It’s time to fess up. It’s tidier than fessing down. Although cunningly disguised as a friend of a friend of a person quite likely to be a friend, I met him on the internet.
I know.
But everyone’s doing it. All the friends of friends of people one is quite likely to know. It has real advantages over real life. Things like:
We all know why we’re here.
It’s possible to talk to his/her photograph without ever having had the painful experience of having a photograph given to you as a token of love and then just being left with the token when the photographee has wandered off.
We can pretend to be better/wittier/saner/realer/less menopausal people without the real better/wittier/saner/realer people actually finding out that you’re sitting there having a hot flush.
There is no one to ask if you are really better/wittier/saner/realer. (Soulmates haven’t cottoned on to the whole reference thing which is the usual requirement of the matchmaker) (aside from being in those cute slidy boxes)
It’s nothing to do with one’s mother’s conception of who a nice boy/girl would be.
It’s possible to judge people on purely spurious basises like –
the quality of their punctuation,
whether they’re capable of making it through an entire form-filling process,
and how they look in a photograph obviously taken in a moment of desperation as they came to the bit in the form when asked to upload a photo (hence the lion-king pyjamas).
Their fondness for orange vegetables.
There is a great deal of interest in the subject of Guardian Soulmates. I have just designated myself in the role of spurious Soulmate expert. Experts, after all, are only people who know stuff that is basically unknowable. Questions like why? How? What? And most of all with whom? All of these, and probably many more questions, I might address in forthcoming posts. Next exciting episode, coming to a screen near you – First Contact – what really happened, what might have happened, and carrot soup.
Showing posts with label a little bit to do with sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a little bit to do with sex. Show all posts
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Friday, 29 August 2008
How Not to Be Judged By Karl Marx – Or Socialist Sex and How to Do It.
There is a portrait of Karl Marx. On the wall of the Man’s bedroom. There is a certain sense that Karl is overseeing proceedings.
Of course we all have something on our bedroom walls. Some appealing art or peeling paint that looks down upon goings-on in the bed. I have a painting of what is probably the sea, for obvious metaphorical reasons. I also have a drawing of a naked man (known as Dangly-Bollocks Man), for obvious metaphysical reasons. He has is face politely averted.
Karl, however, in his best Mona Lisa style is looking very directly. Judging. What goes on. Quite a lot has been going on.
Now I am worried that my sexual activities with The Man (henceforth to be known as the Unknowable Man for obvious reasons which we will never know) may not be of a sufficiently socialist nature. That possibly Karl might disapprove.
The question is – am I the bourgeois of the sex world? Should I be instigating revolution and the fair distribution of orgasms? Is it fair that the few should have so many and yet the many have so few?
As Karl himself said ‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.’ So perhaps on this premise we can be reassured. The Unknowable Man has the abilities and I have the needs. And Karl has the beard.
Of course we all have something on our bedroom walls. Some appealing art or peeling paint that looks down upon goings-on in the bed. I have a painting of what is probably the sea, for obvious metaphorical reasons. I also have a drawing of a naked man (known as Dangly-Bollocks Man), for obvious metaphysical reasons. He has is face politely averted.
Karl, however, in his best Mona Lisa style is looking very directly. Judging. What goes on. Quite a lot has been going on.
Now I am worried that my sexual activities with The Man (henceforth to be known as the Unknowable Man for obvious reasons which we will never know) may not be of a sufficiently socialist nature. That possibly Karl might disapprove.
The question is – am I the bourgeois of the sex world? Should I be instigating revolution and the fair distribution of orgasms? Is it fair that the few should have so many and yet the many have so few?
As Karl himself said ‘From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.’ So perhaps on this premise we can be reassured. The Unknowable Man has the abilities and I have the needs. And Karl has the beard.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Mamma Mia! Or How Life Really Could be a Musical
I’ve been to the cinema. The film went like this:
A young beautiful blond 20 year-old was about to get married.
She sang a song.
Her 40 –something-year-old mother did DIY.
She sang a song.
Some men were involved who also sang.
There was dancing.
And in the end it wasn’t the beautiful blond 20 year-old that got married but the 40-something-year-old mother. She lived happily ever after. With Pierce Brosnan.
Mamma Mia!
This, I feel should be a parable for life. Aside from the Pierce Brosnan bit.
So why, we ask ourselves, isn’t life more like a musical? When was the last time that a group of people were, at one moment discussing something quite mundane, like money, or oranges, or perforations and then spontaneously broke into a song and dance routine? Where are the hidden orchestras playing overly-arranged tunes? The young tight-buttocked men grinning inanely whilst flinging their limbs into the air? These, surely, are the elements in life that lead to long-lasting happiness.
And so I feel it is my mission to rectify the aforementioned shortcomings. I have the technology. I have just purchased the costumes.
This is how it will go:
A not-so-young woman wants a man.
She sings a song, the orchestra plays from her iPod (we won’t worry that no one else can hear it for it is only the main protagonist that we are interested in).
The young tight-buttocked chorus dances and flings limbs about (this will be in miniature using the woman’s daughter’s ex-collection of Ken dolls but some cunning camera work will cover this lack of scale).
The woman dances wearing her new costume that she bought for her forthcoming holiday but will double up for the purpose (a purple tankini and a pair of red houndstooth daps).
A man sees her (through the kitchen window) (for this is a kitchen-sink musical) and falls in love with her.
He sings a song (or possibly it is groaning, but we are not sure, nor do we actually care).
The man is not Pierce Brosnan because his singing is crap.
In the end the woman of a certain age marries the peeping Tom accompanied by a dancing chorus of Kens and Barbies and much merriment and music that only she can hear.
There are no young beautiful blond 20 year-olds involved because she died of embarrassment in the very first scene.
I believe it will be a hit and run on Broadway for many years until purple tankinis and red houndstooth daps fall out of fashion and women of a certain age are no longer wanting men.
A young beautiful blond 20 year-old was about to get married.
She sang a song.
Her 40 –something-year-old mother did DIY.
She sang a song.
Some men were involved who also sang.
There was dancing.
And in the end it wasn’t the beautiful blond 20 year-old that got married but the 40-something-year-old mother. She lived happily ever after. With Pierce Brosnan.
Mamma Mia!
This, I feel should be a parable for life. Aside from the Pierce Brosnan bit.
So why, we ask ourselves, isn’t life more like a musical? When was the last time that a group of people were, at one moment discussing something quite mundane, like money, or oranges, or perforations and then spontaneously broke into a song and dance routine? Where are the hidden orchestras playing overly-arranged tunes? The young tight-buttocked men grinning inanely whilst flinging their limbs into the air? These, surely, are the elements in life that lead to long-lasting happiness.
And so I feel it is my mission to rectify the aforementioned shortcomings. I have the technology. I have just purchased the costumes.
This is how it will go:
A not-so-young woman wants a man.
She sings a song, the orchestra plays from her iPod (we won’t worry that no one else can hear it for it is only the main protagonist that we are interested in).
The young tight-buttocked chorus dances and flings limbs about (this will be in miniature using the woman’s daughter’s ex-collection of Ken dolls but some cunning camera work will cover this lack of scale).
The woman dances wearing her new costume that she bought for her forthcoming holiday but will double up for the purpose (a purple tankini and a pair of red houndstooth daps).
A man sees her (through the kitchen window) (for this is a kitchen-sink musical) and falls in love with her.
He sings a song (or possibly it is groaning, but we are not sure, nor do we actually care).
The man is not Pierce Brosnan because his singing is crap.
