Todger Talk

Mr Sex: World Cup Willy

2010-06-17T16:52:00.003+01:00

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?

This.

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...

SEXY FOOTBALL!

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.

'Mr Sex': Danny Dyer is a Worthless Cunt

2010-05-05T15:07:00.000+01:00

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

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

2010-04-27T22:35:00.005+01:00

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;

COX SUX LOTS OF SEX UP A HILL

PROSSIES I HAVE A 18" DICK I CAN'T GET

A CONDOM BIGG ENOUGH FOR MY GIANT LUV MUSCLE

USE STRONG DISSINFECTIONS

DIRTY TARTS 10P TRIFFLE IS A TIME TART

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?

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

2010-04-14T14:22:00.005+01:00

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?)

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

2010-04-10T17:18:00.003+01:00

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...

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

2010-04-09T12:53:00.003+01:00

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?

Introducing Todger Talk TV

2010-04-07T15:02:00.000+01:00

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)

'Mr Sex': TIGER STYLE!

2010-03-31T19:36:00.001+01:00

So, it is finally Spring, and - naturally - thoughts are turning to shagging. Particularly shagging outdoors. And especially shagging outdoors without having to lower your leopard-print disco trousers in the middle of the Arboretum. Thankfully, someone has been working on our behalf to cure our alfresco-nobbing ailments. Listen up, Rod Stewart: your dogging dreams have come true...

(Warning: Not suitable for workplaces that don't approve of its staff looking at man-arse)

Sadly, the link at the end of the video doesn't work, which probably means that - sigh - like all great things on 'tinternet, it's fake. Mind you, I have several pairs of old jeans that do the job just as well.

'Mr Sex': Extreme Doormattiude

2010-03-09T12:24:00.006Z

Had a mate back in the day, and he invited me and another mate over to the flat that he'd just shacked up into with his new girlfriend. It was a tiny place, made even more so by the presence of a spoddy lad in a Marillion t-shirt, who skulked about in the kitchen for a while and grunted to himself before going back into his box room.

On our way back to the last bus, me and Other Mate were delivering our reports on his new situation, when I said; "Who's the lodger, then? He's a right moody fucker."

"Well, wouldn't you be, mate? He's her ex."

"What?"

"Yeah. She told him she'd been nobbing a new bloke, and he was welcome to stay, but she was moving him in and he'd have to take the spare room."

"So when's he moving out?"

"He's not. They've been like that for six months already."

Now, if he'd have been a friend, I would have put him straight; if any girlfriend of mine told me that not only been she been knocking off someone else behind my back, but she wanted to move said bloke to live with us, I would have said "No problem. After I've murdered the fucker and buried him under our patio, I'll leave out a fucking deckchair for you." I mean, if a relationship has died on its arse, what you don't do - even if it was you who instigated the break-up - is stick around to watch your partner's new relationship develop.

Which brings us to the case of Charles Judy. Jesus in a jumpsuit, I thought Marillion T-Shirt-Wearing Spod-Cuckold was the King of Wrongness, but this lad takes the biscuit, if not the entire packet. Still hanging round with his ex-wife? No, mate. Going on a date with her to see her new knock-off? No, mate. Allowing her to drive your car when she's banned from driving (and in any case, your car is too knackered for the road)? No, mate. Having no problem with her shaving her flange in the driving seat while you steer from the passenger side? NO, MATE.

Obviously we don't know the whole story - perhaps he was so desperate to get shot of his ex that he'd do anything to drop her into the lap of the first bloke who showed the slightest bit of interest - but you don't want to see your ex's genitals. Particularly when they're dropping pubes on the floor of your car, because they're a bastard to pick up.

So, dear TT readers, today's question is; a) have you ever experienced an example of extreme doormattitude from an acquaintance of yours, and b) what relaxation techniques have you deployed in order to stop yourself from slapping the shit out of them?

(oh, and c): how in the name of God did she manage to keep her hand still whilst defoliating her lady-garden in a moving car? Is this a skill that all women can pull off?)

Sex Toy Review: The Sex Counter

2010-03-06T06:23:00.004Z

Just over two years into doing sex toy reviews, and we're already having a bang on the cock rings. Oh dear. How soon us chaps burn out.

Now then, I'm guessing we're all au fait with cock rings and what they do, yes? If you never tried one out, all I need to say is that; a) yes, they work very well at keeping the blood in and allowing our dingly-danglies to stay nice and bulbous when we need 'em to (because sometimes, to paraphrase Beyonce, if you want it, you really have gotta put a ring on it) and b) no matter how different they look - be they simple bits of thonginess to elaborate cockular confections, they're all pretty much of a muchness. While we highly recommend the ones with the vibratory bits attached (mainly because they give your partner the chance to grind down upon you cowgirl style, and give off the impression that you're wearing this for her pleasure, and not your necessity), essentially there's nothing massively fun about 'em.

Until now.

On first impression, the Sex Counter is every mildly OCD male's dream product. Whether we like it or not, us chaps are horribly prone to boiling down our sexual performance down to the numbers - usually inches and notches. Thanks to this little puppy, we can now add a third equation; thrusts. Yes, as you've surmised from that picture, the Sex Counter is a nifty pedometer bolted onto a cock ring. Now you can triumphantly stomp into a bar where your recent ex is bitching about you to her mates, throw it on the table, and bellow; "I'M THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY TWO PUMPS AND A SQUIRT, ACTUALLY"

Instruction Sample: Evidently, the packaging blurb was written by someone freelancing from his regular job of copywriting mentalist Janglish t-shirt slogans. "You have your sexual experience, but do you remembered how hard you tried? Is this the coolest product beckoned you?"

You will also need: Some semblance of a bonk-on.

Looks like: a late 70s girlie digital watch, for a cat.

Feels like: Sad to say, a very flimsy cock ring. I mean, look at the thinness of the ringy bit; if your pubes are the least bit stubbly, you're going to worry about snapping it. I already clocked over 100 'thrusts' just by trying to put the bastard thing on.

Clean-up: This is where the product falls on its arse, alas. According to Janglish Copywriting Man, you're only supposed to use it once, and then lob it. Yes, that buttony bit at the top isn't a reset button; it's supposed to be a clit-teaser. I'm sorry, but I was looking forward to marking my progress on a massive chart over my bed until I finally managed to fill out all five figures on the display, and possibly even clock it, like you used to do on Pac-Man to impress your mates in the chip shop back in the day. According to a customer review in Lovehoney, however, you can get more than one go out of it with careful cleaning (it's not waterproof), but it's prone to conking out before you do. Hmph.

Partner compatibility: Could be an aid in the battle against premature splodging, mainly because you're going to be thinking about nothing but your score, and possibly even stopping every now and then to have a look at it.

Pros: It's a bit of fun, and adds a whole new dimension to male sexual performance-related paranoia...

Cons: ...but it's essentially a one-shot deal. Hopefully, this is just the start; what I want is something a lot more durable, with built-in features such as a beep every 100 thrusts, a stopwatch facility, a Glow function for night-time use, and a 'Tamacrotchi' feature where a big chunky dinosaur in lingerie demands to be 'fed' by different positions, and then rubs its belly and does a little stompy dance when you've made your partner have an orgasm.

The Sex Counter, was £5 until they ran out of stock, lovehoney.co.uk

(663)

Sam: Frenemies

2010-02-19T16:06:00.006Z

Having a stroke has forced me to confront a wide range of issues - but the issue I didn't actually expect to confront was the nature of my friendships.

After having post-stroke central fatigue, where even talking is like lifting a mountain, it's forced me to confront the question of which friends make me feel good and which friends don't. In other words, which friends are really good and loyal - and which friends are frenemies.

After a bit of research, I've been relieved to find out that, apparently, most people have a lot of the latter. According to US studies in fact, usually 50% of our friends are frenemies, people that we feel ambivalent about. Not only that, but these people are actually bad for our health. When we are around them, we get so stressed out that it raises our blood pressure - so they could in the end be dangerous to our health, or even kill us.

When I've had to look at which friends make me feel good and give me energy and which friends I feel ambivalent about, I feel much happier surrounding myself with people who make me feel good. So I'd like you to do what I did and take the frenemy challenge - go through your Facebook list and count how many friends make you feel good, and how many don't. Post your findings here, and let's have a percentage breakdown of how many of your friends are frenemies.

'Mr Sex' doesnt want to see some puppies, thank you

2010-02-09T20:24:00.009Z

I've been meaning to start a new series of posts about the milestones and millstones that shaped my sexy, sexy life (working title: Wanks For The Memories), but then I came across the following video and didn't want to put it in there. So I'll talk about it now.

Come with me, dear reader, to the playground of Westglade Infant School circa 1975, where a six year-old Young Master Sex has heard that, after the dinner hour, they're going to show the entire school a film - and it's not even anywhere near Christmas. Come the hour, a hundred or so youths, all dressed as if they have been loaded into a cannon and fired through a local branch of Cancer Research - sit cross-legged in the assembly room, unaware that we were going to be treated to 18 minutes of pure old-school 70s shit-up: Never Go WIth Strangers...

