The Renaissance Willy

I had cause to Google some art by Michelangelo. In particular his statue of David:

And something struck me. Or rather occurred to me. As it might now be occurring to you. Renaissance penises were a lot smaller than modern ones.

Nowadays the internet affords one (totally by accident I assure you) a lot of views of male members. The current trend seems to be for the large. The very large.

One worries about these men. How, for example, do they walk, see past them whilst driving or negotiate their way up ladders to mend the guttering? Or make love to normal women without impaling them in a hugely uncomfortable and frankly dangerous manner? Their chances of discovering G-spots are likely to be severely impaired. And surely there must be a danger of not being quite sure which limb is which and trying, for example, to use their penises for attaching watches to, stirring soup or scraping the ice off the car of a frosty morning.

I don’t doubt that casualty departments around the country are inundated with men who have made just these sorts of mistake. And women with severe internal bruising.


I’ve done some research. The Greeks too believed that the size should be proportional, it is inappropriate to have a willy the same size as an arm. And the Greeks are revered for their knowledge of proportion.


Note the nice bow.

And my final proof comes with this:

The world’s finest genius demonstrating just how in proportion a man should be.

So I feel it requisite upon myself to start a campaign: Bring back the Renaissance Willy. Safety first. Size matters.

How Not to Find a G-Spot

Disturbing news. I just read in the New Scientist (verily the source of all my knowledge) that They have just found something out.

The New Scientist is full of Theys. Who are busy finding Things out. It is possible to prove almost anything with sufficient perusals of this fine periodical.

Disturbing news. I just read in the New Scientist that only 30% of women have a G-spot. But that’s not all. It transpires that only a small proportion of men can find a G-spot. And sometimes, even if they find it, they don’t know what to do with it.

This, in my experience, is a common problem with the male of the species. There are other items which they find difficult to find. And then even should they happen across them they are flummoxed.

Items such as:

Hoovers
Dusters
Nappies
Children
Money
Fidelity
And, of course, clitorii.
And now we find out – G-spots.

Don’t think I’m just accusing the men of this kind of thing. No, us women also lose stuff. Just different stuff.

Items such as:

Hair bobbles
Earrings
Hearts
Sanity
And, of course common sense.
And now we find out – G-spots.


Not to worry though. The Theys of the New Scientist have a solution. They propose (oh, that’s another one, proposals) that men be trained in the art of discovery. I can just see them going for that:

Scientist: We believe it’s just up a bit and to the left.
Man: I don’t know what’s the point.
Scientist: To give her pleasure.
Man: I don’t know what’s the point.


Disturbing news. If only 30% of women have a G-spot and only 5% of men can find it and then only 1% of men know what to do with it when they find it, then any given woman who actually has a G-spot is unlikely to meet and then sleep with that man.

I once slept with that man. And believe I know why only 30% of women have a G-Spot. He steals them. No one ever found mine again. He’s probably got hundreds.

You know who you are. Please return the stolen goods immediately.

How Yoga Might Not Improve Your Sex Life

They say that yoga can improve your sex life. I’m an avid follower of They. So this was promising stuff.

I looked into it in detail. On the internet. I have books but they were on tall shelves and I couldn’t stretch up that far.

This is what happened:

I breathed in.
I breathed out.

So far so good, no problem really.

I practiced some specific yoga postures:

Vibhadrasana – I can’t pronounce it but essentially you have both feet on the ground and your arms in the air. I did that.

Parsvakonasan – same sort of thing but with one hand on the ground. I did that.

Things began to improve significantly because suddenly the postures had names I understood.

In quick succession I performed the ‘upward facing dog’, the ‘downward facing dog’ the ‘camel’ and the ‘fish variation’.

My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova after Swan Lake, or possibly Pavlov after ‘the dog’.

But improving my sex life was a goal worth struggling for. I struggled on, performing a shoulder stand, a head stand, a hand stand, a stand.

My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova. Without the meringue. And perhaps this is what they were getting at.

You know that feeling – after a really good orgasm – how one’s body and brain feel sort of like whipped cream? I was beginning to suspect that maybe there was some truth in this whole yoga/sex life thing. It was working.

A glanced around the room (my bedroom appropriately enough) for my dream lover. I checked under the bed (the Beloved might have mislaid his glasses/teeth and was looking for them). I glanced out of the window for the usual white steeds and metal-clad hunks.