In the end the woman of a certain age marries the peeping Tom accompanied by a dancing chorus of Kens and Barbies and much merriment and music that only she can hear.
There are no young beautiful blond 20 year-olds involved because she died of embarrassment in the very first scene.
I believe it will be a hit and run on Broadway for many years until purple tankinis and red houndstooth daps fall out of fashion and women of a certain age are no longer wanting men.
Saturday, 23 August 2008
Don’t Panic – Or Dark Matter and How to Find It
It’s ok. We can all stop panicking. They’ve found Dark Matter, or at least found something dark that may lead to them finding something that shows something dark. That may matter. Or not.
Dark Matter, for all you non-physicists out there, (or for all you physicists out there who think physics is something to do with science), is invisible, very very difficult to find, constitutes a great deal of the universe, is difficult to pinpoint, put your finger on, touch, smell, hear, understand and essentially makes the world go round. Does this remind you of anything?
There have been a number of methods for trying to find Dark Matter:
Look in the sort of places where Dark Matter likes to hide (these include space, dimly lit bars which resemble black holes, the internet and under the bed (that’s if you’ve merely mislaid the D.Matter rather than having lost it or never found it in the first place)).
Use a Dark Matter Detector (these include the darker reaches of the soul, the sleeve, and something that looks like an internal organ or possibly is an internal organ).
Pretend you aren’t looking for it and hope you happen across it.
Look for something that resembles Dark Matter and simply pretend it’s the real thing (a very popular alternative).
Never confuse Dark Matter with the Dark Ages although as the Dark Ages approach those who have mislaid, lost or never found Dark Matter tend to get even more confused than they already are.
I’ve been fumbling about in the dark with someone who matters and am just as confused as ever. But at least I’ve stopped panicking. Because I now know that it is possible to find Dark Matter. In theory. Or something that resembles it.
Dark Matter, for all you non-physicists out there, (or for all you physicists out there who think physics is something to do with science), is invisible, very very difficult to find, constitutes a great deal of the universe, is difficult to pinpoint, put your finger on, touch, smell, hear, understand and essentially makes the world go round. Does this remind you of anything?
There have been a number of methods for trying to find Dark Matter:
Look in the sort of places where Dark Matter likes to hide (these include space, dimly lit bars which resemble black holes, the internet and under the bed (that’s if you’ve merely mislaid the D.Matter rather than having lost it or never found it in the first place)).
Use a Dark Matter Detector (these include the darker reaches of the soul, the sleeve, and something that looks like an internal organ or possibly is an internal organ).
Pretend you aren’t looking for it and hope you happen across it.
Look for something that resembles Dark Matter and simply pretend it’s the real thing (a very popular alternative).
Never confuse Dark Matter with the Dark Ages although as the Dark Ages approach those who have mislaid, lost or never found Dark Matter tend to get even more confused than they already are.
I’ve been fumbling about in the dark with someone who matters and am just as confused as ever. But at least I’ve stopped panicking. Because I now know that it is possible to find Dark Matter. In theory. Or something that resembles it.
Monday, 18 August 2008
How To Tell If a Man Will Continue to Fancy You Using Statistics
I just read that 31% of people aged 45-54 who married in the last year in the USA had met on the internet. This is heartening news. Of course statistics have a tendency to belie the realities of life in the same way that life tends to inflate vital statistics.
A famous statistician once said ‘we are not concerned with the matter that is uncertain.’ But that’s what’s the matter. Uncertainty.
Having established that The Man probably does fancy you (note the use of the second person as if we aren’t really talking about me at all), how does one discover whether he will continue to fancy you or if it was just a passing fancy? And if passing is fancy why is it comparatively popular?
Statistics may prove to have some insight into the problem. So:
How to tell if a man will continue to fancy you using statistics –
1. Gather your sample (no, not that, that’s how to use biological techniques) (we may come to that another day).
2. Observe the experimental setting (bed, sofa, hillside, kitchen or bicycle).
3. Take extensive and exhaustive notes on extensive exhaustion (try not to get your pen confused with anything else) (oh and try and be subtle or the Man may wonder why you have to write everything down and take this as a sign of early-relationship-memory-loss, evidence gathering or belief in astrology).
4. Use numbers.
5. Analyse the numbers using statistical analysing sort of things.
Statistical analysing sort of things can be either
a) Descriptive – where you make a nice graph (usually shaped like a breast), a tasty pie chart (shaped like a pie that some bastard hasn’t divided up fairly at all), or a bar chart (shaped like New York). You can also use numerical descriptors about deviation. In my case I will stick to just the usual deviation.
b) Inferential – this is said to account for randomness (that’s handy) and draws inferences (don’t we all?).
I set about the task. This is what happened:
From my sample I inferred that due to the randomness of life, the exhaustion occurring from experimentation and my inability to understand the setting of my bicylce, I came to the analytical and statistical conclusion that the answer to ‘Whether the Man Would Continue to Fancy Me’ was:
14
with a mean of 78
and an average of 28,892,892.
Or, in a more descriptive manner:
a graph that was shaped like an aardvark pole-vaulting,
a pie chart that was pencil and onion flavoured
a bar chart that strangely resembled Einstein’s hair-do in 1953, or possibly the Outer Hebrides.
The problem with statistics is that, like men, even when one has them, they are more or less impossible to interpret.
A famous statistician once said ‘we are not concerned with the matter that is uncertain.’ But that’s what’s the matter. Uncertainty.
Having established that The Man probably does fancy you (note the use of the second person as if we aren’t really talking about me at all), how does one discover whether he will continue to fancy you or if it was just a passing fancy? And if passing is fancy why is it comparatively popular?
Statistics may prove to have some insight into the problem. So:
How to tell if a man will continue to fancy you using statistics –
1. Gather your sample (no, not that, that’s how to use biological techniques) (we may come to that another day).
2. Observe the experimental setting (bed, sofa, hillside, kitchen or bicycle).
3. Take extensive and exhaustive notes on extensive exhaustion (try not to get your pen confused with anything else) (oh and try and be subtle or the Man may wonder why you have to write everything down and take this as a sign of early-relationship-memory-loss, evidence gathering or belief in astrology).
4. Use numbers.
5. Analyse the numbers using statistical analysing sort of things.
Statistical analysing sort of things can be either
a) Descriptive – where you make a nice graph (usually shaped like a breast), a tasty pie chart (shaped like a pie that some bastard hasn’t divided up fairly at all), or a bar chart (shaped like New York). You can also use numerical descriptors about deviation. In my case I will stick to just the usual deviation.
b) Inferential – this is said to account for randomness (that’s handy) and draws inferences (don’t we all?).
I set about the task. This is what happened:
From my sample I inferred that due to the randomness of life, the exhaustion occurring from experimentation and my inability to understand the setting of my bicylce, I came to the analytical and statistical conclusion that the answer to ‘Whether the Man Would Continue to Fancy Me’ was:
14
with a mean of 78
and an average of 28,892,892.
Or, in a more descriptive manner:
a graph that was shaped like an aardvark pole-vaulting,
a pie chart that was pencil and onion flavoured
a bar chart that strangely resembled Einstein’s hair-do in 1953, or possibly the Outer Hebrides.
The problem with statistics is that, like men, even when one has them, they are more or less impossible to interpret.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
How Not to Email a Guardian Soulmate
They say that money can’t buy happiness but where’s the empirical evidence for this? Strangely, then when I Googled ‘money can’t buy happiness’ it turns out that there are a number of scientific studies that appear to demonstrate just that. However, never one to be put off by evidence, fact, science or the truth I have decided that money will buy me happiness and have done it again. Subscribed to Guardian Soulmates.