As any British person of a certain age will tell you, to be a kid in the 70s was to be absolutely bombarded with Public Information Films that warned you not to retrieve your frisbee from a substation, let your cat mess about near the river or hang around rubbish tips where Donald Pleasence lives, but this was a step up. For starters, it was the first time I'd ever heard someone talk about people doing 'rude things' without directly refering to me. Secondly, its absolutely rammeth with scariness, as jobbing actors willing to give up bit parts in any kids TV programme for the next 30 years stalk grubby Cockney urchins in flashing burgundy cars that go 'WAAAAAHHHHHH!' when a child hoves into view, clasping half a pound of Tooty Frooties in one filthy hand, and a sweet little baby donkey in the other.

I've had practically no luck digging out much information on this film, apart from the fact that it was already five years old when it got to us. But one thing I do know is that, by the time an enormous shadow looms over poor Lucy (a scene that ranks way up there with the News At Ten theme tune, The Humphries and the Watch Out There's A Thief About man as the scariest things EVER), every kid in that assembly hall has secretly vowed not to have anything to do with adults ever again. Because they're quite obviously all after our arses. (And the fact that pretty much every male in the 70s looked like a paedophile didn't help matters much - I mean, cop a load of the blonde pimp sitting in that playground...)

Amazingly, it wasn't until 1981 that the Government thought to replace it (with none other than Clifford from Acorn Antiques and what appears to be a frighteningly young Timothy Spall). Since then...who knows? Are these films even needed any more, seeing that virtually every newspaper and local news programme is paedo-mad these days, and kids don't seem to actually go out nowadays?

(Footnote: approximately one month after I saw that film, me and my mates were approached by a bloke in a Colombo overcoat at the bottom of our road, flashing a police warrant and asking us to go with him for questioning. And we were about to, until the nosey old bag opposite told him to piss off. I was well dischuffed, seeing as I'd already been in a police car for shoplifiting and thought it was dead exciting. It wasn't until ten years later, when I was lying in bed thinking about that moment in the early hours of the morning, that I sat bolt upright and screamed the entire street down)

Something for the Ladies # 30 - with special guest...

2010-01-26T21:50:00.012Z

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.

While Sam's making some serious progress on the health front, I sent the Sex-Signal a-scything through the sky for urgent assistance from my sexpert brethren and sistren in helping me deal with the backlog of mail. And I can't lie to you; I'm right chuffed about my first lovely assistant...

Sarah Hedley is my absolute fave UK sexpert. The former Editor of Scarlet - Britain's sauciest womens' mag - and Sex Editor of Cosmo UK, Sarah is the author of 7 Days To Amazing Sex - a brand new crash course in fruitiness that is guaranteed to have you and your partner at it like knives in a mere week. If you're suffering from a beached whale of a sex life, Sarah is your personal Greenpeace - and this book is a massive helicopter, winching down a wet towel. Not only that, but she's also the wise sage that 'Mr Sex' communes with whenever he requires sexy, sexy wisdom on things he knows not. Except that she's younger and better-looking than me. Buy that bad boy here.

Anyway...

Anonymous writes: Almost all the women I know now have sex toys, and I’m dying to try one out with my partner of six years - but he’s dismissed the idea several times, with the view ‘why would you need a plastic cock, when I’ve got a real flesh-and-blood one?’. I pointed out that his cock didn’t vibrate, but I don’t think that really helped my cause. I’ve decided I’m just going to buy one and if he doesn’t like it, sod him. Am I being insensitive? Or is he just a bit selfish?

'Mr Sex' says: On first impressions, yes – he’s being a selfish get. Have you tried telling him that he’s not allowed to have a quick one off the wrist when you’re not about? Course you haven’t. And if you’ve been in a relationship for as long your two have and he’s putting the block on any progression in your sex life, that’s usually the time to start wondering about getting rid.

But having said that, let’s look at it from his point of view. Quite a few men hear the phrase ‘I fancy a go on a sex toy’ and unfortunately translate it into ‘Oi, your cock isn’t long/thick/good enough’. Sometimes because they assume that cock-in-fanny activity is the be-all and end-all of sexual intercourse, sometimes because they’re scared of the realisation that their partner has been thinking about other ways of getting themselves off, and sometimes because they fear that if you’re using a dildo, you’ll have no need for him. Either way, Sex Toy = Threat.

Obviously, from an outsider’s point of view, this is all bollocks. Partners with sex toys are ace, and there’s three reasons why; firstly, because I’d much rather have them using a sex toy than someone else’s nob. Secondly, because I rather like my partners having as many orgasms as possible, and sex toys can do things that I can’t – after all, my proud gentleman doesn’t have prongs going off the side, and it can’t rotate in the middle.

But - and more selfishly - the third and most important reason sex toys are so mint is that they allow her as many orgasms as possible while I'm in her presence without me having to be bonked up 24/7 (because even though mine is flesh-and-blood too, sometimes it's just flesh, if you know what I mean and I think you do). And there is nothing - nothing - saucier than having your partner let you use a vibrator on her. So yeah, Laddo is not only misguided, but missing out big style.

As for how to get him out of his current mindset? Well, let me slap the penis-shaped baton into the hand of Ms Hedley, and let her run with it…

Sarah says: Lots of guys suffer from what I call Toy Envy and feel threatened by either the dimensions or capabilities of sex toys. But when your optimum sexual satisfaction is dependent on your vibe, that’s one little friend you really need your man to get along with.

Whether you buy your toy online, from a catalogue or a sex store, drag your man along to browse the options if possible – that way he’ll feel included, even if he complains about it, rather than feeling like you’ve gone behind his back.

Opt for something small and powerful – after all, it’s the vibrations rather than the size that’ll be of benefit to your clitoris. It might also help to pick something that isn’t penis-shaped (it’s a lot harder for him to compare his manhood to a vibrating butterfly or lipstick).

When you’ve made the selection, ask him to pick up the bill – this might like seem like a tall order as he’s against the purchase from the start, but in the long run it will help him feel responsible for any orgasms the toy produces. Also, return the treat by picking out a male toy just for him; 'Mr Sex' knows all about the joys of the new Tenga range from Japan…

Spend some secret alone-time working out how to use your toy to optimum effect (try not to scream with joy if he’s in the vicinity, as this will do little for his ego), then invite him to ‘his own private sex show’ and let him watch while you use the toy on yourself – regardless of his apprehensions about battery-powered gadgets, it’ll be hard for him to feel anything other than hard, if you catch my drift.

Seeing you use the toy externally will be reassuring and put an end to any fear that you’re only using toys because he’s not big enough to satisfy you. If you do use the toy internally, try to eroticise that for him by saying things like, “When I’m doing this I’m imagining you inside me”. At the same time as marrying the notion of toy-play with him being turned on, you’ll be feeding him info on how to use the toy on you, which will boost his confidence for when it’s his turn to take the controls. Good luck!

TT readers: Comment!

Nottingham NEEDS Fluffers

2010-01-14T02:10:00.006Z

I was aware that the recession was still kicking my dear home town in the bollocks, but I never realised things were this desperate;

'Mr Sex' treats you, the patient Todger Talk Reader, to his holiday slides

2010-01-12T17:35:00.015Z

After the end of a trying year for the staff of Todger Talk, and the seemingly endless trudge through another horrific winter (I'm looking out the window now; everywhere is caked with horribly dirty snow. It's like a giant bird has shat upon the whole country), it's only natural that thoughts turn to the last holiday one had.

So, as a special treat, I'm going to show you a selection of pictures from my last sojourn, en familie, to a caravan park in Chapel St Leonards. And I can already hear you saying; "But what shagging-related palaver is to be had there, 'Mr Sex'?". Well, that's the reason I went, to be honest - I was expecting to take a much-needed break from the maelstrom of humpery and pumpery.

I was wrong.

My holiday - as per usual - was absolutely rammeth with sex. For one, it was a spiritual journey to the very caravan site upon which I was conceived. For two, Chapel St Leonards is next to Skegness, which - as you will discover - should actually be called Sexness, laden as it is with the musky tang of eroticism. Come, dear reader - let us plump up the pillows, and have a goz at the following...

This was the first thing I, my nephew and his mate encountered outside the caravan site - he thought it was selling bubble gum, bless. But who could disagree with the sales pitch, and its claim that new climactic plateaux could be attained by wrapping a quid's worth of material around your paramour's flange? Remember, though - styles may vary.

(Child's face has been obscured not because he's a young offender, but because he's my nephew and I don't want him kicking the living shit out of me in 2017)

Here, our young models are in the camp shop, demonstrating the style of garment more suitable for the average holidaymaker at Chapel (seriously, I'm not lying - I was by far the most attractive single man in the area. Unfortunately, I was also the most attractive single woman, as well). More alarmingly - and I kick myself for not getting a photo of this - the shop had a row of massive black dildos right behind the counter. I didn't know where to put me face when I went in there with me Mam for some suntan lotion.

(Incidentally, I overheard the following conversation between my youthful charges one night, on the way to the chip shop;

"I know what happens at Hooters"

"What?"

"The women come out with boxer shorts on their heads, and do cartwheels to clown music. And they rub mud into their lips, because they're too trampy to afford proper make-up")

Obviously, when you're at a British seaside resort, you can't go five minutes without cramming as many chips into your maw as possible - and even here, the ugly head of Sex rears up and screams at you. Unless I get proof to the contrary, this chippy is offering poultry-based lingerie, probably with a scoop of chips nestling in the gusset.

Because the alternative explanation - that the shop is using minced-up bits of one animal to make another one entirely - does not bear thinking about.