Nothing.

Ah, but I then discovered that I hadn’t finished the important yoga stuff. There was one final posture that was vital.
The ‘corpse’.

I lay down and waited.

I still am.

How Not to Meet Mr Right on Valentines Day

It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 35 minutes left.

This is what happened:

I received something red in the post.

Some twelve hours later I discarded it as I really do have loads of those elastic bands that the postman uses already. We have a ball of them even. Called Cyril. The ball. Not the postman. Although the postman might be called Cyril. I’ll ask him tomorrow.

So, today was Valentines day. It still is. But luckily there’s only 33 minutes left. A day for finding love.

This is what happened:

After a lengthy discussion with my mother as to where all the handsome rich men with cute children hang out I decided to go to the gym. Because it was a good a place as anywhere to start on my search for Mr Right.

And obviously any sexy blokes, or even just ok blokes, or even just blokes with all their tackle intact, who were in the gym on Valentines night were bound to be single. Or in serious trouble. Thus my arrival on Valentines night (as opposed to my arrival on every other night this week) would cunningly lead to my knowing exactly which of those sweating regulars were, or were not, single. Cunning eh?

I went to great lengths to look good, wearing my new M&S gym trousers – ‘cotton fresh’. ‘Feel me’ the label said. I left it on. As well as the label ‘£12.99 fantastic value’ in case any of the men I was about to meet happened to have £12.99. I washed, brushed, put on several bras (needing all the support I could get) (especially whilst running) (which I might have to do) (if I met Mr Right and he tried to run away).

With a jaunty step and a J-Lo like wiggle to my bottom I stepped into the gym. And glanced around. And peered around some corners. And under some running machines.

There were no men.

There were lots of women.

Like me. Except without the labels.

None of the men whose physique I’ve been admiring all these weeks are single.

This is disappointing.

It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 25 minutes left.

How Not to Shop for Valentines Day

I’ve just been to ASDA. It’s 11pm Feb 13. The supermarket was very full. Of bewildered and confused men.

This is what happened:

The supermarket was very full. Of bewildered and confused men.

I tried to help by standing next to the flowers and coughing politely at the men buying the cheap chrysanthemums whilst gently fingering some blood-red roses. I then stood dreamily by the very largest and most expensive chocolates licking my lips in what I imagined to be a seductive manner (I fear it may have been misinterpreted as my having a bad cold). I indicated helpfully towards Tom Jones CDs and wiggled my hips to the memory of ‘What’s New Pussycat’.

All in vain I fear. I’d like to apologise to the women of Cardiff for my lack of influential powers.

The queues were long and sinuous. And male. I closely observed the nature of the purchases. This is what the average (I suppose they were average for I didn’t have my x-ray specs on) ASDA shopping man thought would turn their loved ones on:

Man 1: A single sad lily and a box of frozen fish-fingers.

Man 2: Cheap chrysanthemums and some batteries.

Man 3: Milk.

Man 4: A card of the most hideous nature depicting kittens and little hearts

Man 5: Air freshener, toilet cleaner, hoover bags, rubber gloves, champagne, roses, black forest gateaux a bumper box of condoms, and (I kid you not) a kit for moulding your own chocolate bunnies.

Naturally, after having paid for my bananas and kiwi fruit, I followed Man 5 home.

How Not to Find Out if You are Still on the Rebound

A man called Newton (also a keen fruit-catcher and turner of base things into gold) declared one sunny day (it might not of been actually sunny but it enhances the story) (pathetic fallacy) in a deep sonorous voice –
‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction’.

This is what’s known as ‘being on the rebound’.

The consoling thing about science it that it can be applied to all situations. Because it is inherently true. Possibly.

So, this is today’s question (we have temporarily put aside the ‘how can I tell if a man fancies me?’) (pathetic fallacy):

‘Am I Still on the Rebound?’

Here’s where the science comes in. ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction’. Ergo if one body falls in love the other body falls out of love. The difficulty is discovering exactly which body is yours.

Case 1: You fall in love. Your partner falls out of love. Therefore, according to Newtonian physics you will then react by falling out of love and your partner will have the equal and opposite reaction which is probably going to the pub. To this you are compelled by science to become tea-total. In response your partner must become an alcoholic.