But this time it’s going to be different. This time I’m not going to sit there and hope that my well-worded (or wordy anyway) profile and glamorous picture will bring the Soulmates flooding in. Or trickling in. Or thank you the person who emailed me last time. Nor am I going to believe that simply ticking ‘Any’ for all the boxes in ‘my ideal mate’ will attract Mr Right. Or that adding all the cute guys who are way out of my league to My Favourites will mysteriously make them in my league. This time I’m being proactive. I’m taking control. I’m actually emailing people.
I have a technique. This is what I do:
I find a man I fancy. Or a man.
I carefully read what he’s written.
I then craft a cunningly worded sentence or two to say how interesting and sexy they sound. Examples include:
‘You sound interesting.’
‘You look nice.’
‘I read your profile.’
And
‘I fancy you.’
I then craft a cunningly worded sentence or two that lets them know just how interesting and sexy I am. Examples include:
‘I have written a load of bollocks on my profile.’
‘I can catch a ping-pong ball on my nose.’
‘I know how to read.’
And
‘My shoulders match.’
Then, finally, and this is the important part, I craft a cunningly worded question so they can answer my email without the awkwardness of not knowing what to say. Examples include:
‘How do you come to be living in Iceland/London/The World?’
‘Why have you put up that appalling photograph?’
‘Can you direct me to the Caves of Redemption?’
And
‘How?’
So far three people have replied. One of them didn’t have a subscription yet, one of them had let their subscription lapse and the other was the man who emailed me last time. And they say money can’t buy happiness. Pah!
But this time it’s going to be different. This time I’m not going to sit there and hope that my well-worded (or wordy anyway) profile and glamorous picture will bring the Soulmates flooding in. Or trickling in. Or thank you the person who emailed me last time. Nor am I going to believe that simply ticking ‘Any’ for all the boxes in ‘my ideal mate’ will attract Mr Right. Or that adding all the cute guys who are way out of my league to My Favourites will mysteriously make them in my league. This time I’m being proactive. I’m taking control. I’m actually emailing people.
I have a technique. This is what I do:
I find a man I fancy. Or a man.
I carefully read what he’s written.
I then craft a cunningly worded sentence or two to say how interesting and sexy they sound. Examples include:
‘You sound interesting.’
‘You look nice.’
‘I read your profile.’
And
‘I fancy you.’
I then craft a cunningly worded sentence or two that lets them know just how interesting and sexy I am. Examples include:
‘I have written a load of bollocks on my profile.’
‘I can catch a ping-pong ball on my nose.’
‘I know how to read.’
And
‘My shoulders match.’
Then, finally, and this is the important part, I craft a cunningly worded question so they can answer my email without the awkwardness of not knowing what to say. Examples include:
‘How do you come to be living in Iceland/London/The World?’
‘Why have you put up that appalling photograph?’
‘Can you direct me to the Caves of Redemption?’
And
‘How?’
So far three people have replied. One of them didn’t have a subscription yet, one of them had let their subscription lapse and the other was the man who emailed me last time. And they say money can’t buy happiness. Pah!
Sunday, 6 July 2008
How to Talk to Men in the Not Real World
Having recently retired from internet dating I decided that what I needed to do was practice talking to men in the real world. Since I don’t live in the real world this proved tricky. So I practiced talking to men in the gym.
This is what happened:
Expedition 1 -
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I chatted for a jolly thousand meters or so on topics as wide ranging as my children, my children and my children. The man was moderately interested in the theme. Even had a word or two on the subject himself. I then realised that it was the ex-Beloved and father of the aforementioned offspring. Still, at least I’d spoken to a man.
Expedition 2 –
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I checked that it wasn’t the ex-Beloved. It appeared not. Conveniently the display on his machine was broken. I helpfully suggested that if he followed me stroke for stroke he’d know how far he’d gone. He ran away.
Expedition 3 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man was sitting next to me. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a nervous high-pitch laugh. He got out to reveal that he was wearing a bikini.
Expedition 4 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man waded in next to me. I peered as closely as I could to ensure a genuine gender check. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a reassuringly deep although nervous laugh. ‘You look like a nice sort of chap.’ I ventured. He may or may not have smiled. At last, a result.
This real-world stuff seems a lot safer and more productive than online romance.
This is what happened:
Expedition 1 -
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I chatted for a jolly thousand meters or so on topics as wide ranging as my children, my children and my children. The man was moderately interested in the theme. Even had a word or two on the subject himself. I then realised that it was the ex-Beloved and father of the aforementioned offspring. Still, at least I’d spoken to a man.
Expedition 2 –
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I checked that it wasn’t the ex-Beloved. It appeared not. Conveniently the display on his machine was broken. I helpfully suggested that if he followed me stroke for stroke he’d know how far he’d gone. He ran away.
Expedition 3 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man was sitting next to me. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a nervous high-pitch laugh. He got out to reveal that he was wearing a bikini.
Expedition 4 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man waded in next to me. I peered as closely as I could to ensure a genuine gender check. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a reassuringly deep although nervous laugh. ‘You look like a nice sort of chap.’ I ventured. He may or may not have smiled. At last, a result.
This real-world stuff seems a lot safer and more productive than online romance.
Friday, 6 June 2008
How I didn’t Meet my Guardian Soulmate
I have retired from internet dating. For the time being anyway. Not because I’ve met my one true love (or perchance I have) (more of that later) but because they wanted money. The dating site, not the men. Although sometimes I might have been tempted to pay the men. Services rendered and all that. If only any of them had. But I wouldn’t have been able to anyway. I have a lot of wonderful things, cats, daughters, (sorry the other way round), a rural idyll, dandelions and a small widget to make coffee akin to amphetamines. Money, being the root of all evil, not buying you love, and being hard to come across, I don’t have.
I could have just left my profile up but I worried that some poor fellow would see it, fall deeply and irrevocably in love with me and then find that, due to lack of funds, I could never speak to him, and that he would become deeply embittered, kill himself by throwing himself off a motorway bridge, cause a massive pile-up that included various world leaders on their way to a peace summit and so miss their chance to save the world from war, destruction, pestilence and coffee akin to amphetamines, and so we would all die of war, destruction, pestilence and coffee akin to amphetamines. Thus rendering internet dating obsolete.
Internet dating turned out to be a lot like shopping. I go into town and in the very first shop I find some shoes that are really nice. But then it’s the first shop, maybe there are better, redder, sexier more shoey shoes in the other shops. I spend a tiring day/week/year/lifetime trawling, inspecting, smelling, trying on other shoes only to decide that the very first pair of shoes was actually very nice.
And so I seem to be dating the first pair of shoes. The shoes may or may not think this is the case, as shoes are unfathomable creatures. This pair particularly so. It may be that the shoes have in fact wandered off. For how can any of us tell if shoes fancy us? I certainly can’t.
I feel for the sake of utter corniness I should make some joke here re shoes and soles and souls and soulmates. But I’ll save you from that.
PS – Shoes - if you read this the whole shoe metaphor thing was purely accidental. I do not now, nor never have, think of you as a pair of shoes. Although if you’d like me to…
I could have just left my profile up but I worried that some poor fellow would see it, fall deeply and irrevocably in love with me and then find that, due to lack of funds, I could never speak to him, and that he would become deeply embittered, kill himself by throwing himself off a motorway bridge, cause a massive pile-up that included various world leaders on their way to a peace summit and so miss their chance to save the world from war, destruction, pestilence and coffee akin to amphetamines, and so we would all die of war, destruction, pestilence and coffee akin to amphetamines. Thus rendering internet dating obsolete.