Another facet of the Skegness holiday is spending precious hours being dragged around arcades by youths, and I must say the standard has declined considerably, with an endless cascade of tuppenny waterfalls, knackered-up NBA Jam cabinets, tubby young girls sulkily 'performing' upon the Dance Dance Revolution machines in the manner of arthritic old men stubbing out fags with their feet and only two - that's right, two - pinball tables in the entire area.

Bizarrely, my nephew and his friend were insanely addicted to the love tester machines, meaning that Uncle Sex had to stand over two eight year-olds who were finding out how erotically charged they were by the highly technical method of slapping their filthy hands on the cabinet, leaving me to explain to said girls that no, I wasn't trying to groom them, while my darling nephew shouted; "HAAAH! I'm STERILE and you're not!"

(pause)

"What does sterile mean?"

Non-sexual item alert: These cost £65. The pair. Next time I have to go to a wedding between two people I'm not bothered about seeing again, they're getting these.

This cruel and debilitating affliction is going to be the Todger Talk designated charity for 2010.

Right, it's now the middle of the week, so time to start wondering about how I'm going to shag up the teeth of my nearest and dearest, through the medium of rock. The above is a charming example of the genre...

While this is...er....oh my.

In fact, it's fair to say that I would have seen less cock if I had stopped at home and watched the collected works of Ron Jeremy, whilst posing naked in a room consisting of full-length wall-to-wall mirrors.

Oh, and please note the 'Titties Kebab'; they're the cocks, but with the bell-ends snipped off.

Non-sexual item alert: Oh dear. If only the people who actually bought a mug with the logo of a bunch of racist mouth-breathers would follow the example set by the donkeys at bottom right. All together now;

Blackie
And Snowy
Live together in perfect harmony
Side by side on the eastern seaboard
Oh. Lord
Why can't we?

Horrifyingly reminiscent of the first post I ever made for this blog.

These are the dancing girls at Club Tropicana, the local cabaret that I practically used to live in as a kid, when it was the Maid Marian Club. Back then, the dancers were called the Champagne Kittens, and were classy as fuck. When I was 12 and starting to become even more sexually aware when I was at the age of, say 8, I was sitting on the very front table up against the stage, and they came out in stockings and basques and put on a scintillating performance to Bad Boys by Wham!, resulting in me sending a basket of scampi and chips flying across the table when one of them recited the spoken word bit in my ear.

Sadly, it has to be said that the standard has dropped since then; the current artistes - The Boy Toy Dancers - carried on like 14 year-olds putting on a lesbian show at a bus stop after one litre of Lambrini too many.

And this is the horrifyingly ironic thing about Skegness - even when you take into account the phallic symbolism, cheap underwear (constructed from meat or otherwise), opportunities to test one's sexual prowess and, and everything, I'm willing to bet that nobody had sex in Skeggy and surrounding area all week. I know I certainly didn't - the above image was taken when I went out on the pull on the Friday night (and if I had been there one more night, I could have witnessed a performance by the lead singer of the band who produced this early-70s erotic classic).

Happy New Year, everyone. Let us all move on.

(Main image provided by the ludicrously gifted Rikki Marr, who is Dead Good and Skill)

'Jingle Bells' or 'Paedophile'?

2009-12-09T00:15:00.002Z

You decide!

Something for the Ladies # 29

2009-12-08T11:44:00.005Z

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

2009-10-22T20:20:00.008+01:00

Now, if you've had the slightest read of Todger Talk, you'll know that we stand four-square behind the following truths;

1. Sex is natural.
2. Sex is good.
3. Not everybody does it, but everybody should.
4. Sex is natural.
5. Sex is fun.
6. The Tenga Fliphole is the best male sex toy in the world, bar none.

How so? Let us count the ways in which it rings all the bells; It doesn't look like a hacked-off bit of lady-bit, it does things to your manhood that no human can, and - most importantly - it's a piece of piss to clean. For anyone who owns one, it's the best thing you can do to your nob bar giving it a regular wash and not trapping it in lift doors. So much so, in fact, that it seems impossible to improve upon.

So when I was alerted to the fact that they've brought out a new one (finished in black), and asked if I'd like to have a bang on it, my immediate answer was 'Really?' and 'Hell motherflipping yes'. And here it is...

Instruction Sample: Actually, I can't remember getting one, as I mangled up the packaging in a frenzy to get at it. You don't need one. It's a sex toy. Locate hole, lob in your giggle-stick, and the rest writes itself.

You will also need: A stand-by supply of lube. As before, there are three sample stoppers of Tenga's very own Real, Mild and Wild lube, but unlike other sex toys (that get shoved so bar back into the wardrobe that they end up somewhere in Narnia), this is something you're going to want to use long after the samples run out.

Looks like: Something that is NONE MORE BLACK. No longer does it resemble a room deodorizer - it now takes on the shape and form of a ridiculously expensive 7" speaker. Leave it on your living room shelf, and your mates - who would have taken a tentitive sniff at it before - will now strain their ears towards it. But the really important developments are inside, as Tenga have completely - fnarr - retooled what is known round here as the Nobsticle Course. Cop a load of this;

Feels like: Well, as you can see, they've gone heavily for the Toblerone look for your shaft, before encasing your bell-end in a tight cocoon of nobbles, bobbles, ribs, ridges and fronds. Imagine that you were a giant, and you decided to have penetrative sex with the world's most expensive bouncy castle. That's exactly what it feels like. And yes, it is better than the original.

Clean-up: Again, dead easy; slide out the side bits, open the clam-shell, rinse it out, prop it up on the side-bits, leave to dry.

Partner compatibility: Er, no.

Pros: The best male sex toy in the world now looks and feels better.

Cons: Bit more expensive than the original, but extremely worth it. Look out, all you plastic fannies, rubber arseholes and grubby wank-sleeves; there is a new king in town.

The Tenga Flip Hole Black, £79.99, kindly provided by Lovehoney.co.uk

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

2009-10-15T12:01:00.005+01:00

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

2009-10-07T12:48:00.005+01:00

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!

2009-10-02T08:56:00.008+01:00

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

2009-10-01T03:35:00.006+01:00

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

2009-09-15T13:12:00.008+01:00

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

2009-08-11T11:51:00.004+01:00

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

2009-07-30T13:38:00.003+01:00

'Mr Sex': Turtle Power!

2009-07-27T12:46:00.003+01:00

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'...

2009-07-21T13:56:00.005+01:00

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

2009-07-14T14:42:00.004+01:00

*** 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

2009-07-14T12:19:00.004+01:00

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...

2009-06-25T15:13:00.001+01:00

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

2009-06-16T02:30:00.008+01:00

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

2009-06-12T09:50:00.003+01:00

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

2009-06-04T20:34:00.002+01:00

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

2009-06-02T02:32:00.007+01:00

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

2009-06-01T09:00:00.002+01:00

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

2009-05-29T10:38:00.002+01:00

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…

2009-05-26T13:44:00.004+01:00

(...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

2009-05-22T08:09:00.007+01:00

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)

'Mr Sex': "But I'd sooner have a Wii, Dad"

2009-05-18T17:50:00.004+01:00

Part of me was delighted to notice that a news story from my own dear hometown was the most looked-at article on the BBC News website over the weekend. After reading said story - about a Dad who took his 14 year-old lad to the local red light district in order to lose his virginity, only to ask an undercover police officer if she was 'doing business' - the other 99.999999% buried its face into its hands and howled "No, NO, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

As I've lived next to the estate of Bulwell for an alarmingly hefty chunk of my life (and I worked as a bingo caller there half a lifetime ago - great job if you like wearing ball-constricting Sta-Prest trousers and having your arsed mauled by the elderly), I've developed a few theories as to why Dad thought that giving his 14 year-old son a prostitutional treat for his birthday was the thing to do;

1. Dad was worried that his son was falling behind at school.

2. Dad was concerned that his son might be gay, for various reasons (such as not having got anyone pregnant yet, not being a school bully, or wanting to be a vegetarian or an Emo - hey, that's pretty much the reasons my Dad thought I was, in his own words, 'A fookin' ginger beer'. Apart from the Emo bit), and wanted to 'put him right'.

3. and probably the most likely explanation - Dad is a fucking mouth-breathing bell-end.

Naturally, when this story hit the local newspaper website, all manner of window-lickers chipped in with comments on how they wished they had a Dad like that (because underaged boys + older women = Good Paedophilia, remember). If anyone reading this actually agrees with that theory, imagine yourself stuck in a Ford Cortina at the age of 14, with your Dad dispensing pearls of wisdom such as "Just gerrit aht and lob it oop her", and "This is where I go when your Mam starts getting on me tits". That's not going to completely fuck up your sexual development at all, is it?

So should Dad have been put on the Sex Offenders register? Yes. And he should also be hung from the balcony of the Market Square by his knackers and used as a pinata by anyone waiting for their date to turn up by the Left Lion.

Sam: Hospital Survival Guide

2009-05-15T17:00:00.006+01:00

If you ever have the unfortunate experience of being in hospital for a long stretch of time, or know someone who is about to, the following points might just help. Memorise all of them.

Firstly, and most importantly, ask for what you want. I asked for Morphine, and much to my surprise, I got it. I probably ended up keeping half the farmers in Afghanistan in business, which I think was a fair trade. They make a living, and I wasn't living in pain.

Second point: always remember that you are in a queue. So just before you're about to whack the button for attention, take a deep breath into the bottom of your stomach, and count to ten. Because there are probably thirty other people whacking the button at the same time, and the nurses are doing their best to get to you. If you were in a queue at the bank, would you shout "Get the fuck out of the way and give me my fucking money right now"? No. You'd wait.