Case 2: You fall out of love. Your partner falls in love. With someone else. You are then compelled to react by falling in love again, in all likelihood with your partner. Who is now your ex. His equal and opposite reaction will to be to fall out of love with the pub and become tea-total. And you are driven to drink.

Essentially anyone can see that this is an awful tangle. The laws of Newtonian physics are solely responsible for all the divorces and drink-related problems that have occurred since Newton was in britches.

Yet the question is answered quite clearly and unequivocally. Given that ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction’ then the answer is obviously ‘never’. Rebound is perpetual motion.

This is why Einstein was compelled to invent Relativity.

How to Tell if a Man Fancies You – Or Can Cosmology Prove if a Man Fancies You?

Recent advances in theoretical thinking have been used to good use to attempt to prove a Very Import Thing. That God Exists. Or That God Doesn’t Exist. I can’t quite make out which.

The Argument goes thus –
1. Whatever begins to exist has a cause.
2. The universe began to exist.
3. Therefore, the universe has a cause.

(Have you noticed that when proving some theoretical point in philosophy it is the norm to have three bits – Statement. Statement. And a neat little bit on the end that starts with either ‘Therefore’ or ‘Thus’? And yet, like life, one is left yearning for more. For a neat little bit that explains what the hell is supposed to be going on.)

Now we all know that proving whether God exists or doesn’t exist is very important. It’s a task of the utmost urgency and relevance to modern life. We all appreciate that and think that philosophers and physicists and the like are generally underpaid saints (if God exists) or underpaid geniuses (should God not exist). And these academics are worth every hour and strain on one’s suspension used driving them and their collection of ‘Physics Today’ magazines, cuddly toys that sing ‘Old MacDonalds Farm’ and plethora of stilettoed heeled boots to and from the aforementioned academic institutions.

But like so many of the academic endeavours endeavoured by our academics these days they are simply NOT addressing the question that people really really really want to know the answer to.

This is the question:

How Do I Know if a Man Fancies Me?

So, being the mother of one of the aforementioned academics I feel it is my duty – nay, my obligation to use whatever methods come to my disposal to answer THE question.

So let’s apply a little reality to the philosophy –

1. Whatever begins to exist has a cause.
2. The Question began to exist.
3. Therefore, the Question has a cause.
4. Therefore the cause is that the man fancies me.

Note how I have added that essential forth part that makes everything totally clear.

In my case of course it was all already totally clear – he doesn’t.

The Resolution Problem Resolved

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. Did I mention that? I’m not a person of a religious bent. Or any bent really. Well, my mind is a tad off the straight and narrow on occasion. Occasions like Ash Wednesday. And Wednesdays in general. And often days that end with the letter ‘y’.

I’d like to report that I’m sticking to my resolutions very well. But I’ve discovered a problem. A resolution problem which I am attempting to resolve.

This is what happened:

I got up when Terry Wogan told me to, because I had resolved to do so. I continued with my list of ‘Things I Must Do Every Morning’ because I had resolved to do so. This included –
Making nourishing packed lunch for the Lawyer. (15 minutes)
Taking Lawyer to train station. (20 minutes)
Remembering to eat breakfast. (1 minute)
Remembering to wash, and brush bodily parts as appropriate (and trying not to confuse bodily parts). (45 minutes due to a lot of thinking)
Doing an hour of yoga. (90 minutes)
Cleaning house. (a great deal of minutes)
Putting things in baskets. (183 minutes)
Taking coat out of freezer (73 minutes)
Not think about sex (198.46 minutes)

You are beginning to see the problem. All these minutes begin to add up to hours, days, weeks. By the time I have finished ‘Things I Must Do Every Morning’ we have reached the latter stages of April. And I haven’t even started on ‘Things I must do every Afternoon’ (lunch, emails, not thinking about love, reconstructing the shed, untangling kittens from baskets….). Let alone ‘Things I Must Do Every Evening’ (dinner, blog posts, swimming, gymming, feeding Lawyer, finding car, not thinking about love or sex, putting the coat in the freezer in order that I might remove it the following day…).

So, I then discover I have no time left to run our publishing company, our website company, write my novel, write our sitcom, create the cybernauts’ guide to the mirthverse, learn how to use Flash, have a wee or breathe. (I’ve given up on ever doing the accounts).

