sticking two fingers up at the camera.

But what, perchance, have all my peers been doing, to a man, on this ground-breaking (yet disturbingly stalky) technological breakthrough? If you said 'looking in certain areas of town for images of women who may or may not be prostitutes getting ready for the day's graft', you win a bonus point. Tut. Tut. Tut.

Wednesday, 18 March 2009

'Mr Sex': Through My Pants Drawer

Don't you hate those rubbishy little articles in the Sunday papers? Y'know, stuff like 'Around My Utility Cupboard', by some twat you've never heard of, or 'Things I Have Learned', by some dozy bell-ended whelp off the telly whose had to learn precisely fuck all because their Mam and Dad work in media. It's so blatantly obvious that whoever's commissioned them is only doing it because they can't think of anything else to write about, and are just filling the space with some tosser looking up their own arsehole and hoping people won't notice that it's all a bag of random wank.

So anyway...

1. Whenever I have friends round and I put a video on, I have an irrational fear that I will suddenly pop up on screen, in an armchair, with my trousers round my ankles, mashing my genitals with a face like an gurning orangutan. I don't have a camcorder. Fuck it, I don't even have an armchair.

I have a little picture frame on my desk with no picture. It reads; 'I DON'T HAVE A WIFE, OR A GIRLFRIEND, OR ANY KIDS, OR A SIGNIFICANT OTHER''. I did it nine years ago as a silent protest against everyone else at a horrible job where everyone else in the office insisted on rubbing their families in your face. It doesn't work so well now it's in my bedroom.

Once, when I was 15 and getting in a quick wank before school in my bedroom with the portable telly on, I could hear my sister coming towards the door as I was about to finish myself off. Whilst hurling myself at the door, I accidentally ejaculated over the face of Wincey Willis. Thank God it wasn't Nick Owen. Or Roland Rat. But especially Nick Owen.

4. The first woman I ever became besotted with was Maid Marian in the Disney cartoon, when I was 4. I made my Grandpa buy me a transfer set from the paper shop, and I cut her out and put her on my pillow.

5. I once made a fake video cover called Mancunt Sex-Partie, featuring photoshopped images of the faces of me, my flatmate and our mates in a gay orgy, and put it on the video shelf in the living room. It took him him six months to discover it. The cover featured me, in a Leatherman outfit, ramming my cock into his ear. The back was even worse.

The greatest achievement of my male stripping career was hitting two women directly between their breasts with a spray of whipped cream from 15 feet away whilst ripping off a pair of velcro stripper-trousers, in Doncaster.

When I first started sleeping with women, in halls at Uni, I would always lock the door when I needed to nip out for a piss as I was terrified that they wouldn't be there when I got back.

If I'm in a pub and I see a really attractive woman, I'll turn my chair so I can't look at her. I don't want to see what I can't have.

I've been convinced for years that if I'd been less decent and actually a bit more horrible to a girl I was head over heels in love with 20 years ago, she'd have gone out with me. And then I told her that the other week. And she said yes, she would have.

I actually haven't had a shag since I started writing on this blog. Does that make me a horrible fraud?

Tuesday, 17 March 2009

Danonymous Dan: Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!...dear God…shut up!

Girls, I have to take my hat off to you. I don’t know how you do it – but you manage it, and it is a special thing, an amazing feat of aural self-delusion, denial of reality – and I need your help replicating it myself.

Blocking out snoring.

When sleeping in the bed next to a man who snores, it must be so hellishly irritating that I am amazed there are not more women killing guys while they sleep. Lopping off noses in the night, a last-ditch sleep-deprived effort to silence the awful sound. No wonder women are always rolling over and saying they’re tired – if they fuck the guy he’ll probably fall asleep first and they can kiss goodbye to any decent sleep. Not having sex with them is self-preservation!

I’ve recently been having experience of this myself. That isn’t say I’ve been snoring, or that I’ve been sleeping with men and listening to them snore – I don’t mind doing a bit of research for my blogs but that might be a bridge to far.

No, I share a house with others at the moment, and the guy in the room next to mine snores so obnoxiously he sounds like a bulimic in reverse. Honestly, his nasal ructions are so fucking loud that even with a wall between us I can still hear it despite wearing earplugs. Do you remember the scene in Jurassic park with the glass of water ripples indicating the arrival of the T-Rex? The guy in the room next to mine could achieve the same effect with a bath. The army use sound to break down suspects – I think they should start using the sound of my housemate’s snoring, it would cut interrogation times in half I’m sure.

Girls, help me…how do I block out this aural attack?

I think guys should state they don’t snore when wooing a lady – it must be a massive plus point. ‘Yes, he’s a convicted paedophile, but he doesn’t snore!’ How many of you have had to put up with a snoring partner? Anybody’s relationship ended? I honestly wouldn’t be surprised...

Monday, 9 March 2009

'Mr Sex': Get Well Soon, Sam

I'm quite upset to have to report that Sam van Rood, my main dog on the Todger Talk set, has been seriously ill since the beginning of the month and is currently laid up in hospital (and no, it's not Frienditis).

I'd rather not go into the details (I'm sure he'll tell you when he gets back), but from what I've heard from his partner, he's had a very close shave - but he's getting better and will return as soon as he can. However, he's going to take an extended break from sorting out your sexual mither and has left me with the keys to the shop for the foreseeable future. So if the post count is lower than usual over the next month or so, now you know why.

Todger Talk will be resuming normal service very soon - but until then, if you'd like to leave any messages that I can pass onto him while he's in hospital, that'd be ace.

Thank you,

'Mr Sex'