Third point: throw round lots of mackerel. No, I'm not still on the morphine - it's a lesson I learned from What Shamu Taught Me About Life, Love and Marriage by Amy Sutherland, which is one of the best books I've read about human and animal psychology for as long as I can remember. Basically, because NHS staff get treated like shit by higher authorities - and distressingly, even by some of the people who they're looking after - they're deprived of mackerel (i.e., positive feedback). I find that by merely saying 'please' and 'thank you', you find very quickly that they're happy to do what you want.

Fourth point: understand the structure of the ward. The nurses don't really have the power to change anything - you'll have to get hold of a doctor for that. So don't harass them when you know they can't do anything about it.

Fifth point: find a spot for everything. Not because your essential items will get nicked - they just disappear. Particularly the stuff that keeps you alive, and fends off boredom.

Sixth point, and very important: pull your weight. If there's anything you can do for yourself, do it. Every bit of help you give the staff, they will pay it back twenty times over.

‘Mr Sex’: This is what you DON’T do on the verge of your wedding

2009-05-14T19:51:00.000+01:00

A bit of a setback for Ireland’s Most Romantic Couple. Click that link, and be prepared for possibly the greatest opening paragraph in the history of newspaper reportage. I love the use of the word ‘may’, as if a committee is about to meet and say “Ah, fair play to him, he bought her some flowers in a garage after he wiped his hands down, but. And a packet of Revels”

'Mr Sex' on this new male contraceptive injection thing

2009-05-11T12:10:00.006+01:00

So, there's been a big fuss about the announcement of a new jab that could be the Male Pill we've all be waiting for. And this one, by the sound of it, might just work. Mint. Finally, just like women nearly fifty years ago, men get to cast off their fears about pregnancy and become more sexually liberated and up for one-night stands and stuff like that, because it's about time. I'm already lining up a few mini-skirts for myself.

Thing is, whenever I read anything about a Male Pill, my mind goes back to the first nudey book I ever chanced across, in the mid-70s, and an advert I saw for something called The Vascectomy Club. On payment of a couple of quid - and I swear blind I'm not making this up - you could buy a tie and a blazer badge that would subtly let all the womenfolk know that you had had The Snip and wouldn't get them up the stick. And when applying for this club, did you have to supply proof of said snip? Did you fuck (70s wank mags were horrible like that - I must write about them one day).

But anyway, when you think about it, the idea of a Male Pill as a cure-all has been dead in the water for over a quarter of a century, hasn't it? Alright, let's say that a Male Pill (or a Male Jab or a Male Suppository or a Male Anything) comes onto the market, and it works. Putting aside the fact that a lot of men are more than capable of forgetting or not being arsed to take medication for heart problems, it's going to be a boon for those of us in monogamous relationships. But what about us single and eligible shag-rats? Here's a quick questionnaire;

If there was a Male Pill and it worked, would I take it?
Hell motherflippin' yes. Johnnies are horrible.

Would any woman I came into contact with believe me when I said I had?
In a pig's arse would she.

And what protection from STDs would this Pill give me and her?
Precisely fuck all.

And there you go. The Male Pill is an inevitability, but unless you could take it in front of your partner and it worked immediately, or if everyone who signed up for it had an LCD screen embedded in their forehead that flashed; "YES, HE'S ON IT, DON'T PANIC", nothing is really going to change, regardless of what the papers tell you. We're still going to have to wait for the pub toilets to be completely empty before furtively shoving three quid in the johnny machine.

Manbits #14

2009-04-28T12:47:00.004+01:00

*** 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 ***

Anonymous writes: OK, here's the situation: there's this well sexy and extremely upfront girl I used to see in the pub a few years ago, and we got on really well and flirted like mad with each other - even though nothing happened. Then she disappeared. Three years later, she suddenly reappears after having a kid and settling down with someone. We went out for a drink, and were this close to going home together. She asks to see me the following week, and tells me that she's splitting up with this bloke because there's no chemistry and they're only together for the kid and if she stays with him any longer the relationship is going to get even worse, etc etc. Then she tells me that, although I have absolutely nothing to do with her splitting up and she doesn't want a relationship, she wants me to be her fuckbuddy.

Here's the awkward bits - 1) She hasn't had sex in 2 years, 2) It’s been a while for me too, 3) she's 21 and I'm 39, and 4) The last time I had a one-night stand I couldn't get it up, and I'm terrified it might happen again. I’ve never done this sort of thing before, and half of me is champing at the bit thinking of the sex bonanza on the horizon, while the other half is scared that it's going to be a disaster. How do I play this?

'Mr Sex' says: Cor. And there was me thinking you were going to say; "I'm not asking for advice - I just need to brag about it to someone".

OK, a lot of shit to wade through here, so I'll take it step by step. First off; 'Fuckbuddy' has to be the most nauseous word in the entire sexual lexicon – the Sexicon, if you will. It makes people sound like big fluffy Care Bears with massive engorged genitals, and completely fails to encapsulate the emotion, level of trust and intimacy that relationships such as this contain. So anyway, you've got yourself a knock-off. Hurrah! And yes, it looks like an avalanche of shagging in forthcoming. But you’re right to be a bit cautious. After all, and I don’t care what anyone else says, ‘casual sex’ is an oxymoron; no-one lobs their nob into someone else’s fanny in a casual manner. Unless they’re David Hunter off Crossroads, maybe.

Firstly, you and your lady friend need to make the arrangement as uncomplicated as possible, by laying down some ground rules - so both of you know where you stand. I’ve never done this kind of thing before, so I’m guessing a bit here, but I reckon something along the lines of the following would suffice;

1. The needs of the nipper come first (for obvious reasons)
2. The sex bits happen at your place, if that’s feasible (so said nipper doesn’t get involved, and you don’t have to be ‘Uncle Anonymous’)
3. If either of you come across someone you want to have a relationship with, you give your knock-off as much advance notice as possible
4. Above all, absolute honesty at all times.

I'm definitely not an expert on these matters, so I'll leave it to our lovely readers. As for the age issue - it obviously doesn't bother her, so why should it mither you? And there's very little point worrying about your performance - after all, she's probably looking for an older man who knows what he's doing and expects loads of foreplay. So give it to her, as it'll give you loads of time to calm down and let nature take its course.

Readers of TT: Comment!

'Mr Sex': THIS is how to have a row in the street, people

2009-04-24T00:33:00.009+01:00

I'd been meaning to write one of my usual massively long posts on how to conduct a proper row in the street with your partner, but then this phenomenal clip showed up on YouTube;

Oh my. That has almost everything that makes up a textbook barney. A flurry of wild swings by the female, comprising of outrageous abuse towards the male's new choice of sexual partner. An exceptional defence strategy by the male (consisting of 'you're fucking mad' and 'don't hit me'). And then, a chink in the armour - the male admittance that he'd shag owt - that opens him right up to a combination of hammer-blows that leaves the opponent reeling. Not only has she been shagging this other bloke, but she actually likes him and fancies him. BAAAAMMMMM!

(and yes, I checked the word 'Gowl' on Google. I strongly suggest you don't)

It doesn't matter how many 'I don't give a toss' counterpunches the male throws now. When she drops the fact that she's been nobbing Billy Big-Chest behind his back, this contest is over. The only thing missing from this row was the male bellowing out a deeply personal admittance in front of the entire world (such as "I CRIED when you said you had that miscarrage and then I found out you were lying, you BITCH!"), but I doubt we'll ever see anything as magnificent as this. In daylight, too. With a pushchair.

Sam: more tax please, Mr Brown

2009-04-22T18:15:00.004+01:00

Today Gordon Brown announced an increased tax rate of 50% for Britain’s top earners. At least from my house, you can hear the sound of one hand clapping, which is all I can do after my stroke.

I’m pleased to report that, from my experience, the NHS is alive and working well. I’m certainly happy with every single penny in tax that I’ve paid towards it. In the past, when I thought of the NHS, the first things that jumped to mind were MRSA, waiting lists and overpaid doctors, but now I think of value for money and hope that Mr Brown will tax me more and give the money to the NHS.

My NHS story so far: I had a massive stroke and after we called an ambulance, it was there in 10 minutes. They took me straight to a specialist stroke hospital and into emergency brain surgery. I went through enough MRI scanners to make NASA jealous. They also gave me a new wonder drug which minimised the damage.

In my experience, there were plenty of doctors around, the nurses were really nice and even the food was actually bearable. Now, after a month of intensive rehabilitation, I can walk again and I have a team of experts who come to my home and are helping me get back to work.

Without tax and the NHS, I would have no todger to talk about now. So I say hurrah for the NHS and hurrah for higher taxes.

Sam Update: He's OUT!

2009-04-19T22:04:00.004+01:00

Oh yes. I have exceptional news to impart about my main dog, Mr VR: he came out of hospital on Friday, and is back home with his lady friend. He dropped me the following message today;

Hurrah ! At home first night was good also can make it up and DOWN the stairs with Jane keeping an eye on me wonderful beyond words to be home Sam

Obviously, there is still a lot of work to do before he's back on form, but he's keen to get back on the big sexy Blog-Horse as soon as he can. Until then, may he enjoy as many back-to-back episodes of Jeremy Kyle and Trisha that he can humanly stand, and me and Dan will try to resume as normal a service as possible.

