'Mr Sex': Danny Dyer is a Worthless Cunt

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

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

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

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

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

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

1) It's near the red light area

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

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

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

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

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

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...

'Mr Sex': TIGER STYLE!

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

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?)

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

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'?

You decide!

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

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

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

MY DARLING MONIKA

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

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

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

MONIKA TAK CARE DARLIN
ALL MY LOVE HUGS EN KISSERS
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

LOVE YA SEXY BUM

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

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

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

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

'Mr Sex' and the Brick Shithouses of Scunthorpe

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

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

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

The same nightclub we were booked at. Oh dear.

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

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

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

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

"'EY! YO'!"

Oh, shit.

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

"Er, yeah mate"

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

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

"Er...London"

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

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

"So did yer get any fanneh, then?"

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

"Er, no mate."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mr Sex' sees the writing on the wall

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

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

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

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

I L

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

I LIKE

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is how it feels;

1. You feel numb as fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dan: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

Danonymous Dan: A bit rusty

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' Despairs at the Youth of Today

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

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

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

Here's just an example; there was an outstanding poem that was on the wall of the subway between my school and the shopping precinct for years that was set to the tune of the Cadbury's Fudge advert that went like this;

A finger of Fudge is just enough
To give yourself a frill
A finger of fudge is just enough
So stick it up your grill*

And underneath, the footnote;

*Grill = Fanny

Fast forward a couple of decades, and the once-timeless motif known as the Big Cock With All Spunk Coming Out Of It appears to have fallen by the wayside, replaced my mouth-breathing GangstaTwats writing their fucking stupid made-up name that no-one can even read, over and over and over again. And I wondered why it had disappeared. I thought it must have been because today's youth probably have a more mature, responsible attitude to genitals, or they're far more blase about sex than we were.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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