Internet dating turned out to be a lot like shopping. I go into town and in the very first shop I find some shoes that are really nice. But then it’s the first shop, maybe there are better, redder, sexier more shoey shoes in the other shops. I spend a tiring day/week/year/lifetime trawling, inspecting, smelling, trying on other shoes only to decide that the very first pair of shoes was actually very nice.
And so I seem to be dating the first pair of shoes. The shoes may or may not think this is the case, as shoes are unfathomable creatures. This pair particularly so. It may be that the shoes have in fact wandered off. For how can any of us tell if shoes fancy us? I certainly can’t.
I feel for the sake of utter corniness I should make some joke here re shoes and soles and souls and soulmates. But I’ll save you from that.
PS – Shoes - if you read this the whole shoe metaphor thing was purely accidental. I do not now, nor never have, think of you as a pair of shoes. Although if you’d like me to…
Friday, 25 April 2008
How to Tell If a Man is Single Using Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion
There’s someone in Australia that I’m a bit worried about. I don’t know who it is. A woman I highly suspect. So we’ll call her she. She is confused and bewildered, as are most of us. Or most of me. She has been trying to find out how to tell if a man is single. By reading this blog. Yet I’m yet to inform my confused public how to tell if a man is single. But I’ve been there. So in a reverse piece of Googling I feel beholden to pontificate upon this subject:
How to Tell If a Man is Single Using Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion
Kepler was a chap. So already we can infer he knew something of the matter. He married a 25 year old woman who was already widowed twice over. Already we can infer that he was a reckless chap. And married.
He invented some relevant laws about bodies moving in orbits about two focal points which we might apply here to answer our question.
Law 1: A body might move in an ellipse with two focal points. So what we need to discover is does the body in question obey a Keplerian orbit or does he adhere to the old fashioned ideas of Aristotle and Ptolemy?
How to test:
Does the body in question move elliptically? Tip: The essential difference between an ellipse and a circle is the degree of squashiness.
Law 2: The body moves faster when away from the foci.
How to test:
Measure the exact speed of entrance and exit. Next measure the staying rate. Which is greater?
Law 3: The body moves faster if the foci are further apart.
How to test:
Move yourself further away from where you suspect the other focus is. Tip: If you think the other focus is on the far side of town then you go to Antarctica, Timbuktu or Rhyl. Repeat Test 2.
Obviously there is some maths involved here. If you feel you are not good at calculations then use an observational technique:
Does the body in question come straight to you from any given point?
Does the body in question give a straight answer?
Does the body in question leave straight away?
Finally, if you find yourself asking yourself ‘Is he single?’ you probably already know the answer without reference to any sort of science.
How to Tell If a Man is Single Using Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion
Kepler was a chap. So already we can infer he knew something of the matter. He married a 25 year old woman who was already widowed twice over. Already we can infer that he was a reckless chap. And married.
He invented some relevant laws about bodies moving in orbits about two focal points which we might apply here to answer our question.
Law 1: A body might move in an ellipse with two focal points. So what we need to discover is does the body in question obey a Keplerian orbit or does he adhere to the old fashioned ideas of Aristotle and Ptolemy?
How to test:
Does the body in question move elliptically? Tip: The essential difference between an ellipse and a circle is the degree of squashiness.
Law 2: The body moves faster when away from the foci.
How to test:
Measure the exact speed of entrance and exit. Next measure the staying rate. Which is greater?
Law 3: The body moves faster if the foci are further apart.
How to test:
Move yourself further away from where you suspect the other focus is. Tip: If you think the other focus is on the far side of town then you go to Antarctica, Timbuktu or Rhyl. Repeat Test 2.
Obviously there is some maths involved here. If you feel you are not good at calculations then use an observational technique:
Does the body in question come straight to you from any given point?
Does the body in question give a straight answer?
Does the body in question leave straight away?
Finally, if you find yourself asking yourself ‘Is he single?’ you probably already know the answer without reference to any sort of science.
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
How I’ve Found my Perfect Career
I’ve finally found my perfect career. Well paid, interesting, high-flying.
This is what I’m going to be:
An astronaut.
Don’t think I’ve gone into this without any research. Or much research. Or a passing piece of research. No, I’ve dug trivially into the ESA (European Space Agency for you non-astronaut types) website to discover if I’m properly qualified for the job.
This is what they specified:
Youth – between the ages of 27 and 37. Is that youth? Still some people say I look as young as 38 which is very near 37. My mental age is in single digits as is my emotional age. So, when averaged out I’m about 27.5757. Perfect.
Experience - They must have experienced Real Life – I believe my life has been as genuine as the next space woman’s.
Scientifically Minded – I am the Relationship Physicist after all. They suggest that a degree in science might be a boon. Well I have a degree in miscellany which is surely better. And my daughter will have a degree in physics so that must count.
Patience – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have patience but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism.
Bravery – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have bravery but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism and extraordinary bravery.
Prepared for strange lifestyle – Already there.
Psychologically sound – Well, I sound psychological.
I have written the covering letter for the application:
Dear ESA,
I want to be an astronaut because I believe I will be ideally suited to being an astronaut. The suit will be ideal to cover any unfortunate bumps that exist on my body. The weightlessness will ideally cover my usual lack of balance. The long hours stuck in a confined space with only a few young, experienced, scientifically minded, patient, brave, prepared and sane astronauts will ideally be ideal for my idea of an idealised life.
The applications open 19 May, mine will be first on their spacemat.
This is what I’m going to be:
An astronaut.
Don’t think I’ve gone into this without any research. Or much research. Or a passing piece of research. No, I’ve dug trivially into the ESA (European Space Agency for you non-astronaut types) website to discover if I’m properly qualified for the job.
This is what they specified:
Youth – between the ages of 27 and 37. Is that youth? Still some people say I look as young as 38 which is very near 37. My mental age is in single digits as is my emotional age. So, when averaged out I’m about 27.5757. Perfect.
Experience - They must have experienced Real Life – I believe my life has been as genuine as the next space woman’s.
Scientifically Minded – I am the Relationship Physicist after all. They suggest that a degree in science might be a boon. Well I have a degree in miscellany which is surely better. And my daughter will have a degree in physics so that must count.
Patience – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have patience but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism.
Bravery – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have bravery but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism and extraordinary bravery.
Prepared for strange lifestyle – Already there.
Psychologically sound – Well, I sound psychological.
I have written the covering letter for the application:
Dear ESA,
I want to be an astronaut because I believe I will be ideally suited to being an astronaut. The suit will be ideal to cover any unfortunate bumps that exist on my body. The weightlessness will ideally cover my usual lack of balance. The long hours stuck in a confined space with only a few young, experienced, scientifically minded, patient, brave, prepared and sane astronauts will ideally be ideal for my idea of an idealised life.
The applications open 19 May, mine will be first on their spacemat.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
How to Keep a Man Fancying You
I have been dubbed ‘The Relationship Physicist’. I am wearing this moniker with pride, pleasure and a small blob of blu-tac. My continuing mission to discover the truth of relationships through the unbending laws of physics and to bend the laws of physics to the slightly limp rules of relationships continues apace. Or at least continues at a pace slightly slower than light speed and slightly faster than snails’.