'Mr Sex': The 'Finger in the Gob' move

2009-04-15T00:29:00.002+01:00

Every chap who has gone out upon the spree and has got lucky knows this one; you're chatting a lady up, and it's going well. Incredibly well. So well, in fact, that she leans over, takes your hand, and flashes the ultimate green light; your finger in her gob. And, as we all know, she's not doing it to get a bit of masticated crisp out of her back teeth. It's such a brilliant move; without speaking, without drawing attention to herself, and without going overboard about it, she's saying "I want to cut myself a slice of your Sex-Cake"

All well and good, but here's what I want to know, and I'm hoping our intelligent and open-minded female readership can enlighten me on this; what can we do in return? Putting aside the obvious whimpering, or talking inappropriate, bud-nipping, scary filth, I can only think of one counter-move; getting her hand, shoving her thumb through her index and middle finger, and then licking at it like a dog at its own bits. And that seems really complicated and wrong.

So step lively, ladies, and tell us all what we should be doing. Please.

Danonymous Dan: A bit rusty

2009-04-14T23:42:00.002+01:00

Just a quick one…thought I‘d share with you something that made me chuckle.

I spent the other evening at a theatre improvisation class in Balham called ‘Hoopla’ which was, as usual, very enjoyable. It’s helpful for the stand-up comedy I do and also socially good fun as generally everybody who attends is really nice.

This evening there was a girl who was a journalist for a major red-top British paper. I used to work as a journalist (and then later as a PR), and we got chatting about shared experiences. Having had a couple of drinks, I was perhaps a bit more forthcoming than I would normally be and said; ‘Hey, I write for a blog called Todger Talk…’

Now evidently my ‘talking to girls’ skill was somewhat tipsy, because I pulled a trick worthy Gareth from the Office; taking out my iPhone and showing her my post on circumcision.

She read two paragraphs, put the phone down and said, “ I don’t want read any more” then didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night.

Everyone’s a critic...

'Mr Sex': The Official Todger Talk Easter-Related Sex Tip

2009-04-10T12:21:00.002+01:00

1) Buy one of those boxes of Cadburys Creme Eggs.

2) Unwrap the first one.

3) Bite the top off.

4) Remove all of the fondant creme yolky bit using your tongue.

5) Repeat with the remaining five.

6) Go down to shops, and repeat stages 1-5 over and over again

Congratulations. You have just improved your oral sex technique. All you need to do is find a woman who doesn't mind double chins or pustule-ridden complexions, and then wonder that no advertising executive has ever clocked that going down on Cadbury's Creme Eggs is the male version of this. Happy Easter. See you next week.

Danonymous Dan: Smeg Off!

2009-04-09T09:07:00.003+01:00

It’s cleaner? It’s more aesthetically pleasing? What the fuck? I had an argument with somebody recently about what was better – circumcised or not?

My view is rather simple. It is a cock. It has two purposes: pissing and fucking. As long as it accomplishes both of those tasks adequately then there is no reason to lop the skin off the end of the poor blighter.

Advocates of foreskin removal – excluding religious mutilation, for a moment – seem to think that when men like myself peel back the foreskin, hulking great chunks of man-cheese drop to the floor and bounce around the bathroom like oversized mini-Babybels. This is lop-ist propaganda at its worst: the cleanliness argument is lie; no man’s commando should go into battle without his balaclava.

I will admit occasionally you might find a bit of smegma – but I’ll let you all into a secret… we can wash it off! Just think of the pain and money that could have been saved if religious zealots knew that smegma could be removed with soap and water. If a guy finds any (medical conditions not withstanding), its usually after having not washed for a couple of days. So ladies, unless you have a penchant for fucking tramps, you’re unlikely to come across any massive build-ups of man curd. But if you do, you can look on it as an early warning system – he’s a dirty bastard and you shouldn’t want to fuck him anyway.

There are some pretty ludicrous myths used to push circumcision, including: guys can last longer in bed; its better for your immune system; its advised by health centres; and let us not forget that, despite creating them (and being perfect and incapable of making a mistake), God doesn’t like them! I won’t list all the myths but if you want to have a read take a look at this.

Society seems far more at home with the idea of various viscous vaginal fluids being emitted throughout the different stages of the menstrual cycle. Nobody suggests a surgical procedure to stop the naturally occurring discharge: you are simply told to wash. (I appreciate there are some absolute fucktards who advocate female circumcision in places around this earth; that is a whole other blog)

My girlfriend admits she was ‘surprised’ when she saw my penis because she was expecting me to be circumcised because such a massive proportion of American males get the chop. I think I was the first ever adult male she had seen with a foreskin. A friend of hers, who lived in England for a year, admitted she had found the sight of and uncircumcised cock disgusting when she first saw it – lets face it, neither version is going to win a beauty contest – but disgusting just because it’s wearing a hat? That’s just penis-ist!

Every guy has had that inexpert tug job from a girlfriend – the one where she treats it like a mongoose killing a snake. I can only imagine how painful that would be with no foreskin to act as slack while she attempts to yank the spitting cobra’s head off.

I’m sure it’s not an issue many women give that much thought too: it’s either there, or it isn’t. But from what I can see, the more severe the circumcision (there are different levels of ‘close’) the more painful it can be for the man in later life. Considering that it is basically a permanent thing (there are groups of men attempting to regrow their foreskins), I think all people should be allowed to make up their own mind, which means waiting until they’re 16, at least.

A friend of mine who is a journalist always says that each article needs a pay-off – a sentence which sums up the article or blog in a pithy and/or amusing way. Here's mine! It’s nob-cheese; stop mutilating children!

'Mr Sex': India Rubber

2009-04-08T00:28:00.006+01:00

Forgive me if you've already seen this (because I'm always that person who gets this sort of thing last), but I had to share. We all know that everything is better when it's been Bollywoodized, and this condom awareness video proves it. Shitting hell, if they had shown this at my school, there would have been no pissed-off 15 year-old girls pushing prams around the shopping precinct at all. Mainly because the sight of giant Absolut bottles with faces running up to us and wanting to be our friends for seven whole minutes would have scared the living shit out of us.

Something for the ladies # 28

2009-04-07T17:28:00.003+01:00

'Mr Sex': Hello, Esquire Readers

2009-04-02T20:45:00.009+01:00

Todger Talk is currently proudly strutting around the Market Square with its cock out over the fact that Esquire has pegged us as the 4th funniest blog on t'Internet (one above Hot Chicks With Douchebags, three below Fail Blog - ludicrously esteemed company, if you ask us). It's very nice to get a shine from a proper men's mag (i.e., one that actually interviews other men, as opposed to trollops off Emmerdale with their hands down their knickers). Ta very much. Even though half of the blog is about my rank failures to cop off, which isn't massively tee-heesome in my eyes.

(and yes, if the truth be known, we would have rather been called Talking Bollocks, but that name was taken)

So, if you've just joined us and are a bit scared that 'Men talking about sex' might just equal 'grooming', let me calm you down. Yes, we do talk about shagging and whatnot, but we don't bang on about which celebrities we'd like to give a seeing-to. Yes, we dispense advice, but we're not interested in Sex Rules or any of that old bag of wank. And yes, we discuss feelings, but we don't get all Emo about it.

And to get you properly up to speed, here's a brief selection of our more amusing bits;

'Mr Sex' realises the need for a proper male sex blog when his penis does something it shouldn't

Frienditis - the curse of the modern age

Why chip-fat and anal sex don't mix

The best letter to a wank mag EVER

Photographic evidence of depressingly awful male sex toys

The best male sex toy in the whole wide world

...and the scariest-looking one

'Mr Sex' shows unity with Feminism by pretending to have anal sex with a random bloke on a dancefloor

How to deal with six-year old kids who want to show you their bits

What it's actually like to do Thingy Whatsit with a Porn Star

Our female readers discuss the mingingest bedrooms they've ever had a one-night stand in

How to look as if you don't give a toss when Unrequited Love wipes its cock on your duvet

Porn and the recession

What it's like to be a slaphead

Mams and porn

Danonymous Dan: Make-Up Sex

2009-04-02T00:07:00.003+01:00

You have an argument. You make up. You have sex. Everything is okay.

Make up sex: an excellent concept.

I like it. It’s simple and makes sense; you draw a line under an issue or problem and ensure that is doesn’t bleed into other areas of your relationship. It signifies business as usual, no harm done, back on track.

But does it actually exist? Can’t say that it features in my relationship, or indeed my past relationships either - if I’ve just had a whacking great barney with the missus, the last thing she wants to do is bump uglies. After an argument, sex is the last thing on her mind - both in cases where I was in the wrong and apologise, and in cases where she was in the wrong. In fact, especially when I am correct and she is in the wrong – in that scenario, not only do I rarely get an apology, but certainly nothing resembling make-up sex.

I don’t know whether it is a conscious or unconscious decision, but I suspect this has something to do with not wanting to be seen to reward me for being wrong, or, in the scenario where I am the aggrieved party, not wanting to take too submissive a stance (no, not like that) and lose face.

(Somebody rather more cynical than I might suggest that withholding sex is a backdoor way of securing some small victory out of the jaws of defeat. Cock is a hard thing to swallow after a helping of humble pie, I guess.)

Frankly, its seems fairly obvious to me that if a guy irritates his girlfriend and makes her upset, then she isn’t going to want to have sex with him. I can’t open a womens magazine or read a problem page without being told sex is much more a mental thing for girls, more about ‘frame of mind’. So taking that as a starting point, it's not surprising that if a guy puts his partner in a bad frame of mind, she doesn’t want to have sex with him.

