How Not to Treat a Wormhole – or The Future in G-spots

I have solved yet another great mystery of science.

The Theys of the New Scientist are sometimes a tad blinkered. Or possibly they don’t read the New Scientist. Yet I have discovered that with the right interpretation, analytical technique and slightly skewed reading there are many more answers enclosed in this bijou publication than it might first appear.

This is what happened:

It was reported that Geneva was to be the beginning of time. To be more precise 2008 Geneva was to be the beginning of time. Because soon, in the very heart of this majestic, pretentious and expensive city, they are going to make a wormhole. The first ever wormhole here on earth. Exciting eh?

Wormholes are handy for a number of reasons –
For worms to live in
For the quick transport of worms from one place to another
For baby worms to hang out
For teenage worms to hide in for a smoke
And
For time travel.

So, all time travellers will be able now (given that construction of the aforementioned wormhole goes according to schedule and budget) be able to visit 2008 Geneva.

Here comes the interesting bit – What would a traveller from the future want to take away as a souvenir from 2008 Geneva? Chocolate? Swiss Army Knives? The spurty fountain that for some reason lives in the lake? Possibly. Yet possibly not. For surely the travellers from a distant time would be after that very elixir of life, not slightly overly milky chocolate, not small red items to break one’s fingernails on, not even ejaculating lakes (although almost). No, any sensible traveller from the future would be looking for what we are all (or me anyway) are looking for – the perfect orgasm.

Here comes the really clever bit - a more careful reading of the New Scientist has revealed that in fact the time travellers have already been and removed the souvenirs. And why no one except me has noticed this is quite inexplicable. In that very edition, probably on the next page, was the now infamous article about the missing G-spots.

That is where they all went. And this is backed up totally by scientific and anecdotal evidence – It has been shown that 70% of G-spots are missing. When my G-spot was stolen I was actually in Geneva. AND the man who stole my G-spot has also gone missing – back to the future obviously.

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 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 Turn Disablement to Your Advantage and the Mysteries of Casts

I think I’m getting the hang of this disablement thing now. It is simply a question of role reversal. The trick is to use everyday ordinary phrases that usually come out of others’ mouths and make them come out of mine. And substitute the word ‘Mum’ for ‘daughter’ or ‘daughter’s boyfriend’. Here are a few successful examples that occurred today:

Daughter, can I have a bagel please, and some orange juice and can you bring it to my room?

Daughter, we have run out of milk, can you go to the coop, and whilst you’re there get some bread and croissants and smoothies and biscuits and cake and a weeks shopping and a small kitchen sink?

Daughter’s boyfriend, my computer is broken can you come and fix it and install some programs and bring me a cup of coffee, and wash the car too?

Daughter, where are my favourite jeans and my blue t-shirt? If they are in the wash can you get them clean by an hour ago?

See, easy. Just a matter of mindset. Why didn’t I think of breaking my foot years ago? The house is running like a well oiled machine, without the mess of the oil or the noise of a machine. And I am sitting in bed. Doing fuck all. It is my intention never to have this cast removed. Ever.

The cast is still a bit of a mystery to me though. On one level it is familiar as an old, hot, heavy and stupidly large sock. On another level I can’t help but think - why? Is this not severe overkill? I have broken a bone in my foot. I saw the x-ray: 4th metatarsal. I have a cast that covers most of the western hemisphere. And weighs as much as the eastern hemisphere. And is as hot as the upper hemisphere. And as itchy as the lower hemisphere. By my calculations now this cast covers two earths.

And here’s another mysterious thing. (look away now if you are a bit squeamish). The two ends of the bones had managed to separate themselves rather in the fashion of Tower Bridge. Without the towers and the tourists. Well there might have been tourists but they are invisible to NHS x-ray. Probably Japanese and therefore quite nano and compact. So how is it supposed to work that by encasing most of my body in plaster of Paris these bones magically realign themselves? Out of protest? Because they have read the reports of famous footballers’ injuries and are followers of celeb fashion? Because they empathise with the plight of Japanese tourists unable to cross bridges?

Meanwhile, due to the highly technologically advanced nature of this thing adhering to my leg I am leaving white smudges all around the house. I’m like snotty-cat on a very bad shedding day. Visitors proffering chocolates have been able to discover my location by following the trail of plaster debris. Scientists looking for the answer to the missing matter in the universe have been crowding the house taking samples. NHS managers have been out in force with dustpans and brushes collecting the stuff in order to recycle it for the next unfortunate sauna accidentee.

And I have a confession, but please don’t tell anyone at the hospital, or my family, or anyone really – I’ve broken the world’s largest cast already. The bit that is under my foot, probably the crucial bit that is actually attempting to do something for the divorced metatarsal. Oops.

My Fridge Eats Bagels

There are many mysteries in life. Things like why? Who? When? And What the fuck is that? One of the mysteries that mystify me and many others are disappearances. Mostly objects. Mostly objects that one needs. Things like pens, keys, hair bobbles, hair brushes, children, cars, houses, husbands, sanity etc.

Well, here in our house (which thankfully only disappears infrequently) the latest thing to disappear is food. Mostly bagels. From the fridge. One moment I have bought three tubular packaging thingys of onion bagels and stored them for safekeeping and freshness in that little drawer in the bottom of the fridge that you are meant to keep heaven knows what in. You know the ones, sort of plastic and always just a little bit dirty no matter how much you clean them. The next moment, when youngest daughter needs her bagel fix, the bagels are gone. Completely. Not even the packaging left. The daughter’s boyfriend, who has been sent downstairs in order to complete the bagel mission without the daughter having to rise from her bed, confirms the situation. The bagels are gone. We are mystified.

We consider likely suspects:

The boyfriend himself, unlike many chaps of his age, does not suffer from constant and devouring hunger that leads him to constantly devour all the food in the house including the bagels. Aside from which, incurring the scorn of youngest daughter by not producing the requested bagels by having eaten them is a terrifying prospect which a man of his sensibilities would not contemplate. So boyfriend is innocent. Of bagel theft anyway.

Could it be the physicist? Well, she does not really like onion bagels, but maybe she has been using them for obscure experiments. If it works for custard could it equally work for bagels? We cross-examine her. She denies that bagels or any other bready products are non-newtonian liquids and therefore do not interest her. She suggests that other non-newtonian liquids in the kitchen, ketchup and mayonnaise for example, may be of interest to physicists – but bagels phshaw!

Could the culprit be the beloved? Yet he too scorns bagels as a strange Jewish foodstuff that good Scotsmen like himself will not even consider actually exist. And if they do exist then only folk of a Jewish descent could possibly actually consume them. Like youngest daughter. But she is the bagel-less victim in all of this.

So, maybe it was me. I like onion bagels and am also of Jewish descent and I know where the bagels are kept. This sounds pretty likely. It must have been me. Yet, despite being menopausal, forgetful, and slightly irrational surely I would remember eating three packets of bagels. And I do not. At all. Even remember eating one. I declare myself innocent.

This leaves only the cat. He fulfils no criteria whatsoever. He is not Jewish, nor does he like bagels, nor does he experiment (much) on foodstuffs. Nevertheless we do question him. He vehemently denies any knowledge of bagels and simply asks that, if we are not busy, could we feed him again. We are busy.

All that is left to do is examine the scene of the crime. The fridge. The empty fridge. The bagelless fridge. It makes a slight belching noise. Enough to give it away. The obvious answer comes to us. The fridge has eaten the bagels.