Today’s question, brought on by a bout of perspicacity, is:
How to Keep a Man Fancying You
Or
How to Conserve a Relationship/Attraction Using Standard Laws of Conservation
There are various laws of conservation, the better known being about not dropping litter, annihilating rainforests and good husbandry. Which includes good wifery and good loverery. My remit, however, requires me to maintain that spurious air of science. So let us look more deeply into the real deep physical aspects:
How to Apply the Laws -
1. The Conservation of Energy –Move very slowly to avoid exhaustion. Eat plenty of sugar. Don’t get out of bed.
2. The Conservation of Linear Motion – Remember, linear is not the only way. Plenty of folk enjoy oblique, spoonerisms, roundabouts and, (if it’s your cup of tea/coffee/Horlicks), tortuous.
3. The Conservation of Angular Momentum – fairly obviously this is applicable only when a correct/preferable/plausible angle has been achieved. The usual technique is to discuss baked beans, Tory politicians or fish.
4. The Conservation of Electric Charge – this is the most and veryest important. It is well known that without that spark any relationship becomes mundane and flat, not to mention flaccid. It is a challenge to conserve the electric charge but a good battery, capacitor, or close positioning of appropriate electrodes is popular. As is the Tantric practice of static.
5. The Conservation of Probability states that nothing is certain. Even should you most assiduously adhere to the above laws of conservation, assiduous adherence cannot be guaranteed.
Today’s question, brought on by a bout of perspicacity, is:
How to Keep a Man Fancying You
Or
How to Conserve a Relationship/Attraction Using Standard Laws of Conservation
There are various laws of conservation, the better known being about not dropping litter, annihilating rainforests and good husbandry. Which includes good wifery and good loverery. My remit, however, requires me to maintain that spurious air of science. So let us look more deeply into the real deep physical aspects:
How to Apply the Laws -
1. The Conservation of Energy –Move very slowly to avoid exhaustion. Eat plenty of sugar. Don’t get out of bed.
2. The Conservation of Linear Motion – Remember, linear is not the only way. Plenty of folk enjoy oblique, spoonerisms, roundabouts and, (if it’s your cup of tea/coffee/Horlicks), tortuous.
3. The Conservation of Angular Momentum – fairly obviously this is applicable only when a correct/preferable/plausible angle has been achieved. The usual technique is to discuss baked beans, Tory politicians or fish.
4. The Conservation of Electric Charge – this is the most and veryest important. It is well known that without that spark any relationship becomes mundane and flat, not to mention flaccid. It is a challenge to conserve the electric charge but a good battery, capacitor, or close positioning of appropriate electrodes is popular. As is the Tantric practice of static.
5. The Conservation of Probability states that nothing is certain. Even should you most assiduously adhere to the above laws of conservation, assiduous adherence cannot be guaranteed.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
How to Tell if a Man Fancies You Using Superstition Alone
There are days on which science just doesn’t work. Those sort of days where cats fall upwards, quanta are visible to the naked eye, and naked men are invisible. Or possibly not there.
These are the sorts of times where one has to turn to superstition alone the answer the big questions in life, like 'Why am I here?' 'Why do I hear?' 'Can one hear y’s?' And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me?’
Although, just so you don’t think that the above chestnut is the only form of nut people google to discover my blog, recent queries have included:
‘How to hoover woodlice.’ (I’ve referred that to Anthea)
‘Does everyone have a G-spot?’ No. And, as of the moment they turn the Large Hadron Collider on, no one will.
‘How do you to find a G-spot?’ OS maps are traditional, modern folk use Sat Nav, I advise thoroughly searching the entire body as it’s simply more entertaining that way. Whatever the method you use do it soon before they make the black hole. Not that black hole, include that one in your search.
‘What to do in the sauna?’ Not break your foot.
‘Morreau naked.’ If you really want to see me naked I’m on public view in the changing room of the gym most nights, on the book cover and if you require a private viewing please make an appointment. Reciprocosity expected/anticipated.
And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me’.
The thing about superstition, as opposed to science, as a method of discovery is that it is a lot more straight forward.
Here are the top ten ways of discovering if a man fancies you using superstition alone:
1. If he crosses your path wearing black (especially black pyjamas, underwear, a black condom or a darkish colour negligee)
2. If he ties knots in his handkerchief, or his trousers look like they’ve got a large knotted handkerchief down them.
3. If he walks under a ladder carrying a penny that he’s just picked up (it also shows that he knows how to balance evil with good if that’s your sort of thing)
4. If he has a foot like a rabbit or a rabbit like a foot long.
5. If he is standing at the foot of a rainbow (a small warning here – leprechauns are infamously bad lovers)
6. If you see him shooting stars (again, a warning, if he is shooting very famous stars in a public place it really doesn’t bode well for a long-lasting relationship)
7. If he is 13
8. If he gets into the wrong, or even the right, side of your bed
9. If he itches your palm (or possible anywhere else)
10. If he breaks mirrors (of course you might not fancy him then)
11. If he knocks on wood (ok, wood fetishists may not be your cup of tea but at least he fancies something)
12. (my personal favourite) If he’s a chimney sweep and says ‘cor lurve, I really fancy you’ in a fake cockney accent.
These are the sorts of times where one has to turn to superstition alone the answer the big questions in life, like 'Why am I here?' 'Why do I hear?' 'Can one hear y’s?' And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me?’
Although, just so you don’t think that the above chestnut is the only form of nut people google to discover my blog, recent queries have included:
‘How to hoover woodlice.’ (I’ve referred that to Anthea)
‘Does everyone have a G-spot?’ No. And, as of the moment they turn the Large Hadron Collider on, no one will.
‘How do you to find a G-spot?’ OS maps are traditional, modern folk use Sat Nav, I advise thoroughly searching the entire body as it’s simply more entertaining that way. Whatever the method you use do it soon before they make the black hole. Not that black hole, include that one in your search.
‘What to do in the sauna?’ Not break your foot.
‘Morreau naked.’ If you really want to see me naked I’m on public view in the changing room of the gym most nights, on the book cover and if you require a private viewing please make an appointment. Reciprocosity expected/anticipated.
And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me’.
The thing about superstition, as opposed to science, as a method of discovery is that it is a lot more straight forward.
Here are the top ten ways of discovering if a man fancies you using superstition alone:
1. If he crosses your path wearing black (especially black pyjamas, underwear, a black condom or a darkish colour negligee)
2. If he ties knots in his handkerchief, or his trousers look like they’ve got a large knotted handkerchief down them.
3. If he walks under a ladder carrying a penny that he’s just picked up (it also shows that he knows how to balance evil with good if that’s your sort of thing)
4. If he has a foot like a rabbit or a rabbit like a foot long.
5. If he is standing at the foot of a rainbow (a small warning here – leprechauns are infamously bad lovers)
6. If you see him shooting stars (again, a warning, if he is shooting very famous stars in a public place it really doesn’t bode well for a long-lasting relationship)
7. If he is 13
8. If he gets into the wrong, or even the right, side of your bed
9. If he itches your palm (or possible anywhere else)
10. If he breaks mirrors (of course you might not fancy him then)
11. If he knocks on wood (ok, wood fetishists may not be your cup of tea but at least he fancies something)
12. (my personal favourite) If he’s a chimney sweep and says ‘cor lurve, I really fancy you’ in a fake cockney accent.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
How Not to Get a Man to Fancy You
I have realised that I’ve been jumping the gun. All this time when I’ve been asking ‘How to Tell if a Man Fancies You’ I should really be starting somewhere near the beginning (traditional I know) and asking ‘How to Get a Man to Fancy You.’
I’ve done some research.
Looking at some basic Newtonian laws of the universe, I have discovered this:
‘Every point mass attracts every other point mass by a force pointing along the line intersecting both points.’