So here is what I’ve decided to do to overcome these difficulties:

I have resolved that every day I must remember to - publish one book, make three websites, write 10,000 words, 12 scenes, Mostly Life-ify, give up on Flash, give up weeing and breathing.

Fucking sorted. Except the fucking. Aye, well, tomorrow is another couple of dozen days.

How Not to Resolve – Or Lent vs New Year (Lent 3 – New Year 2)

Today, in case it passed you by, is the first day of Lent. Otherwise known in the trade as Ash Wednesday. It’s all terribly like New Year except without the parties. And painful shoes. And the snogging inebriated friends. The friends. Not me. I didn’t dare get drunk this last New Years – the danger of my taking someone’s husband home would have been too great.

Today is the first day of Lent. It’s all terribly like New Year because of all that resolution stuff. Lent is the soft version of New Year. It only lasts 40 days as opposed to 365 days, or, in the case of New Year’s resolutions, 10 days.

This year it is particularly handy for those, like myself, who are given to resolution. Because just as one fails the New Year ones – Lo! Where should we find ourselves but bang up against the next big resolution calendar event. Convenient eh?

So here are my resolutions –

Stop putting my coat in the fridge by mistake.
Stop putting my boots in the freezer, whether by mistake or on purpose.
Remember where I am going whilst traversing roundabouts.
Remember that roundabouts are for going around rather than traversing.
Put all my underwear in alphabetical order.
Put all my outerwear in numerical order (except for those items already in the freezer)
Stop thinking about sex.
Stop thinking about love.
Stop thinking.
Put everything in the house that is not actually attached to a wall, screwed to the floor or over ten foot tall into Anthea-esque baskets.
Weave a basket sufficiently large to put the car in.
Find the car.


So, for 40 days and 40 nights I must do the above. It’s not going to be easy. Obviously. Especially all that basket stuff.

But the sheer anticipatory joy of Easter Sunday will keep me going. For verily on that day I will once more be able to freeze coats, make much disorder, bump crazily across roundabouts, lose the car and think about sex. I might give the last one a miss.

Oh fuck, I’ve broken that one already. Never mind there’s always baskets.

How Not to Solve All One’s Problems

I have made a resolution. A post New Year, sort of a bit later in the year, February sort of resolution.

This is what happened:

I was swimming. Up and down. Down and up. And generally along.

The problem with swimming, aside from all the usual chlorine issues, struggles with possible drowning, attempting to move one’s legs so fast that no one notices that one’s forgotten to shave one’s legs and time spent tucking spare pubes back into one’s costume in order to pretend one isn’t middle-aged, is that it gives one too much time to think.

Thinking is dangerous stuff. Questions like ‘What’s happened to my life?’ ‘What is sex?’ and ‘Is it possible to get Bromide on prescription?’ knock incessantly at one’s consciousness like a minor fleet of lion-shaped door knockers on especially strong espressos.

You may think that in these circumstances I might have resolved to give up swimming, or possibly black out my goggles or my mind. You would be very wrong. For I resolved to answer some of the other questions that were arriving like a fleet of lost 134 buses in a chlorinated and badly-lit flood.

These were the other questions –
Why aren’t I sufficiently rich to buy my own Bromide?
Should Bromide be spelt with a capital B?
If I were a celeb would my sex life improve?
How should I become a celeb?
If Big Brother was an invention of the media rather than an Orwellian concept would it have ever worked?
Why did I ask that last question seeing as it didn’t work?
Why don’t I have a column in the Guardian?

Yes, it’s all stunningly obvious isn’t it? The solution to all the above questions. I should be a writer. And that’s what I resolved. But not just a writer of any old nonsense. No, a writer of specific nonsense. This very nonsense you are reading now.

I resolved to remember to write my blog. Everything else will obviously and naturally follow – I will get a column in the Guardian (if you are the person in charge of the Guardian please call asap), I will then be able to afford Bromide and a dictionary. I will be celeb, ergo a proper regime of depilation, ergo people in the swim lane will fancy me and, super-bonus, the whole of the first lot of questions will no longer need answering.

Fucking sorted. Literally too if all goes according to plan.

PS - if I forget please nag me, for obviously my future life and happiness depends upon it.