Perhaps it’s the act of being asked (or`pestered) by the guy for sex after a fight is what allows a girl to know her bloke is sorry for being a prick? The more he is made to beg, the more sorry he seems? Just a thought.

In the movies or on TV – a poor frame of reference, I admit – a pair will have a fight and then start snogging each other’s faces off as their angry passions ignite desires too strong to control. Make-up sex ensues. I’ve yet to experience this anger lighting the fuse of passion – does it exist?

I fear I may never get to have the ‘angry make up sex’ unless I dump my present girlfriend and start dating the writer of a daytime soap. Still, I guess I should keep trying for Todger talk readers - so in the spirit of investigative journalism:

“Honey, you smell! I don’t like that dress and you have a funny American accent.”

I’ll let you know how it goes…

Here's your Sam Update

2009-03-31T14:45:00.004+01:00

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'

'Mr Sex' Despairs at the Youth of Today

2009-03-24T17:46:00.004Z

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.

Danonymous Dan: Snot The Fuck?

2009-03-23T14:58:00.002Z

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.

'Mr Sex', on Mothers Day

2009-03-22T01:53:00.004Z

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 WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK. And then I rammed it right underneath the mattress.

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.

"Mam...soz."

"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.

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

2009-03-19T22:19:00.005Z

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.

'Mr Sex': Through My Pants Drawer

2009-03-18T00:22:00.003Z

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.

2. 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.

3. 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.

6. 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.

7. 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.

8. 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.

9. 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.

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

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

2009-03-17T13:39:00.006Z

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...

'Mr Sex': Get Well Soon, Sam

2009-03-09T12:08:00.006Z

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'

Manbits #13

2009-02-26T08:00:00.002Z

*** 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 ***

Anonymous writes: An ex of mine has naked pictures of me tied to her bed with a pair of those pink fluffy handcuffs. We’re not really on speaking terms at the moment. What is the best way of approaching her to make sure she doesn’t distribute the photos to anyone else?

Sam says: Well of course, I have to say that the first lesson of this little situation is never, ever, ever, ever let anyone take photos or videos of you while you are up to something naughty. As Paris Hilton and many other celebrities found out, you are only a click away from You Tube sharing all your sexual secrets with the rest of the world. You’ve run into that old problem of something that seemed fun at the time coming back and biting you where it hurts. To be blunt – don’t piss her off. There is only one reason people tend to publish those sort of photos – revenge. So don’t give her any reason to get angry, and under no circumstances talk to her about it.

Sometimes the best tactic is to just let sleeping dogs lie. Then, a year or so down the track, when you guys are friends again, maybe you can talk to her about deleting them. But talking about them now is just going to mean they are going to end up on Facebook or Flikr faster than you can say 'pissed-off ex'. In future, try the Grandmother test - when someone is about to take a photo, ask yourself if your granny would be happy seeing this in her photo album. If she wouldn’t don’t let them take the photo, or if they have, grab the camera and delete them!

And one final point: thank your lucky stars that it was only fluffy handcuffs. My friend, you really got off lightly – let this be a lesson to you. Next time it could be much, much worse.

'Mr Sex' says: Shit the bed.

OK, first things first; as Sam points out, this is a comparatively low-level shaming. Ann Summers handcuffs? Pah! I've got more embarrassing pictures of me on the hallway wall, mate - turn round the wrong way when you hang your coat up, and there's a pic of me lying naked on a table in a hotel in Gatwick while a couple of Nanas rub baby oil into my chest. I’m really not the person to talk to about this, to be honest.

You’ve not told us too much about the status of your former relationship (do you have mutual friends? Is she already seeing someone else? Are you?), so I can’t be as precise with an answer as I’d like. But let’s go through the possibilities;

She’s already binned it off, because you’ve split up and she can’t stand the sight of you.

This is a very high probability. After all, she’s not male, is she? She’s not going to need something to keep her warm on those long winter nights, in’t it? And if you’re not on speaking terms, she’ll want to get shot of every trace of your ex-boyfriendy musk, especially the sexier whiffs.

She’s kept hold of it, but not shown it to anyone.

Again, high probability – probably more due to laziness than anything else. And if that’s the case, so what? Let her letch over what she once had and let ship through her fingers, the sucky mare. If you are condemned to be an object of lust for someone, than so be it.

She’s shown it to her female friends.

There’s a chance that this has happened, but it’s really nothing to mither over. After all, she probably broke down every facet of your sexual technique and domestic habits to a cackling coven of mates as they stirred the jug of Long Island Iced Tea the minute the relationship ended. If she broke out the pic of you being all vulnerable on the bed, you should thank her for advertising your services.

She’s shown it to her new bloke, male friends etc.

Well if she’s done this (and I’d say it was quite a long shot), she’s made a right balls-up of things. Men hate to hear women banging on about the foibles of their exes, but being shown photos of them with their cock out is a million times more counter-productive. I recall one lady who took me back to her boudoir and proceeded to show me a Polaroid of her ex (who I had met a couple of times) lying on his back with one of her enormous dildos up his ringpiece while he was tossing off (see what I mean when we say how lucky you were?). She was trying to imply that she got up to all sorts. I inwardly vowed to do nothing with her but lights-out Missionary.

She’s used it for nefarious purposes.

Again, she’s not male, so she won’t have sent them to Gay magazines, or posted them up in ladies toilets. And if she had, she’d be absolutely pilloried by all right-thinking members of the community.

So, to sum it up, I think your fears are a touch misguided. As for dealing with the situation...I don’t think you should be as wary of her as Sam makes out, but you definitely shouldn’t get on her wick. You're going to have to play the waiting game: If she is going to be part of your life in the foreseeable future, there’s bound to be a stage where you can laugh about your little photoshoot, and then you can discreetly enquire about its whereabouts. If she isn't, then who gives a toss what she does with it? And if she is using this pic as some sort of leverage over you, then it just goes to show that she wasn’t worth the steam off your piss in the first place.

TT readers – comment!

This question was orginally asked on a webchat with Sam on www.menshealth.co.uk

Danonymous Dan: Dribble tongue syndrome

2009-02-25T17:38:00.003Z

I am not very often lost for words. I am pretty good at talking – so good I can even do it while walking at the same time. I was always excellent during interviews because I was able to bullshit convincingly enough to get a job – a skill I put down to having three older brothers and not wanting to look like the ‘spazzy younger brother’ when their friends came over.

What’s more, I actively enjoy conversation, whether it’s on the phone or in person I like interaction, meeting new people. As a very young cherubic-faced blond child I would stand on the roadside outside our house talking to people as they walked past (I did actually get offered sweets once which I like to think shows I was an attractive child). My mother would always realise and pull me inside trying once more to instil in me the mantra ‘thou shalt not talk to strangers!’ I – with faultless logic – once replied, ‘but if I talk to them, they won’t be strangers anymore.’ Ah, sweet.

So why is it that if I am faced with a girl I really fancy my finely honed conversational skill deserts me like French infantrymen? I shouldn’t make quips about the French – I bet they don’t get this problem, smooth bastards. It doesn’t happen so much now because I am older than I used to be (what an obvious thing to say) and also I am in a relationship and intrinsically know I have nothing to lose and am not after anything. When I met Michelle for the first time, I babbled absolute shit though. I’d like to think I did it with aplomb but really that’s a fiction and I ended up talking about the kids instrument ‘Gazoos’ when I meant ‘Kazoos’. I can only assume she found the bumbling Englishman thing cute. More Hugh Grant than Hugh Hefner, I mean shambolic buffoon rather than slick operator not that I’d rather sleep with a prostitute than a playboy bunny.

I should also qualify this by saying its doesn’t happen just because a girl is physically attractive, it only happens if I fancy them – they have that ‘thing’ about them that makes them really stand out. Doesn’t really happen now as I am with Michelle, but I am sure that if, hypothetically, my relationship with Michelle was to end, my ‘dribble tongue syndrome’ would return.

Not being a girl, I can’t say whether there is a female version of this although it would seem there probably is. A fair while ago, when I was about 19, a previous girlfriend I met said she’d experienced this when we’d first met. I was part of the media team filming a version of Jesus Christ Super Star and was relaxing with the cast during a rehearsal break. We were sat in a group and one of the girls introduced herself to me, we chatted briefly, and I then turned in an attempt to include her friend in the conversation. The exchange when like this:

Me “…and who are you?”

Her: “Oh er…I’m just a leper in the crowd.”

Me: “Yes...but do you have a name?”

Both of my parts in that exchange had come out much harder than I’d meant them to, because I was nervous, fancied this girl, and wanted to seem relaxed and confident – but my brain turned them into gruff and blunt. She had apparently fancied me for a few days by that stage, and panicked when the object of her affections actually spoke to her. In that instance, all worked out fine, but it makes me wonder how many potentially great relationships never get a chance to exist because one person panics or gets flustered and says or does something they wouldn’t normally say or do and creates a bad impression of themselves?

Sam: It must be worth fighting for

2009-02-24T19:28:00.002Z

I was chatting to one of my female clients the other day about one of the old conundrums of the male psyche. That annoying thing where if it’s not hard work, then they seem to think it’s not really worth it. These sort of men love to hunt, they love the challenge and trying to grab something out of their reach. It’s the victory that is the sweetest moment for them.