Obviously points are important.
As is mass.
It goes on to say
‘The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.’
So, we also discover that proportionality and distance and squares are fairly crucial.
Therefore (and I worked this out all by myself using extrapolation, logic and absolutely no calculus), according to Newton, the real trick of being attractive to the opposite mass is:
Be a large, comely ballet dancer on tip-toes and stand very near your target person holding an upside-down square.
I have actually been out in the field testing this hypothesis.
This is what happened:
I had trouble being large so I opted for being full instead. Part of the logic was that if sports people do carb loading then surely it would work for lonely people too. So I ate a large meal of pasta, roast potatoes and toast.
The comely bit didn’t come quite naturally either. Not to be defeated I settled for comedy as it was only one letter different and after all, it was possible, nay probable, that my target mass was short-sighted. Well I am anyway.
I had a tutu. Pink. Fucking spot-on perfect.
The tip-toes was slightly prohibitive because of the boots but I did my best by standing on a couple of willing molluscs.
The target bit was actually the most difficult as he simply didn’t seem to be around. This didn’t worry me because on a Newtonian Gravitational Scale nearby could be up to a couple of hundred light-years away.
My upside-down square was easy. I held, in my most sexy manner, a road-sign depicting a man with a large umbrella-shaped penis.
I waited. In the field. Wearing my tutu, my wellies, my red nose. Holding my sign. Waiting. Not very much happened aside from the snails becoming uncomfortable and deciding to go off for a bonk without me standing on them.
After a bit (about five hours) I realised what the problem was.
On a Newtonian Gravitational Scale, even if I was (and I was) stunningly attractive and exerting a quite frankly irresistible pull, the distance (which could be up to a couple of light-years away) my prospective target mass needed to travel was going to take some time. Possibly days. And that’s if he was running. Fast.
I am still waiting. But at least I’m not hungry. And the sheep like pink.
I’ve done some research.
Looking at some basic Newtonian laws of the universe, I have discovered this:
‘Every point mass attracts every other point mass by a force pointing along the line intersecting both points.’
Obviously points are important.
As is mass.
It goes on to say
‘The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.’
So, we also discover that proportionality and distance and squares are fairly crucial.
Therefore (and I worked this out all by myself using extrapolation, logic and absolutely no calculus), according to Newton, the real trick of being attractive to the opposite mass is:
Be a large, comely ballet dancer on tip-toes and stand very near your target person holding an upside-down square.
I have actually been out in the field testing this hypothesis.
This is what happened:
I had trouble being large so I opted for being full instead. Part of the logic was that if sports people do carb loading then surely it would work for lonely people too. So I ate a large meal of pasta, roast potatoes and toast.
The comely bit didn’t come quite naturally either. Not to be defeated I settled for comedy as it was only one letter different and after all, it was possible, nay probable, that my target mass was short-sighted. Well I am anyway.
I had a tutu. Pink. Fucking spot-on perfect.
The tip-toes was slightly prohibitive because of the boots but I did my best by standing on a couple of willing molluscs.
The target bit was actually the most difficult as he simply didn’t seem to be around. This didn’t worry me because on a Newtonian Gravitational Scale nearby could be up to a couple of hundred light-years away.
My upside-down square was easy. I held, in my most sexy manner, a road-sign depicting a man with a large umbrella-shaped penis.
I waited. In the field. Wearing my tutu, my wellies, my red nose. Holding my sign. Waiting. Not very much happened aside from the snails becoming uncomfortable and deciding to go off for a bonk without me standing on them.
After a bit (about five hours) I realised what the problem was.
On a Newtonian Gravitational Scale, even if I was (and I was) stunningly attractive and exerting a quite frankly irresistible pull, the distance (which could be up to a couple of light-years away) my prospective target mass needed to travel was going to take some time. Possibly days. And that’s if he was running. Fast.
I am still waiting. But at least I’m not hungry. And the sheep like pink.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
What Not to Do on Your First Date
I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. The truth is that I’ve never dated before. It, along with many other experiences, like South America, the 1950s and enormous willies, is something I’ve only ever see on television, read about in the doctor’s waiting room or fantasised about.
I need to say here re the fantasy thing that I am very worried about men, the male population and people with willies. I saw a program on BBC3 about penises. Apparently 78.235% of men think their willie is too small. And I just need to say STOP IT your willie is fine. And be happy – 70% of women don’t even have G-spots, and of those that had them, many have been stolen by people from the future. We don’t fantasise about big willies, we read Mills and Boon (and possibly the Karma Sutra) (pop up edition) (yes this exists) (willie size is not mentioned).
I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. Obviously this lack of dating thing has very little to do with a lack of partners thing. It just seems that my previous methods of attracting the male of the species, cunning ventures like simply hanging out with them and/or propositioning them on MSN, has taught me nothing about dating complete strangers.
This is what I’ve learnt so far in terms of essential dating do’s and don’ts:
Don’t propose marriage on the first date.
Do wear clothes.
Don’t tell them about your blog that talks about G-spots and penis size.
Do arrive at the correct place.
Don’t tell them your G-spot was stolen by a person from the future.
Do arrive on the right day.
Don’t tell them you are interested in sex.
Do arrive.
Don’t tell them you are not interested in sex.
Do pretend you are interesting.
Don’t tell them you need to sleep with them NOW.
Do keep your big fat mouth shut.
Don’t wear the big, long, white dress with excess skirts.
Look demure (they may believe you).
Should you have failed in many of the above then there is one simple solution. Call your date. Apologise profusely for how someone cunningly impersonating you (your evil twin sister probably) kidnapped you, chloroformed you, hid you in the boot of your car and turned up on the date. This totally explains how they got the wrong time, place and totally misunderstood the clothing conventions. As well as the whole sex thing.
Ask, beg, plead, cajole and if necessary (which it will be) bribe them to dismiss the whole sorry episode from their mind and meet you again. That you will be a completely new person (not your evil twin sister). And normal.
Please?
I need to say here re the fantasy thing that I am very worried about men, the male population and people with willies. I saw a program on BBC3 about penises. Apparently 78.235% of men think their willie is too small. And I just need to say STOP IT your willie is fine. And be happy – 70% of women don’t even have G-spots, and of those that had them, many have been stolen by people from the future. We don’t fantasise about big willies, we read Mills and Boon (and possibly the Karma Sutra) (pop up edition) (yes this exists) (willie size is not mentioned).
I’ve been dating. This is a hugely confusing experience. Obviously this lack of dating thing has very little to do with a lack of partners thing. It just seems that my previous methods of attracting the male of the species, cunning ventures like simply hanging out with them and/or propositioning them on MSN, has taught me nothing about dating complete strangers.
This is what I’ve learnt so far in terms of essential dating do’s and don’ts:
Don’t propose marriage on the first date.
Do wear clothes.
Don’t tell them about your blog that talks about G-spots and penis size.
Do arrive at the correct place.
Don’t tell them your G-spot was stolen by a person from the future.
Do arrive on the right day.
Don’t tell them you are interested in sex.
Do arrive.
Don’t tell them you are not interested in sex.
Do pretend you are interesting.
Don’t tell them you need to sleep with them NOW.
Do keep your big fat mouth shut.
Don’t wear the big, long, white dress with excess skirts.
Look demure (they may believe you).
Should you have failed in many of the above then there is one simple solution. Call your date. Apologise profusely for how someone cunningly impersonating you (your evil twin sister probably) kidnapped you, chloroformed you, hid you in the boot of your car and turned up on the date. This totally explains how they got the wrong time, place and totally misunderstood the clothing conventions. As well as the whole sex thing.
Ask, beg, plead, cajole and if necessary (which it will be) bribe them to dismiss the whole sorry episode from their mind and meet you again. That you will be a completely new person (not your evil twin sister). And normal.
Please?
Thursday, 27 March 2008
Soulmates – Fact of Fiction?
There has been a great deal of discussion (well I talked about it briefly) as to whether such a thing as a soulmate exists.
As the leading proponent of how to use science to solve all relationship conundrums I will attempt to answer this difficult question that has been puzzling philosophers, physicists, agony aunts and readers of the Guardian for the last however many millennia using only an apple, the power of thought and some abstruse logic.
First let us define our terms:
Soulmate = ‘the one and only other half of one's soul, for which all souls are driven to find and join.’ Or, to broaden the definition slightly, ‘a soul with whom another soul gets along with ok.’
Exist = ‘has its being’ or, looking more deeply into the definition, ‘I think/worry/feel hugely insecure because I can’t find my soulmate therefore I am’.
So, the concept is, that out there, in the ether (some debate as to whether the ether exists but we will come to that another day) there is a person who, essentially, is your other half, who completes you, who you might survive the next twenty years with without doing each other severe damage.
The ether is a big place. Very much larger than Wales.
But don’t despair, or despair any more than you already are. Because soulmates do exist. This has been proved by a very clever man called Bohr. We are not holding either of those three facts against him.
This is what he discovered:
Even though objects may be spatially separated they are quantumly linked. When one spins one way the other spins the other and visa versa.
This is called Quantum Entanglement.
Quantums are actually quanta.
Because there’s more than one of them.
Because they are entangled.
Quanta are very small.
Everything is made of quanta.
It is not the same as quorn.
Therefore you, I, we, the Queen, Mary Poppins and one are all made of quanta.
Therefore we are entangled.
Soulmates exist.
Like it or not.
As the leading proponent of how to use science to solve all relationship conundrums I will attempt to answer this difficult question that has been puzzling philosophers, physicists, agony aunts and readers of the Guardian for the last however many millennia using only an apple, the power of thought and some abstruse logic.
First let us define our terms:
Soulmate = ‘the one and only other half of one's soul, for which all souls are driven to find and join.’ Or, to broaden the definition slightly, ‘a soul with whom another soul gets along with ok.’
Exist = ‘has its being’ or, looking more deeply into the definition, ‘I think/worry/feel hugely insecure because I can’t find my soulmate therefore I am’.
So, the concept is, that out there, in the ether (some debate as to whether the ether exists but we will come to that another day) there is a person who, essentially, is your other half, who completes you, who you might survive the next twenty years with without doing each other severe damage.
The ether is a big place. Very much larger than Wales.
But don’t despair, or despair any more than you already are. Because soulmates do exist. This has been proved by a very clever man called Bohr. We are not holding either of those three facts against him.
This is what he discovered:
Even though objects may be spatially separated they are quantumly linked. When one spins one way the other spins the other and visa versa.
This is called Quantum Entanglement.
Quantums are actually quanta.
Because there’s more than one of them.
Because they are entangled.
Quanta are very small.
Everything is made of quanta.
It is not the same as quorn.
Therefore you, I, we, the Queen, Mary Poppins and one are all made of quanta.
Therefore we are entangled.
Soulmates exist.
Like it or not.
Sunday, 16 March 2008
How to Tell if Someone Fancies You – The Reprise
Yes, we are back on the BIG question. The question that more people find my blog through than any other question ever asked of Google. The question that supersedes the ‘Life the Universe and Everything’ question, the question that is more important than ‘Did God or Douglas Adams Make the World?’ the question that may even outrank ‘Where did I Leave My Glasses?’:
‘How Can I Tell if Someone Fancies Me?’
Since now 1,589,235 folk have asked this question of me I feel it my moral duty to try and answer it in the most up to date and scientific way possible. Using Quantum Physics.
Let us first consider first principles:
It is understood that in the realms of Quantum Physics that there are ‘observables’. These are –
Energy:
Does the target of your question move? If he/she has life then there is obviously hope. If they are moving towards you in a slow and controlled manner then there is definitely hope (as long as they don’t miss and continue to travel in a slow and controlled manner out of the nearest door/window/porthole). If they are moving away from you at a sufficient spend to cause a noticeable Doppler shift then you might want to realign your sights a tad.
Position:
If the target person is either horizontal or vertical and at a distance (anything over six inches is considered a distance in Quantum terms) from you then that bodes a little ill. If they are horizontal or vertical and in direct contact that’s a good sign, especially if they are naked. If your target person varies in angle between zero degrees and 360 degrees then they are probably drunk and you need to repeat the experiment on a more auspicious day.
Momentum:
Does your target person have momentum? If yes then be careful. If no then go home.
All the above can be either ‘continuous’ or ‘discreet’. The more discreet they are obviously the more difficult it is to judge just the extent of the Energy, Position and Momentum. Discretion, although the better part of valour, is in this case a pain in the arse. If you are experiencing a pain in the arse (and that’s not your sort of thing) then my advice is give up the question in question because even if they do fancy you it is all going to go horribly wrong with possible chaffing and visits to chemists.
Another problem that we in the Quantum Physics world (I’ve just awarded myself a higher degree in Quantum Physics on the simple principal that if my daughter is to have one, and the well know truism ‘Mother knows best’ holds true it is therefore completely possible, nay, probable that I too should have a pretentious qualification in what is, let’s face it, not so much a science as an elaborate guessing game) is that everything, including one’s fate, one’s target fanciable person, and the whereabouts of one’s glasses are essentially unpredictable and random.
It’s interesting, isn’t it, how, although on the surface Quantum Physics sounds unlikely, when one delves into it it transpires to be remarkably applicable to everyday life.
So, with that in mind, why not emulate the famous Quantum Thought Experiment that so many cats have enjoyed to discover just whether or not he/she fancies you?
This is how to do it:
Imagine your target person in a box. Obviously it is better to use a larger box than Mr Schrodinger favoured as you are putting a person in the box and not your best feline friend. Or if you are going down the cat route there are a lot easier ways to make a cat fancy you than a person. Use cat food.
Next understand the very important bit, the Quantum Physicsy bit. At this exact moment, and all the time that the box is shut and you are not peeping in any way, the person simultaneously fancies you and doesn’t fancy you. And is also simultaneously dead and alive.
Next open the box.
All will be revealed.
These are the possibilities:
1. Person is dead and did fancy you
2. Person is dead and didn’t fancy you
3. Person is alive and doesn’t fancy you
4. Person is alive and does fancy you.
As any amateur mathematician and us people with higher degrees in Quantum Physics can observe there is only a one in four chance of a favourable outcome.
I have a better idea. Which, for reasons that are quite inexplicable, Mr Schrodinger seems to have overlooked: Don’t open the box. Then it is absolutely certain that the person is alive and fancies you. As all the possibilities are still possible.
Should you have accidentally opened the box, drilled a small hole to look through or inadvertently left your webcam in there don’t worry. According to Mr Everett (not Kenny, Hugh) everything actually happens. So should the object of your desire shun you, break your heart and generally not cooperate with your well-planned fantasies then you have the consolation of knowing that somewhere, out there, in a parallel universe, all your dearest hopes dreams and desires are being fulfilled. You just don’t happen to be there.
‘How Can I Tell if Someone Fancies Me?’
Since now 1,589,235 folk have asked this question of me I feel it my moral duty to try and answer it in the most up to date and scientific way possible. Using Quantum Physics.