For these sort of men if it’s easy then it’s not really worth it. This sort of approach drives me a little bit nuts. Personally I like things to flow easily. I like the signals to be there, know where I stand and for other person to be pretty clear about it. I’ve run across women who play the hunted beautifully, one minute they are on, the next minute off. Baiting you to chase, then freezing you out when you do. Personally this drives me a little bit nuts. But for some men it’s manna from heaven.

I guess you could say something about have genetically men are hunters. How they like the chase. How this adds to the thrill. But what happens when the thrill is gone? In my experience pretty soon they are off on another hunting expedition for some more prey, unless their girl continues to play hard to get even once they’ve got them. Seems all a bit of a miserable way to have a relationship to me.

To be totally honest I used to be one of those men where if it wasn’t hard work I wasn’t interested. I saw an ice queen and no effort was spared to conquer her. Sure the thrill of the kill was pretty good, but it was pretty joyless from then on. I’ve learned my lesson, easy flow is so much more fun. Any thoughts on this? Are you for the flow, or someone who thinks it’s only worth something if you have to fight for it?

Manbits #12

2009-02-19T19:47:00.006Z

*** 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 ***

John asks: My girlfriend and I have recently moved in together after being involved for about two years, and ever since our sex life has taken a nosedive. What was several times a week has turned into once a week if that. Is it common for the over-familiarity to kill the spark somewhat? What can I do to get it back?

’Mr Sex’ says: Hm. Pardon me for being a bit harsh, but sexpert-and-older-person-wise, this question is right up there with ‘Will the sun come up tomorrow?’ and ‘Why is all this brown stuff falling out my arse?’

Sam’s gonna hit you with the science in a bit, but I’m going to lay out the actual-factual. When you start going out with someone for the first time, you can’t believe your luck. You’re sitting there, next to them, and you think to yourself; Fucking hell. That person I’ve had my eye on for ages is going out with me. I can do anything I like with ‘em. I could lean over and snog them right now, and they’d let me. Actually, sod that – I could just cop a handful. And I will. Fwoarrrr!

And then you get thrown off the bus. But it doesn’t matter! Because it’s ace, being with someone in the first flushes of love, particularly when you live apart – because nothing gets a person more worked up than the anticipation of it all. Put it another way; the sex is on tap, but the pipe needs fixing, and you’re having to wait for the plumber to come round before you can spill things and gush, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

When you move in together, however, the entire dynamic changes. The upside is that you see far more of each other than you did before. The downside, on the other hand, is that you see far more of each other than you did before. Instead of detailed conversations about what you’re going to do to each other when you get each other alone, you finally are together alone – and discovering that you’re talking about whose turn it was to get the bog roll in and what DVD you’re going to rent from the off licence. And knickers on the floor suddenly lose their erotic allure when they’ve been there three days running.

I’m not saying that living together is a one-way ticket to Terry and June-Land, where sex happens only on birthdays and rainy bank holidays; you just have to work at it like a bastard from here on in. First off, don’t panic; you’re not going off each other. You’ve merely entered a new and scary phase of the relationship, that involves bills, shopping lists, and all that other domesticated wank. Secondly, start thinking about spending time away from each other again (i.e., START SEEING YOUR MATES AND NOT BEING A TWO-HEADED RELATIONSHIP-MONSTER). Thirdly…well, I’ll leave that up to Mr Van Rood…

Sam says: What you are experiencing happens to pretty much every single couple in the world. After you first get together the spark goes, you start nesting and things slow down.

The key thing to realise is that this is a natural process. When you first meet someone and fall in love your body releases PEA – the love drug. It's the thing that makes your tummy flip, your palms sweat and you want to shag your partner silly at every possible chance.

After about 12-18 months, the PEA stops being produced and the fireworks fade. At this point you body starts producing oxytocin – the snuggle drug. It makes you want to nest, snuggle up on the couch and cuddle, and unfortunately sex tends to drop considerably at this point too. It promotes long term bonding but misses the fireworks of when you first got together. So basically, it's not so much over-familiarity that kills the spark, it's just natural changes that pretty much happen to every one.

So what can you do? Essentially getting some excitement back once you've been together requires work, rather than just happening naturally as it did right at the start of your relationship. You need to schedule in time and make the effort for a) sex b) excitement. First big thing to try is Siestas. Talk to your girlfriend and block out 3-6pm of every Saturday and Sunday for the next two months. This is time for you to get into bed, have a snooze, maybe read a book and hopefully actually have some sex. It's perfect because you've got time to do something in the morning, and it will leave you refreshed for getting out in the evening too – meaning you can have your cake and eat it too.

Second thing is do some exciting stuff together – I'm talking stuff that gets your adrenalin going. Maybe do an indoor rock climbing course together, go to Alton Towers and ride the roller coasters, or work out other ways you get a buzz like going out clubbing. You need to regularly schedule in some excitement together – which will then also wash over into your sex life.

Basically, you've discovered the hard truth that to keep a relationship alive and interesting it takes a bit of scheduling, planning and a bit of work. But once you've worked this as a habit into your relationship routine, you've got a regular flow of extra sex and excitement on tap, which is well worth the effort.

TT readers: Comment!

This question was originally asked on a webchat with Sam on www.menshealth.co.uk

Sam: Mansprings

2009-02-18T08:00:00.001Z

I’ve been continuing to wonder where all the single men are in their 30s. What I am looking for are man springs – places where lots of men gather together. What is most important is there must be higher ratio of men to women. This, I have to admit, is some shameless research to help out my female clients and possibly our single female readers.

Some man springs that jump to mind:

Indoor rock climbing - ratio 10:1
Live cricket games – ratio 20:1
Live rugby & football – ratio 20:1
Major cricket, rugby or football games being shown in pubs – ratio 5:1
Poker clubs – ratio 10:1
Skeet shooting – ratio 5:1
Business networking events: 5:1

Not so good are places like:

Local pub on an ordinary night – ratio 1:1
Car maintenance courses – ratio 1:5 (believe it or not)

Guys, can you think of any other places where blokes gather in large numbers, or perhaps in small groups? Ladies, have you come across any interesting man springs? Ratios, observations and mansprings with thinking men would also be very welcome.

'Mr Sex': Hair Yesterday, None Today

2009-02-16T18:10:00.006Z

Something you might not know about me; I’ve been shaving my head for over ten years. It had been on the cards for ages; I remember being in a barbers when I was 22, and he mentioned that my hair was really fine. And I thanked him. By the time I was 25, it was starting to thin out like a bastard, and I got obsessed with checking the top of my head on CCTV cameras. By the time I was 26, I took a razor to my scalp. It was either that, or my wrists.

In many ways, I was extremely lucky to go bald when I did. I was in London, a place where people generally don’t give a toss what you look like. And I was in the mid-nineties, when head-shaving was a bit fashionable and actually a bit sexy (thank you, Grant Mitchell). I had none of the dilemmas that my slap-headed ancestory had to deal with; getting a rug, using those mad hairsprays or trying to rock a Bobby Charlton were not options I could entertain. The best thing to do was get shot of it all and not give a fuck. Which I did, and I do.

In the spirit of Dan’s recent post, and for the benefit of men everywhere who are heading that way - and for women who don’t understand – this is what it’s like..

1. Yes, it really is a very big deal.

Losing your hair, no matter how brave a face you put on (or underneath) it, is horrible. For starters, it’s usually the first sign that you’re beginning to slip away from your peak. Not only are you constantly tracking the spread of your male pattern baldness, you also start monitoring people’s reactions to it. You watch the direction of their eyes when you talk to them, and are just waiting for them to make comment on it. And when you’re in a relationship, it’s even worse; it’s a very obvious dealbreaker (in fact, I still believe that me shaving my head was the nail in the coffin of the relationship I was in at the time).

2. When you do it for the first time, you turn it into an event.

There’s no turning back, and it’s almost a rite of passage, so you have to make the most of it. You could book in at the most expensive barbers you know and have someone apply the straight-edge razor to your head (seeing as it’ll be the last time you ever have need of places like that), or you could spend a couple of hours slowly doing it yourself – giving yourself a Travis Bickle Mohican along the way, of course.

3. You will spend the first week constantly touching your scalp, looking in every reflective surface in the vicinity, and feeling extremely vulnerable.

It’s weird how the lack of a couple of inches of hair makes you feel fragile as fuck. Just as someone who switches from glasses to contact lenses can’t help pushing a finger along the bridge of their nose, you will be flinching whenever the wind changes.

4. However, at some point in that first week, you will walk under a low-hanging tree and realise that you suddenly have an enormous new erogenous zone.

Seriously. And when it snows for the first time, your knees will buckle.

5. Your mates will deem it The Most Important Thing to Ever Happen in The History Of Everything.

One or two of them – the infantile sort whose sense of humour never left the laughing-at-one’s-own-genitals stage – will make constant references to Kojak, do the slapping thing Benny Hill did to Jackie Wright, etc etc. Yawn. The others will bang on relentlessly about how brave you are, as if you’ve amputated your own arms with a knife between your teeth during a polar expedition. Either way, you’ll be obliged to reveal it to everyone you know as if you were The Queen unveiling a statue, over and over again.

Oh, and none of your male friends will tell you what you need to know – that you don’t look like a twat.

6. Your female friends, on the other hand, will tell you that you don’t look like a twat.

But, unless they suddenly pull you towards them and say “My God, I never realised how sexy you are – let’s do it right here, on this pub table”, you won’t believe them.