Let us first consider first principles:
It is understood that in the realms of Quantum Physics that there are ‘observables’. These are –
Energy:
Does the target of your question move? If he/she has life then there is obviously hope. If they are moving towards you in a slow and controlled manner then there is definitely hope (as long as they don’t miss and continue to travel in a slow and controlled manner out of the nearest door/window/porthole). If they are moving away from you at a sufficient spend to cause a noticeable Doppler shift then you might want to realign your sights a tad.
Position:
If the target person is either horizontal or vertical and at a distance (anything over six inches is considered a distance in Quantum terms) from you then that bodes a little ill. If they are horizontal or vertical and in direct contact that’s a good sign, especially if they are naked. If your target person varies in angle between zero degrees and 360 degrees then they are probably drunk and you need to repeat the experiment on a more auspicious day.
Momentum:
Does your target person have momentum? If yes then be careful. If no then go home.
All the above can be either ‘continuous’ or ‘discreet’. The more discreet they are obviously the more difficult it is to judge just the extent of the Energy, Position and Momentum. Discretion, although the better part of valour, is in this case a pain in the arse. If you are experiencing a pain in the arse (and that’s not your sort of thing) then my advice is give up the question in question because even if they do fancy you it is all going to go horribly wrong with possible chaffing and visits to chemists.
Another problem that we in the Quantum Physics world (I’ve just awarded myself a higher degree in Quantum Physics on the simple principal that if my daughter is to have one, and the well know truism ‘Mother knows best’ holds true it is therefore completely possible, nay, probable that I too should have a pretentious qualification in what is, let’s face it, not so much a science as an elaborate guessing game) is that everything, including one’s fate, one’s target fanciable person, and the whereabouts of one’s glasses are essentially unpredictable and random.
It’s interesting, isn’t it, how, although on the surface Quantum Physics sounds unlikely, when one delves into it it transpires to be remarkably applicable to everyday life.
So, with that in mind, why not emulate the famous Quantum Thought Experiment that so many cats have enjoyed to discover just whether or not he/she fancies you?
This is how to do it:
Imagine your target person in a box. Obviously it is better to use a larger box than Mr Schrodinger favoured as you are putting a person in the box and not your best feline friend. Or if you are going down the cat route there are a lot easier ways to make a cat fancy you than a person. Use cat food.
Next understand the very important bit, the Quantum Physicsy bit. At this exact moment, and all the time that the box is shut and you are not peeping in any way, the person simultaneously fancies you and doesn’t fancy you. And is also simultaneously dead and alive.
Next open the box.
All will be revealed.
These are the possibilities:
1. Person is dead and did fancy you
2. Person is dead and didn’t fancy you
3. Person is alive and doesn’t fancy you
4. Person is alive and does fancy you.
As any amateur mathematician and us people with higher degrees in Quantum Physics can observe there is only a one in four chance of a favourable outcome.
I have a better idea. Which, for reasons that are quite inexplicable, Mr Schrodinger seems to have overlooked: Don’t open the box. Then it is absolutely certain that the person is alive and fancies you. As all the possibilities are still possible.
Should you have accidentally opened the box, drilled a small hole to look through or inadvertently left your webcam in there don’t worry. According to Mr Everett (not Kenny, Hugh) everything actually happens. So should the object of your desire shun you, break your heart and generally not cooperate with your well-planned fantasies then you have the consolation of knowing that somewhere, out there, in a parallel universe, all your dearest hopes dreams and desires are being fulfilled. You just don’t happen to be there.
Monday, 25 February 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, 24 February 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
How Not to Find the Man of Your Dreams
Things must be getting desperate here. I’ve just joined some bizarre dating site called facespin or spinface or something. It’s like one of those games where you identify inkblots only more revealing. By the time I’d finished my whole personality, inner most longings and hair-do preferences were revealed in a starkly startling revelation.
This is what happened:
Somehow I found myself clicking ‘try it out’. I think maybe I was trying to click ‘close’ but my finger juddered (probably from the shakes I’ve been suffering due to lack of sex and chocolate). There, on the screen (after a small amount of dizzy-making spinning effect which was for no good reason aside from making me feel slightly nauseous) a man’s picture appeared. Underneath were three buttons entitled ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘mayB.’ I did take exception to the fact that they couldn’t spell but nevertheless given such a simple selection of choices and a picture of a man that was so obviously a ‘yes’ I was drawn in as a fly is drawn to its death on the internet or as a recently confused woman is drawn away from what she is supposed to be doing.
After a few more yes, no or mayB sort of things they said I had to register. What else could I do? I filled out the form. I thought of a ridiculous on-screen name. I puzzled over the five things I was supposed to say about myself. I am another victim of the web. A dating site addict. A judger of men.
Moments later (or maybe hours later)(I’m still having problems with time distortion) I was the proud and embarrassed owner of a spinny ‘black book’ complete with all the men I had said yes or maybe to. Sorry, mayB to.
It turned out that I said yes to four. For no other good reason than that they didn’t put ‘watching football’ as one of their favourite things to do. And one of them was a Coastguard which I thought was quite sexy.
It also turned out that I said mayB to 18. For no other good reason than that they didn’t put ‘watching football’ as one of their favourite things to do.
I said no to about a thousand because they all put ‘watching football’ as one of their favourite things to do. And, frankly some of them looked a bit scary. Especially in their football shorts.
However, on closer examination I discovered a disturbing theme. Every man that had posted a picture of themselves with a small child I chose. Without a moment’s hesitation I clicked ‘yes, mayB, yes, yes’ totally forgetting the spelling issue.
This leads me to the revealing conclusion that I don’t want a man at all. I want a small child. I am broody. Rorschach eat your heart out.
This is what happened:
Somehow I found myself clicking ‘try it out’. I think maybe I was trying to click ‘close’ but my finger juddered (probably from the shakes I’ve been suffering due to lack of sex and chocolate). There, on the screen (after a small amount of dizzy-making spinning effect which was for no good reason aside from making me feel slightly nauseous) a man’s picture appeared. Underneath were three buttons entitled ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘mayB.’ I did take exception to the fact that they couldn’t spell but nevertheless given such a simple selection of choices and a picture of a man that was so obviously a ‘yes’ I was drawn in as a fly is drawn to its death on the internet or as a recently confused woman is drawn away from what she is supposed to be doing.
After a few more yes, no or mayB sort of things they said I had to register. What else could I do? I filled out the form. I thought of a ridiculous on-screen name. I puzzled over the five things I was supposed to say about myself. I am another victim of the web. A dating site addict. A judger of men.
Moments later (or maybe hours later)(I’m still having problems with time distortion) I was the proud and embarrassed owner of a spinny ‘black book’ complete with all the men I had said yes or maybe to. Sorry, mayB to.
It turned out that I said yes to four. For no other good reason than that they didn’t put ‘watching football’ as one of their favourite things to do. And one of them was a Coastguard which I thought was quite sexy.
It also turned out that I said mayB to 18. For no other good reason than that they didn’t put ‘watching football’ as one of their favourite things to do.
I said no to about a thousand because they all put ‘watching football’ as one of their favourite things to do. And, frankly some of them looked a bit scary. Especially in their football shorts.
However, on closer examination I discovered a disturbing theme. Every man that had posted a picture of themselves with a small child I chose. Without a moment’s hesitation I clicked ‘yes, mayB, yes, yes’ totally forgetting the spelling issue.
This leads me to the revealing conclusion that I don’t want a man at all. I want a small child. I am broody. Rorschach eat your heart out.
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