7. Then they’ll tell you that you look like Harry Goldenblatt off Sex And The City.

But seeing as you’d sooner watch your Dad shit in a glass bucket than that load o’ rammell, you won’t know who he is, and get a bit scared that he’s a paedophile or something.

8. You will automatically lose any chance of getting some with at least 60% of the female population.

Sorry, but it has to be said.

9. Of the remaining 40%, half of those that would get with you want to because they think you’re something you’re not.

This was a real eye-opener for me. I used to have a skinhead cut when I moved to London, and an alarmingly high percentage of my peers thought I was a racist, Gay, or a Gay racist. As soon as I shaved it all off, a lot of people assumed I was hard as fuck (when I’m actually soft as arseholes). A lot of the women I ran into appeared to have a penchant for nightclub bouncers, and were a bit let down when I wasn’t nailing them to the bed and offering to beat the shit out of any man who had done them wrong, even if all he had done was short-change them by 5p at the newsagents.

10. Regardless of whether they fancy you or not, all women will want to stroke your head.

…whilst being totally unaware of Point 4, and not realising that to people like me, stroking a bald scalp is foreplay. I’ll be sat in the pub minding my own business, some pissed-up girl who I don’t even know runs her hand over my head on the way to the bar, and she might as well have licked it. When your female friends do it, it’s even worse; you have to fight to stop yourself running your hand up their leg in response. So please don’t do it.

(actually, fuck it; do do it. It’s the only pleasure I get nowadays)

11. You get used to it very quickly, to the point that you’d look weird with hair.

Although the downside to this is that you’re locked into looking the same way for the rest of your life. As the majority of men never use make-up, and we can never get away with going into town wearing a wig like women can, the only thing that men can do to change the way they look is to have a haircut. That option’s not open to me any more, which is a downer. Yeah, I could grow a beard, but it it’s an obvious over-compensating manoeuvre that fools no-one. Consequently…

12. You feel the need to tell every man to do as much mad shit with their hair as possible.

Not because it’s better. Just because you can.

'Mr Sex' on the subject of Valentines Day

2009-02-14T00:22:00.003Z

I wipe an alsatian's arsehole with it.

Manbits #11

2009-02-13T06:30:00.000Z

*** 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 ***

Anonymous writes: I have had a decent amount of sexual partners in the past and I have never come up against this problem before; I've just met someone that I like a lot and we have finally starting doing the tango. All was going well until she told me one night that she "cant" come. I was a bit confused by this and thought I was doing something wrong, but she told me she has never come in her life! I find this pretty strange and wonder if she just has accepted the fact that it might not be easy and never bothered or is this the case with some women? She says she still really enjoys sex with me and she is totally satisfied, but I just feel there is something missing as I come every time!

She gets pretty embarrassed talking about what we do in bed but she told me that she has never masturbated. I hinted that she should try it but she says she doesn't see the point. I am thinking about buying her a toy a few months down the road and hoping it doesn't offend her.

I would appreciate some expert advice on this one!

Sam says: This is a very interesting question – and kind of tricky. The first thing is that your girlfriend is not alone; research indicates that 12% of women never orgasm and 75% don't orgasm during intercourse. Very occasionally there is a medical reason, but mostly it is down to lack of clitoral stimulation.

Because your girlfriend has never masturbated and doesn't know how to please herself, it makes it harder for you. She can't show you how - and perhaps most importantly she doesn't really know what she's missing out on. It's kind of like a person who has never experienced the endorphin rush you get at the gym – they can't understand what gym bunnies are doing because from the outside it just looks like a lot of sweat and hard work. Orgasms are a bit like the endorphin rush you get in the gym, once you've experienced it, you're addicted and can't go back, but there is a quite a bit of work to get there in the first place.

You could try to get her to help herself, but that is not really an option, since she isn't really interested. Again it would be like trying to convince a couch potato to go the gym, they can't see the point and it just won't happen.

The best option is for you to show her what she's been missing out on. Unfortunately most sex toys are just designed for women, or just for men. And let's face it - from her point of view putting a massive pink thing with bunny ears inside her is not going to be terribly appealing. Fortunately the tide is changing and there are now sex toys available that are designed for couples to use on each other.

Your solution could be the ipod of the sex toy world – the Intimate Massager. It's kind of cool because it doesn't really look like a sex toy, more like a designer pebble that just happens to vibrate - so very low intimidation factor. Also it's totally waterproof so you can use it in the bath when you are both already feeling relaxed. The key it that it is designed for a couple to use on each other – so you can take the lead by suggesting she tries it on you, and talk to her about what works and what doesn't. Then it's just a natural step to do the same with her. Basically you've got to show her what she's been missing out on under the guise of you wanting to experiment with a new toy.

The other thing you might like to try is the new We-vibe - a very clever device that stimulates her clitoris, g-spot and your fella all while you are having sex. Once you've popped it in you just use a bit of lube and have sex as normal but with some extra turbo powered sensations.

Between the two of these toys you should be able to get her over the line. It's going to take a bit of experimenting, but once she has her first orgasm you are going to be her knight in shining armour. Once she's had one she won't want to turn back – and suddenly she will understand what all the fuss was about.

'Mr Sex' says: Sam's pretty much locked down her dilemma, so let's have a pick at yours. You are going to have to tread as carefully as someone with brand new trainers in a room full of bear traps and dog shit, me lad. I don't envy you at all, because there's lot of stuff to work though before you even think about lobbing a few sex toys up her.

First things first; yes, there are plenty, plenty women knocking about who have never had an orgasm, for various reasons. A previous fling of mine - who I had lusted after for longer than some of you out there have been alive - knocked me bandy when she told me it wasn't until she was in her late thirties when he had her first one (by which time the thought of her had given me thousands of 'em).

As Sam has pointed out, there could be any one of a number of reasons why your girl hasn't felt a bustle in her hedgerow - and if you don't watch out, you're going to add another handful of the bastards. First off, however well-intentioned you're trying to be, there's nothing worse than calling the state of your partner's or anyone's libido as 'pretty strange' - so cut that bollocks out immediately.

The other main danger you should be aware of is the hit your ego is currently taking; being an obviously considerate and aware modern male, her orgasm is just as important a boost to you as yours is. It's very easy to go into a relationship with someone like your girl and assume that she's had nothing but crap/inconsiderate/abusive exes, and only you can heal her. That's the short cut to developing complexes of your own.

Simply put, the only pink bits you should even think about stimulating right now are the ones between her ears. You need to make it clear that she can trust you 110%, you're not going to start getting the hump with her or push her into doing things she's not ready for, and - most importantly - you love having sex with her. Women are capable of dealing with orgasm-less sex far better than we are (although it goes without saying they enjoy orgasms as much as we do, if not more so), and if she feels she's you stopping you from having a sex wee, you're doing more harm than good.

Once you've given her the confidence to be completely open with you, you can then start on paying her some serious bodily attention. The way I see it, if she's never masturbated (which is something we pretty much attempt to do from a frighteningly early age), I'm guessing that there must be plenty of other places she hasn't even thought of touching - so give some of her other erogenous zones (i.e., pretty much everywhere else) a serious fussing, so you can find out what she likes. When she's aware that you're not going to lunge for her fanny without warning, she'll be a lot more open to you being a bit more intimate with her.

Basically, there's no quick fix here and you have to be aware that you might not be her clitoral saviour, no matter how hard you try. She enjoys sex with you; that's a pretty decent start. Now start enjoying sex with her, stop mithering, and take it from there.

Readers of TT: Comment!

Sam: Off with his head!

2009-02-12T08:00:00.004Z

The Joker. That wild card in the pack that can be anything you want. The guy in the crazy suit with the dangly bells. The Joker has a long an illustrious history – most people tend to think of them as entertainers. They would juggle, breathe fire and entertain the King and his court. They look silly, they act silly, most people think they are idiots.

But the Joker has always actually played a much more important role. Surrounded by sycophants who were seeking power and favour, the King would only hear what his courtiers thought he wanted to hear. Everyone said the same thing and everyone agreed. All very cosy. But the Joker always played a crucial role in the court – to say the un-sayble, to poke holes, and make the King see things that were being kept away from him, because people were too scared to say them to his face. And by the Joker saying it, others could talk about their views more openly without so much fear.

I know, some of you have been offended by Lee’s comments. And, predictably there have been cries of ‘Off with his head!’. But that’s his job. That’s what makes him interesting. He is willing to say the things that none of us are willing to say, on the record, risk offending and pissing people off and maybe get us to think outside our usual box.

No I don’t agree with everything jokers say and sometimes they go too far – but they make me think. You know, though we like to blame the wicked person who tempts another away from a relationship, actually maybe there is some truth in the fact that if that person can be so easily tempted, the relationship is dead or dying. I’ve talked to a fair number of my wealthy female clients who have had very specific legal advice from their accountants and lawyers that they cannot marry anyone with less money than them. Obviously the same goes for men. Lee makes me think how shit is it that a public display of long term commitment and love is determined by how much money your partner has, not love? Maybe there is something wrong with a system that makes some people so bitter and suspicious about marriage or even relationships.

So readers, swallow the bitter pill. It’s the Jokers job to give it to you. Disagree, shout, argue, and most importantly think: Is there an uncomfortable grain of truth in this? Don’t be like small minded courtiers and sycophants who throughout the centuries, when they heard something they didn’t like and shouted ‘Off with his Head!’.